Then came the worst of it—trudging across another dry, rocky valley under the heat of the afternoon sun.
The yellow sun seemed to hang directly overhead, no matter how far or how long they plodded across the barren valley. Twice the size of Sol and six times brighter, Oran beat mercilessly on the bare rocks, withering the scrubby plants, making the air dance with heat currents, wringing streams of sweat from the weary men, roaring in their ears and dazzling their eyes with painful glare.
Mclntyre had pulled down the giare visor from his helmet when they started across the valley. But as they struggled through the long afternoon, he saw that Vorgens and Giradaux had neither helmet nor visor.
“Sir,” he asked of Vorgens, “would you like my helmet?”
The Star Watchman shook his head. “No thanks, Sergeant.”
“I have an extra pair of glare goggles in my pocket, then. They’re on this side,” he gestured with his bandaged arm, “so you’ll hafta get them for yourself.”
“I don’t need them, Mclntyre, thanks. This star is pretty bright, but it’s not as brilliant as the one I was bom under. What I need more than goggles is a long, cool drink and a fresh breeze.”
Mclntyre was silent for a moment.
“You might give the goggles to Ciradaux. He seems to be having a hard time of it.”
Mclntyre grinned. “Yes sir. Hey, Gerry!” he called to the trooper, marching a few yards ahead of them.
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Where’s your helmet, trooper?”
Ciradaux slackened his pace momentarily, until he was beside the other two. “Gee, Sarge, I dunno where it is. I must’ve left it on that ridge. . . .”