"No, I didn't see a Noble," I answered. "In fact, I've never seen a Noble."
"Nor I," said J. J. Abrogado.
There was silence again. It lasted for long minutes. There was nothing in my universe but the solidity of cave wall and floor; and—in the background—the growing murmur of the nightrunners.
"I've seen a man who saw a Noble, though," I said at last. "What was left of him they brought into the base hospital at Marsport on a rubber blanket, and placed in a tub. Nothing was missing, but he was peeled."
I might just as well have said 'shelled' or 'husked', as if something had tried to turn him inside out.
The murmur was now the sound of a rising tide.
The man I had seen in the tub had been one of the few "missing men" who had been found. The others had never been seen again. They had been archeologists, exploring isolated Martian ruins or prospectors, seeking precious metals....
As if aware of my thoughts, Abrogado said: "Most of the missing were prospectors. I'm a prospector."
Instantly I regretted having contributed anything about Nobles to the conversation. I remembered all the stories I had ever heard about Martian prospectors gone mad. And here was one seemingly obsessed with the fear of falling into the two-fingered hands of the strange creatures from outer space.
My eyes were as accustomed now to the blackness as they would ever be, and still I could see virtually nothing of my companion—except for a slight lessening of the darkness mirrored in his eyes occasionally. But that lessening gave me two items of information: He was about my height and he was looking directly at me.