He stopped and nudged one specimen with his toe. "What's this thing, Pop? An ancient Martian meatgrinder?" "I hardly think so. They were vegetarians." He squinted at the object. "I'm afraid I have no idea what it is. It's some sort of machine, but I'm no engineer, I can't imagine what its function was. They--don't build many machines, you know." The man with the gun turned to stare at Martin Devere. "You mean _didn't_ build, don't you?" "Yes, of course.... Past tense." And Devere turned again to peer at the million-year-old poem before him. * * * * * "Damn it to hell. This might hold us up a week." The bald man flung the shatterproof helmet of his suit against the igloo wall. His tone of voice was matter-of-fact emotionless. Even the way he threw the helmet betrayed no real emotion. Still wearing the rest of his suit he sat down at Martin Devere's work bench and clenched his fists. His face was smooth, blank. "What's the matter?" His partner put down some drawings and came over. "The modulator circuit doesn't check out. I'll have to take the whole works apart and start over again." The bald man spoke--when he did speak--with a faint accent that Martin Devere could not identify. "It doesn't matter." The other rubbed at his chin. "We're still ahead of our schedule." "Hey. Old man." The bald man pointed at Devere. "You have anything to drink in this cave of yours?" Martin Devere frowned, thinking. He remembered a bottle he'd been saving for some special occasion--he couldn't recall what, just now. "I think I have some bourbon," he said at last. "If I can find it." "Find it. Mine straight, on the rocks." When Martin Devere returned awhile later, the bald man was still wearing his helmetless space suit. He and his friend were studying a complex wiring diagram spread out on the work bench. Martin Devere put two plastic cups down on the bench and poured them full. Neither of the men looked up from their diagram until he had set the bottle down. "Pour one for yourself, Pop," the tall man said. "Thanks. Don't mind if I do." Devere went to get another cup. Over his shoulder he said, "Hope you boys don't mind crushed ice instead of cubes. I just set a bucket of water in one of the unheated tunnels for a couple minutes. Then I hit it with a hammer." It was four hours past sunset, the temperature outside was far below freezing. "One thing you don't need on Mars is a refrigerator!" Pouring himself a drink, the old man suddenly laughed. It was a brief, senile giggle, that made the tall man turn to stare at him. "Could be uncomfortable, though, if you were ever stuck out there at night." Martin Devere's face was sober once more as he lifted his cup and looked deeply into it. All trace of senility had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. "Like, say, if you were out there long enough for your suit power to go dead. You'd freeze to a hunk of ice in a few minutes.... Me, I never go outside at night."