Then a moment later Admiral Ferguson called into his mike, "Cease fire, but stand by on careful watch. _Orion_ and _Athenia_, send your specialists down in gigs. I'll meet you there." The landing successfully completed without further activity from the enemy, Ferguson, a number of designated officer-specialists, Newton and Hanlon, some technicians, and a company of marines in full armor, disembarked and marched to the safest part of the ruined, still-burning spaceyard. Careful examination of the ships there was ordered. The officer-technies, who swarmed aboard the enemy ships, soon began reporting one after another, that none of these partially-built vessels seemed damaged beyond repair. "Thank heavens they built what few ground-batteries they had well outside the field," Ferguson said to Newton and Hanlon. "We'll get crews in here at once, and complete these ships." George Hanlon, after his first quick looks about at the damage done, had been sending his mind out and out, trying to get into telepathic communication with any of the natives, but had not had any success. Had they all been killed? Those here at the shipyard, probably yes, he had to admit sadly. The terrific heat would have burned them. But what about the others? Why couldn't he contact them? "Excuse me, sir," he addressed the High Admiral. "What about the mines and factories?" "All under control without any trouble, outside of a few individual casualties. Light cruisers and scouts took care of those while the main battle was on." "I'd like a small cruiser to take me to the mine where I worked," he said, and one was ordered to come down and place itself on special assignment at his disposal. "Want to come with me, Dad?" he asked. The two admirals exchanged glances, and Ferguson nodded. "Go ahead if you want to. We won't need you here for now." In the airlock of the cruiser Hanlon removed the disguising makeup, and it was as his Algonian-known self, dressed in civvies he had brought for that purpose, that he descended at the familiar little spaceport. His father was intensely interested in that fantastic, seemingly-alive jungle through which they walked to the mine clearing. "I've never seen anything like this," he commented in amazement. "Are these trees and bushes conscious, too?" "Very slightly," his son told him. "The Guddus call them their 'little cousins,' and I believe can communicate to some extent, but I never could." As they broke from the jungle's fringe, they saw a double-squad of marines on guard. The two were allowed through the lines, and entered the office. Behind his desk, his face dead white from suspense, sat Peter Philander, and about the room sprawled the engineers, guards and other workers. "Hi, Mr. Philander!" Hanlon called cheerfully, and at sound of that remembered voice, the superintendent's head, as well as those of all the others, snapped up. "You!" There was incredulity in the super's voice and manner.