"We pick fungus," Rohan told him not joyfully. "It makes a particularly fine antibiotic when it's been treated, but meanwhile don't get it on you. It's poisonous as hell. And be sure your oxygen lines are clear. The air is full of methane." "He doesn't care," said Yann. "He's still full of the wonder of new worlds." "Jeer away," Trehearne said equably. "I am." ELEVEN Trehearne trailed out with the rest of them, almost the whole ship's company, to gather the weird harvest. The radiation-suit he wore was not too heavy in weight--it couldn't be, for men who had to do hard work--a simple coverall of flexible metallic fabric, with a phone-equipped helmet and a separate knapsack oxygen-pack that could be quickly replaced when its oxygen was worked out. The world he stood on was like something out of nightmare. Fungi higher than his head grew thickly, like a gruesome travesty of a forest, and in colors ranging from black to crimson and a yellow like spilled brains. The giant star--a sick, mad star, Trehearne thought, like all the short-period true variables--brooded in the poisonous sky, past the maximum peak of its brilliance now but still pouring out its febrile energies in a purplish glare. Trehearne grimaced, and shook his head. "This," he said, "is a planet only Weizsacker could love." Perri's voice came over the helmet phone, curiously thin but so close at hand that Trehearne started. "Who's Weizsacker?" "An Earthman with a theory. He advanced the idea that most stars have planets." Rohan said incredulously, "You mean that anyone ever doubted it?" "Oh, yes. Matter of fact, the general belief still is that Sol is unique in possessing planets, and that Sol Three, otherwise Earth, is unique in possessing life, particularly intelligent life." Rohan swore, and then he laughed. "I never heard of such conceit. I thought you said Earthmen were civilized. Only savages have that wonderful conception of their own importance."