Yet the Summer wind from the melting Polar icecap would insure an endurable temperature through the day. Monk's lungs—enlarged and sensitized after two years of prospecting for Devil's Egg seed—were accustomed to the planet's scant atmosphere. Destruction of his oxygen mask presented no menace.
"Idiots," he mumbled. "The fool Martians made off with the sandcar like kids with ice cream—and left enough Egg seed to buy a thousand cars!"
He was able to turn his head just enough to glimpse the heavy, fat sacks that the tribesmen had dumped out of the sandcar.
The sacks bulged with the fine black seed that, properly processed, made the deadliest, costliest, and most habit-forming narcotic in the System. The sacks were symbols of a shining future for Monk O'Hara—symbols of fine clothes, beauteous women, choice whiskey and, most important of all, a return to earth.
Of course, it was too bad about the old man.
The white-bearded, toothpick-slim Martian trader and his black-haired daughter had pitched their tent next to his camp last night. The girl had been amazingly full-bodied for a Martian. Her round, firm body and sensual lips made him suspect that she was a half-breed, a delightful combination of Martian grace and Earthly sultriness.
Monk smiled as he saw her again in his mind's vision.
She slid off her antelope-like lozelle, came to him slowly with her small, naked feet swishing through the sand.
"It is all right for us to camp by you?" she asked, her eyes wide. "We will not bother you?"
"Not at all," Monk answered, his heart pounding. After all, it'd been six months since he'd even seen a woman—any kind of woman.