When he scrambled out of a deep snow-like drift, both tractors were blossoming white-hot vapors from their insides. In their cabins, no one could still survive, Schmidt, or any of the others. The lump was hard in Rick's throat, and the blur was thick and angry in his mind. He scrambled along the ditch, keeping down, firing at little shapes that scurried on the road. They were oval, half a foot long, like tortoises, but much faster. He'd seen their like at the Survey Service School brought from Earth's moon. Deadly little robots from X. They scuttled for cover. No use trying to dig them out. They were as elusive as rats. And they could fire atomic pellets. Two more Earth-made blasters had been in action. "We're still with you, Rick!" Finden risked saying by phone. "Yeah, all I got out of it was some bruised ribs," Lattimer who was older, joined in, hiding a wince of pain. * * * * * While they were taping up a weak spot in Lattimer's armor, something spitting blue, like a rocket, arced overhead, and Rick was sure he heard a derisive chuckle in his phones. Fane. "Damn him!" Lattimer snarled. "At the very least Fane would know how to use some of these machines after six months here. He'd know how to travel fast...." Again, against the possibility of their conversation being overheard they were speaking directly by contact-transmitted sound. "Keep down and tune in on camp," Rick said. "We can listen, anyway." They heard strange noises. And then Nostrand's voice saying: "... We're under attack. A dozen war-robots. Parties afield please don't answer if there is danger of giving away your positions by radio-direction finder.... Ship already disabled...." "It _must_ be Fane doing it," young Finden snarled. "Maybe. Not necessarily," Lattimer answered. "The question is, what do we do? Try to get back to camp on foot?" Rick was younger and less experienced than the middle aged Lattimer but he felt the force of leadership coming over him. Most of it, perhaps, was fury, bringing the drive out in him--and bringing out an idea. "We'd be of small use in camp," he said, "even if we could get there. Come on--crawl!..." Rick had spied another Martian corpse, half-buried in a blanket of frozen air and frost a little way down the ditch. They reached it, and Rick ripped open the thin, rubberlike integument that had served its kind as space armor. Among its weird equipment Rick found a pouch held close to its hardened flesh. He drew out a parchment. "Should have thought of this before," he growled. "In war they carried maps--Martians and Xians alike. Now let's see. What looks important on the dark hemisphere? Something that a guy like Fane would go for. If that's the way it is...."