Earth's espionage ring was a headache, so the Martian Security Chief offered ten thousand credits for a key agent. But even for a price—SPIES DIE HARD!
He came into view. Harry Horn. There was no mistaking his face. It had flashed on and off the telecaster throughout the day.
"Brickel?" he said, coming up to her.
His white coveralls were spotted with grime. There was a dark bruise on his right cheek.
"Yes," she said.
"I'm Harry Horn."
"You've got to help me." His voice was urgent, pleading. He brushed past her, into her room. She walked in after him, shut and locked the door, leaned her back against it.
"You can't stay here," she said.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm alone."
He went through the apartment, returned to the front room. "I had to make sure." He
Short, clever, story of a double-cross recrossed. Take that! you pestiferous Martians!