Josh Thorn hesitated. Baggy-Drawers? Or not? Beneath the white, tenuous outer atmospheric shell of methane and ammonia, what? Air he could breathe? Or poison that would strangle him-- He swung the inner air-lock open. If poison, then death would be but a matter of days; the bubble of Made-in-U.S.A. atmosphere that he'd brought thirty million miles across Space had supplied him for the nearly four months the Journey had taken. It had done its job, he could demand no more than that. Two weeks more, at best, and it would be spent forever. Two weeks, thirty-five years, five thousand centuries-- He swung the outer air-lock open. And breathed. And breathed. And breathed deeply again. Joshua Thorn wanted to cry. There was a hurt in his throat, and he wanted to yell, and he wanted to laugh great peals of laughter even as the unchecked salt tears streamed across the deep valleys of his cheeks. He walked, he ran. He stopped, he turned his face to the sky, he spread his arms wide and let the great bellows of laughter roll from his lips in the lusty prayer of thanks that only the living who are full with life and amid the teeming fullness of life can know. Thank you, God. Thank you God. Thank you.... (For this little while more, for this little while more for the race of Man; I am the last of Man, You know--) He prayed thank you, but he did not pray for more, because this was already more than he deserved; the Almighty had been merciful, compassionate and merciful, and he could not ask for more, in no way dared ask-- The thunder seemed straight above him. The sound of his own laughter had drowned it out at first, and then the two had mingled, and then as he stood gasping for new breath, as his hoarse voice rested, he heard it--welling as if from a great heavy throat, and now rising to a baleful cry, then falling--falling gently, and now a new thunder to drown it, a mightier thunder than the first. Joshua Thorn stood transfixed as he watched the gleaming bullet-shape descend its pillar of fire. It could have been twin to Vanguard-I. It was descending--it was--_maneuvering_ to be near him! From somewhere far back in his brain the words formed again, _and Mrs. Grundy here's dirt for you--you may have a new neighbor in your block but not like you at all--probably a world between you--don't take any wooden nickels...._ But Daddy-o could never know, would never comprehend-- He was running, stumbling, falling, running again toward the spot where the red-starred satellite of the Enemy (Enemy, what a madman's word now!) would land. Running like a child, running like an idiot, arms waving, mouth laughing, throat shouting-- Thank you, oh _Thank_ you God.... He was within twenty yards of the craft when its outer lock opened. Fifteen when the uniformed figure who stepped out caught sight and sound of him, ten when the rifle was aimed at him, five before he could comprehend the mindless meaning of it--