Hellman lay back with a contented sigh. If he had had a little more time, he would have worked out the whole thing himself, by pure logic. But it was all very apparent now. The most efficient machine to go over those vertical, razor-sharp mountains would be an animal, probably with retractable suckers. It was kept in hibernation between trips; and if it drank water, the other products designed for it would be palatable, too. Of course they still didn't know much about the late inhabitants, but undoubtedly.... "Burn down that door!" Casker shrieked, his voice breaking. Hellman was pondering the irony of it all. If one man's meat--_and_ his poison--are your poison, then try eating something else. So simple, really. But there was one thing that still bothered him. "How did you know it was an Earth-type animal?" he asked. "Its breath, stupid! It inhales and exhales and smells as if it's eaten onions!" There was a sound of cans falling and bottles shattering. "Now hurry!" "What's wrong?" Hellman asked, finally getting to his feet and poising the burner. "The Custom Super Transport. It's got me cornered behind a pile of cases. Hellman, it seems to think that I'm _its_ meat!" Broiled with the burner--well done for Hellman, medium rare for Casker--it was their meat, with enough left over for the trip back to Calao. --ROBERT SHECKLEY * * * * *