clouds
of silver. But, save for the grass, they might be in a dead and empty
world. Where were the cities? Or had those been born of imagination?

After a while, when the wonder of this landing had somewhat worn away,
Hobart summoned them back to the prosaic business of setting up base.
And Raf went to work at his own task. The sealed storeroom was opened,
the supplies slung by crane down from the ship. The compact assembly,
streamlined for this purpose, was all ready for the morrow.

They spent the night within the ship, much against their will. After
the taste of freedom they had been given, the cramped interior weighed
upon them, closing like a prison. Raf lay on his pad unable to sleep.
It seemed to him that he could hear, even through the heavy plates,
the sigh of that refreshing wind, the call of the open world lying
ready for them. Step by step in his mind, he went through the process
for which he would be responsible the next day. The uncrating of the
small flyer, the assembling of frame and motor. And sometime in the
midst of that survey he did fall asleep, so deeply that Wonstead had
to shake him awake in the morning.

He bolted his food and was out at his job before it was far past dawn.
But eager as he was to get to work, he paused just to look at the
earth scuffed up by his boots, to stare for a long moment at a stalk
of tough grass and remember with a thrill which never lessened that
this was not native earth or grass, that he stood where none of his
race, or even of his kind, had stood before--on a new planet in a new
solar system.

Raf's expert training and instruction paid off. By evening he had the
flitter assembled save for the motor which still reposed on the
turning block. One party had gone questing out into the grass and
returned with the story of a stream hidden in a gash in the plain, and
Wonstead carried the limp body of a rabbit-sized furred creature he
had knocked over at the waterside.

"Acted tame." Wonstead was proud of his kill. "Stupid thing just stood
and watched me while I let fly with a stone."

Raf picked up the little body. Its fur was red-brown, plush-thick, and
very soft to the touch. The breast was creamy white and the forepaws
curiously short with an uncanny resemblance to his own hands. Suddenly
he wished that Wonstead had not killed it, though he supposed that
Chou, their biologist, would be grateful. But the animal looked
particularly defenseless. It would have been be