CHAPTER XI
They carried the body of Don Mariner down the ramp and laid it on the rock-hard earth of the desolate bowl.
Mac, standing next to Alan, said in his ear, "Come aboard again. I want to show you something."
Alan turned obediently, although why he should follow Mac's commands—for it had been a command—he wasn't sure; and Win screamed, a high hysterical keening that set Unquote to ululating too. The men all cried out. "What's wrong? What is it?"
"Look at your head!" she said to Alan, pointing. Even in that somber moment he could not help laughing.
"How?" he said. "I'm not built that way."
"Oh, God," said Bill Thihling. "Alan, you took an awful blast in the ear. Why didn't you say something about it?"
"What are you talking about?" he said irritably. "I wasn't hit." He put a hand up to his right ear. Brave said, "Look out, boss, you'll hurt it. It's a bad one."
He fingered the ear. The tip and lobe, and part of the convolutions of the outer ear, felt like bits of steak which had been burnt in a searing flame; he looked at his fingers, amazed, and saw black flakes of skin and powdery, charcoal-like stuff. That must be the flesh, cooked and carbonized, almost incinerated in the astounding heat of the little fireball. "They did hit me," he said stupidly, staring at his fingers. "I never felt it."