DEAD
MAN'S
PLANET

Outside the ship, it wasthe sun that blazed angrily.Inside, it was SamWilson's temper. "Study yourlessons," he snarled, with a savagenessthat surprised himself,"or I'll never let you set foot onthis planet at all."

"Okay, Pop," said Mark, a littlewhite around the nostrils. Helooked old for so young a kid. "Ididn't mean anything wrong."

"I don't care what you meant.You do as you're told."

In the quiet that followed,broken only by the hum of thearithmetic-tape, Sam wonderedat himself. As kids went, Markhad never been a nuisance. CertainlyRhoda had never had anytrouble with him. But Rhodahad been altogether different.Sam was tough and he had alwaysgot a sense of satisfactionout of knowing that he was hard-boiled.Or at least that was oncetrue. Rhoda had been sweet, gentle....

He aroused himself fromthoughts of her by calling,"Mark!"

"Yes, Pop?"

His voice had been harsherthan he had intended. Over thepast few weeks he seemed graduallyto have been losing control ofit. Now, although he was goingto do his son a favor, he soundedlike a slavemaster threatening abeating. "You can shut off yourarithmetic lesson. We're goingout."

"But didn't you want me—"

"I changed my mind."

Mark seemed more troubledthan pleased, as if a father whochanged his mind so readily wasa man to be wary of.

I'm on edge all the time,thought Sam, and I'm gettinghim that way, too. I'll have to regaincontrol of myself.

He had long ago made all thenecessary tests for such possibledangers as lack of oxygenand the presence of infectious organisms.On all counts, the planethad passed muster. The sun,whiter than Sol, was almost hotenough to make him forget thechill he carried deep inside him.Almost, but not quite, especiallyas the air, though breathable,was thin and deficient in nitrogen.The countryside was bleak,inspiring in him the thought thatthere are two kinds of desolation;the one that precedes the comingof Man, and the one which heknows only too well how to createwherever he goes. The desolationhere was non-human.

"It—it's like a cemetery, ain'tit, Pop?"

Sam looked at his son sharply.Kids of ten were not supposed toknow much about cemeteries.Nor, for that matter, were kidsof six, Mark's age when the funeralhad taken place. Samhadn't let him attend, but evidentlythe incident had made adeeper impression on his mindthan Sam had realized. He wouldalways remember a cemetery asthe place where his mother lived.Perhaps he missed Rhoda almostas much as his father did.

"It's different from a cemetery,"said Sam. "There's nobodyburied here. Looks like we're thefirst human beings ever to setfoot on this place."

"Do you think we'll find animalsto catch, Pop?"

"I don't see signs of any animals."

That was part of Sam's privatefiction, that he was looking forstrange animals to be sold tozoos or circuses. Actually he wasseeking less to find anything newthan to lose something he carriedwith him, and succeeding inneither attempt.

Mark shivered in the sun. "It'skind of lonely," he said.

"More lonely than the ship?"

"It's different. It's bigger, soit's more lonely."

I'm not so sure, argued Sammentally. In the ship, we haveall of space around us, and nothing'sbigger than t