"Suppose it's this monster that killed off that civilization?" Forster suggested.
"Then it's our duty to investigate it," I had to say. "Even at the cost of our lives." Here I agreed with Donaldson; monster or no, it was our job to fathom the secrets of this dead world.
We agreed to explore in twos, rather than risk the customary complement of six all at once. Two men would go out; five remain within, three of them space-suited and ready to leave the ship to answer any emergency call.
Mickens and Forster drew the first assignment. They suited up and left. Tensely, we proceeded about our shipside duties, cataloguing information from our previous stops, performing routine tasks, busying ourselves desperately in unimportant work to take our minds off the men who were out on that desert together.
An hour later, Forster returned. Alone.
His face was pale, his eyes bulging, and almost before he stepped from the airlock we knew what must have happened.
"Where's Mickens?" I asked, breaking the terrible hush in the cabin.
"Dead," he said hollowly. "We—we got to the mountain, and—God, it was awful!"
He sank down in an acceleration cradle and started to sob. Doc Graves fumbled at his belt, drew out a neurotab, forced it between the boy's quivering lips. He calmed; color returned to his face.
"Tell us about it," Hamner urged gently.