The very idea of Pluto made him ill. He had set his number twelve size feet on all the inner planets at one time or another in the disillusioning search for fortune. He had starved and thirsted, baked and bled for his dream. But he had always hated and avoided cold. He had, in fact, the look of a man born cold, and never entirely warmed. It was the most outrageous kind of irony, therefore, that fate, and the Commission of Galactic Astrography, should select him to light the Lamp. The latter, at least, was innocent of paradoxical motive. They needed a man like Smith. A man planet-wise enough to do the job, and not intelligent enough to decline it. There would be another man along, of course, to direct, but he presented no problem, for he was Professor Salvor-Jones, who had invented the Light, and insisted upon being along when it was installed. He was a dedicated man. Knucklebone Smith, however, was dedicated to something else, and it was only his pressing need for money that prodded him into acceptance of the offer. He didn't care a fig for the safety of starships. This would be a dangerous job at best, decidedly unpleasant at worst. Smith didn't mind the danger; he had seen much of it in his wanderings; but of unpleasantness he had experienced even more, and being a sybarite by nature, in spite of his hard life, he preferred real (but painless) peril. He was sure that he would be cold on Pluto. He was right. * * * * * The lamp was not really a light, of course, nor did it faintly resemble one. What it did, in fact, resemble, was a sleek space cruiser. This was wholly misleading, for though it was designed for interplanetary travel, it was to be a one-way voyage. Once in the orbit of Pluto it would nose down, smash a few feet into the crystalline surface of frozen ammonia, and remain there forever, standing on end like a lighthouse. It was at this point that it would cease to be a spaceship and become a beacon. At least that was what Professor Salvor-Jones said. The beacon was three hundred feet long, white in color, for some mysterious reason, and had cost the government of Earth something less than seventeen million dollars. It was packed with expensive robotic equipment, and was designed to be completely self-sustaining, once its controls were properly set. It did everything for passing starships that could possibly be expected of a well-reared beacon. It cheered them on the outward passage, making them feel less lonely. It greeted them, like a remote, cold Statue of Liberty upon their return, warned them of lurking meteorite storms within the vicinity of their course, and advised them of their position with relation to their destination when they contacted its sensitive radio. But most important, it warned them to steer clear of Pluto. It very nearly failed before it had begun all this show of monkish wayside hospitality, however. It would have failed if it hadn't been for Knucklebone Smith.