The girl grunted negatively without looking up.
Ben's gaze fell upon the array of oxygen masks, windsuits, vita-rations. Then, on a littered shelf, he spied a small Venusian compass.
Almost automatically, his hand closed over it. His brain stirred with a single thought: A compass could keep a man traveling in a straight line.
Simple Simon restlessly shifted. He turned to Ben, blinking in the frighteningly alien equivalent of a suspicious scowl.
Ben's hand tightened about the compass. He tried to relax, to force all thought of it from his mind. He stared at the viewscreen, concentrating on the ceaseless drift of dust.
The Venusian's eyes studied him curiously, as if searching his mind for the illusive echo of a feeling that had given him alarm.
"I think I'll turn in," yawned Ben. "'Night, Maggie."
Simon frowned, apparently frustrated in his mental search. "Ben—not one of us. I—watch."
Without answering, Ben returned to his room, the compass hot and moist from the perspiration in his hand.