He knew this world; there was no novelty here for him.

He knew the lava beds, looming gray and dead beneath the foothills; he knew the grotesque rock shapes that seemed to hint of a mysterious past.

Nature had not altered her face.

On the broad levels were the yellow tinted lines that told of the presence of soap-weed, the dark lines that betrayed the mesquite, the saccatone belts that marked the little guillies.

Then there were the barrancas, the arid stretches where the sage-brush and the cactus grew.