thermometer strapped to the wrist of his oxygen suit. The needle registered 10 above, Centigrade. Warm enough, but the suits were necessary, for the air was far too thin for human consumption. Deep shadow lay at the base of the building and as he neared it, Scott made out something that gleamed whitely in the shadow. Something that struck a chord of remembrance in his brain, something he had seen back on Earth. As he hurried forward he saw it was a cross. A white cross thrust into the sand. With a cry he broke into a run. Before the cross he dropped to his knees and read the crudely carved inscription on the wood. Just two words. The name of a man, carven with a jack-knife: HARRY DECKER Harry Decker! Scott felt his brain swimming crazily. Harry Decker here! Harry Decker under the red sand of Mars! But that couldn't be. Harry Decker's name couldn't be here. It was back on Earth, graven on that scroll of bronze. Graven there directly beneath the name of Hugh Nixon. He staggered to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. From somewhere far away he heard a shout and swinging around, ran toward the corner of the building. Rounding it, he stopped in amazement. There, in the shelter of the building, lay a rusted space ship and running across the sand toward him was a space-suited figure, a figure that yelled as it ran and carried a bag over its shoulder, the bag bouncing at every leap. "Hugh!" yelled Scott. And the grotesque figure bellowed back. "Scott, you old devil! I knew you'd do it! I knew it was you the minute I heard the rocket blasts!" "It's nice and warm here now," said Hugh, "but you'd ought to spend a winter here. An Arctic blizzard is a gentle breeze compared with the Martian pole in winter time. You don't see the Sun for almost ten months and the mercury goes down to 100 below, Centigrade. Hoar frost piles up three and four feet thick and a man can't stir out of the ship." He gestured at the bag. "I was getting ready for another winter. Just like a squirrel. My supplies got low
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