_It's us, Scharber. Lanvin, the Harvers. Changed. Micro-androids
now--like race of Xian origin. Friendly. Go home, Scharber. But
please send radiogram. Urge imperative need to keep our bodies
alive. Will return to them. A million thanks for everything._
The eyes of the Atlas who was our friend, stared again. Lakes of
nervous reaction came into them. The plains of the cheeks whitened, as
with some strange frost.
[Illustration: _The eyes of the Atlas who was our friend stared ...
stared fearfully at the message being inscribed so mysteriously on his
plastic helmet._]
The earthquake spoke:
"Charlie? Or am I going space nuts? Maybe this could be.... But who
ever heard of it!..."
Panic at his own thoughts made Scharber move suddenly. The movement
threw Jan and Doc and me from the frame of his face window. As we
tumbled in the thin, methane atmosphere of Ganymede, I heard Doc laugh.
"Scharber will probably be all right," he said. "It's the shock of
difference, again. But the message won't vanish from the plastic. He
won't think that madness made him dream it. He's tough and young. He'll
straighten out.... Come on, let's get started--for Earth!"