ing with an intense
speed, hadn't said a word to them since they had entered.

Brion looked up as another man stepped from the engine compartment
in the rear of the car. He was thin, harried-looking. And he was
pointing a gun.

"Who are you?" he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice.

It was a strange reception, but Brion was beginning to realize that
Dis was a strange planet. The other man chewed at his lip nervously
while Brion sat, relaxed and unmoving. He didn't want to startle him
into pulling the trigger, and he kept his voice pitched low as he
answered.

"My name is Brandd. We landed from space two nights ago and have
been walking in the desert ever since. Now don't get excited and
shoot the gun when I tell you this--but both Vion and Ihjel are
dead."

The man with the gun gasped, his eyes widened. The driver threw a
single frightened look over his shoulder, then turned quickly back
to the wheel. Brion's probe had hit its mark. If these men weren't
from the Cultural Relationships Foundation they at least knew a lot
about it. It seemed safe to assume they were C.R.F. men.

"When they were shot the girl and I escaped. We were trying to reach
the city and contact you. You are from the Foundation, aren't you?"

"Yes. Of course," the man said, lowering the gun. He stared
glassy-eyed into space for a moment, nervously working his teeth
against his lip. Startled at his own inattention, he raised the gun
again.

"If you're Brandd, there's something I want to know." Rummaging
in his breast pocket with his free hand, he brought out a yellow
message form. He moved his lips as he reread the message. "Now
answer me--if you can--what are the last three events in the ..."
He took a quick look at the paper again. "... in the Twenties?"

"Chess finals, rifle prone position, and fencing playoffs. Why?"

The man grunted and slid the pistol back into its holder, satisfied.
"I'm Faussel," he said, and waved the message at Brion. "This is
Ihjel's last will and testament, relayed to us by the Nyjord
blockade control. He thought he was going to die and he sure was
right. Passed on his job to you. You're in charge. I was Mervv's
second-in-command, until he was poisoned. I was supposed to work for
Ihjel, and now I guess I'm yours. At least until tomorrow, when
we'll have everything packed and get off this hell planet."

"What do you mean, tomorrow?" Brion asked. "It's three days to
deadline and we still have a job to