ld all have been killed."

The colonel peeked one out from between the first and second fingers of
his right hand. "You think starving to death is cleaner than fire?"

Pilar shook his head slowly. "Of course not. I'm just not certain that
we'll all die--that's all."

Colonel Fennister dropped his hands to the surface of his metal desk. "I
see," he said dryly. "Where there's life, there's hope. Right? All
right, I agree with you." He waved his hand around, in an
all-encompassing gesture. "Somewhere out there, we may find food. But
don't you see that this puts us in the Siege Position?"

Dr. Francis Pilar frowned. His thick salt-and-pepper brows rumpled in a
look of puzzlement. "Siege Position? I'm afraid--"

Fennister gestured with one hand and leaned back in his chair, looking
at the scientist across from him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've let my
humiliation get the better of me." He clipped his upper lip between his
teeth until his lower incisors were brushed by his crisp, military
mustache, and held it there for a moment before he spoke.

"The Siege Position is one that no military commander of any cerebral
magnitude whatever allows himself to get into. It is as old as Mankind,
and a great deal stupider. It is the position of a beleaguered group
which lacks one simple essential to keep them alive until help comes.

"A fighting outfit, suppose, has enough ammunition to stand off two more
attacks; but they know that there will be reinforcements within four
days. Unfortunately, the enemy can attack _more than twice_ before help
comes. Help will come too late.

"Or, it could be that they have enough water to last a week, but help
won't come for a month.

"You follow me, I'm sure. The point, in so far as it concerns us, is
that we have food for about a month, but we won't get help before six
months have passed. We know help is coming, but we won't be alive to see
it."

Then his eyes lit up in a kind of half hope. "Unless the native flora--"

But even before he finished, he could see the look in Dr. Pilar's eyes.

* * * * *

Broderick MacNeil was a sick man. The medical officers of the Space
Service did not agree with him _in toto_, but MacNeil was in a position
to know more about his own state of health than the doctors, because it
was, after all, he himself who was sick.

Rarely, of course, did he draw the attention of the medical officers to
his ever-fluctuating assortment of