He talked on and on, and finally he could talk no more. He slept.
He was awakened by a pattering on the roof.
"Rain!" he shouted. He jumped up and ran to the window socket. The rain clouds were high, and heavy with storm.
It struck him like a blow: they hung above the mesa.
Above his pyres.
In a panic he clambered up to the mesa, forgetting his breakfast, forgetting his outer clothing, his mind in disorder.
The shock wave pounded his eardrums.
He was too startled to make words. With unbelieving eyes he saw, about five miles away where the river emptied into the sea, the black cloud of an atomic explosion rise into the sky to spread out under the rain.
Then suddenly he was running blindly through the rain. The scout must have come down. They must be testing. The area was ideal for testing atomic weapons. I must reach them before they leave.
Through heavy undergrowth he pushed his way down the slope to the valley. His foot slipped on an exposed root. With a sharp crack of bone, he fell.