He stopped thinking abruptly as a long yellow field came into view. He saw silver flashing in the sun, and his heart jumped into his throat. Old 29 settled fast. One ship or two? In the distance he could see the gray jumbled shapes of a low-lying city. The sun was shining warmly, it was spring on Diomed III, and across the field a blue river sparkled, but Travis paid no attention. There was only one silver gleam. Still he waited, not thinking. But when they were close enough he saw that he was right. The Mapping Command ship was alone. Old 29, burned generators and all, had won the race. "My boys," he said gravely, turning to the crew, "Pat Travis rides again!" But they were already around him, pounding him on the back. He turned happily back to the screen, for the first time beginning to admire the view. By jing, he thought, what a lovely day! That was his first mistake. It was not a lovely day. It was absolutely miserable. * * * * * Travis had his first pang of doubt when he stepped out of the ship. The field was empty, not a native in sight. But Dahlinger was out before him, standing waist high in the grass and heaving deep lungfuls of the flower-scented air. He yelled that he could already smell the gold. "I say, Trav," Trippe said thoughtfully from behind him, "where's the fatted calf?" "In this life," Travis said warily, "one is often disappointed." A figure climbed out of a port over at the Mapping Command ship and came walking slowly toward them. Travis recognized him and grinned. "Hey, Hort." "Hey Trav," Horton replied from a distance. But he did not say anything else. He came forward with an odd look on his face. Travis did not understand. Ed Horton was an old buddy and Ed Horton should be happy to see him. Travis felt his second pang. This one went deep. "Anybody beat us here?" "No. You're the first, Trav." Dahlinger whooped. Travis relaxed slightly and even the glacial Trippe could not control a silly grin. Horton caught a whiff of air from the open lock. "B u r n e d generators? You must've come like hell." His face showed his respect. Between burning a generator and blowing one entirely there is only a microscopic distance, and it takes a very steady pilot indeed to get the absolute most out of his generators without also spreading himself and his ship over several cubic miles of exploded space. "Like a striped-tailed ape," Dahlinger chortled. "Man, you should see the boss handle a ship. I thought every second we were going to explode in technicolor." "Well," Horton said feebly. "Burned generators. Shame." He lowered his eyes and began toeing the ground. Travis felt suddenly ill. "What's the matter, Hort?" Horton shrugged. "I hate like heck to be the one to tell you, Trav, but seein' as I know you, they sent me--" "Tell me what?" Now Dahlinger and Trippe both realized it and were suddenly silent.