The light of noble intention shone in his face. He was swept away with his own eloquence.
"If," he finished, "we take care of the duty, the destiny will take care of itself!"
That was very good. He hoped they would have the grace to quote him on that. It was a fine summing up of his entire character.
Berkeley smiled a rueful smile. There was no stopping it. It was not a matter of not planting the flag, not taking possession. The captain was right. If not the Western Alliance, then certainly the Eastern Alliance. His quarrel was not with the captain nor with the duty, but with the destiny. The issue was not to be decided now. It had already been decided—decided when the first apeman had crept into the tree nest of another and stolen his mate.
Man takes. Whether it be by barbaric rapine, or reluctant acceptance of duty through carefully contrived diplomacy, Man takes.
Berkeley turned and made his way out of the control room.
————
Outside, the soil shifted in its contortions of cooling. The wind whispered dryly over the red landscape, sending up little swirls of dust, eternally shifting it from one place to another. The soil was less hot, and as it cooled, the Mars race pressed inward. Theirs was the urgency to get at this meteor as quickly as possible, remove it, start the water flowing once more.
"Observation reports ground cool enough for landing!" The magic words seemed to sing into the control cabin.
"Summon all landing party," Captain Griswold commanded immediately.