It was as though his mind had tricked him, had conjured chimeras and mirages out of the air to strip his reason away. He stiffened, the gun lifting in his hand, as one of the men working about the shed turned and ran directly down the field. He gasped silently, recognizing the greyed hair and ruddy face of Jim Palmer. His hand snapped to a small button on his helmet. "Hold it, Palmer, don't come any closer!" His voice roared from the tiny annunciator built into the top of his helmet. Jim Palmer skidded to a stop, menaced by the ati-gun, fell, sprawling in the green mud, as his sudden stop tripped him on the treacherous ground. Amazement made a round O of his mouth, and the glad greeting faded from his eyes. "What the hell, Denton?" he said sharply. "Have you gone space batty?" Don Denton laughed without humor, shifted the gun muzzle slightly. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm not taking any chances on anything until I find out what's going on!" "What do you mean: 'What's going on'?" Jim Palmer pushed himself to his feet, wiped slimy mud onto his breeches' legs. "Hell," he finished, "all of us thought you were dead!" "You--," Don Denton swallowed, blinked desperately, "You thought I was dead?" he croaked. "Why, sure!" Jim Palmer waved an expressive hand. "We tried to get into your ship for more than a week, but couldn't. And we could see you crumpled in the pilot's seat. So we figured you had died." "Look, Palmer," Don Denton said, "I like jokes as well as the next spacer. But I don't like the smell of this one! Now, what's the set-up here?" "Well, it's just like the one I had on island Seven. I--" Don Denton's voice was like chilled steel. "Keep up that clowning," he snapped, "and I'll blow it out of you with an ati-gun blast!" Jim Palmer paled, took a backward step. "Now, look, Denton," he said placatingly, "I'm not looking for a fight with you; I've always figured we were friends. If you've got some gripe, get it off your chest, and maybe we can get it straightened out!" Don Denton felt insanity growing in his mind. He sucked in a deep breath, never taking his eyes from Palmer's sweat-streaked face. He didn't know what was going on, could not find a coherent answer for anything, and the empty feeling it left within him frightened him as he had never felt fear before. Less than an hour before, he had locked himself in his ship, after seeing fourteen dead men in the huts and after Jean had disappeared; and now Jim Palmer was telling him that that had happened more than a week before. Too, he was implying that Don Denton was mentally unbalanced. Don Denton then felt the prescience of an alien presence at his back. He whirled, spun to one side, his finger tight on the firing stud of the atomic gun in his fist.