’This is Ihjel. Retinal pattern 490-Bj4-67-which is also the code that is supposed to get me through your blockade. Do you want to check that pattern?”

“There will be no need, thank you. If you will turn on your recorder I have a message relayed to you from Prime-four.”

“Recording and out,” Ihjel said. “Damn! Trouble already, and four days to blow-up. Prime-four is our headquarters on Dis. This ship carries a cover cargo so we can land at the spaceport. This is probably a change of plan and I don’t like the smell of it.”

There was something behind Ihjel’s grumbling this time, and without conscious effort Brion could sense the chilling touch of the other man’s angst. Trouble was waiting for them on the planet below. When the message was typed by the decoder Ihjel hovered over it, reading each word as it appeared on the paper. When it was finished he only snorted and went below to the galley. Brion pulled the message out of the machine and read it.

Dropping into the darkness was safe enough. It was done on instruments, and the Disans were thought to have no detection apparatus. The altimeter dials spun backwards to zero and a soft vibration was the only indication they had landed. All of the cabin lights were off except for the fluorescent glow of the instruments. A white-speckled grey filled the infra-red screen, radiation from the still warm sand and stone. There were no moving blips on it, not the characteristic shape of a shielded atomic generator.