The road to Sinharat

The people of Mars were perverse. They did not want Earth's proffered gift of rich land, much water, new power. They fought Rehabilitation. And with them fought Carey, the Earthman, who wanted only the secret that lay at the end of ...
By LEIGH BRACKETT
Illustrated by FINLAY
The door was low, deep-sunk into the thickness of the wall. Carey knocked and then he waited, stooped a bit under the lintel-stone, fitting his body to the meagre shadow as though he could really hide it there. A few yards away, beyond cracked and tilted paving-blocks, the Jekkara Low-Canal showed its still black water to the still black sky, and both were full of stars.
Nothing moved along the canal-site. The town was closed tight, and this in itself was so unnatural that it made Carey shiver. He had been here before and he knew how it ought to be. The chief industry of the Low-Canal towns is sinning of one sort or another, and they work at it right around the clock. One might have thought that all the people had gone away, but Carey knew they hadn't. He knew that he had not taken a single step unwatched. He had not really believed that they would let him come this far, and he wondered why they had not killed him. Perhaps they remembered him.
There was a sound on the other side of the door.
Carey said in the antique High Martian, Here is one who claims the guest-right. In Low Martian, the vernacular that fitted more easily on his tongue, he said, Let me in, Derech. You owe me blood.
The door opened narrowly and Carey slid through it, into lamp-light and relative warmth. Derech closed the door and barred it, saying,
Damn you, Carey. I knew you were going to turn up here babbling about blood-debts. I swore I wouldn't let you in.
He was a Low-Canaller, lean and small and dark and predatory. He wore a red jewel in his left ear-lobe and a totally incongruous but comfortable suit of Terran synthetics, insulated against heat and cold. Carey smiled.
Sixteen years ago, he said, you'd have perished before you'd have worn that.