As a matter of fact he had brought back several moribund examples of Martian fauna; he had smuggled them through customs. After all, they posed no menace; they couldn’t survive in Earth’s heavy atmosphere.

Reaching into his coat pocket he rummaged for the container of Martian maw-worms—

And found an envelope instead.

Lifting it out he discovered, to his perplexity, that it contained five hundred and seventy poscreds, in ’cred bills of low denomination.

Where’d I get this? he asked himself. Didn’t I spend every ’cred I had on my trip?

With the money came a slip of paper marked: one-half fee ret’d. By McClane. And then the date. Today’s date.

“Recall,” he said aloud.

“Recall what, sir or madam?” the robot driver of the cab inquired respectfully.

“Do you have a phone book?” Quail demanded. “Certainly, sir or madam.”

A slot opened; from it slid a microtape phone book for Cook County.

“It’s spelled oddly,” Quail said as he leafed through the pages of the yellow section. He felt fear, then; abiding fear. “Here it is,” he said. “Take me there, to Rekal, Incorporated. I’ve changed my mind; I don’t want to go home.”

“Yes sir, or madam, as the case may be,” the driver said. A moment later the cab was zipping back in the opposite direction.

“May I make use of your phone?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” the robot driver said. And presented a shiny new emperor 3-D color phone to him.

He dialed his own conapt. And after a pause found himself confronted by a miniature but chillingly realistic image of Kirsten on the small screen. “I’ve been to Mars,” he said to her.

“You’re drunk.” Her lips writhed scornfully. “Or worse.”

“ ’S god’s truth.”