And then, for the first time in many hours, his mind turned back to his fiancee, Joan Crandell. He cursed the stolid fates that had stranded him here on this god-forsaken satellite with a bunch of damn-fool mimics. In his mind he visualized Joan as he had last seen her. The golden, glory-sheen of her hair flowing softly down to her shoulders; her straight little nose and small, firm chin; her piquant expression and oh, _so_ desirable lips. And last, but certainly not least her short, trim figure. Perhaps she wasn't the Venus ideal, but to his mind at least, she was infinitely more lovable--an ancient phrase, "and what's more she's got arms," seemed to go well with that thought. For a little more he accorded himself the luxury of seeing her in his mind's eye, and then slowly, sadly, shook his head, and looked up. His eyes popped in disbelief of what he saw! His hands trembled with fearful delight, wonder and amazement. It couldn't be! It wasn't possible! _But there she stood--Joan Crandell!_ To the tiniest detail as he had seen her last! Here on this crazy moon! In an agony of bewilderment he cried out, "Joan! Joan!" He could say no more. The paralysis of surprise left his limbs and he dashed wildly forward. _"Joan!" and his arms reached out to grasp her, and twined about a hard, bony, misshapen, distorted, leathery form!_ He recoiled in abject horror. These strange creatures--an instant before new toys to amuse and astound him were transformed into terror-ridden monsters. No longer a joke--but a tragedy! Joan, or rather the illusion of Joan was there no longer. In her place stood a stupid, blinking, _thing_ that threatened his very sanity--his existence. Something snapped in his mind! He ran. Miles he ran. His powerful, earthly muscles lending magic powers to his feet. Across broken, rock-hard plains--stumbling, falling, slipping, across stretches of mountain region and through dim valleys. And night descended upon him. Unfailing, relentless, it settled leaving everything pitch dark. And they followed him. Miles behind, but never giving up, never faltering. A mad man they followed who did not run, but leaped, fifty feet into the air, and screaming at his slow rate of descent barely touched the ground before he was off on another leap, even greater than the preceding one. A dozen times he was speared upon dangerous rocks--the tough substance of his suit the only thing between him and death. And as tiny leaks formed in his suit, the insidious cold crept in slowly, surely, numbing his body until each leap was a little shorter, a little less powerful than the other. Until lost in a maze of bleak mountains he collapsed. * * * * *