"But you observe I have a neuro in my hand," remarked the colonel pleasantly, "and so you will remain standing where you are."
So saying, he slipped off the white wig he was wearing, wiped his face so that the brown powder came off, and sat, obviously pleased with the success of his masquerade, useless though it was. He was a typical Martian, dark, sleek-haired, coral-skinned.
"I hate to send a man to his death mystified," said the Martian after a moment, "so I'll explain that I am Scar Balta!"
"Scar Balta!"
"You've heard of me?"
"Uh—yes and no," Sime suddenly remembered the girl of the evening before—the imperious little Martian. She had warned him of Scar Balta.
"If I do say it," said the Martian, "I am the best impersonator in the service of the interests I represent. I did not expect to get information of great value from you, but we do not neglect even the most unpromising leads."
He pressed a button; two Martian soldiers answered promptly.
"Take this man to the cell," Balta ordered. "Provide him with writing materials so that he can write a last message to his family. In the morning take him to the end of the ravine and finish him with your short sword."