There's coffee and medicine and books and cards.
But I'm tired now, so tired, he thought. Can I hold out?
Well, if not. There's always the gun.
Where will these silly monarchs be if you put a bullet through their stage? All the world's a stage? No. You, Leonard Sale, are the small stage. And they the players. And what if you put a bullet through the wings, tearing down scenes, destroying curtains, ruining lines! Destroy the stage, the players, all, if they aren't careful!
First of all, he must radio through to Marsport, again. If there was any way they could rush the rescue ship sooner, then maybe he could hang on. Anyway, he must warn them what sort of planet this was, this so innocent seeming spot of nightmare and fever vision—
He tapped on the radio key for a minute. His mouth tightened. The radio was dead.
It had sent through the proper rescue message, received a reply, and then extinguished itself.
The proper touch of irony, he thought. There was only one thing to do. Draw a plan.
This he did. He got a yellow pencil and delineated his six day plan of escape.
Tonight, he wrote, read six more chapters of War and Peace. At four in the morning have hot black coffee. At four-fifteen take cards from pack and play ten games of solitaire. This should take until six-thirty when—more coffee. At seven o'clock, listen to early morning programs from Earth, if the receiving equipment on the radio works at all. Does it?