"No, you ape--I was just hoping the same about you. How about some light?" Hawthorne fumbled around, found a battery-operated light that had survived the crash. He hobbled to where O'Dea was half buried in a heap of furniture and extricated him. The two of them rubbed their sore spots and looked glumly about. "Centauri Six," Hawthorne mused. "You have the book l'arnin'. What's this planet like?" O'Dea pressed fingers to his temples. "Not inhabited by Centaurs," he said. "Which is one small break. At least we won't have those monsters--" "I asked about the planet." "If any Centaurs show up," said O'Dea shortly, "it'll make no difference about the planet. The Space Guide gives it the name Avignon. Hardly known by humans, of course--like the rest of this system. It has no water and no air. We'll die of thirst or suffocation here, but at least the Centaurs won't get us." Hawthorne looked up from the aneroid set beside the airlock. "As usual," he said, "you're wrong. We have an atmospheric pressure of ten pounds. And what's more, the instruments show it's a real atmosphere--like Earth's!" "There's no such planet! Your instruments must be damaged!" "No." Hawthorne shook his head. "These instruments don't lie. And they say we have an atmosphere. It may be thicker in the valleys!" "Then," O'Dea insisted, "the Space Guide must be wrong, because my memory distinctly tells me--" "Be damned to your memory! I brought this ship down, and I felt the atmosphere. What's more, all the planets inside the asteroid belt, except this one, are inhabited by Centaurs--and we're certainly inside the asteroid belt." "You should know." O'Dea glared at him. "After letting that asteroid smash through our fuel tanks--" "You make me tired," Hawthorne yawned. "We're getting on each other's nerves. Better get some sleep and cool off." He cleared a place on the floor and relaxed. While O'Dea watched, fists knotted, the burly pilot started to snore. O'Dea grinned suddenly and turned away. He stared thoughtfully out the port. It was dark. A feeble, distant sun was falling below a rugged horizon; and in the sky above he picked out ruddy Proxima. But there should be a "real" sun due to rise soon. Nice thing about Centauri--there were enough suns to suit anybody. His eyes fell on the wad of bills Hawthorne had thrown at him. He retrieved it happily, also finding the photograph. He gazed fondly at the deep dark eyes and rich lips of the girl, kissed the picture happily. "Good night, Mercedes," he said. "We'll show him in the morning." * * * * * Brilliant sunlight flooded the cabin when they awoke. At this distance, the sun seemed somewhat smaller than Sol as seen from Earth, but it was brilliant and warm. They ate a fast concentrated breakfast and studied the airlock. Hawthorne voiced his verdict: "We can repair it in a few hours. Get the tools out." O'Dea was looking at the gravity indicator.