Scrawlers

This is the last of the vessels. They are the interstellar version of messages in bottles, potential tickets off this demented desert island. The vessel drops into the tunnel, whistling terribly as it accelerates toward the center of the planet. I immediately scan the horizon. Other spotters are better situated than I am to confirm successful launch, but, stretching to my full six-foot height, I can see our final hope shoot across the sky, emerging from the other side of the planet as a tiny meteor.

None of the other vessels have come back. That should give me hope.