Ward paused and looked out over the crazily jumbled, boulder-crowded landscape stretched out before him. Like a bit of an alien planet — misplaced, he thought. One of the Jupiter moons…
Off to his right Sergeant Hays called out: “Over here, Major! The chute!” He pointed. “Up there!”
Ward changed the direction of his climb. He joined Hays and Wilson, who stood on a ridge, looking down a little slope. He followed their gaze and his mood changed abruptly. At the bottom of the slope was the parachute — a great expanse of crumpled orange and white. Tom Darby was nowhere to be seen, but in the center under the chute an ominous bulge caught his eye. Without words the three men hurried down. At once Hays and Wilson pulled the chute away from the motionless bulge beneath it. They stared. On the sandy ground lay a large, oblong boulder.
Ward sighed with relief — relief at once troubled by a greater enigma. Where was Darby?
Hays held the empty chute harness toward him. “Look, sir,” he said. He pointed to a small pouch snapped onto the webbing of one of the risers. “He can't be hurt. He hasn't touched his medical kit.”
Wilson looked off. “There's a dirt road over there,” he volunteered. “The Major could have seen it as he came down. Perhaps he walked down there.”
Ward nodded. “Perhaps. We'll have a look.” He was increasingly worried. A downed pilot is supposed to stay with his chute. For easy spotting. Tom Darby knew that.
The road was about a quarter of a mile away — and it was not easy going. They'd only made a couple of hundred feet when Wilson bent down to pick up something from behind a clump of weeds.
“Major Ward!” he called. He sounded shaken. “Look at this!” He stared at a bright red object held gingerly in his hand.
Ward and Hays hurried over to him. “It's the Major's, all right,” Hays said.
The face plate on the helmet was shattered, the glossy red surface scratched, the EMG sight broken off. On the left side a ragged, broken dent marred the smooth surface where the helmet had been crushed in.
Ward took the helmet from Wilson. Carefully he ran his fingers across the inside jagged edges of the break. They came away discolored and sticky with partly clotted blood.
Wilson stared at it, wide-eyed. “Man,” he said in awe. He looked sober. “Must've been some whack to do that.”
The three men looked at one another, their faces mirroring their concern. “We have to find him,” Ward said, his voice grim. “He can't be far away.”
“It was lying over there.” Wilson pointed. “The helmet. Near that crevice.”
Quickly they walked to the spot. The crevice was an extremely narrow passage between two huge, bulbous boulders. It was about twenty feet long. They could see daylight at the other end.
Hays looked at the sandy ground. “Someone's been here,” he said. “Or — some thing.”
Ward examined the ground. There were scuff tracks leading into the fissure. It was impossible to tell what — or who — had made them. Ward started to squeeze through the crevice. “Let's take a look at the other side,” he said.
Hays and Wilson followed him.
On the other side the big boulders gave way to a more rocky, mountainous terrain. The ground was hard. It was impossible to make out any tracks.
“Look around,” Ward said. “See what you can find.”
Sergeant Hays was searching among the rocks and the scraggly weeds and brush growing in thick clumps all over the area. He was concerned. Puzzled. What the hell did the Major think he was doing? If he'd have only stayed with his chute, they'd have had him halfway back to the Base by now, instead of running all over the devil's half-acre searching for him. He knew Tom Darby. He liked him. An OK dude. A guy who seemed to enjoy hanging his hide out over the edge on a regular basis. One of the best damned test pilots at Edwards, though you'd never know he knew his own importance from talking with him. But he sure knew his stuff. So what the hell was he pulling now?
He brushed through a clump of shrubs. Nothing. He turned toward another stand of brush growing up against the steep side of a rocky hill. He bent the brittle branches out of the way. Behind them he could make out what appeared to be a small cave opening. He stooped down to peer into the dark interior.
Sudden, explosive motion shocked him into split-second immobility. And in that flash moment an indelible sight seared itself on his mind.
Leaping from the gloom of the cave, a — a “creature” catapulted itself at him. Eyes forced wide, lips drawn back in a vicious snarl and hands clawing in front of him — it was Tom Darby! High on the crown on the left side of his head, dry, caked blood had matted his hair. His flying suit was torn and stained and his face streaked with blood. He looked wholly wild, dangerous — and terror-stricken.
With a lightning, panic-born swipe of his clawed hands, Tom violently shoved Hays out of his way, raking long gashes across his cheek in a dash to get past him. The sudden, savage impact sent the Sergeant crashing to the ground. And Tom raced away into the tumble of weirdly shaped boulders and rock formations.
Ward and Wilson came running up to the Sergeant, who was sitting stunned on the ground.
“Hays! What happened?” Ward knelt beside him.
Hays touched his bleeding cheek in bewilderment. “It was — it was the Major, sir.” He sounded dazed. “It was Major Darby. He jumped me.”
He looked at Ward uncomprehendingly — almost pleadingly. “I've known the Major for three years — and — and he tried to kill me!”
Suddenly Wilson shouted, “Hey! Look!” He pointed into the rocks.
On a large smooth boulder in the distance a lone figure stood silhouetted against the blue sky. It was Tom. Stiffly he stood gazing back toward the three men at the cave.
Ward ran a few steps toward him. “Tom!” he called. “Wait! Stay where you are! We're coming to help you!” The three men began running toward him.
For a moment Tom stood immobile. Then he abruptly whirled about, jumped off the boulder and disappeared among the craggy rock formations.
The three rescuers quickly reached the big boulder where Tom had been spotted. He was nowhere to be seen. Bewildered, they looked around.
Hays shook his head. “Why?” He looked at Ward. “Why is the Major running away?”
Ward stared out over the rocky wilderness. “I don't know, Sergeant,” he said quietly. “I don't know…”
They all saw him at the same time, briefly visible as he jumped from one rock to another a short distance away.
“There he goes!” Wilson shouted.
At once the three men took off in pursuit.
Tom was obviously winded — trembling with near-exhaustion. He breathed in short, shallow gulps as he scrambled up the steep, rocky hillside. For a moment he paused and looked down toward the faintly heard sounds and distant calls from his pursuers. His taut and grimy face was filled with fear. He touched the wound on his head; it was bothering him. He turned and clambered up the slope.
He reached a mesa. The flat, boulder-strewn area stretched before him. At once he began a loping gait out across the level ground.
Sergeant Hays was the first to crest the mesa. “There he is!” he called. Ward and Wilson climbed up to join him. In the distance out on the plateau Tom could be seen — running away. The men set out after him.
Tom was fleeing across the treacherous, rocky ground. He did not look back. His pursuers were far behind. Suddenly he stopped.