It took a full twenty minutes to reach the building. It was big. Two hundred feet in diameter at the base, it sloped out of the sea of mud like a giant stemless mushroom. Carl led the party around the base to the far side where the lock-door was situated. Then he stopped. The rest of the party had caught up with him now. They stood in a restless semi-circle in front of the great doors. From behind mud-splattered face-plates, three pairs of eyes were regarding him curiously. He didn't answer their solemn stare. Instead he continued to stare at the great lock-doors. They were open. * * * * * For a full minute he stared into the darkness, then he touched the switch of his helmet lamp. The beam, seemingly thick enough to walk on, stabbed into the cave-like interior. He went in. First, he'd have to get the pumps working. Then, after the lethal gases had been pumped out, start the separator motors. Even then, the place wouldn't be livable for three weeks. He swore. Abruptly, from behind him, he became aware of three flickering beams of light. Diane and the two men were following him inside. He turned, waving his arms backward. "Stay back!" he called. "Wait till I get the lights working." He watched them stop. And then, the lights WERE working. They came on all at once, illuminating the big structure with dazzling brilliancy. From behind him, he was aware of the staccato crackle of a squawk-box being readied for use. Then, like a bass drum in a brick tunnel, a voice boomed out of the stillness: "Welcome! Welcome to Venus!" He stepped back, trying to peer over the row of packing cases. The voice had originated from the control room at the far end of the building. He flinched when something touched the sleeve of his jumper, then relaxed when he saw Diane peering at him through a mud-stained face-plate. The men had joined him, too, looking at him and shifting from one foot to the other. The squawk-box was silent now. Impulsively, Carl allowed his gloved hand to brush against the butt of the needle pistol holstered in the webbed-belt of his jumper. "The gun won't be necessary, I assure you. I'm unarmed!" The speaker stood at the far end of a corridor of wooden cases, spotlighted in the glow of an overhead lamp. He was a young man, with close-cropped sandy-blonde hair. He wore a blue spaceman's uniform--obviously salvaged from one of the cases. He remained motionless a moment, like a man waiting for the press photographers to finish, then walked slowly toward them, his bare hand extended in greeting. "I'm Raymond Edgerton," the man said. Awkwardly, Carl grasped the bare hand with the thick glove of his jumper. "I know," he said. He was suddenly at a loss for words. What DID one say at a time like this? Certainly not the time-worn Dr. Livingston cliche. Stewart Ferguson said it anyhow.