when a man ventured beyond the bounds of familiar existence,
there was conflict. Either a struggle to win, or, immediately
recognizable success, with no struggle or hint of conflict at all.

But not this. Not this success that seemed--what was the _word_?
Hostile? That was ridiculous. These people were friendly. _But
somehow--there was an empty ring--_

Hell! They had saved his life. Rebuilt his ship. Given him the tube that
contained transcriptions, in his own language, of every scientific
secret his people could ever hope to learn for themselves in the next
thousand years! And, they had even buried Ferris....

Use the brains of a mature man, Johnny Love! You've pulled it off
without even trying! The most stupendous thing any man in any age has
ever pulled off ... without even trying! For God's sake don't
question--don't question things you don't understand! Take the credit
and let the soul-searching go!

He looked behind him again. They were still there. A special, smiling
farewell escort, watching a single, solitary figure cross a short
expanse of sand to a towering, glistening thing of power.

He raised a booted foot to the bottom fin-step, hauled himself up by the
stern mounting rungs, hammered the outer lock stud with his gloved fist
and the hatch swung open. Like a trap.

He could feel the skin at the back of his neck tighten but he forced
himself to ignore it. The lock cycled up to thirteen psi and the inner
port swung automatically inward, and then he was inside, clambering up
the narrow ladder past the titanium alloy fuel tanks and the spidery
catwalks between them to the tiny control room in the forehull.

He would not be waiting for Harrison and Janes. He would get the hell
out of here and then radio them and let them make all the decisions from
there. Earth for him. Home. He ached for it.

He strapped himself in the hammock, punched the warming studs for each
engine, and there was a dull, muffled throb below him as each jumped
into subdued life. The banks of dials that curved in front of him glowed
softly, and he started an almost automatic blast-off check. It took
twelve precious minutes.

Then he was ready. Scanners on, heat up ... ready.

The Martian sky was like frozen ink above him and his hands were wet
inside his gloves and there was a choking dryness in his throat.
_Now...._

And he could not move. There was a sudden, awful nausea and his head
spun, and before his eyes there spread a b