There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination. The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriously plunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, times without number.
Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. "The ship leaves in two hours, Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?"
Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in his throat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust, his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.
A grate.
Rodney stared. "Wass!" he shouted. "We've found a way out!"
Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. "I'm at the switchboard now, Martin. I—"
There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.
The grate groaned upward and stopped.
Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then he began to scream.
Martin switched off his radio, sick.