he stopped staggering along and took some shelter from the sun under the overhang of a large boulder. He lay there, looking at the cracks and shades of red, and watched them twine and make strange patterns before his eyes. It was slightly cooler under the rockâanything was better than the beating sun. Mind you, that was half hidden in blowing dust, a fierce red disk up in the sky.
Tim must have slipped away into a sort of sleep, or at least unconsciousness, because when he woke up he was shivering with cold and it was dark, and his head wasnât quite such a mess. He was still desperately thirsty.
He was pretty sure that heâd come from that directionâ¦heâd certainly crawled under the rock from it. And therefore, logically, if he walked back that way, heâd come out at the mound that marked the termite run. If he walked along it, only at night, he had to come out at the power station, and water. The mole had been on its way back. That was why heâd been so busy trying to finish his letter to Clara, to put it with the mail on the supply train returning to Sheba. It couldnât be more than sixâ¦seven miles, surely. Walking at night was the right thing to do. He could manage seven miles.
Somehow.
If he was walking the right direction.
The sky was hazy, so he couldnât even use the stars to navigate by.
And walking straightâ¦well, that was out of the question. It was broken, stony ground. And dark.
He just had to do his best.
Slow but steady.
He wasnât sure how long heâd been making that slow but steady progress, with occasional falls, when the moon came up.
Timâs head was in that exhausted, cloudy zone where nothingmade much sense except to put one foot in front of the other. At first he was just grateful for the extra light. There were scrubby bushes here to fall over, too, but then something struck him as wrong.
Heâd learned navigation on the submarine. It had been one of the subjects heâd needed for his submarinerâs ticket. The moon rises in the east.
He was walking the wrong way. Exceptâ¦except, had he walked east or west when he first wandered away from the termite run?
He honestly didnât know. His head was whirling.
So thirsty.
And there were more of these bushes, and even a tussock to fall over between the stones. He chose the path of least resistance, no longer caring if he walked straight or east or west. Justâ¦one foot in front of the other.
And then things got worse. He fell into a hole. A sandy, scrabbly edged hole, far deeper than he was tall.
He tried to clamber out of it, too weak to grab the crumbly edge and haul himself up. He slipped and fell again, and for a while he just lay there.
And then it dawned on him that his face was laying on something damp.
Dampâ¦in the desert.
That gave him, from somewhere deep inside, a spurt of energy and clarity heâd thought lost to him forever.
Damp sand in a holeâ¦It was definitely damp, sticking together the way the sand on the edge of the pit had not.
On his knees, Tim dugâhe could feel the damp through the knees of his dungarees now. He scraped away sand. And more wet sand. And more.
Eventually he stopped. He wondered if he could try sucking the water out of the sand. After a few minutes he sighed to himself and tried to swallow around his swollen tongue, then reached into the hole to start again. He was down nearly a full arm-stretch by now.
He stuck his hand into water.
It was barely enough to cover his palm.
It was still water.
It might have been muddy, but he didnât begin to care.
It trickled between his cracked lips.
Nothing had ever been quite as welcome.
He could have drunk gallons and gallons of itâ¦except it was a slow process. A little bit of the precious stuff cupped in his fingers to each mouthful, and it seeped in very slowly, too.
After far too few mouthfuls to slake his thirst, but enough to help his thinking, Tim
Tim must have slipped away into a sort of sleep, or at least unconsciousness, because when he woke up he was shivering with cold and it was dark, and his head wasnât quite such a mess. He was still desperately thirsty.
He was pretty sure that heâd come from that directionâ¦heâd certainly crawled under the rock from it. And therefore, logically, if he walked back that way, heâd come out at the mound that marked the termite run. If he walked along it, only at night, he had to come out at the power station, and water. The mole had been on its way back. That was why heâd been so busy trying to finish his letter to Clara, to put it with the mail on the supply train returning to Sheba. It couldnât be more than sixâ¦seven miles, surely. Walking at night was the right thing to do. He could manage seven miles.
Somehow.
If he was walking the right direction.
The sky was hazy, so he couldnât even use the stars to navigate by.
And walking straightâ¦well, that was out of the question. It was broken, stony ground. And dark.
He just had to do his best.
Slow but steady.
He wasnât sure how long heâd been making that slow but steady progress, with occasional falls, when the moon came up.
Timâs head was in that exhausted, cloudy zone where nothingmade much sense except to put one foot in front of the other. At first he was just grateful for the extra light. There were scrubby bushes here to fall over, too, but then something struck him as wrong.
Heâd learned navigation on the submarine. It had been one of the subjects heâd needed for his submarinerâs ticket. The moon rises in the east.
He was walking the wrong way. Exceptâ¦except, had he walked east or west when he first wandered away from the termite run?
He honestly didnât know. His head was whirling.
So thirsty.
And there were more of these bushes, and even a tussock to fall over between the stones. He chose the path of least resistance, no longer caring if he walked straight or east or west. Justâ¦one foot in front of the other.
And then things got worse. He fell into a hole. A sandy, scrabbly edged hole, far deeper than he was tall.
He tried to clamber out of it, too weak to grab the crumbly edge and haul himself up. He slipped and fell again, and for a while he just lay there.
And then it dawned on him that his face was laying on something damp.
Dampâ¦in the desert.
That gave him, from somewhere deep inside, a spurt of energy and clarity heâd thought lost to him forever.
Damp sand in a holeâ¦It was definitely damp, sticking together the way the sand on the edge of the pit had not.
On his knees, Tim dugâhe could feel the damp through the knees of his dungarees now. He scraped away sand. And more wet sand. And more.
Eventually he stopped. He wondered if he could try sucking the water out of the sand. After a few minutes he sighed to himself and tried to swallow around his swollen tongue, then reached into the hole to start again. He was down nearly a full arm-stretch by now.
He stuck his hand into water.
It was barely enough to cover his palm.
It was still water.
It might have been muddy, but he didnât begin to care.
It trickled between his cracked lips.
Nothing had ever been quite as welcome.
He could have drunk gallons and gallons of itâ¦except it was a slow process. A little bit of the precious stuff cupped in his fingers to each mouthful, and it seeped in very slowly, too.
After far too few mouthfuls to slake his thirst, but enough to help his thinking, Tim
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