"Death to the Nebula!"
On the table the package for which he had risked so much lay open. Jimmy scowled down upon its contents: three Thro-Pahl figurines, gray in color, eighteen inches in height, each the likeness of an armor-clad Martian of the first dynasty. To an art collector they were undoubtedly wondrous artifacts, but to Jimmy they meant nothing.
The visiphone bell sounded. Heart pounding, Jimmy touched the stud and heard again that voice.
"Good morning, Nebula. We made it this time. I'm so glad."
He stared into the blank screen silently. What did she look like, the owner of that haunting voice? Was she dark or fair? Was she...? "Who are you?" he said huskily.
"There isn't time for that now, Jimmy. Tell me, have you examined the figurines?"
He had the vision plate turned on, and he nodded in reply.
"Look at them again. Look at their composition. It's not the carving I'm—we're—interested in. It's their structure. Don't you see, Jimmy? It's pxar."
He didn't see, and he waited for her to continue.
"Pxar—the same material that the engineers need for their construction work for the canal locks, the only material that will withstand the radiations of the Red Desert sands.