Scat sighed. "Okay, Click-Click. Yes, I told Len."
Scat felt a black pincher lightly touch his shoulder. "Don't mope, Scat. I get a great kick out of going contrary to your orders; after all, it's my badge of enlightenment. Most Martians are too obliging—it's our great racial sin. Works all right when everybody's telepathic—thought-pressure keeps the potential transgressor against social welfare in line. But when a telepathic race comes up against a non-telepathic one—ouch! Then the thought-pressure is all going one way. Our Golden Rule worked on Mars, but it sure got us into trouble here."
That evening, while Scat was having his last smoke, he wished that Len were there to chin with. He kept wondering, profitlessly, how long the regional court would hold out against the pressure Kemmerdygn was undoubtedly bringing to bear. Vacillating governments were the curse of eras like this—rather, the inevitable accompaniment. He wondered if there would be a civil war and to what degree he would be responsible for it. Tonight it was hard to dodge that question.
The talk-see button flashed, as he'd been expecting it to. This time the screen didn't stay completely dark. A wavering "X" glowed there. Black paper painted with phosphorescence and clapped over the screen at their end, he judged.
"Jonas Scatterday, you have disregarded our advice," came the whisper. "That is unwise. Your time-allotment is almost up. This is the last warning."
Scat wondered if he ought to have the call traced. Fat chance, with all the talk-see operators locals. Still, for the sake of the record ... but he felt tired.
Sometime that night Click-Click departed, but Len got back with the replacement in time for the morning edition. Afterwards he showed Scat a big ugly splotch on the tail of the truck where squirt gun corrosive was eating in.
"Tried to stop me on the way back just outside Bronsco," he explained as he swabbed on the decontamination fluid. "Had a barricade up, but I gunned my jets and managed to jump it."