That was somehow shocking.  The ship’s company stared and stared, but there could be no comment.  There was a vast, dark sea to the left of the landing-place.  Inland there were mountains and valleys.  But the mountains were not sloped.  There were heaps of detritus at the bases of their cliffs, but it was simply detritus.  No tiniest patch of lichen grew anywhere.  No blade of grass.  No moss.  No leaf.  Nothing.

The air was empty.  Nothing flew.  There were clouds, to be sure.  The sky was even blue, though a darker blue than Earth’s, because there was no vegetation to break stone down to dust, or to form dust by its own decay.

The sea was violently active.  Great waves flung themselves toward the harsh coastline and beat upon it with insensate violence.  They shattered into masses of foam.  But the foam broke—­too quickly—­and left the surging water dark again.  Far down the line of foam there were dark clouds, and rain fell in masses, and lightning flashed.  But it was a scene of desolation which was somehow more horrible even than the scarred and battered moon of Earth.

Cochrane looked out very carefully.  Alicia came to him, a trifle hesitant.

“Johnny’s asleep now.  He didn’t sleep at first, and while we were out of gravity he was unhappy.  But he went off to sleep the instant we landed.  He needs rest.  Could we—­just stay landed here until he catches up on sleep?”

Cochrane nodded.  Alicia smiled at him and went away.  There was still the mark of a bruise on her cheek.  She went down to where her husband needed her.  Holden said dourly: 

“This world’s useless.  So is her husband.”

“Wait till we check the air,” said Cochrane absently.

“I’ve checked it,” Holden told him indifferently.  “I went in the port and sniffed at the cracked outer door.  I didn’t die, so I opened the door.  There is a smell of stone.  That’s all.  The air’s perfectly breathable.  The ocean’s probably absorbed all soluble gases, and poisonous gases are soluble.  If they weren’t, they couldn’t be poisonous.”

“Mmmmmm,” said Cochrane thoughtfully.

Jamison came over to him.

“We’re not going to stay here, are we?” he asked.  “I don’t like to look at it.  The moon’s bad enough, but at least nothing could live there!  Anything could live here.  But it doesn’t!  I don’t like it!”

“We’ll stay here at least while Johnny has a nap.  I do want Bell to take all the pictures he can, though.  Probably not for broadcast, but for business reasons.  I’ll need pictures to back up a deal.”

Jamison went away.  Holden said without interest: 

“You’ll make no deals with this planet!  This is one you can do what you like with!  I don’t want any part of it!”

Cochrane shrugged.

“Speaking of things you don’t want any part of—­what about Johnny Simms?  Speaking as a psychiatrist, what effect will that business of being in the dark all night and nearly being pecked to death—­what will it do to him?  Are psychopaths the way they are because they can’t face reality, or because they’ve never had to?”