"I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski."
"Yes, sir. That's what we all thought."
A moment later, Nagurski added, "Anyway, I just noticed it was my shelf—my, that is, self."
The basso profundo performing Figaro on my headset climbed to a girlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I had first heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels.
"Take a good look around, boys," I said. "What do you see?"
"Quail," Nagurski replied. "That's what I see."
"You," I said carefully, "have been in space a long time. Look again."
"I see our old buddy, Quail."
I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It was Quade. A man in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead.