He sat down and cried. He sobbed until his lungs ached. He cried very hard and long. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his upraised, trembling fingers. "God, God, help me, oh God, help me," he said. All was normal again. * * * * * It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The rocks were baked by the sun. He managed, after a time, to cook himself a few hot biscuits, which he ate with strawberry jam. He wiped his stained fingers on his shirt, blindly, trying not to think. "At least I know what I'm up against," he thought. "Oh, Lord, what a world. What an innocent looking world, and what a monster it really is. It's good no one ever explored it before. Or _did_ they?" He shook his aching head. Pity them, who ever crashed here before, if any ever did. Warm sun, hard rocks, not a sign of hostility. A lovely world. Until you shut your eyes and relaxed your mind. And the night and the voices and the insanity and the death padded in on soft feet. "I'm all right now, though," he said, proudly. "Look at that." He displayed his hand. By a supreme effort of will, it was no longer shaking. "I'll show you who in hell's ruler here," he announced to the innocent sky. "_I_ am." He tapped his chest. To think that _thought_ could live that long! A million years, perhaps, all these thoughts of death and disorder and conquest, lingering in the innocent but poisonous air of the planet, waiting for a real man to give them a channel through which they might issue again in all their senseless virulence. Now that he was feeling better, it was all silly. All I have to do, he thought, is stay awake six nights. They won't bother me that way. When I'm awake, I'm dominant. I'm stronger than those crazy monarchs and their silly tribes of sword-flingers and shield-bearers and horn-blowers. I'll stay awake. But _can_ you? he wondered. Six whole nights? Awake? There's coffee and medicine and books and cards. But I'm tired _now_, so tired, he thought. Can I hold out? Well, if not. There's always the gun. Where will these silly monarchs be if you put a bullet through their stage? All the world's a stage? No. _You_, Leonard Sale, are the small stage. And they the players. And what if you put a bullet through the wings, tearing down scenes, destroying curtains, ruining lines! Destroy the stage, the players, all, if they aren't careful! First of all, he must radio through to Marsport, again. If there was any way they could rush the rescue ship sooner, then maybe he could hang on. Anyway, he must warn them what sort of planet this was, this so innocent seeming spot of nightmare and fever vision-- He tapped on the radio key for a minute. His mouth tightened. The radio was dead. It had sent through the proper rescue message, received a reply, and then extinguished itself. The proper touch of irony, he thought. There was only one thing to do. Draw a plan. This he did. He got a yellow pencil and delineated his six day plan of escape.