But the line in front of him parted and he saw the blackened thing that lay upon the sand. The twisted, blasted, crumpled thing that huddled there.
Scott dropped his sledge and a sob rose in his throat. His hands clenched at his side and he tottered slowly forward.
He stood above the body of his brother, flung there on the sand by the searing backlash of the rocket blast.
"Hugh!" he cried, "Hugh!"
But the blackened bundle didn't stir. Hugh Nixon was dead.
Eyes bleared, Scott stared around at the machines. They were breaking up, scattering, moving away.
"Damn you," he screamed, "don't you even care?"
But even as he spoke, he knew they didn't care. The plant civilization of Mars was an unemotional society. It knew no love, no triumph, no defeat, no revenge. It was mechanistic, cold, logical. It did only those things which aimed at a definite end. So long as there was a chance of protecting the rocket, so long as there was hope of halting its flight after it had been tampered with, that civilization would act. But now that it was in space, now that it could not be recalled, the incident was over. There would be no further action.
Scott looked down at the man at his feet.