“And so what’s your hurry to get your mail?” Magarac chuckled. “A gorgeous dame of your own?”

“No. Not that I am too old even now, I assure you, but I have more sense than to expect a delectable woman to wait five Earth-years for my return. I shall simply start afresh. No, no, my friend, it is that I have been extravagant with myself. Well, say rather that I am supplying a necessity. If you would care to visit my house tonight for a little private discussion—?”

And Latourelle would say nothing more. With elaborate silence, he picked up a large wooden case at the desk, and Margarac’s last sight of him was a small suspicious figure hugging the box to his chest and stumping off toward Syrtis.

The news, no doubt, was good for humanity at large, but it would hit Mars heavily. Magarac had been an engineer on Earth, with added experience in chemistry, and could read between the lines. M’Kato announced cautiously that he thought he had the structural formula of protenzase. If he was right, they would be synthesizing it in another year. Quite probably, the next Fleet would not be accepting drybean extract.

Magarac slouched gloomily away from the lights and music and swirl of the fair. What the devil was a man to do?

So far, the history of Mars had been economic history. The first colony had been planted to mine the rich uranium beds of the Aetheria. To save freight, it had had to be made self-sufficient; and, since this was not Periclean Greece, it had had to include women. Children resulted and drybean culture provided a new source of income… so good a source that Mars stopped shipping uranium and used it instead to break down iron oxides and produce a breathable atmosphere.