It looked something like a cross between a schoolboy's jalopy
and a scaled-down army tank of former times. The treads were caterpillar
style, and the stubby body was completely enclosed. A tiny airlock
stuck out from the rear.
Two men were inside, both bearded. The old man grinned at them. "Mark,
Lou, meet Doc Feldman. Sit, Doc. I'm Jake Mullens, and you might say we
were farmers."
The motor started with a wheeze. The tractor swung about and began
heading away from Southport toward the desert dunes. It shook and
rattled, but it seemed to make good time.
"I don't know anything about farming," Feldman protested.
Jake shrugged. "No, of course not. Couple of our friends heard about you
where a spaceman was getting drunk and tipped us off. We know who you
are. Here, try a bracky?"
Feldman took what seemed to be a cigarette and studied it doubtfully. It
was coarse and fibrous inside, with a thin, hard shell that seemed to be
a natural growth, as if it had been chopped from some vine. He lighted
it, not knowing what to expect. Then he coughed as the bitter, rancid
smoke burned at his throat. He started to throw it down, and hesitated.
Jake was smoking one, and it had killed the craving for tobacco almost
instantly.
"Some like 'em, most don't," Jake said. "They won't hurt you. Look--see
that? Old Martian ruins. Built by some race a million years ago.
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