Ross dragged himself, bruised, from the floor. He had to agree. It was nice. The landing field, rimmed by gracious, light buildings (with the cooling fins), was dotted with great, silvery ships. They didn’t, Ross thought with a twinge of irritation, seem to be space vessels, though; leave it to Helena to get them down at some local airport! Still—the ships also, he noticed, were liberally studded with the fins. He peered at them with puzzlement and a rising sense of excitement. Certainly they had a function, and that function could only be some sort of energy receptor. Could it be—dared he imagine that it was the long-dreamed-of cosmic energy tap? What a bonus that would be to bring back with him! And what other marvels might this polished technology have to give them.... Bernie distracted him. He said, “Hey, Ross. Here comes somebody.” But even Bernie’s tone was awed. A magnificent vehicle was crawling toward them across the field. It was long, low, bullet-shaped—and with cooling fins. Multiple plates of silvery metal contrasted with a glossy black finish. All about its periphery was a lacy pattern of intricate crumples and crinkles of metal, as though its skirts had been crushed and rumpled. Ross sighed and marveled: What a production problem these people had solved, stamping those forms out between dies. Then he saw the faces of the passengers. He drew in his breath sharply. Godlike. Two men whose brows were cliffs of alabaster, whose chins were strong with the firmness of steady, flamelike wisdom. Two women whose calm, lovely features made the heart within him melt and course. The vehicle stopped ten yards from the open spacelock of the ship. From its tip gushed upward a ten-foot fountain of sparks that flashed the gamut of the rainbow. Simultaneously one of the godlike passengers touched the wheel, and there was a sweet, piercing, imperative summons like a hundred strings and brasses in unison. Helena whispered, “They want us to come out. Ross—Ross—I can’t face _them_!” She buried her face in her hands. “Steady,” he said gravely. “They’re only human.” Ross gripped that belief tightly; he hardly dared permit himself to think, even for a second, that perhaps these people were no longer merely human. Hoarsely he said, “We need their help. Maybe we should send Doc Jones out first. He’s the oldest of us, and he’s the only one you could call a scientist; he can talk to them. Where is he?” A raucous Jones voice bellowed through the domed control room: “Who wansh ol’ doc, hargh? Who wansh goo’ ol’ doc?” Good old doc staggered into the room, obviously loaded to the gills by a very enjoyable backslide. He began to sing: “In A. J. seven thirty-two a Jones from Jones’s Valley, He wandered into Jones’s Town to hold a Jonesist Rally. He shocked the gents and ladies both; his talk was most disturbing; He spoke of seven-sided doors and purple-colored curbing——”