Dobermann's quick eyes took in each detail in seconds, and then they darted up to Joel's face. Carruthers was silent, and his face was white.
"All right, let's get some winch-lifts over here!" Joel bellowed. "Torches, can-openers, let's get with it!"
And within minutes, Joel was on his way down in a bucket, big boots planted solidly on a small mountain of heavy tools.
Dobermann was following, and Carruthers was in the third bucket.
Joel's bare hands were exploring the gnurled lip of the forehull lock-hatch before either of them hit bottom. Dobermann was first up beside him, a heavy torch cradled in his short, thick arms.
"Ready?"
"Won't need that thing," Joel grunted. "Nobody locked up when they left. Give me a hand."
The hatch, like the rest of the hull, was pitted, but despite the moistness of the sand in which the ship was imbedded, there were no indications of corrosion. Joel made a mental note to have the lubricants in which the hinge-gymbals were packed analyzed later; they were still as good as new; the hatch was giving almost easily.
Carruthers, with an arc lantern, lit their way inside.
They walked into what was obviously a pilots' compartment. Instruments, control panels, ack-seats, notations on metal-leaf note-pads which they did not understand; Dobermann copied them.