The ship was much larger than those of Project Star, and more complex within; the ramp reached to a corridor with three doors. Mac was dashing for the farthest one; Alan threw his weight against the middle door. As it burst open his first glimpse was of four outlanders rising, open-mouthed, from chairs set before a bank of control panels. Afterwards he could recall only the thing which flashed through his mind in that first instant of viewing them: that in the old West it had been proved time and again that one good man with a repeating rifle was better than four good men with revolvers. Alan proved it now, not against guns, but against the small silver tubes that spat flame balls. The room was a shambles in eight seconds, and Alan turned for more conquest, to stumble over the body of a man in the corridor. * * * * * It was Don Mariner, and he had no face. There was a raw bloody burn from ear to ear, from brow to throat. He had probably died very quickly. Alan straightened and gripped his gun's stock till the fingertips splayed out white and flat against it. Old Don, he said, old plump Don. Not so old, he said, probably no more than forty-two or -three, but you always thought of him affectionately as Old Don. Now who will there be to exclaim "By Judas!" when things get tough? "Brave!" he bawled out. "Brave, are you safe?" He was hideously afraid for his great friend. When the copper face peered out of the third door, he was ill with relief. "Had a little dust-up in here," said the Indian. "These boys wanted to brawl. My God," he said, coming out, "Don's had it." "Yes, he's had it." "He was a good man. Did we lose anyone else? I think the saucermen are all through." Jim McEldownie joined them. "The big control room's up front there. We killed seven of 'em there. Rob took a leg burn and he'll walk with a limp for a while. No more casualties." "Those tubes of theirs are frightful. If we hadn't taken them so by surprise--" "They were too careless," said Brave. "Doesn't make sense." Rob Pope hobbled out, one arm over Bill's shoulders. "I think I know why," he said. "When they got me down here, they searched through my mind. I could feel it plain as a physical touch. They found hate there, I'll be bound, but it was for the bombing of the city, not a congenital hatred of outsiders. They found the same in Bill's mind. It relaxed them and put them off guard." "How do you figure that?" asked Win. "They were looking for an ingrained enmity toward themselves. It astonished them when they didn't find it. They're tremendously telepathic, and I'll wager hypnotic too. I think they do much of their own communicating by thought waves; at least I didn't hear them speak once.