Don Denton winced, recognizing a corpse on a lower bunk as the grey-haired father of the girl outside. He felt a sick futility beating at his mind, when he remembered the reassuring words he had spoken to the girl but a few short hours before.
He moved about the hut, seeking for the slightest clue as to the cause of the men's deaths, finally turning back to the door, his search unrewarded, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting theories and thoughts.
"Jean?" he said quietly, closed the door behind him on the horrible scene within.
Blood drained from his face, leaving it suddenly haggard and drawn. He whirled, with his back to the hut's wall, the ati-gun jutting nervelessly before him in complete command of the clearing.
Not a thing moved; there was only the slightest of breezes. He felt the sweat trickling down the flat planes of his cheeks, and the metal of the hut felt incredibly warm against his back.
"Jean?" he called again, desperately.
There was only the muffled hollow vibration of the eternal waves pounding against the island. No voice answered his cry.
Jean Palmer was gone as though she had never been.
Don Denton stood rigidly for a moment, a nameless fear tugging at his mind, his blue eyes suddenly black with fear for the safety of the girl.