The gun exploded.
The bullet tore across Sale's forehead, wakening him.
He stayed awake for another six hours, getting over his latest siege. He knew it to be hopeless now. He washed and bandaged the wound he had given himself. He wished he had aimed straighter and it was all over. He watched the sky. Two more days. Two more. Come on, ship, come on. He was heavy with sleeplessness.
No use. At the end of six hours he was raving badly. He took the gun up and put it down and took it up again, put it against his head, tightened his hand on the trigger, changed his mind, looked at the sky again.
Night settled. He tried to read, threw the book away. He tore it up and burned it, just to have something to do.
So tired. In another hour, he decided. If nothing happens, I'll kill myself. This is for certain now. I'll do it, this time.
He got the gun ready and laid it on the ground next to himself.
He was very calm now, though tired. It would be over and done. He would be dead.
He watched the minute hand of his watch. One minute, five minutes, twenty-five minutes.
The flame appeared on the sky.