"Gravity is .92," he announced. "That's the correct figure for Avignon--no question about it. But I can't understand that atmosphere! It doesn't belong!" He took the torch Hawthorne shoved at him and they went to work on the airlock. When they had unjammed the inner door, they found that the outer had somehow escaped injury. They crawled into the lock, an almost vertical climb with the ship tilted as it was, and closed the inner door behind them. O'Dea shoved open the outer and pushed his nose over the edge of the ship. His eyes bulged. "Gulp," he said, pointing. Hawthorne's head appeared beside O'Dea's, and the two stared at the cañon floor a thousand feet below. Their space ship was partly hanging over the edge of the mesa. "And I slept last night!" O'Dea marveled. He swiveled his head in the other direction. "Gulp!" he said again. Three Centaurs, dominant beings of the Alpha Centauri system, faced them with drawn guns. The grinning creatures were vaguely manlike--they walked on two legs and breathed oxygen. At that point the resemblance ceased, for they also breathed methane or ammonia or practically nothing at all. They also had big eyes, a dozen arms, and more fingers than a moron could count without risking a headache. O'Dea closed his eyes and moaned. "This is it, Mercedes," he said softly. "Shut up!" Hawthorne muttered. "Maybe they're an independent tribe--" He twisted his homely face into a grin and spoke in South Martian Vlandian, the _lingua franca_ of space: "_Somu amiki ... neura barc s' arik_--" "Oh how lovely!" said the largest Centaur, in English. "Such a delightful ship and what wonderful specimens of _homo sapiens_ we are find! This auspicious occurrence will aid our plans in the utmost manner!" The creature assumed an expression that passed for a friendly smile among the Centaurs. This consisted of displaying all his teeth and snapping them together as he spoke. "I am called Morguma," he announced. "In Bridgeport, Connecticut, I learn the English before comes the war--so sorry, the trouble!" He smirked apologetically. "It is with the most pleased pleasure I acquaint myself with you!" O'Dea heard Hawthorne's voice, low in his ear. "Now we're in for it! He's no independent tribesman!" The lanky spaceman shrank back from the Centaur, eyeing the gleaming molars suspiciously. He was remembering that the human race was at war with these beings, though there had been practically no fighting for ten years, since the time the Centaurs in the solar system were exchanged for human hostages held by the enemy.