"Then Public Utility takes no further responsibility for you," Reade repeated, and hung up.
Morrison packed up his telephone, took a sip from his meager water supply, and went on.
The sandwolves loped along at each side, moving in closer. Overhead, a delta-winged kite found him. It balanced on the up-drafts for a day and a night, waiting for the wolves to finish him. Then a flock of small flying scorpions sighted the waiting kite. They drove the big creature upstairs into the cloud bank. For a day the flying reptiles waited. Then they in turn were driven off by a squadron of black kites.
The traces were very rich now, on the fifteenth day since he had left the sandcar. By rights, he should be walking over goldenstone. He should be surrounded by goldenstone. But still he hadn't found any.
Morrison sat down and shook his last canteen. It gave off no wet sound. He uncapped it and turned it up over his mouth. Two drops trickled down his parched throat.
It was about four days since he had talked to Public Utility. He must have used up the last of his water yesterday. Or had it been the day before?
He recapped the empty canteen and looked around at the heat-blasted landscape. Abruptly he pulled the telephone out of his pack and dialed Max Krandall in Venusborg.
Krandall's round, worried face swam into focus on the screen. "Tommy," he said, "you look like hell."
"I'm all right," Morrison said. "A little dried out, that's all. Max, I'm near goldenstone."