He took a deep breath.
Why had he taken the compass? He wasn't sure. Perhaps, he reflected, his decision had already been made, deep beneath the surface of consciousness.
He stood before the window, peering into the night. He knew that to attempt to sleep was futile. Sleep, for the past few days an ever-ready friend, had become a hostile stranger.
God, his brain cried, what shall I do?
Slowly, the dust outside the window settled. The scream of wind was no longer audible. His startled eyes beheld dim, faraway lights—those of Hoover City, he guessed.
It was as if, for the space of a few seconds, some cosmic power had silenced the Venusian fury, had guided him toward making his decision.
He whipped up his compass. He barely had time to complete the measurement.
"Sixty-eight degrees," he read. "Northeast by east."
Fresh wind descended onto the plain. Dancing dust erased the vision of the lights.
"Sixty-eight, sixty-eight," he kept muttering.