"My name is Bigman. What's the matter? Are you afraid to exhibit friendship? You called me Bigman the first few days."
"We have no blacklists, Bigman. Farmhands just aren't in demand."
"What are you talking about? Tim Jenkins got placed day before yesterday in two minutes."
"Jenkins had experience as a rocket man."
"I can handle a rocket as well as Tim any day."
"Well, you're down here as a seeder."
"And I'm a good one. Don't they need seeders?"
"Look, Bigman," said the man behind the desk, "I have your name on the roster. That's all I can do. I'll let you know if anything turns up." He turned a concentrated attention on the record book before him, following up entries with elaborate unconcern.
Bigman turned, then shouted over his shoulder, "All right, but I'm sitting right here, and the next labor requisition you get, I'm being sent out. If they don't want me, I want to hear them say so to me. To me, do you understand? To me, J. Bigman J., personally."
The man behind the desk said nothing. Bigman took a seat, muttering. David Starr rose and appreached the desk. No other farmboy had entered to dispute his place in line.
He said, "I'd like a job."
The man looked up, pulled an employment blank and hand printer toward himself. "What kind?"
"Any kind of farm work available."
The man put down his hand printer. "Are you Mars-bred?"
"No, sir. I'm from Earth."
"Sorry. Nothing open."
David said, "Well, look here. I can work, and I need work. Great Galaxy, is there a law against Earthmen working?"
"No, but there isn't much you can do on a farm without experience."
"I still need a job."
"There are lots of jobs in town. Next window over."
"I can't use a job in town."
The man behind the desk looked speculatively at David, and David had no trouble in reading the glance. Men traveled to Mars for many reasons, and one of them was that Earth had become too uncomfortable. When a search call went out for a fugitive, the cities of Mars were combed thoroughly (after all, they were part of Earth), but no one ever found a hunted man on the Mars farms. To the Farming Syndicates, the best farmboy was one who had no other place he dared go. They protected such and took care not to lose them to the Earth authorities they half-resented and more than half-despised.
"Name?" said the clerk, eyes back on the form.
"Dick Williams," said David, giving the name under which he had garaged his ship.
The clerk did not ask for identification. "Where can I get in touch with you?"
"Landis Hotel, Room 212."
"Any low-gravity experience at all?"
The questioning went on and on; most of the blanks had to be left empty. The clerk sighed, put the blank into the slot which automatically microfilmed it, filed it, and thus added it to the permanent records of the office.
He said, "I'll let you know." But he didn't sound hopeful.
David turned away. He had not expected much to come of this, but at least he had established himself as a somewhat legitimate seeker after a farming job.
The next step____________________
He whirled. Three men were entering the employment office and the little fellow, Bigman, had hopped angrily out of his seat. He was facing them now, arms carried loosely away from his hips although he had no weapons that David could see.
The three who entered stopped, and then one of the two who brought up the rear laughed and said, "Looks as if we have Bigman, the mighty midget, here. Maybe he's looking for a job, boss." The speaker was broad across the shoulders and his nose was flattened against his face. He had a chewed-to-death, unlit cigar of green Martian tobacco in his mouth and he needed a shave badly.
"Quiet, Griswold," said the man in front. He was pudgy, not too tall, and the soft skin on his cheeks and on the back of his neck was sleek and smooth.
His overall was typical Mars, of course, but it was of much finer material than that of any of the other farmboys in the room. His hip-high boots were spiraled in pink and rose.
In all his later travels on Mars, David Starr never saw two pairs of boots of identical design, never saw boots that were other than garish. It was the mark of individuality among the farmboys.
Bigman was approaching the three, his little chest swelling and his face twisted with anger. He said, "I want my papers out of you, Hermes. I've got a right to them."
The pudgy man in front was Hennes. He said quietly, "You're not worth any papers, Bigman."
"I can't get another job without decent papers. I worked for you for two years and did my part."
"You did a blasted lot more than your part. Out of my way." He tramped past Bigman, approached the desk, and said, "I need an experienced seeder-a good one. I want one tall enough to see in order to replace a little boy I had to get rid of."
Bigman felt that. "By Space," he yelled, "you're right I did more than my part. I was on duty when I wasn't supposed to be, you mean. I was on duty long enough to see you go driving wheels-over-sand into the desert at midnight. Only the next morning you knew nothing about it, except that I got heaved for referring to it, and without reference papers____________________ "
Hennes looked over his shoulder, annoyed. "Gris-wold," he said, "throw that fool out."
Bigman did not retreat, although Griswold would have made two of him. He said in his high voice, "All right. One at a time."
But David Starr moved now, Ms smooth stride deceptively slow.
Griswold said, "You're in my way, friend. I've got some trash to throw out."
From behind David, Bigman cried out, "It's all right, Earthie. Let him at me."
David ignored that. He said to Griswold, "This seems to be a public place, friend. We've all got the right to be here."
Griswold said, "Let's not argue, friend." He put a hand roughly on David's shoulder as though to thrust him to one side.
But David's left hand shot up to catch the wrist of Griswold's outstretched arm, and his right hand straight-armed the other's shoulder. Griswold went whirling backward, slamming hard against the plastic partition that divided the room in two.
"I'd rather argue, friend," said David.
The clerk had come to his feet with a yell. Other desk workers swarmed to the openings in the partition, but made no move to interfere. Bigman was laughing and clapping David on the back. "Pretty good for a fellow from Earth."
For the moment Hennes seemed frozen. The remaining farmboy, short and bearded, with the pasty face of one who had spent too much time under the small sun of Mars and not enough under the artificial sun lamps of the city, had allowed his mouth to drop ridiculously open.
Griswold recovered his breath slowly. He shook bis head. His cigar, which had dropped to the ground, he kicked aside. Then he looked up, his eyes popping with fury. He pushed himself away from the wall and there was a momentary glint of steel that was swallowed up in his hand.
But David stepped to one side and brought up his arm. The small, crooked cylinder that ordinarily rested snugly between his upper arm and body shot down the length of his sleeve and into his gripping palm.
Hennes cried out, "Watch your step, Griswold. He's got a blaster."
"Drop your blade," said David.
Griswold swore wildly, but metal clattered against the floor. Bigman darted forward and picked up the blade, chortling at the stubbled one's discomfiture.
David held out his hand for it and spared it a quick glance. "Nice, innocent baby for a farmboy to have," he said. "What's the law in Mars against carrying a force-blade?"
He knew it as the most vicious weapon in the Galaxy. Outwardly, it was merely a short shaft of stainless steel that was a little thicker than the haft of a knife but which could still be held nicely in the palm. Within it was a tiny motor that could generate an invisible nine-inch-long, razor-thin force-field that could cut through anything composed of ordinary matter. Armor was of no use against it, and since it could slice through bone as easily as through flesh, its stab was almost invariably fatal.