closer look at some of those flowers." It was a belligerent statement, geared for more trouble. But Eileen's tone stayed almost humble: "Can I come with you?" "If you want to." Boone took the light-rod and, with no further words, led the way down to the sphere-ship's lowest level and out through another carrier-cradle. Just short of the mouth, he paused. Lowering himself carefully from the cradle-lip, he tested the ground. It had the slightly spongy feel of thick carpeting, but there was no question but that it would hold his weight. Spraying the light out in a quick arc, he checked for other dangers--of just what sort he wasn't sure--and then helped Eileen down. Already, he felt better; perhaps even a trifle chagrined at the emotions that had brought him here. But it wasn't in him to show that now. Crossing to the nearest flower-clump, he spread the petals of a half-opened bud. They were gigantic--three times the size of any he'd ever seen before. Within the corolla lay half-a-dozen concentric rings of thread-like, sharply differentiated tendrils. He frowned; spoke half to himself: "Which are the stamens?" "Or are there any?" Eileen slid a fingernail across the rippling tendrils. "Maybe this is a different kind of plant than we know--one based on six sexes instead of two." "Maybe." Still frowning, Boone picked another flower to study. Again, as earlier up in the carrier-cradle, he was acutely conscious of the blackness pressing in about them; the utter silence. It brought a queer prickling along his spine. Eileen brushed against him. "Fred, why can't we let this wait till morning? After all, what do we know about this place, or the Helgae?" There was a tremor in her voice. "The Helgae?" Stubbornly, Boone shrugged off his own mood. "If they could do anything to humans, they'd have done it when IC started operations out on Titan. As for this place--" He tilted the light-rod up to illuminate the ground ahead. Its beam stopped short a bare six feet before them, cut off as completely as by a wall. Eileen clutched his arm. "Fred--!" Boone whipped the beam left. Six feet it carried; no more. Whirling, he pointed it back in the direction from which they had come, squarely at the sphere-ship. But there was no ship; or if there was, the light-beam could not reach it. Panic gripped Boone--the black, surging panic that roars up in a tidal wave when Man stands face to face with the unknown. Dimly, he knew that Eileen had swayed against him; that instinctively he'd thrown his arm about her. That was all. Yet in spite of it, now, he forced himself into striding forward--one creaking step ... two ... three.... The light-beam shortened with each step. The truth dawned on him, then: The beam stopped short as if cut off by a wall ... because, indeed, a 

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