"I'll send Bronoski with a personal flyer immediately to make an air pickup," I said numbly.
It wasn't the guards' fault. Charlie hadn't seemed to be in any immediate danger and we don't kill intelligent life-forms without damned good reason—the kind of reason that stands up in court. But he was now stretched over what I was fairly certain was an active geyser—"The Finger of Fire," the native had called it, and had assured Charlie that it would kill him.
I dispatched Bronoski, but that was all I could do. I did not know when the geyser would spout. Maybe Bronoski would make it. Maybe he wouldn't.
I magnified the view from the useless little Bird and studied Charlie's face in the screen. If he lay there doing nothing, waiting for a miracle to happen, he was—I shuddered—cooked. He had to make an active decision.
If he didn't, he was almost sure to die.
But maybe that was what he wanted. Maybe accident prones really want to destroy themselves.
It was his bid.
Slate dropped off the rim of the hole into the pit and Charlie stiffened. More passive acceptance. But maybe I wasn't being fair. There wasn't much Charlie could do. There wasn't much else for him to do except give up.
But I noticed his eyes moving. They went up to the bubbling ribbon of water and down to the steaming stream below the ridge where it emerged. Charlie smiled. He had made a decision.
He folded his knees and dropped into the hole.