They approached the coast at low altitude and circled once.  The onshore wind of evening had faded; a scattering of slowly drifting clouds fitfully obscured Gurnil's tiny moon, and at first the land below looked appallingly dark and hostile.  They circled a second time, and as they moved out over the sea again Forzon, looking back, picked out an isolated light and - in a valley beyond - the dimly diffused glow from a fog-shrouded village.

Rastadt had been talking in low tones with the pilot.  "It looks all right," he announced.  "Take her down."

They descended vertically, bounced, and came to rest.  Forzon jumped out and found himself on a narrow strip of sandy beach.  Waves broke rhythmically, running up the beach to lap at his sandals.

Rastadt scrambled down beside him, robe flapping awkwardly, sending whistling snorts through the upward curve of his disfiguring artificial nose.  "There isn't much tide," he said.  "Just enough to remove any suspicious marks."  He moved away from the plane and called out guardedly.  "Someone should be here to meet us," he muttered.

He trotted off along the shore, wheeled, trotted back again.  His white robe caught the dim moonlight and made a flouncing specter of him.  "We're early," he said, "but they should have been here.  Damn!  Wouldn't do to have a fisherman happen along."

He spoke briefly with the pilot and turned away with a gesture of impatience.  "Come on," he said to Forzon.

A low bluff overhung the beach.  Rastadt, muttering that there was supposed to be a path somewhere, blundered about in the darkness and finally began a stumbling uncertain climb.  Forzon gathered his robe about him and followed.  At the top Rastadt paused and waited, panting, until Forzon caught up with him.  Ahead of them was the deeper gloom of a thick forest, but beyond, high on a distant hill, the solitary light still burned brightly.

"Farmhouse," Rastadt announced.  "Team B station.  They should have met us."

Forzon studied the light calculatingly.  Distances were deceptive at night; he guessed two miles, three at the most, and hoped it was no more than four.  Behind him he could dimly make out the empty beach below.  The plane had vanished silently.

"Aren't you going back?" he exclaimed.

"I was, but I can't leave a confounded novice wandering about in a strange country.  They should have met us.  Damn!"  He was still panting, gasping his words.  "The plane'll come for me tomorrow night.  We shouldn't have any trouble finding the place.  It's the only house between here and the village, and there's the light.  Let's go."

Forzon took a step, caught a toe in his robe, and stumbled.  "Don't do that!" Rastadt snapped.

"Sorry," Forzon said.

"All you have to do is go about with an other-worldly expression on your face, and no one will dare question your presence.  But if you start getting tangled up as though you've never worn a robe before-"

"I'll manage all right," Forzon said.

"Come on.  We'll probably meet them along the way."