“I hope the specimens are all right,” Leon said.

“The hell with the specimens!” Vecchi shouted excitedly. He worked the port bolts frantically, unscrewing the heavy hatch lock. “Let’s get out and walk around.”

“Where are we?” Barton asked Captain Stone.

“South of San Francisco. On the peninsula.”

“San Francisco! Hey—we can ride the cable cars!” Parkhurst helped Vecchi unscrew the hatch. “San Francisco. I was through Frisco once. They got a big park. Golden Gate Park. We can go to the funhouse.”

The hatch opened, swinging wide. Talk ceased abruptly. The men peered out, blinking in the white-hot sunlight.

A green field stretched down and away from them. Hills rose in the distance, sharp in the crystal air. Along a highway below, a few cars moved, tiny dots, the sun glinting on them. Telephone poles.

“What’s that sound?” Stone said, listening intently.

“A train.”

It was coming along the distant track, black smoke pouring from its stack. A faint wind moved across the field, stirring the grass. Over to the right lay a town. Houses and trees. A theater marquee. A Standard gas station. Roadside stands. A motel.

“Think anybody saw us?” Leon asked. “Must have.”

“Sure heard us,” Parkhurst said. “We made a noise like God’s indigestion when we hit.”

Vecchi stepped out onto the field. He swayed wildly, arms outstretched. “I’m falling!”

Stone laughed. “You’ll get used to it. We’ve been in space too long. Come on.” He leaped down. “Let’s start walking.”

“Toward the town.” Parkhurst fell in beside him. “Maybe they’ll give us free eats … Hell—champagne!” His chest swelled under his tattered uniform. “Returning heroes. Keys to the town. A parade. Military band. Floats with dames.”

“Dames,” Leon grunted. “You’re obsessed.”

“Sure.” Parkhurst strode across the field, the others trailing after him. “Hurry up!”

“Look,” Stone said to Leon. “Somebody over there. Watching us.” “Kids,” Barton said. “A bunch of kids.” He laughed excitedly. “Let’s go say hello.”

They headed toward the kids, wading through the moist grass on the rich earth.

“Must be spring,” Leon said. “The air smells like spring.” He took a deep breath. “And the grass.”

Stone computed. “It’s April ninth.”

They hurried. The kids stood watching them, silent and unmoving.

“Hey!” Parkhurst shouted. “We’re back!”

“What town is this?” Barton shouted.

The kids stared at them, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” Leon muttered.

“Our beards. We look pretty bad.” Stone cupped his hands. “Don’t be scared! We’re back from Mars. The rocket flight. Two years ago—remember? A year ago last October.”

The kids stared, white-faced. Suddenly they turned and fled. They ran frantically toward the town.

The six men watched them go.

“What the hell,” Parkhurst muttered, dazed. “What’s the matter?”

“Our beards,” Stone repeated uneasily.

“Something’s wrong,” Barton said, shakily. He began to tremble. “There’s something terribly wrong.”

“Can it!” Leon snapped. “It’s our beards.” He ripped a piece of his shirt savagely away. “We’re dirty. Filthy tramps. Come on.” He started after the children, toward the town. “Let’s go. They probably got a special car on the way here. We’ll meet them.”

Stone and Barton glanced at each other. They followed Leon slowly. The others fell in behind.

Silent, uneasy, the six bearded men made their way across the field toward the town.

A youth on a bicycle fled at their approach. Some railroad workers, repairing the train track, threw down their shovels and ran, yelling.

Numbly, the six men watched them go.

“What is it?” Parkhurst muttered.

They crossed the track. The town lay on the other side. They entered a huge grove of eucalyptus trees.

“Burlingame,” Leon said, reading a sign. They looked down a street. Hotels and cafes. Parked cars. Gas stations. Dime stores. A small suburban town, shoppers on the sidewalks. Cars moving slowly.

They emerged from the trees. Across the street a filling station attendant looked up—

And froze.

After a moment, he dropped the hose he held and ran down the main street, shouting shrill warnings.

Cars stopped. Drivers leaped out and ran. Men and women poured out of stores, scattering wildly. They surged away, retreating in frantic haste.

In a moment the street was deserted.

“Good God.” Stone advanced, bewildered. “What—“ He crossed onto the street. No one was in sight.

The six men walked down the main street, dazed and silent. Nothing stirred. Everyone had fled. A siren wailed, rising and falling. Down a side street a car backed quickly away.

In an upstairs window Barton saw a pale, frightened face. Then the shade was jerked down.

“I don’t understand,” Vecchi muttered.

“Have they gone nuts?” Merriweather asked.

Stone said nothing. His mind was blank. Numb. He felt tired. He sat down on the curb and rested, getting his breath. The others stood around him.

“My ankle,” Leon said. He leaned against a stop sign, lips twisting with pain. “Hurts like hell.”

“Captain,” Barton said. “What’s the matter with them?”

“I don’t know,” Stone said. He felt in his ragged pocket for a cigarette. Across the street was a deserted cafe. The people had run out of it. Food was still on the counter. A hamburger was scorching on the skillet, coffee was boiling in a glass pot on the burner.

On the sidewalk lay groceries spilling out from bags dropped by terrorized shoppers. The motor of a deserted parked car purred to itself.

“Well?” Leon said. “What’ll we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can’t just—”

“I don’t know!” Stone got to his feet. He walked over and entered the cafe. They watched him sit down at the counter.

“What’s he doing?” Vecchi asked.

“I don’t know.” Parkhurst followed Stone into the cafe. “What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting to be served.”

Parkhurst plucked awkwardly at Stone’s shoulder. “Come on, Captain. There’s nobody here. They all left.”

Stone said nothing. He sat at the counter, his face vacant. Waiting passively to be served.

Parkhurst went back out. “What the hell has happened?” he asked Barton. “What’s wrong with them all?”

A spotted dog came nosing around. It passed them, stiff and alert, sniffing suspiciously. It trotted off down a side street. “Faces,” Barton said. “Faces?”

“They’re watching us. Up there.” Barton gestured toward a building. “Hiding. Why? Why are they hiding from us?”

Suddenly Merriweather stiffened. “Something’s coming.” They turned eagerly.

Down the street two black sedans turned the corner, headed toward them. “Thank God,” Leon muttered. He leaned against the wall of a building. “Here they are.”

The two sedans pulled to a stop at the curb. The doors opened. Men spilled out, surrounded them silently. Well-dressed. Ties and hats and long gray coats.

“I’m Scanlan,” one said. “FBI.” An older man with iron-gray hair. His voice was clipped and frigid. He studied the five of them intently. “Where’s the other?”

“Captain Stone? In there.” Barton pointed to the cafe.

“Get him out here.”

Barton went into the cafe. “Captain, they’re outside. Come on.”

Stone came along with him, back to the curb. “Who are they, Barton?” he asked haltingly.

“Six,” Scanlan said, nodding. He waved to his men. “Okay. This is all.” The FBI men moved in, crowding them back toward the brick front of the cafe.

“Wait!” Barton cried thickly. His head spun. “What—what’s happening?

“What is it?” Parkhurst demanded deprecatorily. Tears rolled down his face, streaking his cheeks. “Will you tell us, for God’s sake—”

The FBI men had weapons. They got them out. Vecchi backed away, his hands up. “Please!” he wailed. “What have we done? What’s happening?”