He almost succeeded in controlling a querulous note in his voice by trying to assume the buddy-to-buddy tone of one Terran discussing with another the universal peculiarity of aborigines. He watched Guthrie carefully.
"What did you come down in?" asked the latter abruptly.
The other stared. The girl, who had been sagging wearily against the stocky form of the nearest Skirkh, straightened up with a hurt look.
"It was an emergency rocket of the Mount Pico. Mr. Trent piloted it down here after the others ... passed on ... from their burns—"
"Explosion and fire just before we were to pass this system on the way to Altair," explained Trent rapidly. He had retreated from hope to a worried expression. "I don't know what did it; they braked from interstellar drive to give the rockets a chance at these planets. It all went pretty fast."
"Then there's no ship to pick us up from this mudball?"
Trent glanced at the jostling Skirkhi, then at Guthrie. His brow furrowed.
"Well, of course the government and the spaceline will send ships to search this volume of space. I think the crew got off a message...."
"Aw, hell!" grunted Guthrie contemptuously.
Trent's voice trailed off. Then, ignoring Guthrie's scowl, he tried to pick up where he had left off.