They went ahead. And a quarter mile ahead of them they found the ship. It had been easier to locate than he had thought it would be. And once he saw the ship, a feeling of recognition swept over him. Angel had halted and was saying in awe, "This ain't no plane." It wasn't. It had been constructed to do more than skim the surface of a planet. It had been built to bridge the gap from one planet to the next, from one star to the next. Only fifty feet long, it was a thing of strength and beauty, with a dull smooth finish that could slip through an atmosphere with a minimum of friction. He was beginning to remember a great deal now. The entrance, he knew, was near the nose. The door closed tight after you went through it, leaving an apparently unbroken surface of metal, but if you came over to it and put your hand on a certain plate-- He came over to it and hesitated. The Professor asked eagerly, "Is this--is it a spaceship?" "Yes. This is the door, over here. I must have crashed in the swamp and for some reason staggered out." "But how--how does it work?" "Like this." He raised his hand to the plate, and suddenly the sense of danger swept over him again. And now he knew where it came from. Not from the ship itself. No, not from the ship. But from the Professor, the gentle little man who had been protecting him. * * * * * He swung around and saw that the little man's forehead was beady with sweat. The man had been tense, hoping that he would open the door without remembering too much. The hope had failed. His memory had been coming back gradually in the past few days. Now the sight of the ship had brought back everything. Everything. He caught sight of the glint of metal in the Professor's hand. "I thought so," he said. "I thought so." Angel's lower jaw had dropped. He stammered, "What is this? Professor, that ain't a gun, is it?" "Much more than a gun," said Crusoe softly. "That's the magic. When I pointed with my hand, without thinking, it was because I was accustomed to having a weapon like that. But it was the Professor who actually had it. It was he who made those rifles explode. And because he didn't want any one to suspect that he had such a thing on him, he let me have the credit." "It will do you no good to remember," said the Professor. "In the long run it will do you no good." "I wonder. You can cover a great surface with a sheet of flame by using that thing, you can kill with it, but you can't make me do what you want. Not now, not after I've remembered who you are." "Look," said Angel, "I don't get this. I know the Professor for five, six years."