Fantastic Stories Presents the Poul Anderson Super Pack. Poul Anderson

against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.

      *

      Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on one that was distinguished by relative austerity.

      THE CHURCH OF CHOICE

      Enter, Play, Pray

      That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.

      “Ah, brother, welcome,” said a red-haired usherette in demure black leotards. “The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The restaurant is right up those stairs.”

      “I—I’m not hungry,” stammered Matheny. “I just wanted to sit in—”

      “To your left, sir.”

      The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.

      “Get your chips right here, sir,” said the girl in the booth.

      “Hm?” said Matheny.

      She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games. He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn’t want to bother learning something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest or too deep for him. He’d have to relax with a crap game instead.

      He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few passes he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off. But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was a customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed chips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simple courtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get the feel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.

      “I say!” he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the green table. “I’m sorry. I guess I don’t know your rules.”

      “You did all right, brother,” said a middle-aged lady with an obviously surgical bodice.

      “But—I mean—when do we start actually playing? What happened to the cocked dice?”

      *

      The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. “Sir! This is a church!”

      “Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I—” Matheny backed out of the crowd, shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.

      “You forgot your chips, pal,” said a voice.

      “Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is—” Matheny cursed his knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they’re so much more sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?

      The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell cloak and curly-toed slippers.

      “You’re from Mars, aren’t you?” he asked in the friendliest tone Matheny had yet heard.

      “Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name’s Peter Matheny. I, I—” He stuck out his hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. “Damn! Oh, excuse me, I forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want to g-g-get the hell out of here.”

      “Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.”

      Matheny sighed. “A drink is what I need the very most.”

      “My name’s Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.”

      They walked back to the deaconette’s booth and Matheny cashed what remained of his winnings.

      “I don’t want to—I mean if you’re busy tonight, Mr. Doran—”

      “Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never met a Martian. I am very interested.”

      “There aren’t many of us on Earth,” agreed Matheny. “Just a small embassy staff and an occasional like me.”

      “I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old mother planet and so on.”

      “We can’t afford it,” said Matheny. “What with gravitation and distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for pleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage.” As they entered the shaft, he added wistfully: “You Earth people have that kind of money, at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don’t you send a few tourists to us?”

      “I always wanted to,” said Doran. “I would like to see the what they call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike’s Birthday and she was just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like, made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race . . . I tell you, she appreciated me for it!” He winked and nudged.

      “Oh,” said Matheny.

      *

      He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to deserve—

      “Of course,” Matheny said ritually, “I agree with all the archeologists it’s a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.”

      “Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable,” said Doran. “I mean, do not get me wrong, I don’t want to insult you or anything, but people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough air to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns and villages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers and making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck for their ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know.”

      “I do know,” said Matheny. “But we’re poor—a handful of people trying to make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woods and seas. We can’t do it without substantial help from Earth, equipment and supplies—which can only be paid for in Earth dollars—and we can’t export enough to Earth to earn those dollars.”

      By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny’s jaw clanked down.

      “Whassa matter?” asked Doran. “Ain’t you ever seen a ecdysiastic technician before?”

      “Uh, yes, but—well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.”

      Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.

      “What’ll you have?” asked Doran. “It’s on me.”

      “Oh, I couldn’t let you. I mean—”

      “Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?”

      Matheny shuddered. “Good Lord, no!”

      “Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don’t they?”

      “Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But you don’t think we’d drink it, do you? I mean—well, I imagine it doesn’t absolutely ruin vermouth. But we don’t see those Earthside commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.”

      *

      “Well, I’ll be a socialist creeper!” Doran’s face split in a grin. “You know, all my life I’ve hated the stuff and never dared admit it!” He raised a hand. “Don’t