Canham looked at him dully. "You won't have to—he's finished."
The rigidly contorted body relaxed inertly, the tortured eyes open and glazed. Rodriguez crossed himself and burst into childish sobs.
Bradford put out a restraining hand toward Canham.
"Let him alone—I wish to God I could do the same thing. Give me a hand with Palmer—we'll have to bury him the best way we can."
Shaken with more than the night chill, they removed the clumsy oxygen and water containers and piled a protective cairn of rocks above the silent figure. Behind them, Rodriguez sobbed bitter Spanish curses and hurled rocks at telltale flickers of movement in the dark.
Through the next day and the next, they trudged on doggedly, speaking little as they put the reluctant miles behind them, taking what shelter they could during the bitter nights. During the day under the thin Martian sunlight, they turned off the suit-heaters, conserving the batteries; hoarding their remaining food and water with miserly care.
Bradford, assuming tacitly acknowledged leadership, pondered the situation wearily. Even with Palmer's supplies, it was doubtful that the three of them could last out the ten weeks or so remaining before the arrival of the second ship. If they could only make it to the Pole—there they were sure of water at least, in the vegetation belt surrounding the shallow icecap. If it was ice and not frozen carbon dioxide which some of the experts held out for. In their initial swing around the planet they had seen the narrow green belt dotted with shining pools. Plants meant oxygen, too; and it was possible that in a temperature supporting some kind of growing life, it would be warm enough so that they could remove their helmets for breathing, if only in the brief daylight hours.
Bradford, lost in thought, started as Canham touched his arm, motioning him to open his faceplate and turn off the head-phones.
"What's the matter with you?" he jerked impatiently.