"Well," Gallifa affirmed with finality, "Samuels will have several specimens for us back at the base. We will find out after we get back."
"I just thought of something," MacFarland exclaimed suddenly. "Do you think maybe that—that cat—or one like it, attacked Bradshaw? It may have been the reason he ran through the brambles, figuring the beast couldn't follow."
"Hmm, I see what you mean," Gallifa replied thoughtfully. "The beast was sort of catlike, and it could have roughed Bradshaw up some. Only it doesn't seem logical that the experience could have driven him to the type of mental breakdown he suffered. Still, it's as good a guess as any, I suppose. Maybe Bradshaw will snap out of it and be able to tell us himself."
MacFarland glanced at the sky. "We'd better be getting back," he suggested. "The other crews will be in, and we have a lot of data to correlate tonight."
Gallifa agreed and secured the rifle and scope. Before he could turn the truck around, they heard the sound of a helijet approaching at maximum speed. Gallifa shaded his eyes and looked at the now hovering craft.
"I think it is Hawkins," he reported. "And I'd say offhand that he wants to talk to us."
The 'copter landed expertly a few feet away, and the blades slowed to idling speed. It was Hawkins. He waved excitedly as he ran toward the truck.
"Mac! Gallifa!" he called. "There's a space ship down a few miles from here!"
Gallifa gasped. A wrecked ship? It seemed inconceivable. A space craft wasn't dainty. Damage from a wreck should have been plainly visible even from the spotting cruiser—ignoring completely their own air maps.
He faced Hawkins. "Are you sure?" he asked incredulously. "How did we ever miss the wreckage?"