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own ship in to join P-Two. Tactically this was not a good

move, he said, but on this occasion tactics and common sense seemed

to be at variance, and in any case they could pull out quickly if it

became necessary.
     
     
"And go home?" asked McCullough.
     
     
"I don't know, Doctor. There are other considerations."
     
     
As the period of high drama, the first and unfortunately violent contact

with the aliens passed, the colonel began to worry over the possibility

that Prometheus Control had not faded out the networks during the incident

with Walters and the alien. Aware suddenly of a possible audience, they

became laconic to the point of sounding ridiculous. Stiffly, the colonel

wished Walters good luck. Walters said, "Thanks." Berryman suggested

McCullough should make a sketch of the alien from memory while they were

waiting on Drew. Morrison said it was a good idea, just in case. Nobody

asked in case of what.
     
     
During the twenty minutes or so it took for Drew to reach them -- in

subjective time it felt more like ten years -- McCullough sketched the

alien and made a map of the vicinity of their lock chamber. While doing

so he discovered a leak in one of the pipe joints. Probably the repeated

opening and closing of the seal had put an unfair strain on the hydraulic

system -- the joint was sweating and droplets of a clear brownish liquid

hung around it, steaming faintly.
     
     
McCullough hoped nothing calamitous would happen when the chamber was

evacuated.
     
     
Drew arrived, checked by radio on the operation of the lock, then waited

while McCullough opened the inner seal and entered the corridor with Walters.

As the air rushed out of the chamber and Drew swam in, a fogginess appeared

around the leaking joint, but nothing else seemed to be happening.
     
     
There were no aliens visible in the lighted section of corridor.
     
     
"If one of them comes at us," McCullough told Walters, "I'll hang onto

the net and kick at it with both feet. You concentrate on holding that

patch in position."
     
     
He was beginning to feel that the pilot's trouble had been his own rather

than Walters' fault.
     
     
The leak in the lock's hydraulic system was bothering him. It was almost

certainly a recent malfunction. There was a strong probability that it had

occurred because the seal actuator mechanism had been recently overstressed.

McCullough had forgotten how many times exactly they had opened and closed

the thing, something like seventeen or eighteen times in as many minutes,

while the chances were that normal usage was in the order of twice a day.
     
     
He was assuming, of course, that these were not omnipotent aliens and

that their ship might occasionally develop mechanical faults. Such

failures would show in their control center and a member of the crew

might be sent to check on it, or perhaps to deal with the real cause of

the trouble -- the human invaders. McCullough was coming to realize that

their actions, which had been meant simply to advertise their presence

on board, could just as well be construed as criminally irresponsible

or wantonly destructive. In these circumstances a certain amount of

hostility on the part of the aliens would be understandable.
     
     
People who leaned over backward, McCullough thought grimly, frequently

fell flat on their face . . .
     
     
"Walters. Doctor." Drew's voice came suddenly. "The colonel sent you a

weapon of sorts. To be used only in self-defense, he says. Grip it in

the middle and stab with it like a spear."
     
     
McCullough looked up and down the still empty corridor, then into the

chamber. He said, "It's just a length of pipe."
     
     
"A blunt bayonet makes a worse mess than a sharp one," Drew said

cheerfully, "and a length of one-inch pipe is about as blunt as a

weapon can get. Just take time to aim and jab hard -- I guarantee it

will discourage any man or beastie not wearing a suit of armor. I'm

leaving now. Good luck . .