THE ocher sand of the Martian desert spouted towards the blue-black sky under the impact of the falling space machine. The vessel slithered a little distance and became still in the long trough it had gouged for itself.
For a long time nothing disturbed the desert’s silence. A thin, icy breeze stirred mournfully across it; the small sun moved among the faint stars . . . until at last its pale light picked out a group of four radio driven robots moving methodically across the waste on smoothly jointed legs. Flawlessly made, rather hideous, quipped with various strange instruments, they finally gained the vessel, set to work with the pincer hands and tools upon the airlocks . . .
Merci beaucoup, Doc Mars!
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