"Yes," Disbro was commenting. "Oxygen--nice article of that, and plenty. Nitrogen, too. Just like Earth. Quite a bit of carbon dioxide. It'll be from all that vegetation. Certified breathable. Go on and unship that plate." Planter did so. He loosed the last net, and pushed against the plate. It stirred easily--the after part of the ship would still be in the open. Disbro, climbing after him, caught his elbow. "I go out first," he announced. "They marked me down as senior of the expedition. One side." Planter stared quizzically, and once again did as Disbro told him. The lean man thrust up the plate like a trapdoor, and crept out. "At last!" he yelled back. "Men on Venus! Come on, Planter!" Planter called back to Max, who was bringing up a bundle of articles Disbro had chosen for the venture outside--two repeating rifles, two pistols, several tools, and tins of food, coils of rope. Planter helped him with the load, and they got outside with it. Disbro had slid down the step bulge of the hull. He clung to a grab-iron, his feet just above the gray muck into which they had plunged. He stared up. "First man to set foot on Venus," he was saying. "Who was second of you two?" "We didn't stop to bother," Planter replied. "What now?" He stared around, to answer his own question. Venus was dull, like a very cloudy day at home. The air was moist, but fresh, and little wreaths and veils of mist kept one from seeing far. But he made out that they had found lodgment in a sterile-looking clearing with a muddy floor that might or might not sustain a man's weight. All around was a crowded wall of vegetation--towering high above the range of his vision into upper fog, tight grown as a hedge, and vigorously fat of twig and leaf. Planter, no botanist, yet was aware at once of strangeness beyond his power to describe. He knew that specimens should be gathered and preserved to take home. To take home? Home to Earth? But the ship was almost buried in this mud. He remembered Disbro's dry comment--"Our little gray home in the west." They were on Venus. Undoubtedly to stay. Max, beside him, gave a sort of gurgling bellow of surprise and fear. "Uhhh! Something's got Mr. Disbro!" * * * * * For once, Max was being articulate. For once, Disbro was being silent. Glancing down, Planter saw the slender, elegant figure writhed close against the metal hull, clutching with both hands the grab-iron. Disbro stared groundwards, and what could be seen of his face was as white as a wood-boring grub. One of his legs was drawn up, knee bracing upon the plates, the other stretched out grotesquely, as if to point a toe at something in the muck. It took a second staring study to realize that a whiplike strand of something that gleamed and tightened was snapped around Disbro's ankle.