tell you?"

"Then you are _also_ from Earth?"

"Heavens yes! But now, let us go where we can chat more comfortably."
Mr. Greypoole struck out down a small path past scorched trees and
underbrush. "You know, Captain, right after the last consignment
something happened to my calendar. Now, I'm competent at my job, but I'm
no technician, no indeed: besides, no doubt you or one of your men can
set the doodad right, eh? Here we are."

They walked onto a wooden porch and through a door with a wire screen;
Lieutenant Peterson first, then Captain Webber, Mr. Friden and the rest
of the crew. Mr. Greypoole followed.

"You must forgive me--it's been a while. Take chairs, there, there. Now,
what news of--home, shall I say?" The little man stared.

Captain Webber shifted uncomfortably. He glanced around the room at the
lace curtains, the needle-point tapestries and the lavender wallpaper.

"Mr. Greypoole, I'd like to ask some questions."

"Certainly, certainly. But first, this being an occasion--" the little
man stared at each man carefully, then shook his head "--ah, do you all
like wine? Good wine?"

He ducked through a small door.

Captain Webber exhaled and rose.

"Now, don't start talking all at once," he whispered. "Anyone have any
ideas? No? Then quick, scout around--Friden, you stay here; you others,
see what you can find. I'm not sure I like the looks of this."

The men left the room.

* * * * *

Mr. Chitterwick made his way along a hedgerow, feeling cautiously and
maintaining a delicate balance. When he came to a doorway he stopped,
squinted and entered.

The room was dark and quiet and odorous. Mr. Chitterwick groped a few
steps, put out his hand and encountered what seemed to be raw flesh; he
swiftly withdrew his hand. "Excuse," he said, then, "Oh!" as his face
came against a slab of moist red meat. "Oh my!"

Mr. Chitterwick began to tremble and he blinked furiously, reaching out
and finding flesh, cold and hard, unidentifiable.

When he stepped upon the toe of a large man with a walrus mustache, he
wheeled, located the sunlight and ran from the butcher shop....

* * * * *

The door of the temple opened with difficulty, which caused Mr. Milton
to breathe unnaturally. Then, once inside, he gasped.

Row upon row of people, their fingers outstretched, lips open but
immobile and silent, their bodies prostrate on the floor. And upon a
stran