Walking slowly and cautiously, the two spacemen angled to the left, peering through the clouds of gas that seemed to get thicker as they moved along. The roaring blast of the ship became louder.
Strong put his hand out to stop Morgan. "Let's hold up a minute, Sergeant," he said. "I don't want to get too close until I know what we're facing."
They stood absolutely still, the gas swirling around them in undulating clouds that grew thicker one minute and then thinned out again. As the gas thinned for a few seconds, Strong gasped and pointed.
"Look!" he cried. "By the craters of Luna, it's Brett's ship!"
"Brett?" asked Morgan.
"Charles Brett. He owns that ship. It's the one that won the space race from Earth. Now, what would he be doing landing out here?"
"I think he came down beside that warehouse up ahead, sir," said Morgan, as the gas cloud closed in again, cutting off their view of the actual landing. "It used to be a storehouse for mining gear a couple of years ago, but it's been empty for some time."
"I think we'd better check this, Sergeant," said Strong firmly. "Come on."
Strong started forward, then stopped, as a particularly heavy cloud of the deadly gas swirled around them. The two spacemen clung together blinded by the dense methane ammonia that would kill them in thirty seconds should their oxygen masks fail. In a moment the foggy death thinned out again and they continued toward the warehouse and the sleek black ship behind it.