The third mile brought him to the scene of the crash. A smoking cylinder of fused metal lay in a gully. Parts were strewn along the bottom. A wing, untouched by the fire, was leaning tip down against the edge of [p26] another lava sheet some distance away.
He sat down. Another flare flashed in the sky behind him silhouetting a row of grotesque trees. I’m over here, you fools, he thought. He watched until the flare flickered out, then turned his head back toward the remains of the ship. There wasn’t much of a glow to it now. It would be hard to see unless Astro was right on top of it.
He raised the antenna on the tele-talkie and snapped it on. The screen glowed into life. Towers was stepping through the bulkhead door into the radio room. Just like a television play in installments, Brandon thought. Scene two coming up.
“No sign of him at the scene of the crash,” Towers told Reinhardt.
“If he got out,” observed Reinhardt, “he could be a hundred miles away or more.”
“If he got out,” Towers said in a tone that irritated Brandon.
“I got out,” Brandon said. “And right now I’m walking around your precious planet like a boy scout. Damn this tele-talkie! I’d give a year’s pay if you could see me now, Towers.”
“We may yet spot the escape capsule,” Reinhardt was saying.
“We’re still continuing the search,” put in Towers. “But I don’t mind telling you I’m not wasting much more fuel.”
The radio operator started to say something, hesitated and finally settled for, “yes, sir.”