"Neither am I. What's more important, we've got to get word to our folks about the deal that's being cooked up against them."

"Say, look-maybe we can phone now!"

"Do you think he-" Frank nodded toward the agent

"-would let us?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. We've still got our guns-and I can be pushed just so far." Jim got up and went to the agent. "Any objection to us using the phone?"

The agent did not even glance up. "Not a bit. Help yourself."

Jim went into the booth. There was no local exchange; me instrument was simply a radio link to the relay station on the outer moon. A transparency announced that Deimos was above the horizon; seeing this, Jim punched the call button and asked for linkage to South Colony.

There was an unusually long delay, then a sweetly impersonal voice announced, "Due to circumstances beyond our control calls are not being accepted from Cynia station to South Colony."

Jim started to ask if Deimos were visible at South Colony, since he knew that line-of-sight was essential to radio transmission on Mars-indeed, it was the only sort of radio transmission he was familiar with-but the relay station had switched off and made no answer when he again punched the call button. He left the booth and told Frank about it.

"Sounds like Howe has fixed us," Frank commented. "I don't believe there is a breakdown. Unless-"

"Unless what?"

"Unless there is more to it than that. Beecher may be rigging things to interfere with messages getting through until he's put over his scheme."

"Frank, we've got to get word to our folks. See here, I bet we could hole up with the Martians over at Cynia. After all, they offered us water and-"

"Suppose we could. Where does that get us?"

"Let me finish. We can mail a letter from here, giving our folks all the details and telling them where we are hiding. Then we could wait for them to come and get us."

Frank shook his head. "If we mail a letter from here, old frozen face over there is bound to know it. Then, when the cops show up and we are gone, he turns it over to them. Instead of our folks getting it, it goes back to Howe and Beecher."

"You really think so? Nobody has any right to touch private mail."

"Don't be a little innocent. Howe didn't have any right to order us to give up our guns-but he did. No, Jim, we've got to carry this message ourselves."

On the wall opposite them was a map of the area served by Cynia station. Frank had been studying it idly while they talked. Suddenly he said, "Jim, what's that new station south of Cynia?"

"Huh? Where do you mean?"

"There." Frank pointed. Inked on the original map was a station on west Strymon, south of them.

"That?" said Jim. "That must be one of the shelters for the Project." The grand plan for restoring oxygen to Mars called for setting up, the following spring, a string of processing plants in the desert between Cynia and Charax. Some of the shelters had been completed in anticipation of the success of plant number one in Libya.

"It can't be much over a hundred miles away."

"A hundred and ten, maybe," Jim commented, looking at the scale.

Frank got a far-away look in his eyes. "I think I can skate that far before dark. Are you game?"

"What? Are you crazy? We'd still be better than seven hundred miles from home."

"We can skate better than two hundred miles a day," answered Frank. "Aren't there more shelters?"

"The map doesn't show any." Jim thought. "I know they've finished more than one; I've heard Dad talking about it."

"If we had to, we could skate all night and sleep in the daytime. That way we wouldn't freeze."

"Hmm... I think you're kidding yourself. I saw a man once who was caught out at night. He was stiff as a board. All right, when do we start?"

"Right now."

They picked up their bags and headed for the door The agent looked up and said, "Going somewhere?"

"For a walk."

"Might as well leave your bags. You'll be back."

They did not answer but went on out the door. Five minutes later they were skating south on west Strymon.

"Hey, Jim!"

"Yeah?"

"Let's stop for a minute. I want to sling my bag."

"Just what I was thinking." Their travel bags unbalanced them and prevented proper arm motion and any real speed. But skating was a common form of locomotion; the bags bad straps which permitted them to be slung as haversacks. Jim opened his before he put it on; Willis extended his eye stalks and looked at him reproachfully. "Jim boy gone long time."

"Sorry, old fellow."

"Willis not talk."

"Willis can talk all he wants to now. Look, if I leave the bag open a little bit so that you can see, will you manage not to fall out?"

"Willis want out."

"Can't do that; I'm going to take you for a fine ride. You won't fall out?"

"Willis not fall out."

"Okay." He slung the bag and they set out again.

They picked up speed. With fast ice, little air resistance, and the low Martian gravity the speed of a skater on Mars is limited by his skill in stroking. Both of the boys were able. Willis let out a "Whee!" and they settled down to putting miles behind them.

The desert plateau between Cynia and Charax is higher than the dead sea bottom between Cynia and the equator. This drop is used to move the waters of the southern polar cap across the desert to the great green belt near the equator, hi midwinter the southern ice cap reaches to Charax; the double canal of Strymon, which starts at Charax, is one of the principal discharge points for the polar cap when it melts in the spring.

The boys were starting at the lower end of the canal's drop; the walls of the canal reached high above their heads. Furthermore the water level-or ice level-was low because the season was late autumn; the water level would be much higher during spring flood. There was nothing to see but the banks of the canal converging ahead of them, the blue sky beyond, and the purple-black sky overhead. The Sun was behind them and a bit west of meridian; it was moving north toward northern summer solstice. Seasons do not lag on Mars as much as they do on Earth; there are no oceans to hold the heat and the only "flywheel" of the climate is the freezing and melting of the polar caps.

With nothing to see the boys concentrated on skating, heads down and shoulders swinging.

After many miles of monotonous speed Jim grew careless; the toe of his right runner caught on some minor obstruction in the ice. He went down. His suit saved him from ice bums and he knew how to fall safely, but Willis popped out of his bag like a cork from a bottle.

The bouncer, true to instinct, hauled in all excrescences at once. He hit as a ball and rolled; he traveled over the ice for several hundred yards. Frank threw himself into a hockey stop as soon as he saw Jim tumble. He stopped in a shower of ice particles and went back to help Jim up. "You all right?"

"Sure. Where's Willis?"

They skated on and recovered the bouncer who was now standing on his tiny legs and waiting for them. "Whoopee!" yelled Willis as they came up. "Do it again!"

"Not if I can help it," Jim assured him and stuffed him back in the bag. "Say, Frank how long have we been traveling?"

"Not over three hours," Frank decided, after a glance at the

Sun.

"I wish I had my watch," complained Jim. "We don't want to overrun the shelter."

"Oh, we won't come to it for another couple of hours, at least."

"But what's to keep us from passing right by it? We can't see over these banks."

"Want to turn around and go back?"

"No."

"Then quit worrying."

Jim shut up but continued to worry. Perhaps that was why he noticed the only indication of the shelter when they came to it, for Frank skated on past it. It was merely a ramp down the bank. There were such ramps every few miles, as ancient as the canals themselves, but this one had set above it an overhanging beam, as if to support a hoist. Jim spotted it as terrestrial workmanship.