"Two. We came in over the Pole almost exactly at inferior conjunction. Right?" "I think I get it." Madsen answered slowly. For a moment Morley was silent. He could almost smell the dingy classroom in Port Chicago, almost see the words on the examination paper in front of him. The paragraph leaped out, limned sharply in his mind. "Section 4, Subhead A, Solar Space Code. The initial Distress Depot on any satellite shall be situated, when practical, on the Prime Meridian. For the purposes of this act, the Prime Meridian of a satellite shall be the meridian that bisects the Sun when the Satellite is in inferior conjunction. Quarter mile belts shall be burned fifty miles to the North, South, East, and West as guides. Radio beacons will operate, unless impracticable due to atmospheric conditions, or other reasons." "We're on, or practically on the Prime Meridian right now," said Madsen. "A trek due South should hit D.D. No. 1 square on the nose. Right?" "Right. Two or three hundred miles to go. We might make it in two weeks." Madsen squinted at the stationary disk of Sol, hanging in the sky. "Let's load up and get started. The sooner we're on our way, the better." Both men had discarded their space suits, were dressed in the gray work clothes of Satellites, Inc. Equipment was easily divided. Each had a blaster, and a wrist compass-chronometer. Radio was useless on Japetus, and the little headsets were ruthlessly jettisoned. The flat tins of emergency food concentrate were stowed in two knapsacks. Madsen took charge of the sextant, and Morley carried a lightweight repeating rifle for possible game that might be out of blaster range. Canteens, a pocket first-aid kit, and a small heliograph, were the final items, except for several articles which Morley unobtrusively stowed away about his person. Less than three hours after the crash, the two men shouldered their burdens, took a bearing to determine their course, and headed into the south. * * * * * In a matter of minutes Spaceboat 6 was out of sight. With Madsen leading, they threaded their way through the scant undergrowth. Underfoot the dry, broad-bladed grass rustled through a morning that had no beginning or end. Farther away were other and less easily explained rustlings, and once both men froze as a half-dozen of what looked like baby dragons arrowed past within yards of them. "Formation flying, like ducks," muttered Morley, watching from the corner of his eye.