"There's more in this than ..." Scat began. "... but we got tapes to beam. Get going!"
He didn't return until after the Newsbeam had been put to bed. There was a black figure sitting at his desk.
"Click-Click!"
"Absolutely." The Martian waved his pinchers airily—a startlingly human gesture. "You probably guessed what happened, but I thought maybe you'd want a personal report. The Martians at Ten Mile struck—every last one of them. Almost unprecedented, but not quite."
And with those government contracts hanging over his head, Kemmerdygn couldn't afford to lose half a day, Scat appended mentally.
"I won't say that I didn't have anything to do with it," Click-Click continued. "I kept the old grapevine humming. But most of the credit goes to the Martian Tape. The Martians were wild when it wasn't published today—especially because it carried the answers to yesterday's puzzles. Even Kemmerdygn couldn't figure out that one. They're going back to work now, but I imagine they'll be a long time forgetting this initial lesson in self-assertion."
Scat looked down at Click-Click. He grabbed his pincher and squeezed it—hard. Click-Click squeezed back—harder. But since it was Scat's duraplast hand, it didn't matter.
THE END