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“And,” said Bordman, “the fact that nobody will be here to give directions.”

Chuka added benignly:

“We’re doing a great deal of singing, too. My people are … ah … religious. When we are … ah … no longer here … there have been boastings that there’ll be a well-practiced choir ready to go to work in the next world.”

White teeth showed in grins. Bordman was almost envious of men who could grin at such a thought. But he went on grimly:

“And I understand that athletics have also been much practiced.”

Redfeather said:

“There’s been time for it. Climbing teams have counted coup on all the worst mountains within three hundred miles. There’s been a new record set for the javelin, adjusted for gravity constant, and Johnny Cornstalk did a hundred yards in eight point four seconds. Aletha has the records and has certified them.”

“Very useful!” said Bordman sardonically. Then he disliked himself for saying it even before the bronze-skinned men’s faces grew studiedly impassive.

Chuka waved his hand.

“Wait, Ralph! Lewanika’s nephew will beat that within a week!”

Bordman was ashamed again because Chuka had spoken to cover up his own ill-nature.

“I take it back!” he said irritably. “What I said was uncalled for. I shouldn’t have said it! But I came here to do a completion survey and what you’ve been giving me is material for an estimate of morale! It’s not my line! I’m a technician, first and foremost! We’re faced with a technical problem!”

Aletha spoke suddenly from behind him.

“But these are men, first and foremost, Mr. Bordman. And they’re faced with a very human problem–how to die well. They seem to be rather good at it, so far.”

Bordman ground his teeth. He was again humiliated. In his own fashion he was attempting the same thing. But just as he was genetically not qualified to endure the climate of this planet, he was not prepared for a fatalistic or pious acceptance of disaster. Amerind and African, alike, these men instinctively held to their own ideas of what the dignity of a man called upon him to do when he could not do anything but die. But Bordman’s idea of his human dignity required him to be still fighting: still scratching at the eyes of fate or destiny when he was slain. It was in his blood or genes or the result of training. He simply could not, with self-respect, accept any physical situation as hopeless even when his mind assured him that it was.

* * * * *

“I agree,” he said coldly, “but still I have to think in technical terms. You might say that we are going to die because we cannot land the Warlock with food and equipment. We cannot land the Warlock because we have no landing grid. We have no landing grid because it and all the material to complete it is buried under millions of tons of sand. We cannot make a new light-supply-ship type of landing grid because we have no smelter to make beams, nor power to run it if we had, yet if we had the beams we could get the power to run the smelter we haven’t got to make the beams. And we have no smelter, hence no beams, no power, no prospect of food or help because we can’t land the Warlock. It is strictly a circular problem. Break it at any point and all of it is solved.”

One of the dark men muttered something under his breath to those near him. There were chuckles.

“Like Mr. Woodchuck,” explained the man, when Bordman’s eyes fell on him. “When I was a little boy there was a story like that.”

Bordman said icily:

“The problem of coolness and water and food is the same sort of problem. In six months we could raise food–if we had power to condense moisture. We’ve chemicals for hydroponics–if we could keep the plants from roasting as they grew. Refrigeration and water and food are practically another circular problem.”