The crew of the ship seemed to share his fears. Every man hunched tense at his station. The ship glided lower, to three hundred feet. Two hundred. She lost way almost entirely, and grounded with scarcely a jar.
"Nice set-down," Ross complimented the helmsman.
Instantly the crew sighed in unison. Tension was broken. They peered through the windows.
"Back to your stations!" rapped Ross. He glanced through the control port and immediately saw a group advancing toward the ship. For an instant he held his breath. Then he whooped. "It's Artana!"
The crew cheered, briefly, knowing nothing of the importance of that single identification. Two artisans stood by the gangway, waiting.
"Secure your helmets, men!" shouted Ross. He adjusted his own headgear, made sure that the thin tubes from his breastplate were feeding their tiny jets of oxygen to his nostrils, and signaled to the artisans. They threw the door wide, and Ross stepped forth to meet Artana.
The young Lord of the Peaks came forward with a glad cry. "Ross!" he exclaimed, and grasped the Earth-man's hand warmly.
"Artana!" cried Ross. He eyed the Moon Lord from head to foot, and grinned. "You've grown, Lord of the Peaks!"
The boy he remembered was indeed now a man. Matching the six-foot Ross in height, he stood straight and slender, carrying easily the weight of the ray-rifle slung on his shoulder, and the poison-pistol at his belt. He smiled briefly at the Earth-man's sally, then sobered at once.