But was it real? Was there such a thing as the Prospector's Special? Would he live to see that rainbow-hued wonder, tall as a church steeple, wide as a house, more precious than goldenstone itself? Sure he would! Why, he could almost see it now.... Morrison shook himself awake. It was morning. Painfully, he crawled out of the cave to face the day. He stumbled and crawled to the south, escorted closely by wolves, shaded by predatory flying things. His fingers scrabbled along rock and sand. The traces were rich, rich! But where in all this desolation was the goldenstone? Where? He was almost past caring. He drove his sunburned, dried-out body, stopping only to fire a single shot when the wolves came too close. Four bullets left. He had to fire again when the kites, growing impatient, started diving at his head. A lucky shot tore into the flock, downing two. It gave the wolves something to fight over. Morrison crawled on blindly. And fell over the edge of a little cliff. It wasn't a serious fall, but the revolver was knocked from his hand. Before he could find it, the wolves were on him. Only their greed saved Morrison. While they fought over him, he rolled away and retrieved his revolver. Two shots scattered the pack. That left one bullet. He'd have to save that one for himself, because he was too tired to go on. He sank to his knees. The traces were rich here. Fantastically rich. Somewhere nearby.... "Well, I'll be damned," Morrison said. The little ravine into which he had fallen was solid goldenstone. * * * * * He picked up a pebble. Even in its rough state he could see the deep luminous golden glow, the fiery red and purple flecks deep in the shining stone. "Make sure," Morrison told himself. "No false alarms, no visions, no wild hopes. Make sure." He broke off a chunk of rock with the butt of his revolver. It still looked like goldenstone. He took out his testing kit and spilled a few drops of white solution on the rock. The solution foamed green. "Goldenstone, sure as sure," Morrison said, looking around at the glowing cliff walls. "Hey, I'm rich!" He took out his telephone. With trembling fingers he dialed Krandall's number. "Max!" Morrison shouted. "I've hit it! I've hit the real stuff!" "My name is not Max," a voice over the telephone said. "Huh?" "My name is Boyard," the man said. The video screen cleared, and Morrison saw a thin, sallow-faced man with a hairline mustache. "I'm sorry, Mr. Boyard," Morrison said. "I must have gotten the wrong number. I was calling--" "It doesn't matter who you were calling," Mr. Boyard said. "I am District Supervisor of the Venus Telephone Company. Your bill is two months overdue." "I can pay it now," Morrison said, grinning. "Excellent," said Mr. Boyard. "As soon as you do, your service will be resumed." The screen began to fade.