These Earthmen were apparently known by numbers only. Bormon's own number—172—was on a thin metal stencil stretched across the outer surface of the glass vision plate of his helmet; he couldn't forget it.
He obeyed the Martian's order. Then he noticed that men with empty baskets were moving along a curved ramp, like a corkscrew, which led to a different level, whether above or below he could not possibly tell without a distinct mental effort.
He decided it was to a lower level as he moved onward, for the huge disk lost its circularity and became like the curving wall of a cylinder, or drum, down the outside of which the ramp twisted. Fresh ore was also being brought from this direction. And seeming to extend out indefinitely into blackness was a misty shaft, like the beam of a searchlight. Presently the ramp gave way to a tunnel-like passage.
Flexible metal-sheathed tubes dangled from the ceiling. These tubes were labeled: OXYGEN, WATER, NUTRIENT.
Bormon, patterning the actions of those he observed around him began to replenish his supply of these three essentials to life. His space suit was of conventional design, with flasks in front for water and nutrient fluid, and oxygen tank across the shoulders. By attaching the proper tubes and opening valves—except the oxygen inlet valve, which was automatic—he soon had his suit provisioned to capacity.
He had just finished this operation when someone touched his arm. He glanced up at the bulky, tall figure—an unmistakable form that even a month's sojourn on Echo had not been able to rob of a certain virility and youthful eclat.
For a moment they stared into each other's eyes through the vision plates of their helmets and Bormon was struck dumb by the change, the stark and utterly nerve-fagged hopelessness expressed on Keith Calbur's features.
Then Calbur tried to grin a welcome, and the effect was ghastly!
For a moment his helmet clicked into contact with Bormon's.