And the mindless iceworms came, marching toward the fire, being consumed, as still others devoured the bodies of the dead and dying. Preston looked away and concentrated on the business of finding a place to land the ship. * * * * * The holocaust still raged as he leaped down from the catwalk of the ship, clutching one of the heavy mail sacks, and struggled through the melting snows to the airlock. He grinned. The airlock was open. Arms grabbed him, pulled him through. Someone opened his helmet. "Great job, Postman!" "There are two more mail sacks," Preston said. "Get men out after them." The man in charge gestured to two young colonists, who donned spacesuits and dashed through the airlock. Preston watched as they raced to the ship, climbed in, and returned a few moments later with the mail sacks. "You've got it all," Preston said. "I'm checking out. I'll get word to the Patrol to get here and clean up that mess for you." "How can we thank you?" the official-looking man asked. "No need to," Preston said casually. "I had to get that mail down here some way, didn't I?" He turned away, smiling to himself. Maybe the Chief _had_ known what he was doing when he took an experienced Patrol man and dumped him into Postal. Delivering the mail to Ganymede had been more hazardous than fighting off half a dozen space pirates. _I guess I was wrong_, Preston thought. _This is no snap job for old men._ Preoccupied, he started out through the airlock. The man in charge caught his arm. "Say, we don't even know your name! Here you are a hero, and--" "Hero?" Preston shrugged. "All I did was deliver the mail. It's all in a day's work, you know. The mail's got to get through!" THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ September 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.