He was about to turn back when he saw a municipal car park. Why not take a drive? He picked the nearest vehicle, a long one with three rows of seats. A minute later, he was barrelling along the superhighway, the bright headlights probing ahead. After fifteen minutes of this,, he turned off on to a road that led directly to a village. Since he could see well in the moonlight, and he was not going over ten miles an hour, he turned the headlights off. It was pleasant cruising along like a phantom past the rows of tall trees bordering the street, moving past houses from whose open windows came snatches of song, bursts of laughter, and animated conversation. Once he saw a huge bulk ahead and slowed, but it was only a cow crossing the street. Some farmer had been careless and left a gate open. He found this reassuring. Sometimes, he thought of these people as perfect, and so he was discouraged about his own imperfections. This was not Utopia, the Martians were just as human as he, though they'd achieved more of the human potentiality for good, and they could be forgetful or neglectful.

A little later, he passed a house from which loud angry voices issued. He glimpsed a man and a woman standing by the window, shaking their fingers at each other.

One more item to remind him that they were not perfect, not robots. The difference here was that, most probably, the argument wasn't going to end in a beating or murder. If it was a serious argument which they couldn't settle themselves privately, then they would go to the neighbourhood arbiter, and he or she would settle the matter. Custom demanded it, and here custom had its way.

The good thing about the Martians was that they kept the good custom and abandoned the bad. Whatever worked was right - if it didn't conflict with good morality. Usually, anyway.

But could this system work on Earth?

It went well here because they had the man in the sun, and the man in the moon, too, and he closely observed them and they knew it. In practice, though not in theory, a god was their head of state and of family.

Earth had no Jesus. No living Jesus, anyway.

After leaving the village, he increased his speed and tore down the country roads, if you could call thirty-five mph tearing. The moonlight fell in between the trees and formed a black-and-white pattern. Darkness, light, darkness, light. A symbol of his life here. On Earth, too. Would there be a great white light surpassing all lights at the end of the road?

There was. It wasn't a blinding but enlightening light, but it was certainly the brightest, except for the moon, he'd seen since he'd started his wandering journey. It came from a large long house set well back from the road, surrounded on three sides by massive trees. Large lamps hanging underneath the overhang of the roof lit up a parking space in front. This contained at least twenty cars, six bicycles, and two buggies.

There were no windows, and the single tall door was closed. Orme stopped the car. It looked as if a party was going on. Should he drop in? He'd been assured that he'd be welcome wherever he went, except for certain government buildings. He was suddenly tired of being alone. The walk and the drive had not resulted in finding a solution to his problem. In fact, he had not even thought much about it. It had been his intention to do so, but something in him had clamped down.

While he was hesitating, he saw the door swing out. Music and laughter blasted out, and the breeze brought him the odour of wine and something stronger. A man was silhouetted against the frame. Behind him were tables at which men and women sat, and beyond them were couples dancing.

The man stepped out under the overhead lights.

Orme called out, 'Philemon?'

The man started, then walked across the lot to the road. Here the moonlight fell upon Orme's black face. Philemon stopped and ran his hand through his curly red hair. He said something under his breath. Then, 'Richard Orme! How did you find this place?'

'By accident. I was just driving along, and when I saw all those cars and cycles, I thought maybe there might be a party here. I was feeling lonely, so...'

Philemon stepped out past the car and looked up and down the road.

'Are you sure that nobody's following you?'

'No. Why should they?'

'Never mind. Drive up and park it near the door.'

The young athlete got into the seat beside Orme's. He leaned close and breathed alcohol into Orme's nostrils.

'I would have brought you here before, but you're too noticeable, what with your black skin and kinky hair. Besides, I wasn't too sure of your reaction.'

Orme turned the car into the lot. 'What are you talking about?'

'Never mind. Just follow me.'

Orme, wondering where Philemon had got strong spirits, which he hadn't even known were made here, went into the building. The young man closed the door after him. The music smote his ears, and the odour of wine and the liquor and sweaty bodies assailed his nostrils. He wasn't offended; it was like being in a disco on Earth, except for the lack of tobacco smoke, and he liked that.

As people caught sight of him, they stopped talking. The band, however, except for a brief miss in the beat, seemed unperturbed. Philemon waved his hand to indicate that nothing was wrong, and the conversation started up again. Orme suspected that it was now mainly about him. He followed the athlete to a small round table with narrow chairs around it. Three were empty; the fourth was occupied by a dark lovely woman. Philemon sat down, invited Orme to take a chair, and introduced his companion.

'Debhorah bat-El'azar. She knows who you are, of course.'

She seemed unsurprised. Her glazed eyes and aroma of liquor indicated that at this time there was very little she would react to.

Philemon, noticing Orme's expression, chuckled. 'She's had far too much; she always does.' ,

Orme found it difficult to accept that such a place could exist. He was in the equivalent of a 1930s speakeasy.

Philemon bellowed an order to the bartender, and shortly a barmaid, clad in a diaphanous robe, brought two drinks. The dark woman protested, though weakly and slurringly, that she wanted another glass. Philemon told her she'd had enough, and she subsided into a stupor. A moment later she was sleeping, her head on the table.

Orme tasted the purplish liquor. It was like bourbon whisky in pomegranate juice with a dash of tonic water.

'Where do you get this?' he said.

'It's made from wheat and various other ingredients by our esteemed proprietor. Drink up; it's fabulous stuff.'

Orme didn't like the first swallow, but after that the liquor went down easily. His stomach warmed, and presently he began to feel both numb and exhilarated.

'Wow!'

'That's an excellent exclamation,' Philemon said. 'Wow!'

'I don't get this,' Orme said, waving his hand to indicate the entire place. 'Isn't it unlawful?'

'Well, yes. But it's this way, my kinky-haired friend from far-off and iniquitous Earth. You see, we feel repressed or frustrated from time to time, some of us all the time, and so we come to this place or some other place, there are a dozen in this cavern alone, and we get drunk and we do some other things that our elders would frown upon. More than scowl at, I'm afraid.'

Orme took another drink and pointed at a couple at a table in a distant corner. Each had a hand under the other's robe and their mouths pressed together.

'Like that?'

Philemon turned his head and blinked owlishly.

'That and more.'

He was trying to speak precisely, though his words were drawled out.

Orme drank another mouthful, and he said, 'Those two will be married soon?'

'Not neshe-cessarily.'

'Then you young rebels just come here to blow off steam? But I thought you were very temperate. How do you stay in shape for your running?'