It seemed an insane speculation. Yet everything about this was insane. He would be himself, if he didn't get down to Earth soon.
He could not see the glow of Las Vegas anywhere in the night. He cut his radio in and spoke hoarsely into it.
"Beechcraft 4556 calling Las Vegas Airport! Come in, Las Vegas!"
There was no answer. The radio seemed operative—but when he turned the receiver dials, not a sound came out.
"Knocked out," Price muttered. "And no wonder, if—"
He couldn't finish the thought, it was too soul-shaking a thing to speculate on, the thing that might have happened to him.
He curved the plane around, looking for highway lights, for an airways beacon, anything.
Nothing. Nothing but the darkness and the stars.
A little frantically, he swung the plane around and started eastward again. He must have missed Las Vegas. But if he kept going east, he'd surely cut the main highways. There were always lots of cars on them at night, in the summer.