had had all he could take. He was through standing out on a
windy hill like some goddam--

Something seemed to flicker in the night air above the clearing--and he
was staring slackjawed at a circular structure the size of a small house
standing in the center of the clearing as though it had been there for
years.

Before the Lieutenant could get his jaw off his necktie, Alma Dakin had
uttered a cry of relief and was racing toward the nearest edge of the
gleaming vessel. A panel in its side slid noiselessly back and the tall
figure of a man was outlined in the opening.

"Alma!" he shouted and sprang to the ground to meet her.

They came together almost violently midway between the clearing's edge
and the ship. She clung to him as he bent his head to meet her lips.

Kirk glanced past them at the open portal. Dim light from within cast a
soft glow against the night. Nothing moved in the narrow segment of the
interior visible from where he was standing.

And Kirk had a moment of what was as close to fear as he was able to
know. A little time of bewilderment when his guard slipped just a
trifle. What in the hell _was_ all this? Into his solid world had come
strange and unreasonable things. Crazy ships, and people who didn't play
according to the rules he had learned over thankless drudging years as
an honest cop. A few tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip.

[Illustration: _Into his solid world had come strange and unreasonable
things._]

Then his stubborn, inherent fatalism came to his aid. He grinned without
humor. The hell with it. Whatever came up--a screwball flying saucer or
a berserk psycho waving a gun. You played it the same; according to your
own rules. This thing, whatever it was, bridged the gap to a killer. And
when you found such a bridge, you crossed it.

* * * * *

Martin Kirk, his gun clutched tightly, moved like a casual shadow, eased
his way along the hull of ship and slipped inside.

He had never seen anything like this. The lighting for one thing. It
came from nowhere and somehow the stuff had a mood. It seemed alive--an
intelligent force watching him, mocking him, sneering at him. And so
potent was the mood of the whole setup, so sharp his need of release
that he muttered, "The hell with you," and softly followed a circular
corridor which curved off the hull.

They were coming toward the ship, Orin and Alma--coming while he still
hunted a hole. He kept o