2
r, the World Office for Martian Relations had a way of knowing its business; strangely enough, in the midst of what appeared to be bumbling bureaucracy, things got done and often done right. As witness Eisenstein's own appointment to this post, from the relative quiet of an academic chair of Anthropology, a seeming piece of folly which had turned out to be rewarding both to the Commissioner and to WOMR.
Eisenstein shook his head and followed the young man's gaze. "Ah, yes," he said drily, "that's right. You haven't met my secretary yet. Come in, Lucy. This is Leonard Jackson. Mr. Jackson, Lucy Ironsmith."
Leonard sprang to his feet, something a man of his composition never should have done, for he was tall, loose-jointed and awkward and his feet were very large. There was an uncomfortable pause while the service unit rolled out, righted the small table, sucked up the broken glass, and with its air hose dried the floor and Leonard's front. When it had returned to its position in the corner, he stammered, "I'm awfully sorry. I've always been--I mean, I ought to watch what I'm doing. I wasn't looking, I mean."
"Oh, I don't know," the Comissioner rumbled comfortably. "You were looking, and I'm sure I can't blame you."
Lucy Ironsmith the name was a translation for convenience's sake was worth looking at. She was not beautiful as a model or an actress is beautiful, but she was a slender and tough, a striking and capable woman. She had the clear, pale green skin and silvery hair so typical of the equatorial Martians, and her eyes, oval and dark crimson, were quick to sparkle with anger or pleasure.
She slapped the Commissioner familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in pleasantly accented English, "Enough, Sam. Mr. Jackson will think we have no manners whatever here." She touched arms with Leonard and threw herself into a seat. "WOMR?" she asked.
"Mr. Jackson has been sent to study the ecology of the tundra," the Commissioner said. "With especial reference to possible parasites of