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it, hon—Homo sapiens is the most cruel, the most vicious, the most predatory, and certainly the most deadly of all the animals in this solar system. Yet he invented politics! He figured out a way to let most of us, most of the time, get along well enough so that we usually don’t kill each other. So don’t let me hear you using ‘politics’ as a swear word again.”
    “I’m sorry, Uncle Tom,” I said humbly.
    “Like fun you are. But if you let that idea soak for twenty or thirty years, you may—Oh, oh! There’s your villain, baby girl—the politically appointed bureaucrat who has most unjustly held you in durance vile. So scratch his eyes out. Show him how little you think of his silly rules.”
    I answered this with dignified silence. It is hard to tell when Uncle Tom is serious because he loves to pull my leg, always hoping that it will come off in his hand. The Three-Planets proctor of whom he was speaking had opened the door to our bullpen and was looking around exactly like a zookeeper inspecting a cage for cleanliness. “Passports!” he called out. “Diplomatic passports first.” He looked us over, spotted Uncle Tom. “Senator?”
    Uncle Tom shook his head. “I’m a tourist, thanks.”
    “As you say, sir. Line up, please—reverse alphabetical order”—which put us near the tail of the line instead of near the head. There followed maddening delays for fully two hours—passports, health clearance, outgoing baggage inspection—Mars Republic does not levy duties on exports but just the same there is a whole long list of things you can’t export without a license, such as ancient Martian artifacts (the first explorers did their best to gut the place and some of the most priceless are in the British Museum or the Kremlin; I’ve heard Daddy fume about it), some things you can’t export under any circumstances, such as certain narcotics, and some things you can take aboard ship only by surrendering them for safekeeping by the purser, such as guns and other weapons.
    Clark picked outgoing inspection for some typical abnormal behavior. They had passed down the line copies of a long list of things we must not have in our baggage—a fascinating list; I hadn’t known that there were so many things either illegal, immoral, or deadly. When the Fries contingent wearily reached the inspection counter, the inspector said, all in one word: “ ’Nything-t’-d’clare?” He was a Marsman, and as he looked up he recognized Uncle Tom. “Oh. Howdy, Senator. Honored to have you with us. Well, I guess we needn’t waste time on your baggage. These two young people with you?”
    “Better search my kit,” Uncle Tom advised. “I’m smuggling guns to an out-planet branch of the Legion. As for the kids, they’re my niece and nephew. But I don’t vouch for them; they’re both subversive characters. Especially the girl. She was soap-boxing revolution just now while we waited.”
    The inspector smiled and said, “I guess we can allow you a few guns, Senator—you know how to use them. Well, how about it, kids? Anything to declare?”
    I said, “Nothing to declare,” with icy dignity—when suddenly Clark spoke up.
    “Sure!” he piped, his voice cracking. “Two kilos of happy dust! And whose business is it? I paid for it. I’m not going to let it be stolen by a bunch of clerks.” His voice was surly as only he can manage and the expression on his face simply ached for a slap.
    That did it. The inspector had been just about to glance into one of my bags, a purely formal inspection, I think—when my brattish brother deliberately stirred things up. At the very word “happy dust” four other inspectors closed in. Two were Venusmen, to judge by their accents, and the other two might have been from Earth.
    Of course, happy dust doesn’t matter to us Marsmen. The Martians use it, have always used it, and it is about as important to them as tobacco is to humans, but apparently without any ill effects. What