"Well, this is a lot like it—" he tossed out defensively. In spite of himself he slid a sidelong glance at the surrounding dark.
Canham went on unnoticing.
"That's what I mean—it's a lot like it, but it's different too. Like it had been lived in for God knows how long, but everybody moved out."
"But there's no ruins, or anything—"
"Maybe there wouldn't be any after a million years or so. And how do we know what's under the sand? You can't even find your own footprints fifteen minutes after you've made them."
Bradford laughed shortly. "Well, keep your spooky ideas to yourself. We don't want Rodriguez going clear off his rocker."
They sat watching the fading landscape where the dust-devils still swooped and swung. Finally, with a faint frown, Bradford glanced at his chronometer.
"Roddy's been gone quite a while," he said uneasily. He stood suddenly and lifted his voice sharply.
"Rodriguez! Hey, amigo—andale Ud.!" He glanced at Canham. "I don't like this—we don't know what we're liable to run onto in this damned country...."