"No, you ape—I was just hoping the same about you. How about some light?"
Hawthorne fumbled around, found a battery-operated light that had survived the crash. He hobbled to where O'Dea was half buried in a heap of furniture and extricated him. The two of them rubbed their sore spots and looked glumly about.
"Centauri Six," Hawthorne mused. "You have the book l'arnin'. What's this planet like?"
O'Dea pressed fingers to his temples.
"Not inhabited by Centaurs," he said. "Which is one small break. At least we won't have those monsters—"
"I asked about the planet."
"If any Centaurs show up," said O'Dea shortly, "it'll make no difference about the planet. The Space Guide gives it the name Avignon. Hardly known by humans, of course—like the rest of this system. It has no water and no air. We'll die of thirst or suffocation here, but at least the Centaurs won't get us."
Hawthorne looked up from the aneroid set beside the airlock.
"As usual," he said, "you're wrong. We have an atmospheric pressure of ten pounds. And what's more, the instruments show it's a real atmosphere—like Earth's!"
"There's no such planet! Your instruments must be damaged!"