bowel-rending terror of utter desolation.

The spectre of thirst hovered in the orange and yellow dust clouds ahead. Crazed rocks, scarred and wind-broken, leered at him like blind prophets wordlessly screaming their dire predictions.

Morrissey was at last forced to take his thermiteen away from him. He sobbed and pleaded for water. He swore that his tongue was swollen with thirst, that his body was dehydrated. He cursed Morrissey ... the desert ... the service ... his own ill fortune. He made his will, he resigned from the service, he called upon God to avenge his death at the sands of the heartless Morrissey. And finally, after two days on the pitiless griddle of the Desert Rouge, he was half-carried through the vac-lock at the humidi-hut.

Only his hatred for Morrissey made him stay. Every instinct told him to return to Athens with the patrol. Let the commandant hire some other fool to stay there in the midst of the desert, supplying succor for those who were stupid enough to face the rigors of the hell outside. Instinct warned him to leave but hatred forced him to stay. The contempt in Morrissey's eyes permitted him no alternative. The patrol left and Yancey stayed in the humidi-hut.

The first few days were a nightmare. He seemed in a waking dream. Hour upon hour he simply sat and stared at the precious machinery that kept temperature and humidity at ideal levels. Every few minutes he would half-run to check the water supply, touch the water to his lips, anxiously work the controls to be certain that nothing had jammed.

Every second was filled with but one preoccupation: What would happen if the machinery failed?

But the machinery performed in its precise and unhurried way, and from its dependability, he began to draw a degree of confidence. He had let the orange hell outside unnerve him. One could almost think that particles of the wind-driven dust had penetrated his mind and prevented its proper functioning.

Why should he be apprehensive? Hadn't everything worked out exactly as he had planned? The job was his. He had the security of three hundred credits a month and a perfect opportunity to search for quolla stones. The superior attitude of that captain—what was his name—Morrissey—had momentarily shaken his resolve. Now, Morrissey was gone. The time for huddling inside was over. The sooner the quolla stones were his, the sooner he could leave the humidi-hut, make the sort of life he had always wanted for himself in 

 Prev. P 5/16 next