"Good!" Relief surged up inside Jim Ronson. He had travelled many a weary mile for this moment. He had faced frustration and despair. The best doctors on Earth had told him they could do nothing for him. Now, here, in the heart of a mountain near the south pole of Mars—
"Follow me," the Messenger said.
The wall swirled in front of him. He stepped into the misty opaqueness and Ronson followed him. Inside the light, the human felt the millions of microscopic hands take hold of him. Their touch was gentle and caressing, softly tender. Suddenly their touch was firm and strong. He felt them seize his clothing and rip it from his body. Their gentle, caressing touch was gone. In its place was an almost manic fury. A scream ripped involuntarily from his throat.
The scream was flung into complete silence. No echo of it came back to his ears.
Blackness beat at him, flowed in over him, flowed through him. The blackness ransacked every nook and corner of his body. It probed to the bottom of his soul.
It swallowed him whole. It dissected his consciousness, tore it to shreds, then yanked away even the shreds. He seemed to be falling into a black hole that had no end.
Ronson did not know how long the blackness lasted. The first sense to come back was hearing. Somewhere near him he heard a grunt. Then the sense of feeling came back and he realized he was lying naked on sand. He didn't much want to open his eyes. Finally he forced them open. His vision was blurred and vague. When it cleared he saw the source of the grunt.
The sound had come from Tal Bock, squatting on the sand near him. Tal Bock was also naked. Unlike Ronson, the millions of microscopic hands in the darkness had not left even a wrist watch on the Martian.
"Happy—ah—wind time," Ronson said. Tal Bock grunted, but did not answer.
"Where are we?"