Babble grunted, “So she also takes a vasoconstrictor.”

“That’s this little white tablet,” Betty Jo said, showing him the part of the bottle in which the white tablets dwelt. “It’s methamphetamine. Now, this green capsule is—”

“One day,” Babble said, “your pills are going to hatch, and some strange birds are going to emerge.”

“What an odd thing to say,” Betty Jo said.

“I meant they look like colored birds’ eggs.”

“Yes, I realize that. But it’s still a strange thing to say.” Removing the lid from the bottle she poured out a variety of pills into the palm of her hand. “This red cap—that’s of course pentabarbital, for sleeping. And then this yellow one, it’s norpramin, which counterbalances the C.N.S. depressive effect of the mellaril. Now, this square orange tab, it’s new. It has five layers on it which time-release on the so-called ‘trickle principle.’ A very effective C.N.S. stimulant. Then a—”

“She takes a central nervous system depressor,” Babble broke in, “and also a C.N.S. stimulant.”

Ben said, “Wouldn’t they cancel each other out?”

“One might say so, yes,” Babble said.

“But they don’t,” Betty Jo said. “I mean subjectively I can feel the difference. I know they’re helping me.”

“She reads the literature on them all,” Babble said. “She brought a copy of the P.D.R. with her—Physicians’ Desk Reference—with lists of side effects, contraindications, dosage, when indicated and so forth. She knows as much about her pills as I do. In fact, as much as the manufacturers know. If you show her a pill, any pill, she can tell you what it is, what it does, what—” He belched, drew himself up higher in his chair, laughed, and then said, “I remember a pill that had as side effects—if you took an overdose—convulsions, coma and then death. And in the literature, right after it told about the convulsions, coma and death, it said, May Be Habit Forming. Which always struck me as an anticlimax.” Again he laughed, and then pried at his nose with one hairy, dark finger. “It’s a strange world,” he murmured. “Very strange.”

Ben had a little more of the Seagram’s VO. It had begun to fill him with a familiar warm glow. He felt himself beginning to ignore Dr. Babble and Betty Jo. He sank into the privacy of his own mind, his own being, and it was a good feeling.

Tony Dunkelwelt, photographer and soil-sample specialist, put his head in the door and called, “There’s another noser landing. It must be Morley.” The screen door banged shut as Dunkelwelt scuttled off.

Half-rising to her feet, Betty Jo said, “We’d better go. So at last, we’re finally all here.” Dr. Babble rose, too. “Come on, Babble,” she said, and started toward the door. “And you, Mr. Eighth-Part-Indian-Tallchief.”

Ben drank down the rest of his coffee and Seagram’s VO and got up, dizzily. A moment later and he was following them out the door and into the light of day.

Shutting off the retrojets Seth Morley shuddered, then unfastened his seat belt. Pointing, he instructed Mary to do the same.

“I know,” Mary said, “what to do. You don’t have to treat me like a child.”

“You’re sore at me,” Morley said, “even though I navigated us here perfectly. The whole way.”

“You were on automatic pilot and you followed the beam,” she said archly. “But you’re right, I should be grateful.” Her tone of voice did not sound grateful, however. But he did not care. He had other things on his mind.

He manually unbolted the hatch. Green sunlight streamed in and he saw, shielding his eyes, a barren landscape of meager trees and even more meager brush. Off to the left a gaggle of unimpressive buildings jutted irregularly. The colony.

People were approaching the noser, a gang of them. Some of them waved and he waved back. “Hello,” he said, stepping down the iron pins and dropping to the ground. Turning, he began to help Mary out, but she shook him loose and descended without assistance.

“Hi,” a plain, brownish girl called as she approached. “We’re glad to see you—you’re the last!”

“I’m Seth Morley,” he said. “And this is Mary, my wife.”

“We know,” the plain, brownish girl said, nodding. “Glad to meet you, I’ll introduce you to everyone.” She indicated a muscular youth nearby. “Ignatz Thugg.”

“Glad to meet you.” Morley shook hands with him. ‘I’m Seth Morley and this is my wife Mary.”

“I’m Betty Jo Berm,” the plain, brownish girl said. “And this gentleman—” She directed his attention toward an elderly man with stooped, fatigue posture. “Bert Kosler, our custodian.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Kosler.” Vigorous handshake.

“I’m glad to meet you, too, Mr. Morley. And Mrs. Morley. I hope you will enjoy it here.”

“Our photographer and soil-sample expert, Tony Dunkelwelt.” Miss Berm pointed out a long-snouted teenager who glared sullenly and did not extend his hand.

“Hello,” Seth Morley said to him.

“Lo.” The boy glowered down at his own feet.

“Maggie Walsh, our specialist in theology.”

“Glad to meet you, Miss Walsh.” Vigorous handshake. What a really nice-looking woman, Morley thought to himself. And here came another attractive woman, this one wearing a sweater stretched tight over her peek-n-squeeze bra. “What’s your field?” he asked her as they shook hands.

“Clerical work and typing. My name is Suzanne.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Smart.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“I don’t think so. They call me Susie Dumb, which isn’t really all that funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” Seth Morley said. His wife nudged him violently in the ribs and, being welltrained, he at once cut his conversation with Miss Smart short and turned to greet a skinny, rat-eyed individual who held out a wedge-shaped hand which appeared to have sharpened, tapered edges. He felt an involuntary refusal arise within him. This was not a hand he wanted to shake, and not a person he wanted to know.

“Wade Frazer,” the rat-eyed individual said. “I’m acting as the settlement’s psychologist. By the way—I’ve done an introductory T.A.T. test on everyone as they’ve arrived. I’d like to do one on both of you, possibly later today.”

“Sure,” Seth Morley said, without conviction.

“This gentleman,” Miss Berm said, “is our doctor, Milton G. Babble of Alpha 5. Say hello to Dr. Babble, Mr. Morley.”

“Glad to meet you, doctor.” Morley shook hands.

“You’re a bit overweight, Mr. Morley,” Dr. Babble said.

“Hmm,” Morley said.

An elderly woman, extremely tall and straight, came out of the group, moving with the aid of a cane. “Mr. Morley,” she said, and extended a light, limp hand to Seth Morley. “I am Roberta Rockingham, the sociologist. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I do hope you had a pleasurable voyage here with not too much trouble.”

“We did fine.” Morley accepted her little hand and delicately shook it. She must be 110 years old, by the look of her, he said to himself. How can she function still? How did she get here? He could not picture her piloting a noser across interplanetary space.

“What is the purpose of this colony?” Mary asked.

“We’ll find out in a couple of hours,” Miss Berm said. “As soon as Glen—Glen Belsnor, our electronics and computer expert—is able to raise the slave satellite orbiting this planet.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Seth Morley said. “They never told you?”

“No, Mr. Morley,” Mrs. Rockingham said in her deep, elderly voice. “But we’ll know now, and we’ve waited so long. It’ll be such a delight to know why all of us are here. Don’t you think so, Mr. Morley? I mean, wouldn’t it be wonderful for all of us to know our purpose?”

“Yes,” he said.

“So you do agree with me, Mr. Morley. Oh, I think that’s so nice that we can all agree.” To Seth Morley she said in a low, meaningful voice, “That’s the difficulty, I’m afraid, Mr. Morley. We have no common purpose. Interpersonal activity has been at a low ebb but of course it will pick up, now that we can—” She bent her head to cough briefly into a diminutive handkerchief. “Well, it really is so nice,” she finished at last.