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reddish-white flowers and bluish leaves. It was fed by the blue stream, and might have been a natural little lake—except for what I’d seen on the far side.
    Farman said, “You’re nuts, Doc—it’s just a pond.”
    I pointed again. “What about that paving? Like crazy-pavement at home! Don’t tell me that’s natural!”
    But they weren’t looking at the pool any more. They were staring out the other way. I turned my head and saw we had passed the blunt end of the shoulder and were almost in the shadow of its side. And then I saw a sight which astonished me more than anything else had yet.
    Adams said, “I knew there had to be a house!”
    Farman said, “Beam that! Right out of the solid rock!”
    I didn’t say anything; I was too busy trying to believe what I saw. Which was a paved court or patio, with strangely colored flowers massed around a fountain of the blue water—and, behind, the timbered and windowed front of a long, low house which had no house backing it. Which had nothing behind it except the rock into which the front was inset. Some Herculean labor had scooped a dwelling from the solid rock itself and then sealed the mouth of the excavation with a house-front which told beyond any doubt it had been designed by Man . . .
    We rolled to a stop at the edge of the patio, only a few yards from a massive door of some wood which looked like oak but was amethyst-grey.
    “End of the line,” said Farman, and unhooked his safety belt.
    The Robot spoke—and I started violently. Somehow I’d managed to forget what it was. It said, “Descend please.”
    We descended. I was last, and as my feet hit the ground the big door opened and a man stepped out and stood looking at us. Farman’s hand started an instinctive move toward his hip, but Adams nudged him viciously and the hand dropped to his side.
    The man in the doorway came toward us. “So you have arrived, gentlemen,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Morbius.” His voice was deep, but curiously flat and unresonant.
    We stared at him. He was a big man, and striking, with a head of greying dark hair and a neat forked beard which lent the impassive face an effect partly Oriental, partly satanic.
    Adams said, “John Adams, Commander.” He included me and Farman in a single gesture. “Lieutenant Farman, my Astrogator. Major Ostrow, our Medical Officer.”
    Morbius took a pace forward, and shook hands with us in turn. His grip felt like a much younger man’s. There was a clanking sound from behind us, and the Robot climbed off the vehicle and passed us with its lumbering stride and stopped by the open door and stood to one side of it. I could see a single light glowing behind the headpiece louvres.
    Morbius smiled. “His manners are always better than mine,” he said, “Please come in, gentlemen.” He shepherded us through the doorway—and behind us the Robot closed the big door.
    We were in a small entrance-hall, cool and dimly lighted. We left our caps on what looked like a big chest and followed Morbius through an archway and into a large room with windows all along its length. The glass was preternaturally clear, so that when I looked out at the patio, and the trees and grass and pool, they seemed to stand out more sharply than they had when we were outside.
    We stood bunched together, a stiff-looking trio, and stared at our host. Who seemed as much at ease as we were the reverse.
    “Please sit down, gentlemen,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.” There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and I was sure he was amused by us.
    Farman and Adams close a settee, and I took a chair across from them. Morbius stayed on his feet, and for the first time I noticed his clothes—a tunic and trousers of some dark, soft material which had a curious inner sheen to it.
    He said, “I hope you realize, gentlemen, that you are my first visitors. This is therefore an Occasion—and must be treated as such.” He smiled. “So if you will