The Holes and John Smith

It all began on a Saturday night at "The Space Room." If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place: "A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. We were playing at "The Space Room" that night, and one of our quartet was out. We were waiting for his replacement, and he was so late we were getting threats from management. Then it happened. From the entrance of "The Space Room" came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a queerly shaped bass fiddle. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat tip. His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. . . .