The idea that seemed to be in favor was the survival of the fittest. Since the natives were born in litters, with single births extremely rare, this concept was practiced from the first. Unless they were particularly cunning, the runts of the litter did not survive the first year and rarely more than one sibling ever saw adulthood. Obviously, to claim to be a native's brother was to challenge him to a test of survival. My men learned to call themselves Last Brother in the usual bragging preliminaries that preceded every encounter. We got pretty good results with that approach and learned a lot about the changes in customs in the half century. But finally one of the men--either Frank Peirmonte or Sidney Charterson, who both claim to be the one--thought of calling the crew a Family and right away we began hitting it off famously. The Moranites figured we would kill each other off all except maybe one, whom they could handle themselves. They still had folk legends about the previous visit of Earthmen and they didn't trust us. Charlie Baxter's original mistake had supplied us with the Rosetta Stone we needed. Doctor Selby told me Charlie could get up finally, so I went to his suite and shook hands with him as he still lay in bed. I waited for the big moment when Charlie would be on his feet again and we could get on with the re-survey of the planet. "Here goes," Charlie said and threw back his sheet. He swung his legs around and tottered to his feet. He was a little weak, but he took a few steps and seemed to make it okay. Then the inevitable happened. He snagged the edge of one of the Persian carpets on the bedroom floor with his big toe and started to fall. Selby and I both dived forward to catch him, but instead of doing the arm-waving dance for balance that we were both used to, he seemed to go limp and he plopped on the floor like a wet fish. Immediately he jumped to his feet, grinning. "I finally learned to go limp when I take a fall, sir. It took a lot of practice. I imagine I'll save some broken bones that way." "Yes," I said uneasily. "You have been thinking about this quite a lot while you lay there, haven't you, Baxter?" "Yes, sir. I see I've been fighting this thing too hard. I am an Accident Prone and I might as well accept it. Why not? I seem to always muddle through some way, like out there in the jungle, so why should I worry or feel _embarrassed_? _I know I can't change_ it." * * * * *