"I can imagine," said Bliss dryly. He led the way into the black-and-gold washroom, was amused at the slight but definite popping of ambassadorial eyes. Earth might be dying, he thought, but at least her destroyers would leave a heritage. He motioned toward the basin with its mermaid taps and Captain Yaelstrom hesitated, then began pulling off his black gauntlets.
Bliss thought of something. "You mentioned twenty-five years," he said. "Is that Martian time or Earth time?"
"Martian time," said the ambassador, letting the water run over his hands.
Twenty-five years, Martian time—a Martian year was 1.88 Earth years. Bliss exhaled and said, "I think perhaps we shall be able to come to an agreement. It will take a little time, of course—channels, and all that."
The Martian held his hands in front of the air-drier. They were strong, brown hands with long, muscular fingers. Bliss looked at them and knew the whole story. For, like himself, Captain Yaelstrom had seven fingers on each. Man had done no better on Mars than he had at home. The reason for such a desperate move as emigration was all too clear.
Captain Yaelstrom stood back from the bowl, then noticed the stall shower. He said, "What is this? We have nothing like it on Mars."
Bliss explained its several therapeutic uses, then said, "Perhaps you'd like to try it yourself while I order us luncheon."
"May I, excellency?" the Martian legate asked eagerly.
"Go right ahead," said Bliss magnanimously. "It's all yours."
Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe November 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.