as though with hoarfrost, or with whatever fungus might
attack a shadow. Or was it seepage of the same substance
that made up the rills? Conjecture multiplied endlessly with-
out answer here. Arpe hated to think of the long oval blot
the tender itself would leave behind on the landscape. He
could only hope that the damage would be self-repairing;
there was something about this place that was peculiarly . . .
organic.
He lifted the tender quickly and took it out of the opales-
cent atmosphere with a minimum of ceremony, casting ahead
for guidance to pick up the multifarious murmur of the
minds on board the Flyaway II.
Only when he noticed that he was searching the sky visually
for the ship did he realize that he was not getting any-
thing.
“Celia? You can hear me all right telepathically, can’t
you?”
“Clear as a bell. It makes me feel much better, Captain.”
‘Then what’s wrong with the ship? I don’t pick up a soul.”
She frowned. “Why, neither do 1. Where . . .”
Arpe pointed ahead. “There she is, right where we left
her. We could hear them all well enough at this distance when
we were on the way down. Why can’t we now?”
He gunned the tender, all caution forgotten. His arrival in
the Flyaway 11’s air lock was noisy, and he lost several
minutes jockeying the little boat into proper seal. They both
fell out of it in an inelegant scramble.
There was nobody on board the Flyaway II. Nobody but
themselves.
The telepathic silence left no doubt in Arpe’s or Celia’s
mind, but they searched the huge vessel thoroughly to make