Curt Varga watched lazily from a shadowed corner of the Martian gailang night club, his space-tanned left hand toying with a frosted glass of cahnde , and his right hand making cryptic marks with a radi-stylus upon the scrap of gold paper before him. Music was a lilting swirl in the air, and his booted foot tapped unconsciously with the muted rhythm. He smiled at the great-chested Martians squatted about the dance floor, wondering for the hundredth time what enjoyment they received from swaying