He turned to study it. The Martian, if that was what it was, had only six tentacles, three on each side. The lower ones were heavy and almost as thick as legs. The upper ones were small and were obviously used as hands, while it was possible that the middle ones could be used either way. A series of suction cups or sucking pads were at the end of each tentacle. With equipment like this, it could walk right up the side of a building, except, perhaps, for the higher gravity of Earth.
Stern could smell it now, a dry, desert smell, and that made it more revolting than ever. They were born to hate each other.
When they got home, Beryl was all solicitousness. The way a woman is when she has a man to impress, Stern thought.
"Just sit right here in your old chair," she told Curtis, "and I'll call a doctor. Then I'll put some water on to heat." But first she knelt by his side and laid her head on his breast. "Oh, darling," she said with a sob, "Why did you wait so long? I've missed you so."
A very good act, Stern told himself bitterly, without believing it at all.
She got up and turned toward Stern. "Will you help me get some water on, Al?" she asked. "I'm going to phone."
He went into the kitchen. He knew where the kettle was, the refrigerator, the mixings. He could hear her dialing, and then, before he got the kettle on the burner, she came inside and closed the kitchen door.
"Clyde's sick and I have to take care of him," she said anxiously.
It wasn't entirely the money, he confessed to himself now. He hated the situation, but he had to give in—on the surface anyway.