Jamison shrugged.  He had used it as a sign-off line.  An extrapolation from the fact that there was vegetation below.  He looked somehow distastefully out the port at a swiftly rising green ground below.  He was a city man.  He had literally never before seen what looked like habitable territory of such vast extent, with no houses on it.  In a valley easily ten miles long and two wide, there was not a square inch of concrete or of glass.  There was not a man made object in view.  The sky was blue and there were clouds, but to Jamison the sight of vegetation implied rooftops.  There ought to be parapets where roofs ended to let light down to windows and streets below.  He had never before seen grass save on elevated recreation-areas, nor bushes not arranged as landscaping, and certainly not trees other than the domesticated growths which can grow on the tops of buildings.  To Jamison this was desolation.  On the moon, absence of structures was understandable.  There was no air.  But here there should be a city!

The ship swayed a little as the rockets swung their blasts to balance the descending mass.  The intended Mars-ship slowed, and slowed, and hovered—­and there was terrifying smoke and flame suddenly all about—­and then there was a distinct crunching impact.  The rockets continued to burn, their ferocity diminished.  They slackened again.  And yet again.  They were reduced to a mere faint murmur.

There was a remarkable immobility of everything.  It was the result of gravity.  Earth-value gravity, or very near it.  There was a distinct pressure of one’s feet against the floor, and a feeling of heaviness to one’s body which was very different from Lunar City, and more different still from free flight in emptiness.

Nothing but swirling masses of smoke could be seen out the ports.  They had landed in a forest, of sorts, and the rocket-blasts had burned away everything underneath, down to solid soil.  In a circle forty yards about the ship the ground was a mass of smoking, steaming ash.  Beyond that flames licked hungrily, creating more dense vapor.  Beyond that still there was only coiling smoke.

Cochrane’s headphones yielded Babs’ voice, almost wailing: 

“Mr. Cochrane!  We must have landed!  I want to see!”

Cochrane pressed the hand-mike button.

“Are we still hooked up to Lunar City?” he demanded.  “We can’t be, but are we?”

“We are,” said Babs’ voice mutinously. “The broadcast went through all right.  They want to talk to you.  Everybody wants to talk to you!”

“Tell them to call back later,” commanded Cochrane.  “Then leave the beam working—­however it works!—­and come up if you like.  Tell the moon operator you’ll be away for ten minutes.”

He continued to stare out the window.  Al, the pilot, stayed in his cushioned seat before the bank of rocket-controls.  The rockets were barely alight.  The ship stayed as it had landed, upright on its triple fins.  He said to Jones: