, and it takes a very steady pilot indeed
to get the absolute most out of his generators without also spreading
himself and his ship over several cubic miles of exploded space.

"Like a striped-tailed ape," Dahlinger chortled. "Man, you should see
the boss handle a ship. I thought every second we were going to
explode in technicolor."

"Well," Horton said feebly. "Burned generators. Shame."

He lowered his eyes and began toeing the ground. Travis felt suddenly
ill.

"What's the matter, Hort?"

Horton shrugged. "I hate like heck to be the one to tell you, Trav,
but seein' as I know you, they sent me--"

"Tell me what?" Now Dahlinger and Trippe both realized it and were
suddenly silent.

"Well, if only you'd taken a little more time. But not you, not old
Pat Travis. By damn, Pat, you came in here like a downhill
locomotive, it ain't my fault--"

"Hort, straighten it out. What's not your fault?"

Horton sighed.

"Listen, it's a long story. I've got a buggy over here to take you
into town. They're puttin' you up at a hotel so you can look the place
over. I'll tell you on the way in."

"The heck with that," Dahlinger said indignantly, "we want to see the
_man_."

"You're not goin' to see the man, sonny," Horton said patiently, "You
are, as a matter of fact, the last people on the planet the man wants
to see right now."

Dahlinger started to say something but Travis shut him up. He told
Trippe to stay with the ship and took Dahlinger with him. At the end
of the field was a carriage straight out of Seventeenth Century
England. And the things that drew it--if you closed your eyes--looked
reasonably similar to horses. The three men climbed aboard. There was
no driver. Horton explained that the 'horses' would head straight for
the hotel.

"Well all right," Travis said, "what's the story?"

"Don't turn those baby browns on me," Horton said gloomily, "I would
have warned you if I could, but you know the law says we can't show
favoritism...."

Travis decided the best thing to do was wait with as much patience as
possible. After a while Horton had apologized thoroughly and
completely, although what had happened was certainly not his fault,
and finally got on with the tale.

"Now this here planet," he said cautiously, "is whacky in a lot of
ways. First off they call it Mert. Mert. Fine name for a planet. Just
plain Mert. And they live in houses strictly from Dickens, all
carriages, no sewers, narrow streets, s