But the nearest held his ground. His wide mouth was clamped tight; his eyes were wary - but he did not move.

Henry, paused, hesitated, and then held out his hand, 'Hiya, Phib!'

The 'Phib' stared at the outstretched hand. Very cautiously, his own webbed forelimb stretched out and touched the Tweenie's fingers. With a jerk, they were drawn back, and the Phib's mouth worked in soundless excitement.

'Be careful,' came Max's voice from behind. 'You'll scare him that way. His skin is terribly sensitive and dry objects must irritate him. Dip your hand in the water.'

Slowly, Henry obeyed. The Phib's muscles tensed to escape at the slighest sudden motion, but none came. Again the Tweenie's hand was held out, dripping wet this time.

For a long minute, nothing happened, as the Phib seemed to debate within itself the future course of action. And then, after two false starts and hasty withdrawals, fingers touched again.

'Ataphib,' said Henry, and clasped the green hand in bis own.

A single, startled jerk followed and then a lusty return of pressure to an extent that numbed the Tweenie's fingers. Evidently encouraged by the first Phib's example, his fellows were crowding close now, offering hosts of hands.

The other three Tweenies slushed up through the mud now, and offered wetted hands in their turn.

'That's funny,' said Irene. 'Everytime I shake hands I seem to keep thinking of hair.'

Max turned to her, 'Hair?'

'Yes, ours. I get a picture of long, white hair, standing straight up and shining in the sun.' Her hand rose unconsciously to her own smooth tresses.

'Say!' interrupted Henry suddenly, 'I've been noticing that, too, now that you mention it. Only when I shake hands, though.'

'How about you, Arthur?' asked Max.

Arthur nodded once, his eyebrows climbing.

Max smiled and pounded fist into palm. 'Why, it's a primitive sort of telepathy - too weak to work without physical contact and even then capable of delivering only a few simple ideas.'

'But why hair, dad?' asked Arthur.

'Maybe it's our hair that attracted them in the first place. They've never seen anything like it and - and - well, who can explain their psychology?'

He was down on his knees suddenly, splashing water over his high crest of hair. There was a frothing of water and a surging of green bodies as the Phibs pressed closer. One green paw passed gently through the stiff white crest, followed by excited, if noiseless, chattering. Struggling among themselves for favored vantage-points, they competed for the privilege of touching the hair until Max, for sheer weariness, was forced to rise again.

'They're probably our friends for life now,' he said. 'A pretty queer set of animals.'

It was Irene, then, who noticed the group of Phibs a hundred yards from shore. They paddled quietly, making no effort to approach closer. 'Why don't they come?' she asked.

She turned to one of the foremost Phibs and pointed, making frantic gestures of dubious meaning. She received only solemn stares in return.

'That's not the way, Irene,' admonished Max, gently. He held out his hand, grasped that of a willing Phib and stood motionless for a moment. When he loosed his grip, the Phib slid into the water and disappeared. In a moment, the laggard Phibs were approaching shore slowly.

'How did you do it?' gasped Irene.

'Telepathy! I held on tightly and pictured an isolated group of Phibs and a long hand stretching out over the water to shake theirs.' He smiled gently, 'They are quite intelligent, or they would not have understood so readily.'

'Why, they're females,' cried Arthur, in sudden breathless astonishment. 'By all that's holy - they suckle their young!'

The newcomers were slenderer and lighter in color than the others. They advanced shyly, urged on by the bolder males and held out timid hands in greeting.

'Oh-h,' Irene cried in sudden delight. 'Look at this!'

She was down on her knees in the mud, arms outstretched to the nearest female. The other three watched in fascinated silence as the nervous she-Phib clasped its tiny armful closer to its breast.

But Irene's arms made little inviting gestures, 'Please, please. It's so cute. I won't hurt him.'

Whether the Phib mother understood is doubtful, but with a sudden motion, she held out a little green bundle of squirming life and deposited it in the waiting arms.

Irene rose, squealing with delight. Little webbed feet kicked aimlessly and round frightened eyes stared at her. The other three crowded close and watched it curiously.

'It's the dearest little thing, it is. Look at its funny little mouth. Do you want to hold it, Henry?'

Henry jumped backwards as if stung, 'Not on your life! I'd probably drop it.'

'Do you get any thought images, Irene?' asked Max, thoughtfully.

Irene considered and frowned her concentration, 'No-o. It's too young, mayb - oh, yes! It's - it's -' She stopped, and tried to laugh. 'It's hungry!'

She returned the little baby Phib to its mother, whose mouth worked in transports of joy and whose muscular arms clasped the little mite close. The tiny Phib swiveled its little green head to bend one last goggling look at the creature that had held it for an instant.

'Friendly creatures,' said Max, 'and intelligent. They can keep their lakes and rivers. We'll take the land and won't interfere with them.'

A lone Tweenie stood on Scanlon Ridge and his field-glass pointed at the Divide ten miles up the hills. For five minutes, the glass did not waver and the Tweenie stood like some watchful statue made of the same rock as formed the mountains all about.

And then the field-glass lowered, and the Tweenie's face was a pale thin-lipped picture of gloom. He hastened down the slope to the guarded, hidden entrance to Venustown.

He shot past the guards without a word and descended into the lower levels where solid rock was still being puffed into nothingness and shaped at will by controlled blasts of super-energy.

Arthur Scanlon looked up and with a sudden premonition of disaster, gestured the Disintegrators to a halt.

'What's wrong, Sorrell?'

The Tweenie leant over and whispered a single word into Arthur's ear.

'Where?'Arthur's voice jerked out hoarsely.

'On the other side of the ridge. They're coming through the Divide now in our direction. I spotted the blaze of sun on metal and -' he held up his field-glass significantly.

'Good Lord!' Arthur rubbed his forehead distractedly and then turned to the anxiously-watching Tweenie at the controls of the Disinto. 'Continue as planned! No change!'

He hurried up the levels to the entrance, and snapped out hurried orders, 'Triple the guard immediately. No one but me or those with me, are to be permitted to leave. Send out men to round up any stragglers outside immediately and order them to keep within shelter and make so unnecessary sound.'

Then, back again through the central avenue to his father's quarters.

Max Scanlon looked up from his calculations and his grave forehead smoothed out slowly.

'Hello, son. Is anything wrong? Another resistant stratum?'

'No, nothing like that.' Arthur closed the door carefully and lowered his voice. 'Earthmen!'

For a moment, Max made no movement. The expression on his face froze for an instant, and then, with a sudden exhalation, he slumped in his chair and the lines in his forehead deepened wearily.

'Settlers?'

'Looks so. Sorrell said women and children were among them. There were several hundred in all, equipped for a stay -and headed in this direction.'

Max groaned, 'Oh, the luck, the luck! All the vast empty spaces of Venus to choose and they come here. Come, let's get a firsthand look at this.'

They came through the Divide in a long, snaky line. Hardbitten pioneers with their pinched work-worn women and their carefree, half-barbarous, wilderness-bred children. The low, broad 'Venus Vans' joggled clumsily over the untrodden ways, loaded down with amorphous masses of household necessities.