The Martian turned, went away from the half-light of the circle. He led me some yards off to the north to a swooping-tent. Then he stopped, pointed.
"Wahanhk," he said.
I watched him slip away.
Wahanhk is an old Martian. I don't think any Martian before him has ever lived so long—and doubtless none after him will, either. His leathery, almost purple-black skin was rough and had a charred look about it, and up around the eyes were little plaits and folds that had the appearance of being done deliberately by a Martian sand-artist.
"Good evening," I said, and sat down before him and crossed my legs.
He nodded slowly. His old eyes went to my badge.
From there they went to the Authority Card.
"Power sign of the Earthmen," he muttered.
"Not necessarily," I said. "I'm not here for trouble. I know as well as you do that, before tonight is finished, more than half of your men and women will be drunk on illegal whiskey."
He didn't reply to that.