And the freighters had vanished into the clouds. Yet that, too, was impossible; for the rocket blasts would have created such a roar in the air that he could not have missed their going.
It was as though his mind had tricked him, had conjured chimeras and mirages out of the air to strip his reason away.
He stiffened, the gun lifting in his hand, as one of the men working about the shed turned and ran directly down the field. He gasped silently, recognizing the greyed hair and ruddy face of Jim Palmer.
His hand snapped to a small button on his helmet.
"Hold it, Palmer, don't come any closer!" His voice roared from the tiny annunciator built into the top of his helmet.
Jim Palmer skidded to a stop, menaced by the ati-gun, fell, sprawling in the green mud, as his sudden stop tripped him on the treacherous ground. Amazement made a round O of his mouth, and the glad greeting faded from his eyes.
"What the hell, Denton?" he said sharply. "Have you gone space batty?"
Don Denton laughed without humor, shifted the gun muzzle slightly.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm not taking any chances on anything until I find out what's going on!"
"What do you mean: 'What's going on'?" Jim Palmer pushed himself to his feet, wiped slimy mud onto his breeches' legs. "Hell," he finished, "all of us thought you were dead!"