I scratched an X in the sand, and walked away from it ten paces. On my return it was gone. Or I was lost. It wasn't the first time it had happened on this watch.

"Lonely picketeer, where's your company?"

You may well ask. (I asked it of myself.)

"Alone on the Lunar P. of T. The sarge is only human, more or less. Maybe he forgot me. But if I go back, he'd give me a drubbing, sure enough. No thankee. It's a weird, pale white world, this Moon."

I saw murky ghosts in the wind. I turned my musket upside down, that the dust might drip down the barrel. I traced a big, sharp X in the sand with the bayonet, idly. What if I wandered too far from the fort? Wouldn't some Moonman or Apache creep up and cut my throat? I idled, uncertain, between boredom and fear. The wind ticked like a clock, rattling stones and bones and such. As I idled, the wind eased my mark. I looked around for the fort. Sometimes, when the whirling dust ebbed, I caught a dull feel of its bulk. It was dark out, but the fort glowed blacker. The wind creaked, <<Helloa.>>

I turned round, saw nothing but swirls.

The swirls scratched my sight. I rubbed dust from my eyes. I heard a creak of leather, maybe. My knees went rubbery. "Stop! and be recognized!" I hailed.

I toggled the switch on the Pile, heavy on my back, turned up the wooden knob of the annuciator box on my belt till the gas glowed foggy in the little window painted 5,000 V. That meant it was ready to discharge 5,000 of Volta's Patented Bolts. The bolts came from the pile through the wire that went through the wooden butt and along the barrel to the electric bayonet, which differed from a regular bayonet as being a copper rod, not a knife. I was much obliged to put the long electric bayonet between me and the grey swirlies.

A big round shadow moved in the dark.

Who was this lone balloonist, looming? A Lunar scout? Did Great Deimos give them some old redcoat balloons, just to confound us? No - American. Its manufacture was American, all right. A one-horse Flying Gig, the quadrupeded-treadmill rolling pulley-wires to a lazy Archimedean Screw. I felt the wind ebb a bit.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

A quick glance over my shoulder betrayed the shadowy weight of Wall Number 4. ("Sarge! Sarge!" I hollered behind. "We got company!")

The lone rider pulled the boom, and the balloon jumped - gone.

("What's that?" called a voice from the fort.)

("Get your arse out here and find out then, Mister Curious," I thought, taking a few steps backward.)

The big shadow reappeared, closer, growing - the gig wheels thumped the ground, bouncing up again. <<Hello, Fort Texas!>> the rider called. The shadow disappeared again, and then, looming suddenly large on me - the complicated little gig rolled hard on the ground, springs groaning, spokes crackling, the wheels broke off as the rider jerked the mast collar-pin out - the big silk balloon shot up ballestless and gone forever in the murk of the Moon - The axles scrapped the dust - the carriage bounced, slid, and toppled over. A wheel wobbled by me. The mule stood up, braying, and clambered out of the snapped treadmill traces. Oddly, I heard a big clock ticking in the busted gig-carriage. With a creak of leather, wood, and springs, the rider stood up and stepped out of it. He walked toward me, dustily, he clothes rippling in the wind. He was bright-eyed, and stiff faced, leering benignly, leaning close. There was something grotesque about him - his head was too big. I heard that clock again, and a snake hissing somewhere, unless it was the wind rattling over the dusty ground. <<Tick!...Sss-sss-Tick! - Sss-sss-Tick! Tick-ick- ick!>>

I was going to ask if he was all right, but something made me level my bayonet at him. "Stop right there, Mister. Halt! I said - I got a bayonet full of lightning!"

("Borginnis! Who's there?" demanded the voice from the gate.)

"Who are you? Answer up - right quick," I told the stranger, keeping my bayonet point between us.

The man with the face like a mask answered with a bow. <<Tick! - Tick! - Tick! Prince-President Franklin Stove, at your service.>>

"Prince-President? What's that?" I demanded. I was suspicious. I didn't like the sound of that. Sounded like a joke on Andy Jackson.

<<A Prince-President, sir, is a biped construction which stands at the top of the hierarchy of the artificial aristocracy, that of...Tick! - inventions - Tick! - machines - Tick! - engines, and the like...>>

I couldn't say all that to the Gate Officer. "Tell me who you are, really. State your business! - If you're a spy...!"

<<Spy? Spy, no,>> said the stranger, his face still placidly benign in a most suspicious and strange way.

<<Tick! - Tick! - Tick! - I am a Metal Man. I have been purchased for your service. I have a deed from the War Department. Tick! - I am a moral surgeon. Tick! - (Machines are machines). Tick! - Tick! - Tick! - General Taylor send me along from Fort Polk to Fort Texas, and - Tick! - and here we are. Tick! - (Like a dark and savage Ego, chained to this dreaming beast, following the Cold Sea to its source.) Tick! - Tick! - Tick! - Let me in, sir. I hunger.>>

The last he spoke to the sergeant of the gate, Mallory, hurrying with three soldiers. "What manner of business do you have with this fort, sir?" he demanded, squinting his little eyes out of his big red cheeks.

"Tick! - Fowl business."

"Foul business?" Mallory looked confused and alarmed, drawing back.

<<Tick! - Fowl business,>> repeated the stranger. <<I need eggs- actly what this bunker has; - I mean coal bunker. Tick! Tick! Neither flesh nor fare I refuse - Tick!-Tick! - Tick! - I eat all kinds of coal. Tick - Got to serve my stomach, Yankee Doodle-Do, pleased to meet you, Mister Moloch - Tick! - Wait a moment - Tick! - Just a moment - Tick! - Tick! - Tick! - There. Sir, I've a letter of introduction from Secretary Marcy.>>

"You do, do you?" smiled Mallory. "That's nice, ain't it? (Is he mad then?)" he asked me - I shrugged.

The sergeant chewed his mustache and slapped the saber against his leg. "Take his mule," he told his men. He took hold of the Prince- President's arm, then quickly let go, looking shocked. Recovering quickly, he said, "Come now, sir. You've too much moon-sun. The lieutenant wants to talk to you inside. What's your name?" The men hesitated before the odd fellow. "Go on!" the sergeant barked.

I told the sergeant, "He says he's Mr. Stove, a surgeon, Sarge."

"Tick - Prince-President Franklin Stove," the stranger bowed. "I am a moral surgeon, - yes. I can eggs-tract sins of the flesh - Err-rr - Yes. I am a Metal Man, - Tick! - yes. At your service," and as he bowed again, I saw a little puff of greasy black smoke rise up out of his top hat.

"A Metal Man?" repeated Sergeant Mallory, rubbing the hand that had touched the stranger. "You say you're a Metal Man?" His eyes leaked tears on account of the dust and the smoke.

"Aye, sir," said the stranger.

Who was he?

"Tick! - Aye, manufactured by the Brethren of Philadelphian Mechanics, initially," he added, ticking thoughtfully. "Boston, New York... Tick! - Richmond, Charleston, Atlanta, New Orleans, and anon... Tick - ick! - Tick! - ...Now Fort T-eggs - (Tick!) Now Fort T- eggs-eggs - (Tick!)-Teggsas, bulwark of the Lunar P. of T."

The sergeant wiped his eyes. "One man and his mule, Lieutenant!" he shouted angrily to the gate. ("A Metal Man...," he repeated to himself.)

"Open the gate!"

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