“Damn it! Don’t you tell me that’s a Glow-wart. It’s a weed. Don’t I know a weed when I see it? Hand me the rake, Bernard.”

A small man in black handed him the rake and said: “My name is Walter, Dr. @kins.”

“And that’s your whole trouble,” @kins grunted, tearing out a clump of rubbery red. It changed colors in prismatic hysteria and emitted a plaintive wail which proved it was neither weed nor Glow-wart but the disconcerting Pussy-Willow of Venus.

@kins eyed it with disfavor, watching the collapsing air-bladders cry. Then he glared at the small man. “Semantic escape, Bernard. You live in terms of the label, not the object. It’s your escape from reality. What are you running away from, Bernard?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, Dr. @kins,” Walter replied.

Powell stood quietly, enjoying the spectacle. It was like an illustration from a primitive Bible. Sam, an ill-tempered Messiah, glowering at his humble disciples. Around them the glittering silica stones of the rock-garden, crawling with the dry motley-colored Venus plants. Overhead, the blinding nacre glow; and in the background, as far as the eye could reach, the red, purple, and violet Bad-Lands of the planet.

@kins snorted at Walter/Bernard: “You remind me of the redhead. Where is that make-believe courtesan anyway?”

A pretty red-headed girl jostled through the crowd and smirked: “Here I am, Dr. @kins.”

“Well, don’t preen yourself, because I labelled you.” @kins frowned at her and continued on the TP level: “You’re delighted with yourself because you’re a woman, aren’t you? It’s your substitute for living. It’s your phantasy. ‘I’m a woman,’ you tell yourself. ‘Therefore, men desire me. It’s enough to know that thousands of men could have me if I’d let them. That makes me real.’ Nonsense! You can’t escape that way. Sex isn’t make-believe. Life isn’t make-believe. Virginity isn’t an apotheosis.”

@kins waited impatiently for a response, but the girl merely smirked and postured before him. Finally he burst out: “Didn’t any of you hear what I told her?”

“I did, teacher.”

“Lincoln Powell! No! What are you doing here? Where’d you sneak up from?”

“From Terra, Sam. Came for a consultation and can’t stay long. Got to jet back on the next rocket.”

“Couldn’t you phone Interplanetary?”

“It’s complicated, Sam. Has to be done peeper-wise. It’s the D’Courtney case.”

“Oh. Ah. Hm. Right. Be with you in a minute. Go get something to drink.”

@kins let out a warning blast. “SALLY. COMPANY.”

One of @kins’ flock unaccountably flinched and Sam turned on the man excitedly. “You heard that, didn’t you?”

“No sir. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Yes you did. You picked up a TP broadcast.”

“No, Dr. @kins.”

“Then why did you jump?”

“A bug bit me.”

“It did not,” @kins roared. “There are no bugs in my garden. You heard me yell to my wife.” And then he began a frightful racket. “YOU CAN ALL HEAR ME. DON’T SAY YOU CAN’T. DON’T YOU WANT TO BE HELPED? ANSWER ME. GO AHEAD. ANSWER ME!”