The Candle Lighter
THE TRUSTEESHIP DIRECTOR fished out a pack of ciga-
rettes and offered them to Jaffa Doane. "I heard your
speech last night," he said. "Cigarette?"
"I don't smoke," said Jaffa Doane.
"It was a good speech." The Director lit his cigarette
thoughtfully, flicked the match away. Doane waited with
patience in his eyesan expression that seemed very much
out of place on the face of Jaffa Doane. But Doane had
practiced patience before the Director's "invitation" had
reached him that morning. He knew it was coming; you
can't tell blunt truths on a world hookup and not expect
to make a stir.
The Director said, "I've checked your record, Doane.
It's a good one. You have consistently fought for a lot of
things that I happen to believe in myself. Naturally, I
think you're off base this time, but I was with you on the
Kaffirs; I was with you on the Ainus; I'll be with you
again. I'm sure. In fact, if you look it up in the books of
your Equality League, you'll find that I sent in my two
dollars dues long ago." He peered at Doane under his
eyebrows and chuckled. "Don't look so surprised."
"I can't help it," Doane said severely. "After what your
administration has done to the Martians"
"The Martians! Why, thoseNever mind." He clamped
the words down in his throat. "Just what," he demanded,
"have we done to them?"
Doane leaned forward. "Turned them into savages! Ex-
ploited them, degraded them, reduced them to barbarism.
Do you want the entire catalogue, sir? / know how the
Mars Trusteeship has been run! The Administrators have
made themselves gods, sir, godsl Their every whim is a
commandment. That's what you've done!"
The Director managed a smile, though his nostrils were
flaring. "I said I heard your speech," he reminded Doane.
"You had some suggestions to make, didn't you?"
"I did," said Doane proudly.
"And among them, you suggested that we remove Ad-
ministrator Kellem and replace him with someone accept-
able to the Equality League."
"It was. Kellem's handling of the General Mercantile
incident was"
"I know," the Director interrupted, and for the first
time his smile relaxed. "I have here a radiogram from the
Administration Comzone on Mars. Read it, Mr. Doane."
Doane took it suspiciously, but as he read, he began
to beam.
MEDICAL CHECKUP SHOWS LOW-PRESSURE ASTHMA
APPROACHING TERTIARY STAGE, INCURABLE AND DAN-
GEROUS WITHOUT IMMEDIATE PERMANENT RETURN
TO EARTH. REQUEST IMMEDIATE CLEARANCE FOR
REPLACEMENT AND RETIREMENT.
KELLEM, MARS
Doane gloated, "He's retiring! Low-pressure asthma, my
foot! I thought the stink from General Mercantile would
drive him out!"
The Director said in a level tone, "Kellem almost died
last week, Doane."
"All right." Doane shrugged. "It makes no difference.
In any case, I demand to be consulted in choosing his
successor."
The Director eyed him. "You do, do you?" He pressed
a button on his desk and said, "Ask Ne Mieek to come
in." A sexy contralto replied, "Yes, sir."
The Director looked at Doane. "Ever seen a Martian?"
he asked. "You take such an interest in them, I wonder
if you've ever met one. Face-to-face, I mean; the pictures
don't quite do them justice. No? Well, it's about time
you did."
He stood up and gestured toward the door.
"Jaffa Doane," he said, "meet Ne Mieek."
Doane rose and turned to see who was coming in. He
swallowed. "How do you do," he managed to say.
A suppressed sighing sound came from the thing that
dragged itself through the doorway. Doane thought it
formed words in a sort of airless whisper, the sound that
might be made by a man with a slashed throat.
It went:  "GI'd f n'w y" The vowels were almost
inaudible, the consonants as though they were being forced
out against a gag. It was English, all right; you could
make it out if you tried.
But if the thing's words were understandable, its ex-
pression was not. As the Director had said, you had to
meet a Martian in the flesh; photos did not give more than
a hint. On the squashed, whitely translucent face was what
Doane thought a grin of savage glee, while the huge dull
eyes held inexpressible sorrow. Neither interpretation,
Doane told himself, meant much; that was anthrophomor-
phic thinking, and dangerous. But those looks took a little
getting used to, all the same.
"Don't try to shake hands with him, Mr. Doane," said
the Director. "He hasn't any."
It was true. Four supple, articulated tentacles waved
around the .Martian's midsection, but there were no hands
or arms. The pear-shaped body was supported on stubby
little legs which had neither knee nor ankle, as far as
Jaffa Doane could see.
The Director was saying, "Ne Mieek is the Martian
legate here in Washington and, like Kellem, the strain of
an alien environment has hurt his health. He'll be going
back to Mars on your ship, Doane, and you'll be working
with him."
"Working with him?" Doane gasped.
The Director allowed himself a look of surprise.
"Haven't you figured it out yet, Doane? Since we must
replace Kellem anyhow, we have decided to grant the
Equality League's request. We are picking a man for the
post that the League is certain to approvebecause he is
the president of it I mean you, Mr. Doane."
"Me? Me? But I've never been on Mars!"
"In eighteen days," said the Director, "you will no
longer be able to make that statement. That is, unless you
refuse the appointment."
Jaffa Doane stood up and there was corrosive anger in
his voice. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? You want me
to turn it down, so you can tell the news services what a
lot of hot air the president of the Equality League really
is. Well, I can recognize a shoddy little political trick when
I see one. You hand me a political hot potato, throw me
in on a job that your fat-cats have finally messed up to
the point where there are riots and investigations. If things
go wrong. I'm the goat that shuts up the Equality League.
If things go right, your administration gets the credit."
"I take it you refuse," said the Director.
"No, sir! I don't refuse! It's a cheap trickand I'll make
you wish you'd never thought of it. I accept!"
He looked over his shoulder at the Martian who had
become, in the space of a heartbeat, one of his charges.
Jaffa Doane couldn't help wincing a littlethey did look
so much like ragged corpses!
But he said, "Come along, Ne Mieek. We're going to
your home."
For more than a million members of the Equality
League, Jaffa Doane was a severe and shining leader; his
words were trumpet calls and his surging drive for justice
was a bright flame. One or two of the members, however,
took a more personal view of their president, among them
a young lady whose name was Ruth-Ann Wharton. On the
books, she was listed as Mr. Doane's personal secretary,
but it had been several months now since she had first
begun to contemplate a promotion for herself.
It had occurred to her that the eighteen-day flight to
Mars on the shuttle rocket might provide the time and
leisure for Jaffa Doane to notice just what a pearl he had
as a secretary. But it had been a disappointing voyage;
Doane had kept to his stateroom most of the way.
A hatful of hours out of Marsport, Ruth-Ann was
banging on her boss's stateroom door. "Jaffa," she called
plaintively, and not for the first time, "Ne Mieek and
another Martian are waiting for you. Please hurry."
Doane's low, controlled voice said, "I'll be there in a
moment, Miss Wharton."
She scowled at the door. "Ill give you exactly one
minute." But she didn't give him that much. She ham-
mered again. "Jaffa, they're waiting."
Pause. Then the calm, relaxed voice. "Yes, of course.
One moment."
Ruth-Ann stamped her foot. "Oh, darn you!" she said
and did what she had wanted to do in the first place. She
turned the knob and walked in. "They've been waiting
half an hour and Ne Mieek says it's very important."
The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by the light
from the corridor outside. From the rumpled heap of
bedclothing, Jaffa Doane's voice said placidly, "I'm aware
of that, Miss Wharton."
Her hands found the light switch. The bedclothing
erupted and Jaffa Doane sat up, leaning on an elbow,
blinking at her.
"What?" he croaked blearily. "Say, haven't I asked you
to call me only from the outside?"
"You have," she said hotly, flinging back the ray-screen
on the port. The tempered glass was treated to filter out
most of the glare, but the direct sunlight lit up the little
room like a movie set.
"Get up," she ordered. "If you're not outside and fully
dressed in five minutes, I'm coming back and I'll dress you
myself. Anyway, Jaffa, it looks as if it really is important.
Ne Mieek is sighing and talking about your duty to your
job. And the other Martianwell, it's hard to tell, every-
thing considered, but he looks sick."
"Sick?" Jaffa Doane yawned and scratched. "Sick how?"
Ruth-Ann shook her head. "Come on out and see for
yourself."
Looking hazily at his face in the mirror of the tiny
washroom as he shaved, Jaffa Doane decided that Ruth-
Ann, after all, was right. He did have a tendency to be
not difficult, exactly, not grumpy or nasty, but a little hard
to wake up in the mornings. And besides, this was an
important day. He was about to meet his charges. He
wiped off the depilatory and stubble and stood erect, eyes
burning into his own reflection in the mirror.
The sound of his stateroom door made him jump. "I'm
coming right out!" he yelled.
In the room that had been fitted out as his office for
the duration of the tripand which he had hardly set foot
inNe Mieek and Ruth-Ann were waiting. With them
was another Martian and, looking at him, Jaffa Doane
knew what the girl had meant when she said there was
something wrong. A strapping young adult Martian, with
a  life expectancy  of hundreds  of  years,  somewhat re-
sembles a wilting fungus; but this one looked rotten.
"Good morning, Ne Mieek," Jaffa Doane said cour-
teously. "What can I do for you?"
The Martian's wheezy voice was somewhat easier to
understand in the spaceship's half-and-half atmosphere
pressure an even eight pounds to the square inch, compo-
sition largely heliumthan it had been when he was
laboring to force his voice into the dense Earth air. "In-
deed you can, honored sir. Gadian Pluur has the sickness
and wishes Your Honor to cure him in the way that is
known."
Jaffa Doane's eyebrows went up. "Cure him? You mean
you want me to call a doctor?"
"Ah, no," whispered the Martian. "Your Honor will
cure him yourself, surely."
Ruth-Ann was signaling. "You don't know what he
wants, do you?" she said in a low tone.
"Good heavens, no."
She nodded smugly. "He wants you to touch this other
one. That's all, just touch him."
"Touch him?" Doane stared at the Martian. "Ne Mieek,
are you out of your mind?"
"Not so," the Martian whispered indignantly, the mad
face working. "It is our custom, as is known. The Ad-
ministrator Kellem and the Admiral Rosenman who was
his assistant have always healed those ill of the sickness."
"Barbarous," marveled Jaffa Doane, forgetting to be
angry. "And you, an intelligent manan intelligent Mar-
tian like you, you believe in this?"
"There is nothing to believe or disbelieve," sighed Ne
Mieek, his tentacles agitated, the pale eyes desolate. "It is
our custom since the first of your honored administrators
came."
Doane shook his head wonderingly.
"Touch him," Ruth-Ann advised.
"But"
"Go ahead, touch him!"
Doane frowned. "Miss Wharton, this is a matter of
principle. I am responsible not only to the Trusteeship
Director, but to the League, and I certainly couldn't
Justify"
"Touch him!" The girl's face was set.
Doane was about to reply, but the ship gave a gentle
course-correcting lurch and everyone in the little room
staggered slightlyeveryone but the sick Martian, Gadian
Pluur, who staggered halfway across the room and brushed
against Doane's fingers.
Jaffa Doane jerked back his hand. It had been a curious
sensation, almost like an electric shock, but not localized
he could feel a tiny tingle up his backbone and at the
base of his skull.
"Thanks to Your Honor," whispered Ne Mieek.
And the two Martians slipped slowly out, leaving Jaffa
Doane staring frustratedly after them.
"But I have a speech all ready," Doane objected rea-
sonably. "Jfs not just a lot of glowing promises and empty
words, but facts. It tells how I am going to put a stop
to" he hesitated over the word "the indiscretions of
the previous Administrators."
Admiral Rosenman said cheerfully, "Fine." He was a
chunky man with a big head of curly white hair. And he
wore the severe uniform as though he had been born with
it on. "But you can't get out of the Conjunction Offering."
"That's nothing short of murder! And my speech"
"It's merely an execution, Mr. Doane. The Martian has
had his trial and he has been convicted. It's up to you."
"But I'm not a hangman!"
"You're the Earth Administrator on Mars and one of
your duties is carrying out the decisions of the Martian
courts."
Doane glowered. "What's he convicted of?" he de-
manded suspiciously.
"What's the difference? Under the Martian laws, it's a
crime punishable by death. They call it bad thinking."
"Bad thinking." Doane shook his head and walked over
to the window of the Ad-Building office that was now his.
The orange sandscape, dotted with smoke-trees, hurt his
eyes; it was the Martian idea of a formal park, in the heart
of the little city of Marsport, and it was a great honor to
have one's office looking out over it. Or so the Martians
thought.
They also thought it was an honor to be the executioner
in what seemed to have some of the aspects of a ritual
murder.
"I can't even see the conjunction of the moons," Doane
said peevishly.
"The Martians can. Both moons are perfectly visible
to them."
"And this Conjunction Offering is traditional? What did
they do back forty or fifty years ago, before the first Earth-
men got here?"
Admiral Rosenman shrugged and glanced at the clock.
"You ought to be getting ready," he said. "Am I dis-
missed?"
"You're dismissed," Doane said ungraciously and
frowned at the Admiral's back as he left, using the weav-
ing,  flat-footed  Mars walk  that  Doane  had  not  yet
mastered.
He sat down at his desk, carefully allowing for the light
gravitationand misjudged it, as he had six times before,
and bumped his shin against the desk, as he had six times
before.
Ruth-Ann Wharton said sympatheticaUy, "It takes a lit-
tle getting used to. Do you want me to come to the Con-
junction Offering with you?"
"No!"
"There's no need to take my skin off."
He said stiffly, "I am sorry, Miss Wharton. Perhaps I'm
a little upset."
"I understand, Jaffa."
"It didn't seem like this back on Earth," he said mo-
rosely, staring out at the smoke-trees. "You haven't heard
the worst of it. Miss Wharton. Not only do I have to slit
some poor devil's throat this eveningnot only am I
expected to perform the laying on of hands like somebody
from the Dark Agesbut look at this!" He turned to his
desk and picked up a thick sheaf of papers. "Duties for
the Earth Administratorme! The most ridiculous mass
of superstitious nonsense I ever saw. If this is the way
Kellem kept the Martians down, I can understand why
there were riots at the General Mercantile base."
"At Niobe? But those were Earthmen involved in the
brawl, Jaffa, not Martians."
"How do you know?" he asked pugnaciously. "Because
Kellem's publicity men said so? All we know for sure is
that there was trouble. There's bound to be trouble when
you try to keep an intelligent, civilized race like Ne
Mieek's down with barbarous tricks like these."
He glanced at the list and flinched. "Well, there's an
end to it," he said grimly. "Kellem's gone and I'm here
now. I'll be at the Conjunction Ceremony tonight, all
right, and I'll start things rolling right then and there.
You'll see! I'm telling you, Miss Wharton, Mars is going
towhat's the matter?" he demanded irritably. "You look
like you've got a question."
The girl nodded emphatically. "I have. Why do you call
me Miss Wharton instead of Ruth-Ann?"
The Conjunction Offering was to take place in what the
Martians had named the Park of Sparse Beauty.
"It's sparse enough," Jaffa Doane said from the rostrum,
watching the Martians gather before him. "But is it beau-
tiful enough?"
Admiral Rosenman asked sourly, "Are you ready for
the ceremony?"
"Oh, quite ready," said Jaffa Doane. He started to hum
to himself with a satisfied air, but you do not hum with
oxygen plugs in your nostrils. He coughed and choked,
and looked at the Admiral suspiciously. But the Admiral
wasn't laughing.
The Admiral didn't think he had very much to laugh
about. He had been on duty on Mars for seven years, sur-
viving five Administrators, only one of whom had com-
pleted his three-year term. He had formed certain con-
clusions about the Martians and one of them was that
they weren't too likely to get along well with the likes of
Jaffa Doane. ...
It was dark and the Martians carried torchesnot flam-
ing brands, for flames do not thrive in Mars' thin atmos-
phere, but glowing balls of punk from the little bushes that
grew wild in the wide reaches between settlements. The
scene was hardly brightly illuminated. Martian eyes were
not human eyes, though, and to them, Doane realized, it
might have been bright as day.
He looked fruitlessly at the spot in the sky where the
two moons were supposed to be in conjunction with a
particular star. One moon was visible, the other not. The
star might or might not be visiblewith all the stars in
the Martian sky, one more or less made very little differ-
ence. But to the Martians, of course, with their very
much more acute vision, both moons were as visible as
Luna from Earth and each star of the tens of thousands
was an individual in its own right.
Jaffa Doane sighed. It was hard remembering all the
differences between Martians and Earthmenand trying
to remember, at the same time, the diamond-clear prin-
ciples of the Equality League, which said that the differ-
ences were as nothing. . . .
There was no sound of trumpets, no burst of prompted
applause from the idly drifting audience, but all of a sud-
den the ceremony seemed to have begun. Ne Mieek ap-
peared on the high platform where the Earth party was
standing.
"In three of your minutes and eleven seconds, as is
known to Your Honor," he said, "the conjunction will
occur. This is he who is to die." He stepped aside to reveal
another Martian, who gestured courteously with his
tentacles.
"This is Fnihi Bel."
The condemned Martian said politely, "It is an honor
to meet Your Honor. I am most sorry for the circum-
stances."
Doane looked embarrassedly at Ruth-Ann and the
Admiral. He had had no lessons in how Jack Ketch
greeted his clients; there was no precedent in his experi-
ence with the Equality League to guide him in the proper
conduct of the maul-man meeting the steer at the top of
the slippery chute.
But the Martian was tactful. He said, "Since I shall
not have the power afterward, let me now thank Your
Honor for the greatest of favors."
"For killing you?" Doane blurted, scandalized. He
made a face expressing his mood about the enforced sub-
jection of the Martians; it was wasted on the Martians
who expressed their feelings with formalized gestures of
the tentacles, but not on Admiral Rosenman, who licked
his lips and started to speak.
But not soon enough. "Fnihi Bel," Doane said com-
passionately, "under the authority vested in me as Ad-
ministrator, I grant a stay of execution pending review of
your case. You shall not die tonight."
Admiral Rosenman swore and looked helplessly at
Ruth-Ann. "If the crazy idiot had only talked it over
first! No, not him! He made up his mind ten years before
he ever saw a Martian and nothing's going to change it,
especially facts!"
"What facts?" asked Ruth-Ann hotly. "You never told
him anything."
"It's all in the files."
"Which he hasn't had a chance to look at. Honestly,
Admiral, you're unreasonable." Ruth-Ann looked fret-
fully out the window. It was nearly daybreak; the sharp
Martian dawn had popped into light over the horizon
minutes before. "Do you suppose he's all right?"
The Admiral growled and flipped the switch on the
intercom. "Any word?"
The uniformed man whose face appeared in the screen
said, "Not yet, sir. The Administrator was seen about an
hour ago near the Shacks. A detail has gone to search the
area, but they haven't reported in yet."
"All right," the Admiral grumbled, clicking off.
"What are the Shacks?" Ruth-Ann wanted to know.
"Abandoned part of town. The Martians gave it up
years ago. Nobody lives there now. Unpleasant place.
Serves him right, the"
"Watch yourself!" Ruth-Ann warned. "He's your boss!"
The Admiral glowered at her, but stopped. He yawned
and stretched. "Not used to staying up all night any
more," he said. "Kind of takes it out of me, but Go
ahead!" he snapped as the intercom called hi name.
"Administrator Doane has been located by the search
party, sir," said the officer. "Any orders?"
"Hold him there," roared the Admiral. "And get a car
in front of the door in thirty secondsI'm going to meet
him!"
He clicked off the switch as Ruth-Ann corrected, "We're
going to meet him, Admiral! If that big stuffed-shirt thinks
he can scare me out of my wits and stir up every Martian
from here to"
"Hey, wait a minute!" the Admiral protested. "I thought
you wouldn't let me call him names!"
"That's you," Ruth-Ann said shortly. "The rules are
different for me. Come on. Admiral. What are you wait-
ing for?"
They found Earth Administrator Jaffa Doane sitting on
the ramp before an abandoned and decrepit Martian
dwelling, staring into space. Admiral Rosenman dismissed
the detail and helped the Administrator into the pres-
surized car. Doane's attention was elsewhere. Rosenman
had to remind him even to take the oxygen plugs out of
his nostrils.
"Thanks," said Doane absently.
And, after a pause, "I messed it up, didn't I?"
"You did," the Admiral told him. "You messed it up
enough to put forty-eight Martians in the hospitalthe
Earth hospital."
Doane biinked.
"For physical injuries," the Admiral explained. "The
Martians don't ordinarily hospitalize for that; a couple of
hours of what they call good thinking and they can patch
almost anything that's wrong with themselves. But these
were pretty well beat up, mostly from running into moving
vehicles, and I don't think there's a Martian within fifty
miles that's capable of good thinking right now."
Jaffa Doane shook his head. "I don't get it," he com-
plained. "All I did was try to save a man's life. Maybe I
was wrong1 don't know. But how could it make so much
trouble? Rioting like crazy people. Getting themselves run
overand all because of a thing like that. I could under-
stand it if they were ignorant natives, only they're not
ignorant; they have a civilization of their own. How can
these silly customs mean so much to them?"
The Admiral exploded, "Don't you understand yet? It is
not just a silly custom! They were crazy, all right, but not
because you violated a silly tabubecause you did the
thing that was bound to drive them insane. You pushed
them across the brink. They were sick. Infected by you."
"But"
"Don't argue with me! Sickness is not only of the body;
even an Earthman can have mental illnesses, too. And
Martians have no other kind. Shock them and they get
sick. When they're sick, they need to be healed. If you
break a leg, you splint it; if a Martian's mind is injured,
it needs to be splinted with a stronger, stabler mind.
"Think back to the ship, Doane! When Ne Mieek
begged you to touch the other Martian, did you think it
was only a primitive custom? It was not. It was splinting
and healing. When you made contact with him, his mind
was braced against yours and you were the one who
helped him grow well."
Doane swallowed. "All right," he said reasonably.
"Granted. But that's one thing and murder is another.
What about the one I was supposed to kill?"
"The same principle, Doane. Even a Martian doesn't
live foreverJ and when he is too sick to be cured, he has
to die. The only way a Martian can die is by being phys-
ically destroyed. He can't kill himself. No Martian can.
He can't be killed by another Martianthe shock would
destroy him. So you're elected, Doanethe strongest,
stablest being on Marsthe Earth Administrator."
Doane protested, "But what about the time before the
Earthmen were here? How did they manage?"
Rosenman shrugged. "They didn't have Earthmen to do
the dirty work, so they used Martians, of course."
"But you said"
"I know what I said. Take a look around you, Doane."
He gestured out the window at the rickety, abandoned
buildings called the Shacks.
Compared with the clean, functional lines of the rest
of the Martian architecture, the Shacks were a hideous
blot. They leaned and they staggered. They were put to-
gether at random distances out of random materials. They
looked unfit for even human habitation, much less Mar-
tian.
"This is where they lived, the Outcasts," Rosenman
said. "The strongest and healthiest of every generation,
selected by rigorous tests and segregated into a caste of
Healers. It was an honor to be a Healer, Doanethe
greatest, most tragic honor that a Martian could attain.
Read the Martian literature. It has noble stories in it, the
Healers who sacrificed themselves for others. They were
untouchables. There were a couple of hundred of them
all the time, right here in the Shacks, injured mentally
every time they had to put an incurable out of his misery,
until they were beyond repair and had to be destroyed
after a few years of agonizing service."
"And when we came, we became the untouchables?"
Rosenman hesitated. "Well, not exactly," he said, a
little less  roughly.  "We  took  over  the  functions of the
Healers to some extent, yes. After all, we Earthmen aren't
as sensitive; and just for that reason, we're more stable.
But, of course, even we crack up when the pressure is
too great. Suppose the picture was different, Doane; sup-
pose it was the Martians who were stronger and stabler,
and suppose they came to Earth and showed us a way of
emptying our asylums.
"We use psychiatrists because they're all we haveall
the Martians had were the Healers. But the Healers
weren't altogether satisfactory, as you can see, because
it's an expensive cure that merely passes the disease on to
someone else. Our psychiatrists aren't as effective as they
should be, eitherthey're human, too; they have their
own problems, which seriously interfere with and become
intermingled with those of their patients.
"If the Martians had come to us with a real cure, not
the half-cure that psychiatrists are capable of, we'd be
stupid to go on using inadequate therapy. And the Mar-
tians aren't stupid. In fact, that's the mistake you and your
Equality League made."
The Administrator flared, "That's enough, Resenman!
The Equality League never"
"Wait a minute! Admit it, Doaneyou came here all
full of red-hot ideas- about how the Earth masters should
be kind to their Martian slaves. No, don't argue; that's
how it looked to you. Think it over. But the Martians
aren't slaves, you see. In many ways, they're more cul-
tured and smarter and a lot more sensitive than you and
1. In some ways, in fact, they remind me of my grand-
father."
"Your what?" Doane gasped, baffled.
"My grandfather. He was a very religious man," the Ad-
*  miral explained reminiscently. "Every Friday night, we'd
have the candles for the Sabbath, andwell, I don't know
how familiar you are with the ritual, but on the Sabbath,
the truly orthodox aren't allowed to work from sundown
to sundown'. Not even lighting the candles. So my grand-
father used to hire an Irish kid from the neighborhood to
be our candle lightera shabbas goy, he called him.
"Marty Madden, the boy's name was. Marty wasn't any
better than we were or any worse1 don't think my
grandfather ever thought that. But he was, in that one
way, different; he could do something for us that we
weren't allowed to do for ourselves. So, naturally, he did
it.  Just as you and I, Doane, do things for the Martians
that they can't do for themselves."
The Admiral started the car for the trip back.
"I used to know Marty pretty well," he said. "We went
to the same school during the week. In a way, I was sorry
for himhe missed all the fun of the feasts and so on. In
another way, I envied him, because he could do things I
couldn't. But I never thought that so many years later,
forty million miles from Mosholu Parkway, I'd be taking
his job away from him . .."
They rode back to the Administration Building in
silence for most of the way, while Jaffa Doane digested
some of the most ill-tasting realizations of his career.
As the building came into sight, he shook himself and
sat up.
"All right," he said humbly, "I'll start all over. Make
believe I landed this morning. Where do I start?"
Rosenman smiled and leaned over to pat his shoulder.
"You'll do," he promised. "Where you start is in the
clinic. You'll find about fifty Martians with some degree
of shock, needing the healing touch of a sound mind
like yours. It won't be too bad. You'll have a headache
afterward, but you can take a minor discomfort like that,
can't you?"
"Gladly!" Doane said. "That's the least I can do. I
want to apologize to both of you. You, too, Ruth-Ann.
I've been about as big a self-centered, wrong-headed"
She cut him off. "Oh, don't get all wound up. You're
a bit of a phony,  heaven knows"  she ignored  the
strangled noise he made"but there are worse. Deep
down inside, you're quite a guy. You wouldn't be as much
of a man as you are if you didn't have a little ham in you,
and a touch of pig-headedness, too. I've given the matter
a lot of thought, you see."
Rosenman grinned at Doane's expression. "She's right,"
he agreed. "Between us, we'll get you straightened out, so
don't worry about it. Two more years here ought to do it.
Basically, your ideas are rightthe Martians ought to
learn to get by on their own feet. You can start finding
out how they can do it. It'll be good for you. When the
two years of your term are up, you'll go home with a
better, more human understanding of what's what, ready
to settle down to a normal, productive existence on Earth
with your wife and family."
Doane yelped, "Hold on there! I haven't got a. wife,
much less a family!"
Ruth-Ann patted his arm reassuringly. "You're not
home yet," she said.