The astrogator peered at the huddled creature nursing the doll. He raised his gun, then swallowed hard. "Rob--I can't do it! Cold like this, I mean ... can't we take him prisoner? A hostage?" Cantrell glanced at him, then at the pitiful figure in the cave. "Don't be a damned fool!" he snapped. "If he gets away and brings reinforcements, none of us'll get off this apple alive! You lost your guts or something?" Harris scuffed his toe, looking down. "No-o.... It's just that.... Well, hell!" his gruff voice cracked. "He's so ... _helpless_!" "Helpless, my eye!" Rob Cantrell growled. "There may be thousands of these joes, closing in on us right now from that jungle! _Millions!_ All right, I'm in command," he said quietly. "Make a run for the camp. I ... I'll do it...." His buddy tossed him a grateful look, born of their long-time friendship. With another look at the silent wall of forest, he sprinted in the direction of the camp. Once he paused, wincing, as the blare of a ray-gun sounded behind him. Then Cantrell caught up with him, his eyes pained, his lips white. "Poor slob!" he muttered through clenched teeth as he ran. "Poor ugly little slob.... He kept shielding that damn doll with his body!" They burst into the clearing, where the lieutenants were already rounding up those of the ship's crew who were trained to fight. Others, the workmen and the experts, were piling into the ship for safety. The siren kept up its woman-like screaming: _Hostile natives, hostile!_ Cantrell and Harris stopped in the center of the clearing, to view the ordered shambles with sick eyes. They glanced at each other, and shrugged. "All right!" the captain's clear voice rang out. "Prepare to take off! Repeating: Prepare to take off! Abandon all equipment not vital to crew. Repeating...." The men from Terra were efficient men, quick, intelligent, and well-organized under the pilot and astrogator who commanded their expedition. In exactly 8-3 kilos, shiptime, men and machinery were loaded aboard the big silver rocket. Fire belched from her twin jets. She took the atmosphere of the planet designated as S'zetnur like a pale streak of flame. In another kilo, she was bulleting into free flight. Cantrell, the pilot, fixed her automatic on "Sol-Terra," then strolled back to the chart room, where Harris was rechecking their line of flight. He sat down on the plastine desk, lighting a cigarette. Harris took it from him, inhaled a deep drag, and handed it back. They looked at each other, smiling wryly. "Well ..." Rob Cantrell sighed. "There goes that presidential citation you were yapping about--with bonus. We'll be lucky if we keep our rating!" "Oh, it won't be that bad," Harris predicted cheerfully. "I mean, nobody could expect us to form a trade-alliance with a bunch of hot-heads like that! Graven images! Tricked-up spies!" He spat disgustedly. "And all because we wanted one shipload of lousy sola!..."