"Very interesting, Malcolm! But wholly impractical and completely absurd. We will remain here. And now--" He glanced at the high-riding sun. "And now I think we should eat before setting up our camp. Tommy, Hannigan--bring the electro-stove from the skiff. 'Tina, prepare lunch. We'll pursue a more intelligent discussion of our situation on full stomachs. Malcolm, bring cases from the skiff. We'll build a rough table out here in the open." He scowled impatiently, authoritatively about the strangely silent group. IV At that moment Gregory Malcolm realized what he must do. It was not a pleasant realization. Greg Malcolm was an easy-going, a peaceful, a placid man. The secretarial type. Sparks had called him a--what was it?--a "stuffed shirt." Never, save in rare moments of dreamful imagining, had Greg ventured to impress his opinions, his will, upon the desires of fellow men. But he, of all those now surrounding him, seemed to understand, fully and completely, the crisis which now faced their refugee group. And he--it was made apparent to him by the pompousness of Foster Andrews, by the mulish petulance of Bert Andrews, by the aloof hauteur of Crystal and Mrs. Andrews, by the suicidal "orders" just given by Ralph Breadon--he alone was, in this moment of need, capable of deciding the destinies of the Earth-exiles. J. Foster Andrews had the acumen and common-sense to lead them--but he had not the requisite knowledge. Breadon had the training, the space-experience--but he lacked solid horse-sense, and his decisions were too strongly flavored by his own savor of self-importance. Yet if they, ten humans, were to exist for a week ... a month ... a year ... until help reached them, someone must command. And he, Gregory Malcolm, was the only one capable of taking into his hands the reins of rulership. It was a knowledge at once heady, intoxicating and frightening. But--there it was! It had to be faced. And Greg moved, grimly but methodically, to the accomplishment of that which he deemed necessary. He halted the radioman with a gesture. "Wait a minute, Sparks! Tommy, wait! 'Tina!" And he faced Breadon firmly. "We are not going to do that, Mr. Breadon," he said. "It would not be wise. We are not going to do it." Breadon's brown features darkened with swift anger. "What? What's this?" And J. Foster Andrews waddled forward, puffing irate astonishment. "Here, here, Malcolm! What do you mean? This is--hrrumph!--blasted impertinence, sir! Insubordination!" Malcolm held his ground, his pale cheeks oddly flushed. "We are not going to do these things," he repeated slowly, definitely. "Breadon--" It did not occur to him that unconsciously he had abandoned the respectful, formal "Mr." which heretofore he had never ommitted. "Breadon, your orders clearly indicate that you have not in any way grasped the full implications of our plight.