No one came to the planet now. Especially with the space patrol on guard ... although there were ways of slipping through. If one knew where the patrol ships would be at certain times and build up one's speed and shut off the engines, coasting on momentum in the shadow of the planet, one could get to Pluto. West was near the pyramid now and he saw that it was built of whisky bottles. All empty, very empty, their labels fresh and clear. West straightened up from staring at the bottles and advanced toward the hut. Locating the lock, he pressed the button. There was no response. He pressed it again. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the lock swung in its seat. Swiftly he stepped inside and swung over the lever that closed the outer lock, opened the inner one. Dim light oozed from the interior of the hut and through his earphones West heard the dry rustle of tiny claws whispering across the floor. Then a gurgling, like water running down a pipe. Heart in his mouth, thumb hooked close to the butt of his pistol, West stepped quickly across the threshold of the lock. A man, clad in motheaten underwear, sat on the edge of the cot. His hair was long and untrimmed, his whiskers sprouted in black ferocity. From the mat of beard two eyes stared out, like animals brought to bay in caves. A bony hand thrust out a whisky bottle in a gesture of invitation. The whiskers moved and a croak came from them. "Have a snort," it said. West shook his head. "I don't drink." "I do," the whiskers said. The hand tilted the bottle and the bottle gurgled. West glanced swiftly around the room. No radio. That made it simpler. If there had been a radio he would have had to smash it. For, he realized now, it had been a silly thing to do, stopping on this moon. No one knew where he was ... and that was the way it should have stood. West snapped his visor up. "Drinking myself to death," the whiskers told him. West stared, astounded at the utter poverty, at the absolute squalor of the place. "Three years," said the man. "Not a single sober breath in three solid years." He hiccoughed. "Getting me," he said. His left hand came up and thumped his shrunken chest. Lint flew from the ragged underwear. The right hand still clutched the bottle. "Earth years," the whiskers explained. "Three Earth years. Not Pluto years." * * * * * A thing that chattered came out of the shadows in one corner of the hut and leaped upon the bed. It hunched itself beside the man and stared leeringly at West, its mouth a slit that drooled across its face, its puckered hide a horror in the sickly light. "Meet Annabelle," said the man. He whistled at the thing and it clambered to his shoulder, cuddling against his cheek. West shivered at the sight. "Just passing through?" the man inquired. "My name is West," West told him. "Heading for Pluto." "Ask them to show you the painting," said the man. "Yes, you must see the painting." "The painting?"