"Time for that nap," Morrison said to himself. "But I guess I'll survey the situation first."
He found that he was at the bottom of a shallow fault strewn with knife-edged pebbles. Two tires had blown on impact, his windshield was gone, and one of the doors was sprung. His equipment was strewn around, but appeared to be intact.
"Could have been worse," Morrison said.
He bent down to examine the tires more carefully.
"It is worse," he said.
The two blown tires were shredded beyond repair. There wasn't enough rubber left in them to make a child's balloon. He had used up his spares ten days back crossing Devil's Grill. Used them and discarded them. He couldn't go on without tires.
Morrison unpacked his telephone. He wiped dust from its black plastic face, then dialed Al's Garage in Presto. After a moment, the small video screen lighted up. He could see a man's long, mournful, grease-stained face.
"Al's Garage. Eddie speaking."
"Hi, Eddie. This is Tom Morrison. I bought that GM sandcar from you about a month ago. Remember?"
"Sure I remember you," Eddie said. "You're the guy doing a single into the Southwest Track. How's the bus holding out?"