"G'bye, Clabberhead," retorted Jon fondly. "Over and out."
Black depression settled on Jon as he trudged toward the horizon. Unwilling impressions returned to his brain. He remembered the crew of the XP-14. Their converter had been cracked in a jet blowout. The commander was in the Rest Home on Venus. His head and shoulders looked like a mushroom. Colloids. Lucky, everybody said, just a light burn. His brain was still good.
So he carried his obscenity of a head around and found his way with a radar rod. Some of the others weren't so lucky; the flesh melted off their bones. Some of them had glowed before they died.
I'll stick with it until the time limit's up, he thought, then I'll blast my suit or cut the S-G circuit. Quick and easy.
He approached the sphere—hemisphere now—and wondered casually why it assumed that shape. Feeding, probably. But what would a metal ball eat? On the other hand, how did it receive his mental commands? Drop it, Jonny, you're just going in circles.
The sphere popped back into shape at his approach and circled coquettishly about him. It stopped before him and seemed to be waiting. Jon grinned.
"Booger, you ear-banger, you're bucking for stripes. All right.... To the rear, MARCH!" Booger spun on his axis and trundled briskly away.
"Halt! By the right oblique, MARCH! RIGHT!... WHEEL! Halt! At Ease!" Booger came patiently to rest.
The fancy came over Jon that it would indeed be a sight to organize a drill team of these spheres. "Booger," he thought suddenly, "where are your friends? You can't be the only one on this Godforsaken world. Go get 'em, Booger." Booger sat for a bit and then rolled playfully to and fro.