sirens—but I think not. I think they are the calls of destiny, leading, not luring, onward and outward. I think we shall, we must, follow them—but not like this! Never again like this! Not, oh, God—alone . . . !
The little sun rode over the horizon like a delivering knight. I almost knelt in worship of him as he drove the fingering terrors from my side—not away, but further off, giving me the room, and the courage, to move.
I had meant to eat again, but I could not wait for that. I craved only for the security of the ship. I put my helmet on with shaking hands, packed the dome aboard the platform, lifted to a few feet, and sped across the sands towards the Figurao as fast as I could.
Two of the tripod legs were twisted and bent, and the third torn off, but the hull was surprisingly little damaged. I had to clear a lot of sand to get at the airlock as the ship now lay. Much of it I managed to blow away with the platform's jets, but the rest I had to scrape out.
The lock worked perfectly. Inside the ship there was far less damage than I had expected—except to poor Camilo.
I take some pride in having been able to force myself outside again to bury him, as I had buried Raul. I knew that it must be done at once if I were to be able to face it at all so, somehow, I did it. And then hurried back . . .
It was after that that the gap comes—a long gap, according to the calendar-clock. It looks as if I spent some part of it trying to repair the radio-transmitter; for some reason I seem to have rigged up a light to shine out of each port; the platform is still outside, but not quite as I left it when I first came in . . . Probably there are other things . . . I don't know . . . I can't remember . . .
Perhaps someone will come eventually . . .
I have food enough for nearly three years . . .
Food enough—but not, I fear, spirit enough . . .
There is a letter here for my dear Isabella. Give it to her, please. . . .
THE END
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