Was she glad to see me? She squealed, “Max! It’s been years.”

“I know, Flora, but this is it, if you’re available. Because guess what! I’m in Marsport without Hilda.”

She squealed again, “Isn’t that nice! Then come on over.”

I goggled a bit. This was too much. “You mean you are available?” You have to understand that Flora was never available without plenty of notice. Well, she was that kind of knockout.

She said, “Oh, I’ve got some quibbling little arrangement, Max, but I’ll take care of that. You come on over.”

“I’ll come,” I said happily.

Flora was the kind of girl—Well, I tell you, she had her rooms under Martian gravity, 0.4 Earth-normal. The gadget to free her of Marsport’s pseudo-grav field was expensive of course, but if you’ve ever held a girl in your arms at 0.4 gees, you need no explanation. If you haven’t, explanations will do no good. I’m also sorry for you.

Talk about floating on clouds.

I closed connections, and only the prospect of seeing it all in the flesh could have made me wipe out the image with such alacrity. I stepped out of the booth.

And at that point, that precise point, that very split-instant of time, the first whiff of catastrophe nudged itself up to me.

That first whiff was the bald head of that lousy Rog Crinton of the Mars offices, gleaming over a headful of pale blue eyes, pale yellow complexion, and pale brown mustache. I didn’t bother getting on all fours and beating my forehead against the ground because my vacation had started the minute I had gotten off the ship.

So I said with only normal politeness, “What do you want and I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment.”

He said, “You’ve got an appointment with me. I was waiting for you at the unloading desk.”

I said, “I didn’t see you—”