Edward W. Ludwig

“ John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?" ”

“ A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed. "I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook. ”

“ They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?" ”

“ I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. ”