"Those bangs have got to come off!" Mark went to work in earnest. Ten minutes under another ray, and Ketrik's unruly hair was transformed into tight, crisp curls in keeping with the Martian fashion. His features presented the hardest problem, but Mark worked miracles with the plastics and equipment.
At last the job was done. When Ketrik surveyed himself in the mirror he saw a tall, somewhat arrogant Martian of the middle class, with slightly flaring nostrils, bulging cheek-bones and lips curving in a thin, cruel smile. He nodded, more than satisfied.
Mark consulted his wrist-chrono. "Four hours until dawn. Better grab a few hours' sleep, it may be your last for a while."
"Sure, but I'll rest better if I know one thing. Where's my ship?"
"My guards moved it secretly to the underground repair locks. Right now it's undergoing as radical a change as I just performed on you." Mark smiled. "When you leave Earth, it will be in a slow-powered ore freighter ostensibly bound for the Moon!"
An hour before the dawn, Mark wakened Ketrik. But Mark hadn't been idle in those hours. He handed the other a small, compact instrument.
"Here's a Scanner disc I just finished assembling. It only works within a very short range, but you may have need of it."
They took the swift tube-car across the city and arrived at the spaceport amidst surprising activity. A Callistan freighter had just berthed. Bright lights were trained upon it, men and trucks were moving about handling the cargo.
"I planned it for this hour," Mark explained, "because now less attention will be drawn to you. We can't be too careful." He pointed to a dark, far corner of the field where a clumsy bulk rested. "Believe it or not, that's your ship. The exterior's been changed but that's all. You still have the Frequency Tuner." They paused for a moment in solemn thought. "I can't impress upon you too much, Ketrik, what this—"