What a wonderful place Mars must be, the man and woman were no doubt thinking, as the papoola poured out its recollections, its attitude. Gosh, it’s not cold and schizoid, like Earth society; nobody spies on anybody else, grades their innumerable political tests, reports on them to building Security committees week in, week out. Think of it, the papoola was telling them as they stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to pass on. You’re your own boss, there, free to work your land, believe your own beliefs, become yourself. Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to—

In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, “We better go.”

“Oh no,” the boy said pleadingly. “I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle, there.” The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man’s keen, observing scrutiny.

The man said, “Of course. They landed here to sell jalopies. It’s working on us right now, softening us up.” The enchantment visibly faded from his face. “There’s the man sitting in there operating it.”

But, the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes—if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy … buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that someday, maybe not so long from now, the law is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few—a few lucky people—can escape.

Fiddling with the controls at his midsection, Al turned up the gain. The force of the papoola’s psyche increased, drawing the man in, taking control of him. You must buy a jalopy, the papoola urged. Easy payment plan, service warranty, many models to choose from. The man took a step toward the lot. Hurry, the papoola told him. Any second now the authorities may close down the lot and your opportunity will be gone forever.

“This is how they work it,” the man said with difficulty. “The animal snares people. Hypnosis. We have to leave.” But he did not leave; it was too late: he was going to buy a jalopy, and Al, in the office with his control box, was reeling the man in.

Leisurely, Al rose to his feet. Time to go out and close the deal. He shut off the papoola, opened the office door and stepped outside onto the lot—and saw a once-familiar figure threading its way among the jalopies, toward him. It was his brother Ian and he had not seen him in years. Good grief, Al thought. What’s he want? And at a time like this—

“Al,” his brother called, gesturing. “Can I talk with you a second? You’re not too busy, are you?” Perspiring and pale, he came closer, looking about in a frightened way. He had deteriorated since Al had last seen him.

“Listen,” Al said, with anger. But already it was too late; the couple and their boy had broken away and were moving rapidly on down the sidewalk.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” Ian mumbled.

“You’re not bothering me,” Al said as he gloomily watched the three people depart. “What’s the trouble, Ian? You don’t look very well; are you sick? Come on in the office.” He led his brother inside and shut the door.

Ian said, “I came across my jug. Remember when we were trying to make it to the White House? Al, we have to try once more. Honest to God, I can’t go on like this; I can’t stand to be a failure at what we agreed was the most important thing in our lives.” Panting, he mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief, his hands trembling.

“I don’t even have my jug any more,” Al said presently.

“You must. Well, we could each record our parts separately on my jug and then synthesize them on one tape, and present that to the White House. This trapped feeling; I don’t know if I can go on living with it. I have to get back to playing. If we started practicing right now on the ‘Goldberg Variations’ in two months we—”

Al broke in, “You still live at that place? That Abraham Lincoln?”

Ian nodded.

“And you still have that position down in Palo Alto, you’re still a gear inspector?” He could not understand why his brother was so upset. “Hell, if worse comes to worst you can emigrate. Jug-playing is out of the question; I haven’t played for years, since I last saw you in fact. Just a minute.” He dialed the knobs of the mechanism which controlled the papoola; near the sidewalk the creature responded and began to return slowly to its spot beneath the sign.

Seeing it, Ian said, “I thought they were all dead.”

“They are,” Al said.

“But that one out there moves and—

“It’s a fake,” Al said. “A puppet. I control it.” He showed his brother the control box. “It brings in people off the sidewalk. Actually, Luke is supposed to have a real one on which these are modeled. Nobody knows for sure and the law can’t touch Luke because technically he’s now a citizen of Mars; they can’t make him cough up the real one, if he does have it.” Al seated himself and lit a cigarette. “Fail your relpol test,” he said to Ian, “lose your apartment and get back your original deposit; bring me the money and I’ll see that you get a damn fine jalopy that’ll carry you to Mars. Okay?”

“I tried to fail my test,” Ian said, “but they won’t let me. They doctored the results. They don’t want me to get away.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The man in the next apartment. Ed Stone, his name is. He did it deliberately; I saw the look on his face. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor… I don’t know.” He looked around him. “This is a nice little office you have here. You sleep in it, don’t you? And when it moves, you move with it.”

“Yeah,” Al said, “we’re always ready to take off.” The police had almost gotten him a number of times, even though the lot could obtain orbital velocity in six minutes. The papoola had detected their approach, but not sufficiently far in advance for a comfortable escape; generally it was hurried and disorganized, with part of his inventory of jalopies being left behind.

“You’re just one jump ahead of them,” Ian mused. “And yet it doesn’t bother you. I guess it’s all in your attitude.”

“If they get me,” Al said, “Luke will bail me out.” The shadowy, powerful figure of his boss was always there, backing him up, so what did he have to worry about? The jalopy tycoon knew a million tricks. The Thibodeaux clan limited their attacks on him to deep-think articles in popular magazines and on TV, harping on Luke’s vulgarity and the shoddiness of his vehicles; they were a little afraid of him, no doubt.

“I envy you,” Ian said. “Your poise. Your calmness.”

“Doesn’t your apartment building have a sky pilot? Go talk to him.”

Ian said bitterly, “That’s no good. Right now it’s Patrick Doyle and he’s as bad off as I am. And Don Klugman, our chairman, is even worse off; he’s a bundle of nerves. In fact our whole building is shot through with anxiety. Maybe it has to do with Nicole’s sinus headaches.”

Glancing at his brother, Al saw that he was actually serious. The White House and all it stood for meant that much to him; it still dominated his life, as it had when they were boys. “For your sake,” Al said quietly, “I’ll get my jug out and practice. We’ll make one more try.”

Speechless, Ian gaped at him in gratitude.

Seated together in the business office of the Abraham Lincoln, Don Klugman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr. Ian Duncan of no. 304 had filed with them. Ian desired to appear in the twice-weekly talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present. The request, Klugman saw, was routine, except that Ian proposed to do his act in conjunction with another individual who did not live at Abraham Lincoln.

Doyle said, “It’s his brother. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act, years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.”