Gene's tall form suddenly went slack and his eyelids drooped heavily. "Look, Fatboy, I'm practically asleep on my feet. My next stop is home, where I won't lose any time in renewing an acquaintance with a real bed. Take care of the buggy, will you? Give it a complete overhauling and when you're done with that, put her in storage and forget about her. Yours truly is taking a long vacation from strange worlds and stuffy rocket cabins." Fatboy nodded absently and turned to enter the ship. Snapping his fingers, as if suddenly remembering something, he wheeled about and called after Gene, who was striding off across the field: "Hey, Mr. Drummond! Wait up a minute and lemme tell you what's happened here while you was gone. It'll make your hair stand straight up and do a jig!" "Sorry, Fatboy," Gene shouted back. "I'll shoot the bull with you some other time. Right now I have important business with the Sandman!" The tired explorer hurried off before Fatboy could collar him and regale him with the latest thriller of the multitude of endless, blood-curdling yarns that constantly made the rounds of a spaceport. He needed sleep, and that was what he meant to get. Pausing briefly at a mail-tube, he sent the thick envelope containing a complete report of his findings on Venus speeding on its way to Science Center, whereat the document would be given a thorough and analytical reading by the greatest minds of the system. That account would shatter the hopes of many, even his own, but it was Gene's duty to report conditions as they were, not as he wanted them to be. His job was done; Venus was the Center's baby now. Rather than wait for a tube-train, he decided to walk the distance to his apartment, which was but two or three blocks from the spaceport. As he plodded tiredly along, strange happenings gradually made themselves known to his dulled senses. Although he was about to drop, Gene stopped to watch with a tense interest the impromptu ball game taking place on the walk before him. A pint-sized batter stepped up to the plate and prepared to knock himself a home-run. The gamins ranged in the outfield hooted and leered, trying to shake the nerve of the midget Babe Ruth, but the boy stood his ground. Gesturing threateningly with the light metal bat, he spat contemptuously at a fat cockroach scurrying frantically from the field of action and grimly faced his hecklers. "Play ball!" he bawled. The pitcher took him at his word, and after executing the tedious rite of winding up, whipped the ball across the plate at no mean speed. The boy in the batter's box brought his club down fast to connect solidly with the sphere in as pretty a swing as Gene ever hoped to witness, among sandlotters at least. Gene expected to see the ball go whizzing off down the street, but the next instant his expectations were abruptly dashed, in a manner that left the biologist wide-eyed and stunned.