They set out, trotting clumsily in their heavy suits, circling the mound where Rodriguez footprints were already fading in the shifting sands. Canham gave a sudden convulsive clutch at his companion's arm. There was no need to speak—scattered over the sand were the component parts of a space-suit; the heavy gloves, the helmet, the shoes. And neatly wrapped in the padded coverall the oxygen tanks. Ahead, nearly invisible, were the prints of naked feet.
Bradford groaned. "Good God, he's gone completely nuts. He'll be frozen stiff in ten minutes!"
They saw the crumpled heap at the same moment and with a thrill of undefinable terror they saw the stooping, whirling shadow, spinning dizzily over the huddled shape.
Bradford wrenched his faceplate open, yelling frantically. Gasping, he slammed the mask shut against something like a rain of fiery sparks on his unprotected skin. It was all too evident that Rodriguez would never hear again.
Gathering his strength to turn the inert figure, he nearly over-balanced—there was no weight to it at all! Beside him, Canham cried out hoarsely, "My God—he's like a mummy—!"
The whole figure looked strangely unhuman. Completely dehydrated, the flesh molded tight over the protruding bones, Rodriguez lay peacefully, both stick-like hands clasped over the holy medal on his chest.
Sick and shaken, they bent to the task of scooping sand over the shrunken body, glancing sidelong at the devil-dancers whirling exultantly in the shadowy night.