And as if that sign weren’t enough, someone with a red spray pencil had added:
The stiff, black-shelled form, impaled on a spike beside the trafficway, with gummy beads of blue blood glistening in the sun, told the pretty little story much more graphically.
It hadn’t been decapitated; Martians lack external heads.
Scat scanned the tableau, his scarred lean features impassive. “They didn’t mention this,” he commented. “Do we still go in?”
“You ask questions like that just for the sake of the record, don’t you?” Click-Click replied, using his black pincers to produce code in a way that explained his nickname. Though headless, Martians didn’t lack brains. Definitely.
Scat switched to the turbine for jetless surface-drive, and the utility car crawled into Bronsco.
A hick town, Scat decid
