“Am I dead or alive?”
He deeply inhaled the dry, hot air.
The beetle in a panic fell to his shoulder, ran to a parched leafless branch of long withered bush and hid.
Only now the flight engineer felt like he was floating in a bathtub filled with something sticky and viscous:
– Good Lord, I am floating in my own sweat!
Feelings returned to him gradually.
The facial skin suddenly wailed with all its nerve endings: “Hide me! Cover me!"
Right overhead like a white globe hung the sun, and it looked like it was gathering all its vigour to wither the astronaut.
He raised his disobeying hand to the face and cried out in pain: the skin was stinging and covered with scabs.
Overcoming the pain in his spine, Mackliff rolled onto the stomach, squelching salty moisture in the fabric of his tight suit, and realized that he was not wearing a heavy spacesuit, it was lying a few feet to the left, charred and pitiful, as if it was cut up with a knife.
– Well, I got really sunburned here, – he covered his head, with a scrap of some synthetic fabric, the first thing that came to hand.
He felt much better.
The astronaut slowly raised his head and froze in shock: in front of him, right behind the withered thorns of a lone bush stretched out the lifeless desert.
Flat as a table, without a hillock, without the slightest hint of dunes or ripples –and dazzling, as if it was glowing from within. Light drifting sand sometimes violated its complete stillness, and at the horizon, a lonely whitish cloud got lost in the sky, and was slowly washed away by a hot breath of scorching sand.
– Oh God! Where am I? I-aaah… – a yearning cry involuntarily escaped from his dry throat…
– Hey, why are you yelling? Do you think you are the only one who feels shitty? Ha … Man, Dammit. Strike me dead… I still see you alive … Stap my vitals… – a hoarse voice came from behind the pilot and a huge shadow loomed over Mackliff. Mackliff turned slowly, and behind Whitehouse, who also had no suit on; at a little distance, he saw the tilted container, halfway gone into the sand.
Dybal has been crawling around it on his knees, searching for something with his outspread fingers.
Two motionless bodies lay in a meager shade of the container: the former commander of the space shuttle "Independence" Aydem and the former commander of the "armored car" "Das Rein" – Colonel Von Conrad.
– Well, I'm glad. I’m very happy … You know, John, you have had a very restless sleep, actually. I covered you with a piece of the parachute, and you started jerking your little hands and feet and threw it off. That’s no good. So, old man, can you get up? – Whitehouse added seriously.
Mackliff struggled to his feet and tried to hobble towards the container.
His feet would not move.
If the dune did not have a slope, he would not even budge.
While he was moving towards the container, dismissing the help of Whitehouse, Dybal finally found what he was looking for – a binocular; and rapidly, for a man who has just darted down to the ground, got on top of the container nastily grinding the metal shield of his shoes on the black wall, which was still warm from the atmospheric heat. Scales of titanium ceramics burnt in the atmosphere flew from the hull of the container:
– It is curious to know where we have ended up … Ooh, my arms and legs do not bend at all … It hurts like hell…
– Yes, Al, it is curious indeed… – Mackliff made it to the container and carefully folded his body in the shade.
– Ronnie says we are not far from the former eastern coast of Venezuela, in Caracas area, which had been covered with sands. Though his eyes tell that he hardly believes in what he says. And so to speak, where is the sea breeze? At the border of the sand and the ocean air currents are mixed constantly, and it must be blowing like in the wind tunnel. But here? Ah, what to say … – Dybal put the binoculars to his eyes and stared at the horizon. Standing on the capsule, he resembled a monument to some Ancient Mariner, who looked through binoculars at the squadron of enemy fleet…
-Well, the main thing is that we are on Earth. It is strange but we're still alive…
– Everything is relative, John. It seems to me that before the accident at "Independence", when there was light, a cold "Pepsi" and different kinds of sausage, we were a little more alive than here, where at best we can catch a weedy lizard and nothing at worst.
– Where is the second container? Where is Eichberger, Hoffman and all the supplies?
– Makliff leaned against the hull of the container, and suddenly pulled back, it was still hot from aerodynamic heating, and moreover warmed up by the sun. It was hot like hell.
– It's not clear yet. Either they landed too far from us, or did not land at all – said Whitehouse. He handed a flat jar of reactive water to Mackliff.
Flight engineer turned the release cover and gray powder filled the cap. In contact with air the powder turned into what looked like icy water in contrast to the red hot air.
Mackliff gently sipped this iron flavored liquid:
– What do we do next?
– We should at least find out our location to answer this question.
– Ronald, you said that we were in the Caracas area.
Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders.
Having had a good look at the surroundings, Dybal spent some time inside the capsule, and then climbed out red as a tomato, as if he has spent an hour in a Finnish sauna. But at the same time happy. He gently cradled a small box of a shortwave transmitter in his hands:
– Here you go. It seems to work. Now we can connect with the satellite-based positioning. We will send an emergency call and-and-and-and......
– Well-well… And who is going to show up for your call sign? – Sand cracked on the teeth of Whitehouse. He spat aside.
– What do you mean?
– Well then, no outgoing signals. First let's try to listen to the incoming signal. – Forestalling the hesitant navigator, Whitehouse clicked the tumbler and pressed the 100.00 Hertz button.
The transmitter responded with a bang and a howl of automatic tuning. An alarmed voice could be heard through the ethereal sound; it was mumbling so fast that you could hardly parse a word.
After a while, a few more voices joined in. Sometimes the signal was muffled by the trills of triggered aircraft "friend or foe" identification systems.
– I think they speak Spanish – Said Dybal lifting the transmitter right to his ear:
-Please give permission for military approach…
Go ahead…
Iglesias, cover me…
-Yeah right. They attack our second container with Eichberger and Hoffman… Coal-colored cylinder, about three feet in diameter, open aero braking shield, two parachutes…
They do not respond to inquiries; do not shoot off the signal flares.
– In Spanish? So we are still in