The older man waited till the group had formed a tight semi-circle around him. Then he smiled and held up both hands.

"Welcome to Centifor," he said. "My name is Leon Stubbs, and I am the Director of Colonization."

He waited till the undercurrent of muttering had died down, and went on: "I know how anxious you all are to settle on your own land, but because immediate transportation is unavailable, there will be a slight delay. During this time you will be quartered here at the reception center."

Claude Marshall leaned close to his wife's ear. "We're lucky, Joan," he whispered. "We don't have to worry about transportation. We can walk to our land if we have to."

Leon Stubbs said: "If any of you have any questions, feel free to speak up.... That's why I'm here." He stopped, and pointed at a thin-faced youth with one arm raised while a young, and obviously pregnant girl held onto the other.

"Yes, Sir."

"We've been wondering," the youth said. "Are our building materials ready yet?"

"Some of them are," the director said, "and some of them aren't. Production here isn't quite what it should be yet. When you've been here a while, you'll realize that because of our relatively small numbers, and comparative inexperience in economic matters, we're a tightly-knit group.... We have to be.

"There is one thing however that works in our favor. There are no irrationals or psychological deviants on Centifor. The tests took care of that. They were rough, I know. They were supposed to be rough. And now that you're here you'll all be facing another test.... The test of practical application.

"Some of you are fortunate in the respect that you've been awarded land reasonably close to the spaceport area. Some of you are not so fortunate, and will have to travel several hundred miles. Perhaps those of you in this latter category will find some consolation in the fact that since you left Terra, the government has started a movement to populate the other side of the planet. As a matter of fact, all future applications will be assigned to that area."

Claude looked at his wife. And she looked back at him. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. It was common knowledge that Centifor was a planet of contrast. It was a Jekyll and Hyde planet.... One side was a veritable Utopia. And the other? Claude shuddered at the thought of hacking a living out of the razor-backed mountains and bare patches of rocky soil that were frozen stiff nine months out of every thirteen.

"If there are no other questions," the Director said. "We'll get on with the business of setting you up in temporary quarters."

Twelve hours later, Claude Marshall and his family stood on the ramp of the spaceport watching the blue-tinted sun edge itself over the rim of the planet.

The decision to pack a few immediate necessities and walk to the homestead instead of waiting for transportation had been arrived at the night before. It was ridiculous, Claude had argued, to waste time at the reception center, when the culmination of a ten year dream lay just twenty-eight miles away. Especially so, since the Director had informed them that the materials for their prefab home was already waiting for them on the land.

Nor were they alone in their eagerness to begin a new way of life. Other settlers—some of them burdened-down with supplies that almost equalled their own weight—had already started a trek over the virgin landscape. In twos and threes, they plodded into the gently-sloping valley. Some of them moved slowly, some eagerly. All of them looked like tiny ants on a giant pool table.

Marshall adjusted the knapsack across his shoulders with an air of finality. "Let's go, Joan," he said. "Stay close, Billy. We have a long walk ahead of us."

They started into the valley.

Two hours later they stopped to rest. They stopped on a patch of rich, green turf in the shadow of a broad-leaf tree. The spaceport, flanked by its low-slung buildings was still visible, but from seven miles away the buildings looked incredibly tiny. Like miniatures out of a Christmas kit. But the thing that impressed them most was the quiet—a strange sort of quiet, free of the whir of copter blades, land-car horns, and other nerve-shattering noises. Instead, there was only the rustle of a mild breeze through the tree branches, and the sound of their own breathing.

Marshall lay on his back, his fingers laced behind his neck.

"I feel rested, Joan," he said. "We've just walked seven miles, but I feel rested."

"I know, Claude. I feel the same way. It must be the air. The air feels different."

"Wouldn't it be nice if it'd always stay this way. Fresh and unspoiled, I mean. I know it won't, but wouldn't it be nice if it did."

"It will, Claude. It will for as long as we live anyhow, and for as long as Billy lives. That's what's important. We're very lucky, Claude."

"I can't help thinking of the people back on Earth. I feel sorry for them."

"They could do what we did. They could take the tests."

"I know. But even if they did, what would they have? Who'd want to homestead the other side of this planet? Who'd want to live out there anyway?"

"I would, Pop," Billy said.

"No you wouldn't, Son. Don't you remember those black mountains we saw from the ship when we came in?"

"Sure, Pop."

"Well that's what the other side of the planet is like. Only you couldn't tell what it was really like because we were too high. You wouldn't like it if you had to live there. It's cold, and rocky, and there's only six hours of daylight out of every twenty-six."

"I wouldn't like it then," the boy said. "I don't like the dark."

Claude got up and looked at his wife. "Shall we move along," he said.

They pushed ahead. Eagerly, yet slowly enough to absorb the world's endless beauty; stopping at the crest of each new hill; kneeling at the shores of crystal lakes to quench their thirst; and scooping up handfuls of rich, black soil in spots where the turf had become dislodged.

The sun of Centauri was almost at zenith when they approached the crest of the ridge that bounded the Marshall homestead.

Claude's pace, which had been quickening steadily for the final mile, burst into a jagged trot for the final hundred uphill yards. At the top of the hill he stopped, staring into the lush, green valley, ignoring his family who'd been unable to keep pace with his eagerness.

The homestead was all that the color photos had advertised—and more. It was all there. The flat, rich turf, the stream running through the center of the valley, and the grove of trees under which he'd build the prefab house.

He'd anticipated the moment so many times, it was hard to believe it had really arrived. But it was real—it was. Everything was exactly as he'd expected to find it ... except for one thing.

Always in his imagination, the land had been waiting for him to claim it. Him alone—and his wife and son.

But they weren't alone.... There were other people on the land. On his land!

And they were acting as if they lived there!

There were three of them—a man, a woman, and a boy of about nineteen. The woman appeared to be cooking a meal over a wood fire, while the man and boy were arranging a foundation pattern with part of the stack of building materials which had been ear-marked for the house.

For his house!

Joan and Billy drew up alongside him, and together they stared at the intruders.

"Who are they, Claude?" his wife said. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know, honey. Maybe they just stopped here to eat. That's what it must be."

"But the men. The way they're measuring.... As if they're going to build."

"We'll straighten it out, Joan.... Probably some mistake. I have our land title. That'll prove they've made a mistake. Come on. We'll talk to them."

The intruders stopped what they were doing as they approached, and the man—a huge, block-shouldered fellow in a leather jacket—pushed out a hand.

The man said: "Hello. My name's Whiting—Bruce Whiting."

Claude took the hand. "Claude Marshall," he said. "And this is my wife and my son."

The man who called himself Whiting nodded, and looked over at his wife. "We're fixing dinner," he said. "Why don't you and your family join us before you push on?"

Claude watched the man's face while he spoke. It was an open face. Guileless. With ruddy skin and mild, grey eyes that twinkled a bit at the corners.

"We're not pushing on," he said evenly. "We're staying. This is our land."

Bruce Whiting smiled. "There must be some mistake. This land is ours. The boy and I are just fixing to start building."

Claude shook his head. "Not here you're not. Not on this land." He spoke quietly; trying to keep his voice pitched below the emotion that churned up inside him.

"What's wrong, Dad?" The man's son joined them.... He was a big strapping lad, with sandy hair and very bright skin.

"These people are looking for their homestead," the man with the jacket said. "They think this is their site."

"You think wrong, Mister," the youth said. "We double checked this location three times before we made camp.... Right?" He turned to the older man for confirmation.

Whiting nodded. "The boy's right. This land is ours. We've got a deed to prove it."

"So have I," Claude said frowning. "It's right here in the luggage.... Wait. I'll show you...." He bent over, unzipping the knapsack and rummaged around till he produced the manila envelope that held the title papers.

Bruce Whiting examined them carefully; first the neat rows of fine print, then the dozen glossy color-photos which had been taken on the property from strategic angles. He shook his head and turned to his son.

"Get our titles, Frank," he said.

The boy left, returning within seconds with a similar manila envelope. Bruce Whiting opened it and pushed a handful of papers at Claude.

While his wife and son watched, Claude Marshall went through the papers methodically.... They were all there. All the measurements; looking like duplicates, backed up by photos that had apparently been developed from the same negatives.... He glanced at his wife.

"Something's wrong, Joan," he said. "Mr. Whiting has a claim on this land too. It's just like ours.... Exactly!"

"But I don't understand, Claude."

"It's not too hard to understand, Mrs. Marshall," Whiting said. "It just means that someone in Washington loused up the detail. They're always making mistakes like that.... I figure some clerk—"

"But what are we supposed to do?"

Bruce Whiting moved his shoulders. "I don't know, Mrs. Marshall. I just don't know.... After all we were here first. Why don't you take it up with the Colonization Director?... Maybe there's another tract he could give you."

"I don't want another tract," Claude said flatly. "I want this one."

"So do I, Mr. Marshall."

"But the land's mine!"

"Is it? How about my title? It's just as valid as yours."

"That'll be for the law to decide," Claude said grimly. "And we'll fight you on it. By God, we'll fight you on it all the way from here to Washington and back!"

"That's up to you, of course. In the meantime, may I remind you that I hold possession?"

Claude Marshall bit his lip.

"Let's go Joan," he said.

"Where, Claude?"

"Back to the spaceport. We'll get a ruling on this."

"But it's getting dark. Can't we make camp someplace and go back tomorrow?"

"I'm hungry," Billy said.

"We can eat later, Son."

Bruce Whiting continued to regard them sullenly. Then abruptly, his face softened. "Wait," he said. "Don't go. Your wife's right, Mr. Marshall. You can't make the trip after dark. Why don't you and your family camp here for the night.... Alice has supper nearly ready and there's more than enough to go around...."

"We have our own rations," Claude said.

Bruce Whiting spread out his hands. "Look, Mr. Marshall. I know how you feel. I know, because it's the same way I feel. I guess a man can't help the way he feels when something threatens the thing he's been dreaming about all his life. But it isn't my fault that this happened any more than it's your fault. Since the problem concerns both of us, I suggest we sit down and discuss it like intelligent human beings."

"Mr. Whiting's right," Joan said. "After all it isn't his fault—"

"Another thing," Bruce Whiting went on. "I'm expecting a half-trac out here tomorrow with some supplies. If you and your family wanted to, there's no reason why we couldn't all ride back with him.... Maybe we could get this thing straightened out then and still be friends."

Claude flicked a look toward the far-off hills that were haloed by the last rays of a strange sun. Within moments it would be dark. And a few yards away a woman threw another log on the fire and the pungent aroma of boiling coffee drifted across his nostrils.

"I'm hungry," Billy repeated.

Claude held out his hand.

"I'm sorry," he said. "As you say: this isn't our fault. We're just caught in the middle."

They ate picnic-style, off plastic dishes, while Bruce Whiting kept up a continuous stream of conversation, aided from time to time by his comely wife.

The Whiting's story was a familiar one. He'd been with an advertising agency when the colonization urge had struck him.... That was ten years ago.... He'd talked it over with his wife, and together they'd weighed the chances of surviving the rigid tests that eliminated 97% of the applicants.

The story had a pattern you could play by ear. Just another man, and another woman, and another boy now in his teens, who'd grown tired of the struggle for survival in a world that begrudged a man the space occupied by his own body.

And when the meal was over, Joan helped Alice Whiting with the dishes, while the men sat around the fire and smoked. It was dark out now—a strange kind of darkness, split only by billions of incredibly bright stars and the nearby glow of the crackling wood fire.

Bruce Whiting's cordiality was contagious too. Claude found himself talking now; describing his wants, his ideas, and his ideals. And when the women returned to the circle, the conversation turned to other subjects. They discussed clothes, their children, and the future of the planet.

Only one subject was carefully avoided.

And that was the one that was foremost in the minds of all of them.

They were still talking when the fire had settled into weary heaps of smouldering embers. Then the two families excused themselves and retired to the canvas lean-to's wondering what the next day would hold in store for them.

The blue sun of Centauri was almost at zenith the next day, when the half-trac arrived with the supplies.

The driver—an amiable man—listened patiently while Bruce and Claude related the mixup, and as had been expected, agreed to transport them back to the base.

The two families rode together in the open back of the vehicle as it jounced over the mildly sloping terrain. And yet the ride was not unpleasant. The immensity of the planet was breathtaking. It was exactly as the colorcasts had pictured it—only better, incredibly better. No TV travelogue could adequately describe the tang of the air, or the scent of the sweet-smelling grass.

God had indeed been generous with this portion of the planet.

It was hard to believe that the opposite side was a rocky wasteland that would probably fight colonization for another thousand years.

Almost before they knew it, they were at the spaceport. Sometime during the night, another ship had arrived. It stood majestically at the far end of the apron, towering over a knot of tiny figures grouped around the rudder stanchions.

The driver swooped past them and brought the half-trac to a halt in front of the reception center where they observed the Colonization Director watching them through the window of his office.

Inside, Leon Stubbs greeted them cordially and ushered them into an inner office containing a metal desk and a dozen file cabinets.

The Director listened patiently, shaking his head from time to time and muttering remarks about government inefficiency.... When they'd finished, he ran his hand through his greying hair.

"This, of course, is an outrage, Gentlemen," he said. "But before I can do anything, I'll have to check both your claims." He indicated the file cabinets. "It may take a little time but I'll get at it right away. As a matter of fact I believe they're serving lunch at the mess hall now. Why don't you all have lunch and come back in about an hour. I'll know more about the situation then."

Leon Stubbs shuffled through some papers on the desk, indicating dismissal. The two men joined their families in the anteroom.

After an awkward silence, Bruce Whiting and his family excused themselves, leaving the Marshall's alone.

"What did he say, Claude? Tell me! What did he say?"

"He doesn't know yet, honey. He's checking the claims. We're supposed to come back in an hour."

"But it will be all right, won't it. It's got to be all right!"

"I don't know, Joan. So help me, I don't know.... We can't both have the land. That's for sure. One of us will have to settle for someplace else."

"Suppose we did have to take another tract, Claude. Would you be disappointed—I mean, really disappointed.... After all, isn't the important thing the fact that we're here?"

Claude managed a smile. "I suppose so," he admitted. "It's just that it comes as sort of a letdown. For almost seven years now we've been looking at the pictures of this land. We knew where we'd build the house, what portion we'd farm.... I know every tree, every square inch of it.... And now—"

"But there's other land. We've only seen a small portion of the planet."

He shook his head.

"Not like this. This claim has everything. What's more, Whiting knows it. That's why he'll fight us on it all the way."

"They seem like nice people. Claude. Couldn't we talk to them ... make some sort of deal?"

"A deal? What sort of deal?"

"A hundred acres is a lot of land—an awful lot of land.... Maybe the Whitings would—"

"Uh uh. No good. I've already felt him out on that. I had the same idea last night, so I came right out and asked him if he'd settle for fifty acres apiece.... He refused. Oh, he was nice enough about it. But he gave me to understand it was all or nothing with him."

"I'm hungry," Billy said.

Claude looked at his wife. "So am I. Let's go over to the mess hall. That's where the Whitings went, I think."

"Claude?"

"Yes, Joan."

"Let's not sit with them, if we meet them there."

"All right, honey. Let's not."

They were halfway to the door when Leon Stubbs came out of the inner office. He smiled.

"Mind stepping inside a moment?" he said.

When Claude hesitated, he added: "Perhaps Mrs. Marshall had better come in too."

They followed him inside where the Director indicated two chairs alongside the desk.

"I've been checking your claims," he said. "And since you were still here, I didn't think it advisable to prolong the suspense."

Claude glanced at his wife.

"You mean it's all right ... the land is ours?"

The Director sat down and spread open a pair of folders on the desk. For a long while he stared at them—comparing them. He shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Marshall. I'm afraid it isn't all right."

"But our claim. It's valid, isn't it?"

Leon Stubbs ran a hand through his greying hair. "I don't know," he said. "Naturally the fault for processing duplicate claims lies with the colonization bureau in Washington. Eventually, I suppose it will be up to them to decide on the disposition of this case.... However, because of the time-lag in communications, I have full authority to pass down temporary decisions in matters of this type.... And because Mr. Whiting's claim is dated several days ahead of yours, I must in all fairness award the land to him.... You and your wife can appeal that decision of course."

"We'll appeal, Mr. Stubbs," Claude said angrily. "After all, this mess is the government's fault. Not ours! It's up to them to straighten it out."

"That's up to you," Leon Stubbs said. "Although I'm sure you realize that in the meantime you'll have to make some temporary arrangements."

"Temporary arrangements?"

"Yes, Mr. Marshall. Even assuming the government decides in your favor—which I doubt—you'll have to live somewhere while the case is being processed.... And that will take some time."

"How long?"

Leon Stubbs shuffled through the papers again.

"You know about the time-lag, don't you?"

"No. What about the time-lag?"

The Director met his stare. "I thought you knew. Actually the only communication we have with Terra short of space travel, is by short wave radio, and radio waves as you may know travel at approximately the speed of light. Since we are approximately 4.4 light-years away from Earth, a round trip message to Washington would take about nine years. This of course does not take into consideration the time needed to process your case."

Claude kept watching the Director's face while he spoke. He looked like an honest man. To all intents and purposes he was simply a public servant performing a distasteful duty. Yet there was something about his voice that had an all-too-familiar ring.... Something that hinted he was leading up to an offer.

Claude cleared his throat. "All right, Mr. Stubbs. So you've convinced me of the futility of appealing the claim. What now?"

Leon Stubbs bit off the end of a cigar and lit it before answering.

"I've arranged to give you and your family an alternate claim, Mr. Marshall. Of course it isn't quite as desirable as the original one. But under the circumstances—" He let the sentence trail off.

"I see," Claude said. "And where is this alternate claim?"

Stubbs examined the end of his cigar.

"It's on the other side of the planet, Mr. Marshall. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do."

At his elbow, Claude caught the sharp intake of his wife's breath.

"It really isn't too bad," the Director went on. "Many of the reports about the cold-side have been exaggerated."

"I'm sure they have," Claude said bitterly. "I'm sure it's just the place to bring up a nine-year-old boy."

"Please Mr. Marshall. Don't be bitter. It isn't my fault."

Claude got up placing his palms on the edge of the metal desk. He leaned forward till his face was only inches away from the Director's cigar, and said: "Isn't it?"

The Director didn't answer. Instead he got up and walked over to the open window. For ten full seconds he stared out at the lush valley that flanked the spaceport. Then he turned.

"You want my advice, Mr. Marshall?"

Claude shrugged his shoulders.

"Go home," Leon Stubbs said. "You can't bring up a boy on the cold-side. It just wouldn't work."

"But we just got here," Joan said. "We sold everything we had to come here!"

Stubbs nodded. "I know," he said. He indicated the folders. "It's all there in your records. Six years ago you left Terra with six-thousand credits. But surely with that kind of money you could get a fresh start almost anywhere."

"But we want to stay here, Mr. Stubbs."

Stubbs took a drag out of the cigar.

"I know," he said woodenly.

Claude remained silent, regarding the conversation carefully. A pattern was beginning to form now—a familiar pattern. He walked over to where the Director was standing.

"Perhaps you could make a suggestion, Mr. Stubbs. Surely there must be opportunities on this side of the planet for a man with six-thousand credits?"

"I'm not quite sure what you're getting at," Leon Stubbs said.

"I think you do, Mr. Stubbs," Claude retorted. "I think we're both getting at the same thing. Suppose we dispense with the subtleties and get down to cases."

The Director sat down at the desk pyramiding his fingertips.

"Very well, Mr. Marshall," he said. "I'll be blunt. It's occurred to me that if the date on your claim were changed, the land would naturally be yours. The difficulty of course lies in the fact that there are duplicate records on Terra and we'd have to take care of the man who handles them. Otherwise the discrepancy would show up eventually. Actually, I want nothing for myself but these people in Washington—"

"Yeah, I know," Claude interrupted. "It's someone else who's getting the money. It's always someone else who's getting the money."

"It would take quite a bit, I'm afraid," the Director said ignoring the sarcasm.

"How much?"

The Director stubbed out the end of his cigar. "About five thousand," he said. "Yes. Five thousand ought to do it."

Claude looked at his wife.

And she looked back at him.

Outside, Billy had tired of the seven-year-old magazine and was hammering on the door for admittance.

"Can we have a few minutes to think it over?" Claude said.

"Certainly," Stubbs said amiably. "And I want to make it quite clear, Mr. Marshall, that this money is not for me. There's this fellow—"

"Yeah, I know. There's this fellow in Washington. Come on Joan. Let's step outside a moment."

Ten minutes later, Leon Stubbs answered their knock and ushered them to the desk chairs. After they were seated, he said: "I take it you've talked it over."

Claude nodded. "Yes, Mr. Stubbs. My wife and I talked it over and we came to a decision."

"I'm glad," the Director said. "And may I say I think you're doing a wise thing. Centifor's a beautiful place. Simply beautiful...."

"Yes it is," Claude agreed. "It is beautiful. That's why we'd like to see it stay that way."

The Director raised an eyebrow.

"My wife and I talked it over," Claude went on, "and we decided that taking someone else's land whether it's done by theft, force, or bribery is wrong. We thought of this place as something fresh and clean. We thought all those tests we took were designed to keep people like you out of here. Now it appears we were mistaken. We've talked it over, Mr. Stubbs, and we've decided to go back to Earth and expose you."

"But you can't," the Director said. "You've—"

"Yes we can," Claude said. "The ships go back practically empty. A return berth will be no trouble at all. We're returning on the first ship out."

"Perhaps we could make a better deal," Stubbs said. "Perhaps five thousand is too much. Perhaps—"

"No. No deals! Let's go Joan."

They went outside, into the fresh warm sunshine, staring at the torpedo shaped spaceship standing in the clearance area half-a-mile away.

They'd just started toward it, when a jeep squealed up alongside them. Bruce Whiting was at the wheel.

"Hi," he said. "Hop in. I'll give you a lift."

"Thanks," Claude said without bitterness. He helped his wife and son into the rear seat and climbed in beside the driver.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," he said as the other man threw the vehicle into gear. "Stubbs tells me the land is yours now."

The driver nodded, inching down on the accelerator. The vehicle leaped forward. At seventy miles an hour, they swooped past the spaceship and the knot of people standing in the shadow of the rudder stanchions.

"Hey. Slow up!" Claude yelled. "We're getting off here. We're booking return passage on that ship!"

Whiting didn't answer.

The low slung buildings of the clearance area leaped up at them and passed into the background. They were heading into open country now.

"Whiting! Turn around. We're staying here in the clearance area!"

Whiting's foot slacked off the accelerator. The speedometer dropped to fifty. But the vehicle kept moving into open country. The man at the wheel flicked a look at Claude and smiled.

"Congratulations, Mr. Marshall," he said. "You've passed the final test."

"Test? I don't understand."

"Let me explain then," Bruce Whiting said. "In the first place my name isn't Whiting.... It's Reed—Paul Reed. I work for the government. This final test—the one you just went through—was designed to weed out any undesirables who might have slipped through our screening processes back on Earth."

"You mean this whole build up was just a test?"

The other man nodded. "We give it to every new arrival here. Now that you've passed, I'm driving you out to your homestead site."

Claude looked back at the newly-arrived spaceship and the tiny figures who were huddled at its base.

"All those people," he said. "You mean they still have to go through what we did?"

The driver shook his head.

"No. Those people are going back to Earth. You see, Mr. Marshall, those are the people who offered Leon Stubbs the bribe."