tivity is
low, and it is safe enough to walk outside.... The life boat is lying
beside a small stream which empties into a circular pool of blue water
in the center of a small meadow. The fiery trail of the jets and rockets
has burned a hundred-foot-wide path across the meadow, and the upper
edge of the pool, and ends in a broad, blackened circle surrounding the
boat. I came down too fast the last few feet, and the drive tubes are a
crumpled mess inextricably fused with the bent landing pads. This boat
will never fly again without extensive repairs which I cannot perform.
But the hull is otherwise sound, and I am comfortable enough except for
a few rapidly healing bruises and contusions. In a few days I should be
well enough to explore....

I am surprised that this world is so capable of supporting human life.
The consensus of scientific opinion has been that less than one out of
50,000 planets would be habitable. Yet I have struck paydirt on the
first try. Perhaps I am lucky. At any rate I am alive, and my lifeboat,
while somewhat damaged by an inept landing, is still sufficiently intact
to serve as a shelter, and the survival kits are undamaged, which should
make my stay here endurable if not pleasant ... and we are learning a
great deal about our galaxy with the development of the interstellar
drive--not the least of which is that authoritative opinion is mere
opinion and far from authoritative.

This world on which I find myself is in every respect but one similar to
Earth. There is no animate life--only plants. No birds fly, no insects
buzz, no animals rustle the silent underbrush. The only noise is the
wind in the trees and grasses. I am utterly alone. It is a strange
feeling, this loneliness. There is a feeling of freedom in it, a release
from the too-close proximity of my fellow men. There is the pleasure of
absolute privacy. But this will undoubtedly pall. Already I find that I
am anxious for someone to talk to, someone with whom I can share ideas
and plans. There ...

... which I cannot explain. But one thing is certain. My first
impression of this place was wrong. The life here, if not animate, is at
least intelligent--and it is not friendly. Yet neither does it hate. It
observes me with a slow, methodical curiosity that I can sense at the
very threshold of consciousness. It is a peculiar sensation that is
quite indescribable--unpleasant--but hardly terrifying. I suppose I can
feel it more than a normal pe