“The Purple Jug again, I suppose,” said Carter.
“That’s just exactly what it was,” said Alf, trying to sound cheerful. “You wouldn’t want a fellow to pass up a fortune, would you?”
“The Purple Jug’s a myth,” said Carter, with a touch of bitterness. “Something someone thought up to get guys like you in trouble. There never was a Purple Jug.”
“But Elmer’s robot gave me the tip,” wailed Alf. “Told me just where to go.”
“Sure, I know,” said Carter. “Sent you out into the badlands. Worst country on all of Mars. Straight up and down and full of acid bugs. No one’s ever found a jug there. No one ever will. Even when the Martians were here, the badlands probably were a wilderness. No one in his right mind, not even a Martian, would live there and you only find jugs where someone has lived.”
“Look,” yelped Alf, “you don’t mean to tell
me Buster was playing a joke on me? Those badlands ain’t no joke. The acid bugs darn near got my sand buggy and I almost broke my neck three or four times. Then along came the cops and nailed me. Said I was trespassing on Elmer’s reservation.”
“Certainly Buster was playing a joke on you,” said Carter. “He gets bored sitting around and not having much to do. Fellows like you are made to order for him.”
“That little whippersnapper can’t do this to me,” howled Alf. “You wait until I get my hands on him. I’ll break him down into a tinker toy.”
“You won’t be getting your hands on anyone for thirty days or so unless I can talk you out of this,” Carter reminded him. “Is the sheriff around?”