The cool Martian wind crept across the rust-red expanse of desert. Occasionally its soft touch stirred the thorny leaves of Devil's Eggs—the squat black plants which peppered the silent monotony. Here and there a wisp of sand spiraled upward into the bright, thin morning. The wind felt clean and new on Monk O'Hara's coarse, blond-stubbled face. He chuckled as noisily as a man buried neck-deep in sand can chuckle.

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