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I've got plenty of time.”
    On his own, Otto Zitte had once operated a small black-market business; he dealt exclusively in electronic equipment, components of great fragility and small size, which were smuggled in aboard the common carriers operating between Earth and Mars. And at former times he had tried to import such prize black-market items as typewriters, cameras, tape recorders, furs, and whiskey, but there competition had driven him out. Trade in those necessities of life, selling on a mass basis throughout the colonies, had been taken over by the big professional black-market operators who had enormous capital to back them up and their own full-scale transportation system. And, anyhow, Otto's heart was not in it. He wanted to be a repairman; in fact, he had come to Mars for that purpose, not knowing that two or three firms monopolized the repair business, operating like exclusive guilds, such as the Yee Company, for whom Steiner's neighbor, Jack Bohlen, worked. Otto had taken the aptitude tests, but he was not good enough. Therefore, after a year or so on Mars, he had turned to working for Steiner and running his small import operation. It was humiliating for him, but at least he was not doing manual labor on one of the colonies' work gangs, out under the sun reclaiming the desert.
    As Otto and Steiner walked back to the storage shed, Steiner said, “I personally can't stand those Israelis, even though I have to deal with them all the time. They're unnatural, the way they live, in those barracks, and always out trying to plant orchards, oranges or lemons, you know. They have the advantage over everybody else because back Home they lived almost like we live here, with desert and hardly any resources.”
    “True,” Otto said. “But you have to hand it to them; they really hustle. They're not lazy.”
    “And not only that,” Steiner said, “they're hypocrites regarding food. Look at how many cans of nonkosher meat they buy from me. None of them keep the dietary laws.”
    “Well, if you don't approve of them buying smoked oysters from you, don't sell to them,” Otto said.
    “It's their business, not mine,” Steiner said.
    He had another reason for visiting New Israel, a reason which even Otto did not know about. A son of Steiner's lived there, in a special camp for what were called “anamalous children.” The term referred to any child who differed from the norm either physically or psychologically to the extent that he could not be educated in the Public School. Steiner's son was autistic, and for three years the instructor at the camp had been working with him, trying to bring him into communication with the human culture into which he had been born.
    To have an autistic child was a special shame, because the psychologists believed that the condition came from a defect in the parents, usually a schizoid temperament. Manfred Steiner, age ten, had never spoken a word. He ran about on tiptoe, avoiding people as if they were things, sharp-pointed and dangerous. Physically, he was a large healthy blond-haired boy, and for the first year or so the Steiners had rejoiced in having him. But now—even the instructor at Camp B-G could offer little hope. And the instructor was always optimistic; it was her job.
    “I may be in New Israel all day,” Steiner said, as he and Otto loaded the cans of halvah into the 'copter. “I have to visit every damn kibbutz in the place, and that takes hours.”
    “Why don't you want me along?” Otto demanded, with hot anger.
    Steiner shuffled his feet, hung his head, and said guiltily, “You misunderstand. I'd love to have company, but—” For an instant he thought of telling Otto the truth. “I'll take you to the tractor-bus terminal and drop you off—O.K.?” He felt weary. When he got to Camp B-G he would find Manfred just the same, never meeting anyone's eye, always darting about on the periphery, more like a taut, wary animal than a child…. It was hardly worth going,