"Well," grinned Don, "the Martians were only human. Just as—ah—well—I must say that a number of tourists have a tendency to chuck their inhibitions during the rituals. But if not on Mars, then where?"
"I still say," yelled Mr. Ericson from his camel, "that you should spring a live Martian on us."
"We get plenty of calls for them," Don said. "But so far we haven't been able to scare up any."
"What did they look like?" asked Mrs. Ericson.
"Nobody knows. The only Martians around now are—ghosts," Don said, with a strange softness. "A few old prospectors, fakirs, beggars live in these hills—hermits. They claim they see Martians, know they're here. They believe in ghosts. The Martian sun drives them crazy."
"Like that old man we saw coming out here," said Mr. Ericson.
Don nodded. "They're dangerous. You must stay away from them, you understand. Or you'll get the contamination."
For the first time, Madeleine felt that Don was touching something real. She straightened. "Contamination?"
"Those crazy old guys are like lepers. They stay apart from everybody else. But if you go to them, you pay for it. And if you're contaminated, it'll cost. If you really get it, you can't be cured at all. You die."
No one said anything. Odd, Madeleine thought, his coming out with scare talk. Didn't seem to be good propaganda. Then she got it, and laughed a little. "Sensationalism," she said. "Pure bunk."