"You—," Don Denton swallowed, blinked desperately, "You thought I was dead?" he croaked.
"Why, sure!" Jim Palmer waved an expressive hand. "We tried to get into your ship for more than a week, but couldn't. And we could see you crumpled in the pilot's seat. So we figured you had died."
"Look, Palmer," Don Denton said, "I like jokes as well as the next spacer. But I don't like the smell of this one! Now, what's the set-up here?"
"Well, it's just like the one I had on island Seven. I—"
Don Denton's voice was like chilled steel. "Keep up that clowning," he snapped, "and I'll blow it out of you with an ati-gun blast!"
Jim Palmer paled, took a backward step. "Now, look, Denton," he said placatingly, "I'm not looking for a fight with you; I've always figured we were friends. If you've got some gripe, get it off your chest, and maybe we can get it straightened out!"
Don Denton felt insanity growing in his mind. He sucked in a deep breath, never taking his eyes from Palmer's sweat-streaked face. He didn't know what was going on, could not find a coherent answer for anything, and the empty feeling it left within him frightened him as he had never felt fear before.
Less than an hour before, he had locked himself in his ship, after seeing fourteen dead men in the huts and after Jean had disappeared; and now Jim Palmer was telling him that that had happened more than a week before. Too, he was implying that Don Denton was mentally unbalanced.
Don Denton then felt the prescience of an alien presence at his back.
He whirled, spun to one side, his finger tight on the firing stud of the atomic gun in his fist.