There was nothing like that to disturb the calm and peaceful journey of the _Cuchulainn_. Oh, it was enjoyable to stare through the observation panes at the flame-dotted pall of space--until Pop tried to turn his curious interest into educational channels; it was exciting, too, to probe through the corridored recesses of their floating home--except that Dick issued strict orders that nothing must be touched, that he must not enter certain chambers, that he mustn't push his nose into things that didn't concern kids-- Which offended Bobby, who was sixteen, or, anyway, fifteen and three-quarters. So they ate and they slept and they ate again. And Pop and Dick spelled each other at the control banks. Moira spent endless hours with comb and mirror, devising elaborate hair-dos which--Bobby reminded her with impudent shrewdness--were so much wasted energy, since they were settling in a place where nobody could see them. And Mom bustled about in the galley, performing miracles with flour and stuff, and in the recreation room, Eleanor minded The Pooch, and lost innumerable games of cribbage to Grampaw Moseley who cheated outrageously and groused, between hands, about the dad-blame nonsensical way Dick was handling the ship. And somehow three Earth days sped by, and they were nearing their destination. The tiny planetoid, Eros. Pop said, "You deserve a great deal of credit, son, for your fine work in rehabilitating the _Cuchulainn_. It has performed beautifully. You are a good spaceman." Dick flushed. "She's a good ship, Pop, even if she is thirty years old. Some of these old, hand-fashioned jobs are better than the flash junk they're turning off the belts nowadays. You've checked the declension and trajectory?" "Yes. We should come within landing radius in just a few hours. Cut drives at 19.04.22 precisely and make such minor course alterations as are necessary, set brakes." Pop smiled happily. "We're very fortunate, son. A mere fifteen million miles. It's not often Eros is so near Earth." "Don't I know it? It's almost a hundred million at perihelion. But that's not the lucky part. You sure had to pull strings to get the government land grant to Eros. What a plum! Atmosphere ... water ... vegetable life ... all on a hunk of dirt fifty-seven miles in diameter. Frankly, I don't get it! Eros must have terrific mass to have the attributes of a full-sized planet." "It does, Richard. A neutronium core." "Neutronium!" Dick gasped. "Why don't people tell me these things? Roaring craters, Pop, we're rich! Bloated plutocrats!" "Not so fast, son. Eventually, perhaps; not today. First we must establish our claims, justify our right to own Eros. That means work, plenty of hard work. After that, we might be able to consider a mining operation. What's that?" Bobby jumped. It was Mom's voice. But her cry was not one of fear, it was one of excitement. "Rob, look! Off to the--the left, or the port, or whatever you call it! Is that our new home?"