"A darned shame," Eric grumbled, "to come forty million miles, and meet such a reception as this!"
Nada stopped. "Eric," she said, "I'm tired. And I don't believe there's any rock here, anyway. You'll have to use wooden tools, sharpened in the fire."
"Probably you're right. This soil seemed to be of alluvial origin. Shouldn't be surprised if the native rock is some hundreds of feet underground. Your idea is better."
"You can make a fire by rubbing sticks together, can't you?"
"It can be done, I'm sure. I've never tried it, myself. We need some dry sticks, first."
They resumed the weary march, with a good fraction of the new planet adhering to their feet. Rain was still falling from the dark heavens in a steady, warm downpour. Dry wood seemed scarce as the proverbial hen's teeth.
"You didn't bring any matches, dear?"
"Matches! Of course not! We're going back to Nature."
"I hope we get a fire pretty soon."
"If dry wood were gold dust, we couldn't buy a hot dog."