He picked-up one of the eggs and examined it. He pressed on it — and it broke in his hand. The yolk and white ran out over his fingers along with a veined red spot. He sniffed it and began to lick the broken egg off his hand.
He put the nest on the ground and squatted down beside it. He picked up another egg, crushed it in his hand and began to lick it off.
Randi had joined him. She watched him eating the egg. She was suddenly aware of her own hunger pangs. She reached for one of the eggs.
Instantly Tom stopped eating. He sat stock still, watching her warily, stiffly.
Carefully she picked up one of the remaining eggs, her eyes firmly on Tom. She knew she, too, must have nourishment.
The muscles on Tom's face tensed — but he let her take the egg. Abruptly he returned to licking his fingers.
Randi broke a small twig from the bush. With it she poked a hole in each end of the egg. For a moment she sat looking at it in indecision. She had a flash vision of her husband eating the bloody lizard. She swallowed. Then she put the egg to her lips and sucked out the nourishment.
A sudden thought chilled her. She cast a quick glance toward the scolding raven. She was being robbed of her young — before they had a chance to come into the world…
She gagged. With a conscious effort she willed herself to banish the thought. It was like trying not to think of a purple rhinoceros in the kitchen sink once someone had asked you not to do so.
Resolutely she swallowed. She had to. Her life — perhaps Tom's — depended on her preserving her strength.
Tom was licking yet another egg from his fingers. There was one more left in the nest.
She took it.
The kiln towered over them. At least thirty feet high, its massive, rough walls made of fitted stone were two feet thick.
It was quite dark inside. High on the back wall, facing the slope they had just come down, was a halfmoon-shaped opening. The gray light that spilled in through the six-foot-tall arched doorway revealed a few scorched timbers leaning against the far wall below the vent opening. It was a gloomy place, but a place that afforded refuge from the prying eyes of the whirling monsters from the sky.
They sank down on the sand and charcoal ashes that formed the floor. Randi leaned back against the hard wall. She watched her husband.
He investigated the whole rock kiln interior carefully. He sought out a spot close to her. He lay down and shifted around until he was comfortable. He pulled his knees up — and without a glance at her he fell asleep.
Randi closed her eyes. She was too fatigued to sleep. She sat quietly, resting against the stone.
When I close my eyes, she thought, the world still exists in my memory. What exists in Tom's?
Stray thoughts spun through her mind numbed with exhaustion. Tom was asleep. She could leave. Escape. He could not stop her. She could get help. And return… Would he be there? If she could find someone? Perhaps a camper? If he woke and went on without her, would he die? Before he could be found?… Had she enough strength left to venture out on her own? In the night? To look for help? To return?… It did not occur to her that she could simply try to save herself… What should she do? What was best? She hadn't the strength to come to a decision.
She stayed…
She did not know if she had dozed off, but something had alerted her. She opened her eyes wide. The kiln was almost totally dark. Only a faint bluish light seeped in to lie across the black floor and stab at the shadows under the timbers.
And she heard it.
A moan.
Her eyes sought and found Tom. Fitfully he tossed in his sleep, a small moaning sound escaping him. Suddenly he let out a little cry of anguish. He rolled over as if to escape some nightmare peril. His arm fell across Randi's thighs and his head came to rest in her lap.
She stiffened. She sat utterly still.
Then — slowly — she relaxed. She looked down at her sleeping husband, and with infinite tenderness she began to stroke his hair, consummately aware of the blood-caked wound high on the crown of his head.
Two large tears glistened in her eyes. Almost inaudibly she whispered:
“Please… Let them find us soon… Someone…”
She sobbed; a small forlorn sound.
“Anyone…”
7
Colonel Gerhardt Scharff had an unconscious habit he had never been able to break. He doodled. Especially when under stress. In fact, special arrangements had had to be made to treat all paper scraps and trash from his office as highly classified material, to be burned under strict security supervision.
The doodle he at the moment was scribbling on the back of an envelope seemed to be a misshapen rocket or guided missile. Sitting at his desk, holding the telephone receiver to his ear, his face glistened with the sweat of acute discomfort. It was obvious from his obsequious tone of voice that there was a superior on the other end of the line. It was equally obvious that Scharff was not getting the better of the conversation.
“Yes, Comrade Minister,” he said subserviently, “I–I fully understand. Fully. I—”
He stopped. He listened. He began to color, starting from the neck above his collar and slowly reaching the hairline.
“Yes. Of course I shall personally guarantee that the order is carried out.” He licked his lips nervously. “Bur I should like respectfully to point out—”
There was a sudden click as the phone was disconnected. For a, moment Scharff sat glowering at the dead instrument in his hand — even his doodle forgotten. Then he jiggled the cradle on the phone.
“Richter,” he barked, “I want Blücher, OV III. In my office. At once!”
He slammed the receiver down. He stared at his doodle. He picked up the pencil and began to add angry black billows of smoke to the misshapen rocket.
He swore under his breath. Verflucht! In anger he pressed down on the black pencil. The point broke — just as there was a knock on the door.
“Herein!” he rasped.
The man who stepped into the room looked acutely apprehensive. He was in civilian clothes.
“Major Blücher,” he said. “Zu Befehl.” He stood stiffly before Scharff's desk.
The Colonel glared angrily at him. He did not put him at ease.
“Blücher,” he said. He made the name sound like an insult. “The Minister and I are both highly dissatisfied with your performance.” His eyes bored into the man before him. “With you. And your men.”
“The California mission is highly unusual,” Blücher demurred. He mustered his courage. “It probably should never have been attempted, Herr Oberst.”
Scharff glared at him. Damn the Scheisskerl! The man knew it had been his, Gerhardt Scharff's, decision to proceed. Hah! He would not be forgotten, der Herr Major Blücher, when heads were selected to roll!
Blücher went on. “It has been extremely difficult, as you may imagine. Extremely — delicate.”
“Delicate!” Scharff exploded. He rose in anger. “The devil with it! The matter has been handled with stupidity. Stupidity, you hear? Blunders! Already your agents have been exposed to the risk of being blown. Despite my direct orders for strict secrecy. Utmost caution!”