Just before sunset Brion heard clanking, and the throbbing whine of a sandcar's engine coming from the west. With each second the noise grew louder, coming their way. The tracks squeaked as the car turned around the rock spire, obviously seeking them out. A large carrier, big as a truck. It stopped before them in a cloud of its own dust and the driver kicked the door open. "Get in here--and fast!" the man shouted. "You're letting in all the heat." He gunned the engine, ready to kick in the gears, looking at them irritatedly. Ignoring the driver's nervous instructions, Brion carefully placed Lea on the rear seat before he pulled the door shut. The car surged forward instantly, a blast of icy air pouring from the air-cooling vents. It wasn't cold in the vehicle--but the temperature was at least forty degrees lower than the outer air. Brion covered Lea with all their extra clothing to prevent any further shock to her system. The driver, hunched over the wheel and driving with an intense speed, hadn't said a word to them since they had entered. Brion looked up as another man stepped from the engine compartment in the rear of the car. He was thin, harried looking. Pointing a gun. "Who are you," he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice. It was a strange reception, but Brion was beginning to realize that Dis was a strange planet. He sat, relaxed and unmoving, keeping his voice pitched low. The other man chewed at his lip nervously and Brion didn't want to startle him into pulling the trigger. "My name is Brandd. We landed from space two nights ago and have been walking in the desert ever since. Now don't get excited and shoot the gun when I tell you this--but both Vion and Ihjel are dead." The man with the gun gasped, his eyes widened. The driver threw a single frightened look over his shoulder then turned quickly back to the wheel. Brion's probe had hit its mark. If these men weren't from the Cultural Relationships Foundation, they at least knew a lot about it. It seemed safe to assume they were C.R.F. men. "When they were shot the girl and I escaped. We were trying to reach the city and contact you. You are from the Foundation, aren't you?" "Yes. Of course," the man said, lowering the gun. He stared glassy-eyed into space for a moment, nervously working his teeth against his lip. Startled at his own inattention he raised the gun again. "If you're Brandd, there's something I want to know." Rummaging in his breast pocket with his free hand he brought out a yellow message form. He moved his lips as he reread the message. "Now answer me--if you can--what are the last three events in the"--he took a quick look at the paper again--"in the Twenties?" "Chess finals, rifle prone position and fencing playoffs. Why?"