are
either humans from Earth--in which case they are in all probability
enemy nationals--or they are alien creatures from another planet--in
which case they may be friends, enemies or what-have-you. I think common
sense and standard military procedure demand that we consider them
hostile until we have evidence to the contrary. Meanwhile, we proceed
with extreme caution, so as not to precipitate an interplanetary war
with potentially friendly Martians, or whatever they are.

"All right. It's vitally important that Army Headquarters be informed of
this immediately. But since Moon-to-Earth radio is still on the drawing
boards, the only way we can get through is to send Monroe back with the
ship. If we do, we run the risk of having our garrison force, Tom and
me, captured while he's making the return trip. In that case, their side
winds up in possession of important information concerning our personnel
and equipment, while our side has only the bare knowledge that somebody
or something else has a base on the Moon. So our primary need is more
information.

"Therefore, I suggest that I sit in the dome on one end of a telephone
hookup with Tom, who will sit in the ship, his hand over the firing
button, ready to blast off for Earth the moment he gets the order from
me. Monroe will take the single-seater down to the Riphaen Mountains,
landing as close to the other dome as he thinks safe. He will then
proceed the rest of the way on foot, doing the best scouting job he can
in a spacesuit.

"He will not use his radio, except for agreed-upon nonsense syllables to
designate landing the single-seater, coming upon the dome by foot, and
warning me to tell Tom to take off. If he's captured, remembering that
the first purpose of a scout is acquiring and transmitting knowledge of
the enemy, he will snap his suit radio on full volume and pass on as
much data as time and the enemy's reflexes permit. How does that sound
to you?"

They both nodded. As far as they were concerned, the command decision
had been made. But I was sitting under two inches of sweat.

"One question," Tom said. "Why did you pick Monroe for the scout?"

"I was afraid you'd ask that," I told him. "We're three extremely
unathletic Ph.D.s who have been in the Army since we finished our
schooling. There isn't too much choice. But I remembered that Monroe is
half Indian--Arapahoe, isn't it, Monroe?--and I'm hoping blood will
tell."

"Only trouble, Colonel," Monroe s