“The whole Tomb of Rhiannon—buried, now; Penkawr must have started a cave-in.”
Carse didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe it at all but he tried to make himself believe, for he was becoming more and more afraid. And the thing of which he was afraid was impossible.
With blind anger he used the flaming beam of the pistol to undercut the mass of soil that blocked his way. He worked outward until the beam suddenly died as the charge of the gun ran out. He flung away the useless pistol and attacked the hot smoking mass of soil with the sword.
Panting, dripping, his mind a whirl of confused speculations, he dug outward through the soft soil till a small hole of brilliant daylight opened in front of him.
Daylight? Then he’d been in the weird bubble of darkness longer than he had imagined.
The wind blew in through the little opening, upon his face. And it was warm wind. A warm wind and a damp wind, such as never blows on desert Mars.
Carse squeezed through and stood in the bright day looking outward.
There are times when a man has no emotion, no reaction. Times when all the centers are numbed and the eyes see and the ears hear but nothing communicates itself to the brain, which is protected in this way from madness.
He tried finally to laugh at what he saw though he heard his own laughter as a dry choking cry.
“Mirage, of course,” he whispered. “A big mirage. Big as all Mars.”