e to it. He
snapped the survival kit to his belt and picked up the tele-talkie.

The ship was more than a thousand yards away. The first mile was across
flat desert. He picked his way cautiously, his boots churning up clouds
of powdery dust. He remembered the Russian reports of the weird and
deadly creatures they had encountered in the Martian deserts.

But aside from a few gray patches of brush there seemed to be no sign of
life. After all, he thought, the Earth held no life for the better part
of its existence. And Towers had selected this planet because it bore
relatively the same relationship to the brighter, hotter Sirius as did
the Earth to the sun. While farther away it should have approximately
the same conditions as did the Earth. And it had seas, not as large as
on Earth, but seas, nevertheless.

Yet there was a fallacy in the argument. Presumably all of the stars in
the outer arms of the Milky Way and their planets were about the same
age. With similar conditions as the Earth, life must have been born and
walked out of the seas of Sirius Three just as it did on Earth.

Something scurried into a wisp of brush, as if to bear out Brandon's
realization. He froze, his eyes on the brush, his hand reaching for his
hydro-static shock pistol. He could hear nothing but the wind hollowing
his ears. He stood for a long moment, then cautiously skirted the brush,
and continued on toward the burning ship. There was an odd clicking
sound and he stopped. It sounded again. Brandon realized he was
perspiring despite the chill of the desert night. Again he moved on, the
sound fading in the distance behind him.

The next mile brought him to a great sheet of ancient lava laid bare by
the elements. He climbed to the top. The fire still seemed to be about a
thousand yards ahead, beyond a ridge of low hills.

A distant flare lit up the sky ahead of him. It glowed for a few moments
and died. They've found the ship, he thought. After four years, I had
completely forgotten about the store of photo-flash flares.

He watched for awhile but saw no more flares. Finally he scrambled down
the other side of the lava sheet and continued on toward the wreck,
moving slowly but steadily.

The third mile brought him to the scene of the crash. A smoking cylinder
of fused metal lay in a gully. Parts were strewn along the bottom. A
wing, untouched by the fire, was leaning tip down against the edge of
another lava sheet some distance away.