"What is it?" the _Times_ asked anxiously. "He says they've slowed enough to enter the atmosphere now. They'll be here in five to ten minutes, I guess. That's Bud. He's all excited. He says holy smoke, what a murky-looking planet we live on." Nathen smiled. "Kidding." The _Times_ was puzzled. "What does he mean, murky? It can't be raining over much territory on Earth." Outside, the rain was slowing and bright blue patches of sky were shining through breaks in the cloud blanket, glittering blue light from the drops that ran down the windows. He tried to think of an explanation. "Maybe they're trying to land on Venus." The thought was ridiculous, he knew. The spaceship was following Nathen's sending beam. It couldn't miss Earth. "Bud" had to be kidding. The green light glowed on the set again, and they stopped speaking, waiting for the message to be recorded, slowed and replayed. The cathode screen came to life suddenly with a picture of the young man sitting at his sending-set, his back turned, watching a screen at one side which showed a glimpse of a huge dark plain approaching. As the ship plunged down toward it, the illusion of solidity melted into a boiling turbulence of black clouds. They expanded in an inky swirl, looked huge for an instant, and then blackness swallowed the screen. The young alien swung around to face the camera, speaking a few words as he moved, made the O of a smile again, then flipped the switch and the screen went gray. Nathen's voice was suddenly toneless and strained. "He said something like break out the drinks, here they come." "The atmosphere doesn't look like that," the _Times_ said at random, knowing he was saying something too obvious even to think about. "Not Earth's atmosphere." Some people drifted up. "What did they say?" "Entering the atmosphere, ought to be landing in five or ten minutes," Nathen told them. A ripple of heightened excitement ran through the room. Cameramen began adjusting the lens angles again, turning on the mike and checking it, turning on the floodlights. The scientists rose and stood near the window, still talking. The reporters trooped in from the hall and went to the windows to watch for the great event. The three linguists came in, trundling a large wheeled box that was the mechanical translator, supervising while it was hitched into the sound broadcasting system. "Landing where?" the _Times_ asked Nathen brutally. "Why don't you do something?" "Tell me what to do and I'll do it," Nathen said quietly, not moving. It was not sarcasm. Jacob Luke of the _Times_ looked sidewise at the strained whiteness of his face, and moderated his tone. "Can't you contact them?" "Not while they're landing." "What now?" The _Times_ took out a pack of cigarettes, remembered the rule against smoking, and put it back. "We just wait." Nathen leaned his elbow on one knee and his chin in his hand. They waited. * * * * *