The radiator coolant was boiling murmurously amid the rain's driving tumult. Winthrop shut off the lights and engine, sat staring through the streaming windshield at the smooth, enigmatic surface of the cylinder on the slope. There was a sleep-provoking magic in the downpour's prolonged pattern. _Oh, ship of space, the rains of Earth will wash your surface clean!_ II He awoke at dawn, stiff from the unnatural position of his sleep, momentarily confused as to his whereabouts. Then he caught sight of the cylinder, and memory came sweeping back. _Had something come out of it?_ Descending from the car, he approached a group of men standing near the object. A short, heavy-set major general who appeared to be in command turned sharp, suspicious eyes toward him. "What are you doing here?" Winthrop introduced himself. The general's suspicion vanished and he clasped the younger man's hand warmly. "I'm Bert Hill, Winthrop. I heard of your work from Benton Allan. He's a close personal friend." "Of mine, too," Winthrop nodded. "Haven't seen him since Nevada." "He's flying up from Los Alamos," Hill said. "Many of your colleagues are coming--everyone who might conceivably be useful." "Any sign of life?" Winthrop asked, gesturing toward the cylinder. "No. There's a port amidships, and some small apertures forward. But it might as well be a coffin! Why don't you look it over? But perhaps you'd like to get comfortable and have breakfast first. We've set up a temporary mess kitchen in the City Building." "Thanks, General Hill." "Call me Bert." When George Winthrop returned he found that a sizable group of tired-looking civilians had joined the military. Most of them were men with whom he had been associated. Greetings were brief, detailed personal reminiscences sternly contraindicated. They examined the cylinder. With a great deal of effort an engineer succeeded in unfastening the port lugs. Signal Corps movie cameras whirred as the port opened, but nothing emerged. "Carry on, George," General Hill said. "You've priority." "Hadn't we better wait?" the other protested. "Who knows what an alien might consider trespass?" "We've got to risk it," the general said. "Perhaps they need our help. Perhaps they're ill or injured." Hill and Winthrop peered into the interior. Vacuum tubes shone dully through an indistinct maze of ductwork, circuitry, relay banks. And directly before them, facing the port-- "It's a fission bomb!" Bert's nervousness was suddenly wild within Winthrop. He fought it. "Amazingly like ours!" He grasped the port tightly, fighting trembling unease with taut muscles.