He is on the right side of the frame, looking left. Should be looking up. Should reach up, see if someone stuck a target do up there, top of his helmet. But he is distracted. Across the sand, he hears marching music, wonders if residual minerals in the soil make this sort of place into a giant radio receiver... just as certain silver amalgams have the rumored property of allowing people with lots of dental work to actually feel the words of the morning, afternoon, and evening radio newsnetworks, right in their jaws.
