"How much water left?" asked Astro thickly.
"Enough for one more drink apiece," Tom replied.
"And then what happens?" mumbled Roger through his cracked lips.
"You know what will happen, Roger—you know and I know and Tom knows," muttered Astro grimly.
For eight days they had been struggling across the blistering shifting sands, walking by night, sweltering under the thin space cloth during the day. Their tongues were swollen. Scraggly beards covered their chins and jaws. Roger's lips were cracked. The back of Tom's neck had suffered ten minutes of direct sun and turned into a large swollen blister. Only Astro appeared to be bearing up under the ordeal. There was no sign of their being close to the canal.
"Wanta try marching during the day?" asked Astro. They had broken camp on the evening of the eighth day and were preparing to move on into the never-changing desert.
"If we don't hit the canal sometime during the night, there might be a chance it's close enough to reach in a couple of hours," replied Tom. "Either that, or we've miscalculated altogether."
"How about you, Roger?" asked Astro.
"Whatever you guys decide, I'll be right in back of you." Roger had grown steadily weaker during the last three days and found it difficult to sleep during the hours of rest.
"Then we'll keep marching tomorrow," said Astro.