e running. Tance watched helplessly, his eyeglasses
broken and bent.

"So there is life here, after all," he said, half to himself. "But how
could--"

"Give us a hand," Fomar said, hurrying past. "Give us a hand, we've got
to land the ship!"

It was night. A few stars glinted above them, winking through the
drifting silt that blew across the surface of the planet.

Dorle peered out, frowning. "What a place to be stuck in." He resumed
his work, hammering the bent metal hull of the ship back into place. He
was wearing a pressure suit; there were still many small leaks, and
radioactive particles from the atmosphere had already found their way
into the ship.

Nasha and Fomar were sitting at the table in the control room, pale and
solemn, studying the inventory lists.

"Low on carbohydrates," Fomar said. "We can break down the stored fats
if we want to, but--"

"I wonder if we could find anything outside." Nasha went to the window.
"How uninviting it looks." She paced back and forth, very slender and
small, her face dark with fatigue. "What do you suppose an exploring
party would find?"

Fomar shrugged. "Not much. Maybe a few weeds growing in cracks here and
there. Nothing we could use. Anything that would adapt to this
environment would be toxic, lethal."

Nasha paused, rubbing her cheek. There was a deep scratch there, still
red and swollen. "Then how do you explain--_it_? According to your
theory the inhabitants must have died in their skins, fried like yams.
But who fired on us? Somebody detected us, made a decision, aimed a
gun."

"And gauged distance," the Captain said feebly from the cot in the
corner. He turned toward them. "That's the part that worries me. The
first shell put us out of commission, the second almost destroyed us.
They were well aimed, perfectly aimed. We're not such an easy target."

"True." Fomar nodded. "Well, perhaps we'll know the answer before we
leave here. What a strange situation! All our reasoning tells us that no
life could exist; the whole planet burned dry, the atmosphere itself
gone, completely poisoned."

"The gun that fired the projectiles survived," Nasha said. "Why not
people?"

"It's not the same. Metal doesn't need air to breathe. Metal doesn't get
leukemia from radioactive particles. Metal doesn't need food and water."

There was silence.

"A paradox," Nasha said. "Anyhow, in the morning I think we should send
out a search party. And meanwhile we should keep o