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Updated: June 17, 2025
I tried to go to sleep, which was the only practical thing to do. I must have succeeded. When I woke again, Joe Kivelson was saying, exasperatedly: "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday..." The next time I woke, Tom Kivelson was reciting the Mayday, Mayday incantation into the radio, and his father was asleep.
The next thing I knew, I was hanging from my lashings from the side of the boat, which had become the top, and the headlights and the lights on the control panel were out, and Joe Kivelson was holding a flashlight while Abe Clifford and Glenn Murell were trying to get me untied and lower me. I also noticed that the air was fresh, and very cold. "Hey, we're down!"
By this time it was completely dark and fine snow was blowing. I could see that Joe Kivelson was anxious to get the cutting-up finished before the wind got any worse. "Walt, can you use a machine gun?" he asked me. I told him I could. I was sure of it; a machine gun is fired in a rational and decent manner. "Well, all right. Suppose you cover for us from the boat," he said. "Mr.
I gave a brief account of our experiences in the boat, the landing and wreck, and our camp, and the firewood cutting, and how we had repaired the radio. Joe Kivelson talked for a while, and so did Tom and Glenn Murell. I was going to say something when they finished, and I sat down on one of the couches. I distinctly remember leaning back and relaxing.
Each pair was buckled together at the tops; a hunter always does that, even at home ashore. Ramón had the hatch open, and had opened the top hatch of the boat, below. I threw my double armload of clothing down through it and slid down after, getting out of the way of the load of boots Tom dumped ahead of him. Joe Kivelson came down last, carrying the ship's log and some other stuff.
They all greeted us enthusiastically and shook hands with us. I noticed that Joe Kivelson was something less than comfortable about shaking hands with Bish Ware. The fact that Bish had started the search for the Javelin that had saved our lives didn't alter the opinion Joe had formed long ago that Bish was just a worthless old souse.
"I can't find anything like that on this map," Abe Clifford said, after a while. Joe Kivelson swore. "You ought to know better than that, Abe; you know how thoroughly this coast hasn't been mapped." "How much good will it do us to know where we are, right now?" I asked. "If the radio's smashed, we can't give anybody our position."
"It's not that," another man said. "It's Tom Kivelson." "What about him?" I asked, alarmed. "Didn't you hear? He got splashed with burning wax," the hunter said. "His whole back was on fire; I don't know whether he's alive now or not." So that was who I'd seen screaming in agony while the firemen tore his burning clothes away.
"Ordinarily, I handle the after gun when we sight a monster, but somebody'll have to help Abdullah with the engines." He spoke to his father about it. Joe Kivelson nodded. "Walt's made some awful lucky shots with that target pistol of his, I know that," he said, "and I saw him make hamburger out of a slasher, once, with a chopper.
Joe and Tom Kivelson and Oscar Fujisawa slept at the Times Building, and after breakfast Dad called the spaceport hospital about Murell. He had passed a good night and seemed to have thrown off all the poison he had absorbed through his skin. Dad talked to him, and advised him not to leave until somebody came for him.
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