Wolf Larson

The wolf cub rested on that gravel, its beryllium sides a sickly green.

In all that world, only Wolf Larson lived and moved and breathed.

An alien might have correctly supposed that this world had been dead for untold ages, that the builders of its temple had perished incalculably long ago, that nothing would ever live here again.

Wolf Larson knew better.

In a few hours, it would be dawn, and the strange life of Triton would revive.

That was the reason for his haste.

His arm hurt like fire now, the ache of it mingling with the ache of his weary body, the ache of his sick brain.

With his left hand, he began to spin the handle of the Kingston valve.