Once he became convinced of his situation he made the best of it. Sherwood was of a hardy, rough and tumble breed. They were of high quality there were several, the size of human skulls, that probably were priceless. They lay scattered on the hillside, washed out by the weather they were mixed liberally in the gravel of the tiny stream that wended through the valley. On the ridge above the camp he'd get up beside his crippled spaceship lay a strip of clay-cemented conglomerate that fairly reeked with diamonds.
But since he was the one involved, there was no merriment.įor now, when he could gain no benefit, he was potentially rich beyond even his own most greedy and most lurid dreams. But there was a final irony that under other circumstances (if it had been happening to someone else, let's say), would have kept Sherwood in stitches of forthright merriment for hours on end at the very thought of it. If that had been all there had been to it, it might not have been so bad. Probably the most that anyone would do would be to send out messages to other planets to place authorities on the alert for him.Īnd since his spaceship, for the lack of a certain valve for which he had no replacement, was not going anywhere, he was stuck here on this planet. Since no one knew where he might have headed and since his radio was junk, there was no likelihood at all that anyone would find him-even if they looked, which would be a matter of some doubt. His great, one might say his overwhelming, desire not to see them could account in part for his present situation, since he had taken off from the last planet of record without filing flight plans and lacking clearance. These were people, very definitely, that Sherwood had no desire to see. Although there were those who would be glad to see him, who would come running if they knew where he might be found. Not, he thought, that there would be any mourners, under any circumstance. His life would come to an end on this uninhabited backwoods planet and there'd be none to mourn him, none to know. If Cheviot Sherwood ever had believed in miracles, he believed in them no longer. The castaway was a wanted man-but he didn't know how badly he was wanted!
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