"I'd like to talk to your mother, girls," said Shaan, more to confirm a suspicion than anything else.
"Mother's dead," said Vali. "We live here alone with father."
"But we can take care of ourselves, Mr. Shaan," warned Lori, her hand near her gun.
"I'm sure you can. Do you mind if I clean up a little?"
"Bathroom's across the hall," said Lori. "I'll fix supper."
The marsuits were hanging in the hall: Lori's, Vali's and an extra one that looked like it was big enough for Shaan. He stripped off his own worn and dirty one, emerging in brown coveralls, and went into the bathroom.
While he washed, his nebulous plan of action crystalized. First he must gain possession of the heat-guns in the house and cripple the dome radio. It would be dangerous, maintaining constant watch over three hostile people, but he could live here indefinitely while evolving a permanent plan of existence.
He found gauze and adhesive tape in the bathroom cabinet and put a bandage over the flaming brand on his forehead. He walked out into the parlor.
"I called Mars City and told them to send a rescue 'copter," said Vali, gesturing toward the radio in the corner. "Say, what happened to your head?"
"Banged it on the corner of the cabinet," said Shaan. "What did Mars City say?"