Logically, he knew they were right. That helped him get his emotions
under control. "Where do you want me to put down?"

"Tycho. It isn't hard to spot for radar-controlled delivery of
supplies to you, but it's a good seven hundred miles from Lunar Base.
And look--we'll try to get a doctor to you. But keep us informed if
anything slips. We need those maps, if we can find a way to sterilize
'em."

"Okay," he acknowledged. "And tell the cartographers there are no
craters, no intelligence, and only plants about half an inch high. Mars
stinks."

They'd already been busy, he saw, as he teetered down on his jets for a
landing on Tycho. Holding control was the hardest job he'd ever done.
A series of itchings cropped out just as the work got tricky, when he
could no longer see the surface, and had to go by feel. But somehow he
made it. Then he relaxed and began an orgy of scratching.

And he'd thought there was something romantic about being a hero!

The supplies that had already been sent up by the superfast unmanned
missiles would give him something to do, at least. He moved back the
two feet needed to reach his developing tanks and went through the
process of spraying and gargling. It was soothing enough while it went
on, but it offered only momentary help.

Then his stomach began showing distress signs. He fought against it,
tightening up. It did no good. His hasty breakfast of just black coffee
wanted to come up--and did, giving him barely time to make the little
booth.

He washed his mouth out and grabbed for the radar key, banging out a
report on this. The doctors must have been standing by down at the big
station, because there was only a slight delay before the answering
signal came: "Any blood?"

Another knot added itself to his intestines. "I don't know--don't think
so, but I didn't look."

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