- He has not died, - has told Bulls, listening to weak rare breath.
The Jurkovsky has approached to the hatch, has nestled on it and is hardly audible progovoril: - Six years together... The
Moon, Martian deserts... Six years...
It has opened the hatch sharp, unexpectedly strong movement. Around there was a night, darkness... Far-far, shuddering
from own power, Uranium Golconda roared, lifting over horizon smoky, penetrated by fire of flashes a glow...
HUNDRED FIFTY THOUSAND SHAGOVIh remains three.
Dauge did not recover consciousness. Bulls and Jurkovsky have hardly taken it outside and some time were motionless, not
in forces to leave a terrible place. The earth habitually shook. The red film has disappeared. They still had time to notice the
rests of a red carpet over a funnel on a place of underground explosion, metres in twenty from "Boy": the film greedy also
was hasty involved in a bottomless hole, slowly gaslo lilac light.
Became more dark. Bulls has lifted there was an automatic machine for last greetings, but has lowered, having changed
mind. There was only one alarm holder - sixty cartridges, - and ahead hundred kilometres of a way on sandy desert, on gorge,
on a bog... Hundred kilometres, hundred thousand metres, hundred fifty thousand steps, and each of them threatens
unknown.
- Salute! - has hoarsely demanded Jurkovsky, and Bulls, having thrown up the automatic machine, has given short,
avaricious turn...
From the scraps of a seleno-ceric fabric found in a caisson, they have built something like a stretcher and have laid on them
Dauge. A strong, good fabric; it has still sufficed and on winding Ioganycha from feet to a neck.
Now they went, having bent under an elastic heavy wind, in the outer darkness which occasionally is lighted up by cold blue
summer lightnings. During such moments of Bulls saw before itself a helmet of Dauge on a stretcher and a black unsteady
back Jurkovsky ahead, dead sand, low heavy clouds with bright proveins of light. A summer lightning slowly gasla, and again
- darkness, viscous sand underfoot, howl a wind in ear-phones...