But I finally recovered to the point where instead of wanting very badly to die the scale had tipped so that I had a flickering, halfhearted interest in continuing to live. Dak was busy most of the time at the ship's communicator, apparently talking on a very tight beam for his hands constantly nursed the directional control like a gunner laying a gun under difficulties. I could not hear what he said, or even read his lips, as he had his face pushed into the rumble box. I assumed that he was talking to the longjump ship we were to meet.

But when he pushed the communicator aside and lit a cigarette I repressed the stomach retch that the mere sight of tobacco smoke had inspired and said, «Dak, isn't it about time you told me the score?»

«Plenty of time for that on our way to Mars.»

«Huh? Damn your arrogant ways,» I protested feebly. «I don't want to go to Mars. I would never have considered your crazy offer if I had known it was on Mars.»

«Suit yourself. You don't have to go.»

«Eh?»

«The air lock is right behind you. Get out and walk. Mind you close the door.»

I did not answer the ridiculous suggestion. He went on, «But if you can't breathe space the easiest thing to do is to go to Mars — and I'll see that you get back. The Can Do — that's this bucket — is about to rendezvous with the Go For Broke, which is a high-gee torchship. About seventeen seconds and a gnat's wink after we make contact the Go For Broke will torch for Mars — for we've got to be there by Wednesday.»

I answered with the petulant stubbornness of a sick man. «I'm not going to Mars. I'm going to stay right in this ship. Somebody has to take it back and land it on Earth. You can't fool me.»

«True,» Broadbent agreed. «But you won't be in it. The three blokes who are supposed to be in this ship — according to the records back at Jefferson Field — are in the Go For Broke right now. This is a three-man ship, as you've noticed. I'm afraid you will find them stuffy about giving up a place to you. And besides, how would you get back through “Immigration”?»

«I don't care! I'd be back on ground.»

«And in jail, charged with everything from illegal entry to mopery and dopery in the spaceways. At the very least they would be sure that you were smuggling and they would take you to some quiet back room and run a needle in past your eyeball and find out just what you were up to. They would know what questions to ask and you wouldn't be able to keep from answering. But you wouldn't be able to implicate me, for good old Dak Broadbent hasn't been back to Earth in quite a spell and has unimpeachable witnesses to prove it.»

I thought about it sickly, both from fear and the continuing effects of spacesickness. «So you would tip off the police? You dirty, slimy — » I broke off for lack of an adequately insulting noun.

«Oh no! Look, old son, I might twist your arm a bit and let you think that I would cry copper — but I never would. But Rrringriil's conjugate-brother Rrringlath certainly knows that old “Griil” went in that door and failed to come out. He will tip off the nosies. Conjugate-brother is a relationship so close that we will never understand it, since we don't reproduce by fission.»

I didn't care whether Martians reproduced like rabbits or the stork brought them in a little black bag. The way he told it I could never go back to Earth, and I said so. He shook his head. «Not at all. Leave it to me and we will slide you back in as neatly as we slid you out. Eventually you will walk off that field or some other field with a gate pass which shows that you are a mechanic who has been making some last-minute adjustment — and you'll have greasy coveralls and a tool kit to back it up. Surely an actor of your skill can play the part of a mechanic for a few minutes?»

«Eh? Why, certainly! But — »

«There you are! You stick with ol' Doc Dak; he'll take care of you. We shuffled eight guild brothers in this current caper to get me on Earth and both of us off; we can do it again. But you would not stand a chance without voyageurs to help you.» He grinned. «Every voyageur is a free trader at heart. The art of smuggling being what it is, we are all of us always ready to help out one another in a little innocent deception of the port guards. But a person outside the lodge does not ordinarily get such cooperation.»

I tried to steady my stomach and think about it. «Dak, is this a smuggling deal? Because — »

«Oh no! Except that we are smuggling you.»

«I was going to say that I don't regard smuggling as a crime.»

«Who does? Except those who make money off the rest of us by limiting trade. But this is a straight impersonation job, Lorenzo, and you are the man for it. It wasn't an accident that I ran across you in the bar; there had been a tail on you for two days. As soon as I hit dirt I went where you were.» He frowned. «I wish I could be sure our honorable antagonists had been following me, and not you.»

«Why?»

«If they were following me they were trying to find out what I was after — which is okay, as the lines were already drawn; we knew we were mutual enemies. But if they were following you, then they knew what I was after — an actor who could play the role.»

«But how could they know that? Unless you told them?»

«Lorenzo, this thing is big, much bigger than you imagine. I don't see it all myself — and the less you know about it until you must, the better off you are. But I can tell you this: a set of personal characteristics was fed into the big computer at the System Census Bureau at The Hague and the machine compared them with the personal characteristics of every male professional actor alive. It was done as discreetly as possible but somebody might have guessed — and talked. The specifications amounted to identification both of the principal and the actor who could double for him, since the job had to be perfect.»

«Oh. And the machine told you that I was the man for it?»

«Yes. You — and one other.»

This was another good place for me to keep my mouth shut. But I could not have done so if my life had depended on it — which in a way it did. I just had to know who the other actor was who was considered competent to play a role which called for my unique talents. «This other one? Who is he?»

Dak looked me over; I could see him hesitate. «Mmm — fellow by the name of Orson Trowbridge. Know him?»

«That ham!» For a moment I was so furious that I forgot my nausea.

«So? I hear that he is a very good actor.»

I simply could not help being indignant at the idea that anyone should even think about that oaf Trowbridge for a role for which I was being considered. «That arm-waver! That wordmouther!» I stopped, realizing that it was more dignified to ignore such colleagues — if the word fits. But that popinjay was so conceited that — well, if the role called for him to kiss a lady's hand, Trowbridge would fake it by kissing his own thumb instead. A narcissist, a poseur, a double fake — how could such a man live a role?

Yet such is the injustice of fortune that his sawings and rantings had paid him well while real artists went hungry.

«Dak, I simply cannot see why you considered him for it.»

«Well, we didn't want him; he is tied up with some long-term contract that would make his absence conspicuous and awkward. It was lucky for us that you were — uh, “at liberty.” As soon as you agreed to the job I had Jock send word to call off the team that was trying to arrange a deal with Trowbridge.»

«I should think so!»

«But — see here, Lorenzo, I'm going to lay it on the line. While you were busy whooping your cookies after Brennschluss I called the Go For Broke and told them to pass the word down to get busy on Trowbridge again.»