The bugs had started the game and Meek craned forward cautiously, watching eagerly, stylus poised above the notebook. Crawling clumsily, the tiny insect-like creatures moved about, solemnly popping in and out of holes. If there were opposing sides ... and if it were a game, there'd have to be ... they didn't seem to alternate the moves. Although, Meek admitted, certain rules and conditions which he had failed to note or recognize, might determine the number and order of moves allowed each side. Suddenly there was confusion on the board. For a moment a half-dozen of the bugs raced madly about, as if seeking the proper hole to occupy. Then, as suddenly, all movement had ceased. And in another moment, they were on the move again, orderly again, but retracing their movements, going back several plays beyond the point of confusion. Just as one would do when one made a mistake working a mathematical problem ... going back to the point of error and going on again from there. "Well, I'll be...." Mr. Meek said. Meek stiffened and the stylus floated out of his hand, settled softly on the rock below. A mathematical problem! His breath gurgled in his throat. He knew it now! He should have known it all the time. But the mechanic had talked about the bugs playing games and so had Hamilton. That had thrown him off. Games! Those bugs weren't playing any game. They were solving mathematical equations! Meek leaned forward to watch, forgetting where he was. One of the stilts slipped out of position and Meek felt himself start to fall. He dropped the notebook and frantically clawed at empty space. The other stilt went, then, and Meek found himself floating slowly downward, gravity weak but inexorable. His struggle to retain his balance had flung him forward, away from the face of the rock and he was falling directly over the board on which the bugs were arrayed. He pawed and kicked at space, but still floated down, course unchanged. He struck and bounced, struck and bounced again. On the fourth bounce he managed to hook his fingers around a tiny projection of the surface. Fighting desperately, he regained his feet. Something scurried across the face of his helmet and he lifted his hand before him. It was covered with the bugs. Fumbling desperately, he snapped on the rocket motor of his suit, shot out into space, heading for the rock where the lights from the ports of Hamilton's shack blinked with the weaving of the rock. Oliver Meek shut his eyes and groaned. "Gus will give me hell for this," he told himself. * * * * * Gus shook the small wooden box thoughtfully, listening to the frantic scurrying within it. "By rights," he declared, judiciously, "I should take this over and dump it in Bud's ship. Get even with him for swiping my injector." "But you got the injector back," Meek pointed out.