Southard signalled to his units, and they muttered slowly into silence, and then the silence hung over them all like a heavy thing, and Captain Nicholas Joel knew that what happened next was up to him. With a motion of one gauntleted hand he brought Dobermann and Carruthers in next to him, and then the three of them walked with a disciplined haste to the sandy lip, past Southard, and looked down. A pitted forehull jutted up out of the moist sand two hundred feet below them, its plates glittering darkly in the rays of the powerful illumination units which had already been lowered. Dobermann's quick eyes took in each detail in seconds, and then they darted up to Joel's face. Carruthers was silent, and his face was white. "All right, let's get some winch-lifts over here!" Joel bellowed. "Torches, can-openers, let's get with it!" And within minutes, Joel was on his way down in a bucket, big boots planted solidly on a small mountain of heavy tools. Dobermann was following, and Carruthers was in the third bucket. Joel's bare hands were exploring the gnurled lip of the forehull lock-hatch before either of them hit bottom. Dobermann was first up beside him, a heavy torch cradled in his short, thick arms. "Ready?" "Won't need that thing," Joel grunted. "Nobody locked up when they left. Give me a hand." The hatch, like the rest of the hull, was pitted, but despite the moistness of the sand in which the ship was imbedded, there were no indications of corrosion. Joel made a mental note to have the lubricants in which the hinge-gymbals were packed analyzed later; they were still as good as new; the hatch was giving almost easily. Carruthers, with an arc lantern, lit their way inside. They walked into what was obviously a pilots' compartment. Instruments, control panels, ack-seats, notations on metal-leaf note-pads which they did not understand; Dobermann copied them. They descended ladder-walks into the fore-waist; crew compartment. Functional, compact, reflecting the same efficient engineering which they had encountered in the previous compartment. Through a second bulkhead opening; supply compartment. Through another; cargo hold. It was not empty, and loading gear was in evidence, although neatly stowed in its locks. "Mneurium-4," Carruthers said. The words made a hollow sound in the emptiness behind them. They kept going. Armory. All units still in place. Engine room. Dobermann's counter ticked slowly in the stillness. Still a little kick left in the piles. Machine-shop; lab. Spotless, perfect order. Finally, tubes. The smooth metal gleamed in the light of Carruthers' lamp. And that was all. Joel turned wordlessly and started back up the ladder-walks. Dobermann and Carruthers clanged hollowly after him, scrambling to keep up. Joel didn't stop until he had climbed back into one of the buckets, and then he waved impatiently. Machinery whined above him, and his bucket swung clear. At the lip, he motioned for Southard.