Evil-smelling juice slashed across the upturned belly of the ship as he savagely wrenched open the buckled door and tumbled in, dragging the flamer in after him. He stumbled across the roof-struts and lunged for the upside-down radio panel.
The cruisers' radios were on their own battery-powered circuits. He snapped the power on and heard the slow hum and sputter of the warming tubes. He poked in the button labeled AUT. EM. SIG. a standard repeating distress call on a tight beam.
Then he was flung against the opposite wall. As he struggled back to his feet, pressure against them told him the cruiser was rising, and he knew very well it was not doing so under its own power.
A glistening red wall bulged against the door-frame through which he had come. Pritchard realized that once again the cruiser was being hoisted aloft in the worm's coil. It was going to drop him, to kill him quickly, rather than poke inside and face his flamer.
Pritchard snatched the flamer and staggered toward the opening. Jabbing the nozzle into that scarlet slime, he gripped the handles.
Roaring heat beat back at him. He braced himself, ignoring his own singeing flesh and crisping hair.
The cruiser struck ground with a crash. He was flung sideways, threw up an arm, and heard it snap. He dragged himself to the door which now was turned to the ground. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Pritchard hung his head through the opening and peered out.
It was a crazy nightmare. The meadow was a ceiling, to his inverted eyes, against which a giant red riband rolled and writhed in fantastic configurations. Every melting convolution, every arching loop, expressed pain and wrath. And, now and again, a livid blotch appeared along its length, alternately turning purple and yellow, and dripping streamers of drool.
Then came a sound, a great tearing sound in the sky. Pritchard hauled himself back into the ship and crawled to the radio. He switched off the automatic signal and cut in the transmission band.