"I don't know, sir. It isn't Terrestrial."
"All right, what do the counters tell you?"
"It's about a thousand years old, sir. That's as close as the counters can come, working off a screen. Perhaps, sir, you'd—"
"Well I don't want to look at pictures! Inform task mission when they show up that I'm coming out for a look around—and I'll have their hides if they go unnailing things before I get there. You got any Bond with you, Southard?"
"Yes sir."
"All right, you get my point? Don't drink it all! This is Command, Whale, out!"
Joel broke the circuit just as the admittance buzzer went off; he thumbed a stud and the narrow bulkhead door slid back, admitting Carruthers and Dobermann.
"Was wondering when you two were going to report. Sent a T-M to Southard—says he's found a space ship two hundred feet under the desert. Sometimes I think that kid works too hard. All right, got the 'copter ready?"
"Warming up on the waist ramp now," Dobermann said.
Joel stood up, reached for his guns and belt and strapped them around his thick middle. He gave Carruthers a quick look. The thin face was taut, almost expressionless, but there was an excitement smouldering in the dark eyes; the old excitement Joel had seen in them so many times before.