The next day, he had Ardelan send a courier to the trading-post. The man carried an order for a consignment of medical supplies to be sent from the Venusian Domes via the next freighter. There was also a letter for Linda, telling of the success of his first operation, and of Dawson's first move to make trouble. "_But Gil was a bit late_," he wrote. "_I'd already got in pretty solid. That won't keep him from trying something else. He must have talked a good deal before he left. If you hear any gossip as to what he planned to do or how he intended to do it, be sure and write me the details. From all I've seen of Terra so far, they should have bombed it even more than they did. One well-organized Dome is worth a dozen Earths. But the natives don't seem to mind a bit...._" * * * * * Knife and gunshot wounds and fractures, Verrill reasoned, would make up most of his practice: surgery, that is, in its engineering aspect, rather than as a corrective of ailments. And the centuries, fortunately, had worked to keep his task from being utterly beyond a well-educated layman. Whereas in the twentieth century, there had not been more than two or three specifics, there were now ten times as many. It was a matter of taking the proper bottle, just as, in ancient times, one had reached automatically for quinine, the primitive specific against malaria. Meanwhile, what had been his prison became his home and his dispensary. During his wait for the shipment from Venus, he instituted a garbage-disposal program. He condemned the shallow well, and had them build a wooden flume from a spring high up on the mountainside. Each radical move, however, had to wait until a cure he had effected assured him of sufficient momentary popularity to enable him to kick an ancient unsanitary practice overboard. Then one night came a furtive sound at his door, as though someone were trying to enter by stealth. A cold shiver trickled down his spine. Though he doubted that the fire priest was coming to dispose of him, there was all too much chance that Kwangtan had convinced one of the tribe that carving the stranger would in the long run be beneficial. Despite the warning, and Verrill's readiness for whatever might be creeping up, he had his moment of terror. However well he handled himself, he could not win--for if he killed an intruder, there would be a blood feud. Groping in the dark, he found a length of firewood. He had to end the matter by knocking the other out before he could come to grips to make it a finish fight. Stealthily, he skirted the wall. He heard the soft mumble of the leather-hinged door as it dragged the hard earth. A sliver of moonlight reached into the darkness. Barefooted, Verrill made no sound as he evaded the widening streak of light. A patch of shadow broke it. A dark shape edged into the gloom. Verrill measured the distance. He gathered himself.