"When Dead-Eye and I crawled out, all it was was a desert. There wasn't a tree, a bush, a rock or a hill for ten miles around. It was the flattest place I ever saw, or hope to see again." He was staring blankly at the insentient visaplate.
"But, hell, I talk too much."
Jake Wilson, landing supervisor, pushed open the oval hatch, said: "Hang on, sir, we're volplaning in. It's lucky we got the vanes out before the power quit."
The shock spilled the chunky Wilson into the plotting room, clipped the legs out from under the three already there.
There was a moment of lift, then another shock a little less severe. The ship lifted again, struck, lifted once more and settled with an audible groan of metal stress.
They hurried from the plotting room, heading for the exit lock.
It was a peculiar sort of night outside, a benevolent blue softening the blackness. Curt Wing stared at the blue haloed city off to the west. He was licking his dry lips.
"Gosh, Cap," Dead-Eye asked suddenly. "What if that blows up?" A shudder quivered through his bulky frame.
Wing's dark eyes went blank. He put one hand on Dead-Eye's arm. He said nothing.
He was standing there, staring at the pulsating blue flower that was spreading out from the city, his fingers quiescent on Dead-Eye's arm when the red-uniformed riot officer jockeyed his speedy rocket car up to them....