Under cover of the explosion, Rawson rushed toward Seymour, picked him up and fled with him into the darkness of the sandy desert, beyond the hills.
"Gee, sir!" the boy said after he recovered from his astonishment, and they lay in hiding on top of a tall hill and looked down on the excited bustle of the camp. "Did you do that?"
Rawson smiled grimly. "Nothing to it. Swamps create marsh gas, or methane gas, which is highly inflammable. A little fire will make a stagnant pocket of the gas go up with a bang."
Young Seymour looked at the lights of the camp with troubled eyes. "I'm sorry you rescued me, sir."
"What's this, Mr. Seymour?"
The young fellow avoided his captain's eyes. "I been thinking, sir, that—well, maybe, Underofficer Durk is right."
"So Durk's been talking to you, convincing you that I haven't enough experience to command a space ship!"
"I feel miserable about the whole thing, sir. It's—oh, gee, captain. Durk's got the ship and the men and he's had twenty-five years in the spaceways. He ought to know what's doing."
Rawson's voice was suddenly raw as Jovian liquor. "All right, Mr. Seymour. I understand. Get going!"