Norman Hamlin braced his bony elbows on the table and leaned toward him. "Mr. Keating, in the course of the three trips you made to Mars with the military, what was it that stood out foremost in your mind?"
"Men's emotions vary," Carl said carefully. "An architect would probably admire the beauty of the Martian cities, while a gourmet would savor the taste of candied encoms. Probably the thing that impressed me most was the friendliness of the people."
Hamlin drummed his fingers on the table. "I see," he said. "You'd say, then, it was a reasonably nice place to live?"
"Reasonably nice," Carl agreed. "Certainly nicer than the science-fiction writers had pictured it."
"Better than Earth?"
Carl shook his head. "Not as far as I'm concerned. My tastes run to sandy beaches and women with real eyelashes. That's just my personal opinion you understand. There's almost eighty-thousand people who disagree with me—I believe that was the latest migration figures."
Hamlin thumped his pipe against the edge of the table. "I understand you've just returned from Venus, Mr. Keating. Can you give us a short briefing concerning your reactions to that planet?"
Carl eyed the man warily. "I'll be as brief as possible. There's been four landings on Venus in almost forty years. All these have been made by the military. That to me is a pretty substantial indication that no one would go there unless they were ordered to!"
Hamlin smiled. "I didn't mean quite as brief as that, Mr. Keating. I had rather hoped you'd be a little more explicit."