They opened thermocans in the galley and gulped the hot food standing. The ship had suddenly become a prison. Even Hastings was touched with the thirst to know what awaited them outside.
"We circled the asteroid," he said at last, his voice argumentative. "There's nothing here, Mr. O'Brien. We saw that."
But O'Brien was hurrying back to the control cabin.
The suits were cumbersome, even in the slight gravity. Hastings tested the oxygen tanks strapped on the backs, and checked the equipment with stringent care. A leak would be fatal on this airless world.
So they went out through the airlock, and Arnsen, for one, felt his middle tightening with the expectation of the unknown. His breathing sounded loud and harsh within the helmet. The tri-polarized faceplates of the helmets were proof against sun-glare, but they could not minimize the horrible desolation of the scene.
A world untouched—more lifeless, more terrible, than frigid Jotunheim, where the Frost Giants dwelt. Arnsen's heavily-leaded boots thumped solidly on the slag. There was no dust here, no sign of erosion, for there was no air.
In O'Brien's hand the crystal flamed with milky pallor. The boy's face was thin and haggard with desire. Arnsen, watching, felt hot fury against the incubus that had worked its dark spell on the other.
He could do nothing—only follow and wait. His hand crept to the weighted blackjack in his belt.
He saw the hope slowly fade from O'Brien's eyes. Against his will he said, "We're only on the surface, Doug. Underground—"