I even tried writing backwards so that Scharber could read my message normally from inside his helmet. Where the needle of heat touched, plastic seethed, and a visible line was left.
I wrote:
It's us, Scharber. Lanvin, the Harvers. Changed. Micro-androids now—like race of Xian origin. Friendly. Go home, Scharber. But please send radiogram. Urge imperative need to keep our bodies alive. Will return to them. A million thanks for everything.
The eyes of the Atlas who was our friend, stared again. Lakes of nervous reaction came into them. The plains of the cheeks whitened, as with some strange frost.
The eyes of the Atlas who was our friend stared ... stared fearfully at the message being inscribed so mysteriously on his plastic helmet.
The earthquake spoke:
"Charlie? Or am I going space nuts? Maybe this could be.... But who ever heard of it!..."