containers; some were
handling lines attached to the containers; still others were carrying
and dumping. They came up full, went down empty, came up full. The
produce was heaped in a growing pile on a small semisolid island with a
few scraggly trees on it. As they worked the pile grew and grew.

It took only a moment for Kielland to tell what they were doing. The
color of the stuff was unmistakable. They were mining piles of blue-gray
mud, just as fast as they could mine it.

With a gleam of satisfaction in his eye, Kielland snapped off the screen
and nodded at Sparks to bring the cameras back. Then he rang Simpson
again.

"Did you tell them?"

Simpson's voice was uneasy. "Yeah--yeah, I told them. They left in a
hurry. Quite a hurry."

"Yes, I imagine they did. Where are your men now?"

"Out working on Number Six, trying to get it up."

"Better get them together and pack them over to Control Tower, fast,"
said Kielland. "I mean everybody. Every man in the Installation. We may
have this thing just about tied up, if we can get out of here soon
enough--"

Kielland's chair gave a sudden lurch and sailed across the room,
smashing into the wall. With a yelp he tried to struggle up the sloping
floor; it reared and heaved over the other way, throwing Kielland and
Sparks to the other wall amid a heap of instruments. Through the windows
they could see the gray mud flats careening wildly below them. It took
only an instant to realize what was happening. Kielland shouted, "Let's
get out of here!" and headed down the stairs, clinging to the railing
for dear life.

Control Tower was sinking in the mud. They had moved faster than he had
anticipated, Kielland thought, and snarled at himself all the way down
to the landing platform below. He had hoped at least to have time to
parley, to stop and discuss the whys and wherefores of the situation
with the natives. Now it was abundantly clear that any whys and
wherefores that were likely to be discussed would be discussed later.

And very possibly under twenty feet of mud--

A stream of men were floundering out of Administration shack, plowing
through the mud with waders only half strapped on as the line of low
buildings began shaking and sinking into the morass. From the direction
of Number Six dredge another crew was heading for the Tower. But the
Tower was rapidly growing shorter as the buoys that sustained it broke
loose with ear-shattering crashes.

Kielland caught Spar