“We don’t know how long those might have been here,” Abigail pointed out, picking up her helmet to examine it. “They might have landed a million years ago.”
“Spratt to Westward,” Ed repeated into the radio handset for the fourth time. “Westward, acknowledge.” He shook his head and returned the handset to its place. “If it was hard to get through to them outside, there’s precious little chance that we could do it from inside,” He admitted.
“Are you coming, señor? Or are you going to stay with the ship the way you did during the last expedition?” Rico Esteves asked this as he was sealing the collar of his Martian-made space suit. As he did this, the mesh-like texture of the thin copper colored material compressed of its own accord, fitting itself tightly to the security specialist’s muscular form with scientific wizardry that was at least centuries ahead of Earth technology.
Spratt regarded the swarthy young man with an expression that could only have been more withering if the technician’s eyes were not largely concealed behind the reflection from his thick glasses. “I’m going,” he said. “But you make a good point. Someone should stay with the asteroid pod just to be safe. Now, who would be good for that?”
A menacing shadow passed over Rico’s eyes, but whatever might have happened next was averted by Arthur Covington. “I’ll stay with the pod,” He volunteered. “I’ve no intention of letting our only way back out of my sight.” Despite this, the security chief was joining the others in donning a spacesuit.
Ed smirked at Rico as he brushed by him on his way out of the cockpit.
“Exactly what kind of trouble are you expecting, chief?” Rosemary asked. She had sealed her own spacesuit and was busy adjusting her utility belt.
“I have no idea,” Arthur said. “That’s what worries me. If those are other ships out there—” he nodded his head toward the cockpit. “—then there’s at least a possibility we’re not alone here.”
“We don’t know how long those might have been here,” Abigail pointed out, picking up her helmet to examine it. “They might have landed a million years ago.”
“Let us hope that is not the case, señorita,” Rico said, retrieving his own helmet from the locker beside her.
“Why?” Abigail asked.
“Because,” Answered Ed dryly as he began to pull on his spacesuit. “It would mean that whoever they were—they never left.”
Lamont, who had been fumbling clumsily with the connections on his suit, muttered under his breath. “Bloody hell.”
“You alright, Monty?” Rosemary asked quietly, looking up at him with concern. Batting his hand away, she deftly connected his collar and stepped back as the suit fitted itself to him.
“I’m fine,” Lamont lied.
The medic grabbed his wrist, pressing hard with her gloved thumb through the fabric. “Your heart rate’s up,” She observed. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel up to.”
The newspaperman pulled his arm away and picked up his recorder from where he’d placed it on a metal bench. “I’m just glad to see you don’t have a gun,” He snapped.
It was the wrong thing to say. Rosemary quickly turned away from him, but not soon enough to hide the tears that were welling up in her hazel eyes. Lamont immediately regretted the comment, and was still trying to think of a way to walk it back when Ed finished connecting his suit with practiced precision.
“Everybody ready?” He asked. “Helmets on.”