Fritz Leiber

“ If Kemmerdygn switched to human labor, he'd have to ventilate his mines, increase the size of the drifts, provide special protective garments and all sorts of safety devices. Even at that, it's doubtful if human beings could do the work. The situation's practically the same with regard to all other non-restricted jobs."
"That's right!" Another youth cut in—a dark browed, surly kid. "Nobody can expect us to compete with bugs! We want work—any sort, so we can feel we got a stake in the world. But everywhere we look, it's bugs, bugs, Bugs!"
"And who's to blame?" asked Scat softly. ”

“ Living machines! It is by virtue of that legal fiction that we have denied the Martians even the humanitarian treatment we grant to domestic animals, that we have revived an institution as vile as it is old in order to exploit them, that we have spurned all communion with their gentle minds. Living machines! The Earth's bad conscience is the best testimony to the falsity of that fiction, though even the most confirmed Martian-hater recognizes it. He says, succinctly, 'Bug'. ”

“ We're only pensioners because our fathers were. But what can we do? All the restricted jobs have a waiting list a light-year long, and we're too poor to buy the specialized education that's required for most of them. Kemmerdygn keeps cutting down the pension-allotments—just like you said."
"Sure," Scat agreed matter-of-factly. "He employs Martians and pays Earthmen. A very profitable arrangement, considering the greater efficiency of Martian labor and the reduction in operating expenses. ”

“ Scat sighed. "Okay, Click-Click. Yes, I told Len."
Scat felt a black pincher lightly touch his shoulder. "Don't mope, Scat. I get a great kick out of going contrary to your orders; after all, it's my badge of enlightenment. Most Martians are too obliging—it's our great racial sin. Works all right when everybody's telepathic—thought-pressure keeps the potential transgressor against social welfare in line. But when a telepathic race comes up against a non-telepathic one—ouch! ”

“ Maybe it's those you been feeling?" She shook her head stubbornly, like a little child. "It's our Ten Mile bugs you feel then? You're sure?" Her head bobbed up and down.
Bug finders were human beings with an inborn sensitivity to Martian telepathy, usually mentally defective. They could not interpret the telepathy, but they had an uncanny knack for distinguishing the characteristic thought-waves of an individual Martian.
The guard looked up at Scat. "We're coming in, Mister; Piggie never misses." He put his hand on his squirt gun. ”

“ He hurried out. There was a utility car with the Kemmerdygn insignia parked in front. Two scowling bug guards were arguing with Len. Their hands were suggestively near their squirt guns. One of them had a dirty-smocked girl by the wrist. She had a silly, open mouthed grin that just seemed to stay there; she drooled.
"We were telling him you got Ten Mile bugs inside," the bug guard explained to Scat.
Scat looked at him steadily. "We employ Martians to run the beam. They've confused your finder."
The guard pulled the girl to him. "Look Piggie," he said, "these people got bugs of their own. ”

“ Human beings couldn't operate very effectively until the lighting system had been jury-rigged on beam power.
The busy clicking continued. Scat smiled. Martian perception was independent of light; Click-Click must be getting a kick out of this.
Still, he'd better get up. He'd dreamed some improvements in the editorial. Probably gone out already, but they could always back-tape and dub in the changes.
In the morning he and Len strolled out in front. Every square inch of glastic was covered with black paint, still sticky and glistening from the spray guns. ”

“ The chief problem in acclimitizing him to Earth is teaching him to inhale as infrequently as he exhales—otherwise oxygen-drowning occurs. A Martian's lungs are really oxygen accumulators. He has 100 per cent utilization of inhaled oxygen, and he exhales pure carbon dioxide freighted with other respiratory excretions—hence the "bad breath" so obnoxious to human beings. ”

“ But the shell of a Martian is one of the most impermeable armors ever developed by organic evolution, and when quiescent he can go upwards for an hour without breathing. This is because he is built for an extremely rarified atmosphere—his physiology is typical of a depleted-planet economy. ”

“ They acted nervous, and whenever the slidewalk in front creaked with the weight of a passer-by, they'd all look around quickly and then remember that you couldn't see through the glastic any more. When no footsteps came, they'd relax a little.
One of them hurried up. "Mr. Scatterday?"
"That's right."
Instantly the youth adopted a conspiratorial air. His companions crowded behind him, craning their necks but keeping an eye cocked on the door. "We're the Executive Council of the Young Freeworkers," he whispered hoarsely. "It's an undercover movement in the Bronsco Young Peoples' Organization. ”

“ As he walked into the transmission room, he added, "There's a projector on the desk."
"Well, how did you and the staff get along together?" he asked Click-Click. Audible speech wasn't strictly necessary, Martians being telepathic, but it was generally easier to say a question than to think it.
"Just fine," Click-Click coded back at him. "Some men are as bad as unenlightened Martians; they'd take orders from anything. But after a while the staff had callers and walked out in a body. Seems they'd all been offered jobs with Kemmerdygn—and the promise that he'd eventually make them his pensioners. ”

“ The guard hesitated. "Okay then. Make us do it the hard way," he said. They got in the car and drove off, Piggie making inarticulate sounds of protest and having to be dragged.
Scat's eyes followed them. "Get out the truck," he told Len. "You're going to Manford to buy groceries. Click-Click, can your visitors. Fast."
"Underground?" Len asked with a look. Scat nodded.
About the time Len was ready to roll, the bug guards came jetting back, accompanied by a policeman who looked and acted exactly like them, except for the uniform. ”

“ Click-Click came in. He extended his pinchers for Scat's inspection. "My new manicure," he explained. "I've been forging the pincher-ridge patterns of one of those Martians we're keeping for the Underground. That's the only identification that means anything to a human. Get the idea?"
Scat frowned. "Too risky. You might get into Ten Mile, but I don't think you'd get out; we need you here."
"They need me more. Out there in their holes, while I can hop into a vacuum tank every night...." Suddenly Click-Click's pinchers stiffened. "Len's outside," he coded tersely. "I think he wants you ”