He turned to me, his face drawn with anxiety, his eyes feverish.
“Can you see them, Walter?” His voice shook. “God—why did I ever let her go like that? Why did I let her go alone?”
“They'll be close ahead, Martin.” I spoke out of a conviction I could not explain. “Whatever it is we're bound for, wherever it is the woman's taking us, she means to keep us together—for a time at least. I'm sure of it.”
“She said—follow.” It was Drake beside us. “How the hell can we do anything else? We haven't any control over this bird we're on. But she has. What she meant, Ventnor, is that it would follow her.”
“That's true”—new hope softened the haggard face—“that's true—but is it? We're reckoning with creatures that man's imagination never conceived—nor could conceive. And with this—woman—human in shape, yes, but human in thought—never. How then can we tell—”
He turned once more, all his consciousness concentrated in his searching eyes.
Drake's rifle slipped from his hand.
He stooped to pick it up; then tugged with both hands. The rifle lay immovable.
I bent and strove to aid him. For all the pair of us could do, the rifle might have been a part of the gleaming surface on which it rested. The tiny, deepset star points winked up—
“They're—laughing at us!” grunted Drake.