“Something is very wrong here,” he mumbles, and nearly against his own will, he opens the door to the radio room and sees what he was afraid of. The marconis is lying forward over the radio table like a man sleeping, but at first glance, Vidal can see the man is not sleeping. He walks to the man, touches him quickly, nearly impatiently, and realizes the man is dead, just like his mate in front of the door. With his revolver in his hand, he looks through the room but can see nothing else wrong. Nothing has been tampered with, and he looks at the small radio transmitter, the apparatus they use to send messages. The instruments are quiet and glistening. He feels the sweat breaking out on his neck and wipes his mouth, which has suddenly gone very dry.
“By the gods,” he says, “this is an ugly
