No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be. Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity, a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alien metal, which was making him theorize so wildly.
Then Wass touched his elbow. "Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp."
Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass.
"All right," Rodney said belligerently into his radio. "What's holding up the procession?"
Martin was silent.
Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. It was in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing before a bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far as the combined light of their torches would reach.
"Seeds!" Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass.
Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips.
Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest section of the bank.
Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If they wouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? "Don't, Wass!"