e main
handgun cartridges. Pink had decided against using the Kentucky rifle,
which was difficult for a modern man to load.

At each belt hung half a dozen curious objects, shaped like bottles but
of a dull gray color and rough surface texture. These sloshed and
gurgled when the men moved.

Pink concluded his instructions on the use of the weapons and the gray
bottle-things. "Remember," he said, "keep in touch by your radio, and
don't travel more than a mile from the ship if you can help it. Try the
lure first, then when the containers are full, the guns. Be sure to keep
at least one portion of lure for emergency; don't use it all." He
grinned. "And don't drink any of the lure."

The men laughed, easing tension. Pink went on. "You'll have some trouble
adjusting to the gravity--our average weight will be six or seven
pounds, or, in Jerry's case, three or four." They chuckled again.
"Remember we don't know how they'll react, so keep your minds open and
use your own judgment in everything. Now let's go."

As he turned and activated the sliding panel that covered the first
chamber of the air-lock, and they all settled their helmets down onto
their shoulders and fastened them, an eleventh figure joined them, its
helmet already in place. Jerry, shaking his head reprovingly, handed
this one the last weapon, a small automatic from the so-called "Gangster
Age" of America. Then they went into the air-lock and the door shut
tight behind them.

In the control room, Jackson and a few others watched tensely on the
viewscreen as one by one the landing party jumped to the planetoid. He
looked at his watch. "Two hours," he said. "Oh my God, I hope they make
it!" For in precisely two hours, if they had not returned to the ship,
Jackson was to blow it to metallic dust, and all the remaining humans
with it.

Forty miles above the surface of the small world, the _Diogenes_ and the
_Cottabus_ cruised at a good rate of speed, to keep their hulls free of
hitchhiking giants while watching the progress of the expedition.

On the floor of Pinkham's quarters, the dying alien lay alone and cursed
weakly at the sly and crafty doublecross he had so stupidly fallen for.
He called upon a number of strange gods to curse these mortals; among
the names he uttered was that of a deity called Allah.

In dressing room B, a technician discovered a crewman who was sitting
against a wall rubbing his skull. "Somebody bopped me," said the man
glumly. "I'