"What is this contamination?" Mr. Ericson said.
"An alien virus. Martian. Nobody's been able to isolate it. If a case isn't too bad we cure it in the antiseptic wards, but otherwise—well, you just wither away and die in a few hours. You're all shriveled up and look like a mummy."
"That's horrible!" whispered Mrs. Ericson.
"They're diseased fakirs who say they can read the sands, predict your future, bring you paradise, for five credits. But stay away from them!"
And just at that moment, as though on cue, Madeleine thought, the old man stepped out about fifty feet in front of Don's camel, and blocked the narrow trail.
"Caravan halt!" Don yelled and raised his hand.
Not knowing why, laughing and exclaiming, the long line of the caravan halted. And Madeleine stared ahead into the old man's face. The old man was dirty, bent and very ancient and hairless, with only a soiled robe of crude but heavy cloth hanging on his frame. There was nothing that seemed very much alive about him except his eyes.
Even he was a stereotype, she thought. The classic old hermit character. The yogi, the magi, the wise old man, the Hindu Rope Trick, look into my crystal ball, I am the teller of the sands—
But her heart was pounding extraordinarily loud. His eyes—
Don jumped from his camel. His hands were shaking as he raised his quirt. "Out of the way!" he shouted, then turned slightly. "Don't come any nearer, folks! It'll be all right. I'll have him out of the way in a minute."