Where the Rockheads had driven hard bargains with Earth, Murain's representatives drove none at all. They trusted their deliverers—the men of W.G.—to do the right thing. And the Earthmen, some of them, were doing the right thing—but for themselves.
Where the Martian democratic government had once lost to the fascists through force, it was now losing to friends who were rooking it, in a perfectly legitimate, businesslike way. The Commission on Exploration and Assessment had now become known off the record as A. & E.—assessment and exploitation. The business and industries which should have made the Martians prosper—which should have given them the schools and housing they had been robbed of by the Rockheads—these had their profits skimmed off and sent to Earth. The Martians had their freedom now, true, but they couldn't eat it or build with it.
Ylia pulled at Scott's sleeve. They turned down a side street and, at an old stone house that seemed as ancient as Mars itself, she led him through an archway and into a court. She knocked at a door, and, when it opened, took off her ridiculous mask and entered, beckoning Scott to follow.
They entered a room that was low and wide, furnished with a mixture of Earth and Mars styles, including some of those chairs which are geared to Martian dimensions—oversized headrest and, between closely-spaced arms, a seat that a plump Terrestrial either had to squeeze into, or avoid.
Of the three people in the room, Scott recognized two: Kring, Ylia's father, and Toby Black, a W.G. investigator whose real job was known to only a few and who posed as a sales manager for a construction firm. The guise enabled him to be places where the presence of a W.G. representative would be unwelcome. Here, possibly. The other Martian in the room looked familiar, but Scott couldn't place him.
Scott shook hands with Kring and let himself be introduced to Toby, although they'd had many a drink together in the Press Club bar and in less respectable places.
"And this is Mr. Rastol," Kring said of the familiar-looking Martian.
Then Scott remembered. Two days ago President Murain had decided on a man to fill the job of commerce minister in the Martian government, a post vacated through the death of a cabinet member. Murain had offered the job to Rastol. Scott had no idea what had prompted the offer. He felt sure that Murain hadn't acted of his own free choice; pressure must have been brought on him. Apparently it was a concession he felt it necessary to make—a sort of horse trade with some powerful leader in Parliament to get an administration bill through. All Scott knew, now that he remembered, was that Rastol was a Rockhead. Not an overt one, true. There was no blood on his hands, as far as anyone could prove. But Rastol had been a power in the totalitarian government lately voted out. Possibly Murain could find no one else for the job. Rastol had ability, of course, but he also had a tinge, if not a definite odor.
He had been brought to trial, under a W.G. indictment, but had been acquitted of complicity in any of the really unsavory doings of the Rockhead regime. Some had said it was lack of evidence, but newsmen covering the trial had a strong suspicion that several prosecution witnesses had been given bank accounts. And Rastol went free.