"Well," she said, green eyes never leaving his, "what are we waiting for?" She motioned to the man with the scar. "Take the end of the rope, Voss. Our Earthian friend hasn't tasted the mud yet, you know."
Charlie hadn't said anything. A gun at his back, his white mustache ruffled by the wind, he stood silently watching Flip, holding his broken arm. The choice was up to Flip.
"Look at the mud, Flip Miller," said the woman. "There is not even a ripple where Thorg went down. He went quickly. You shall dip slowly, that the conceit of your tongue and the rashness of your mind may be reflected upon with regret." Flip glanced over the rock's edge. There was only the quiet, waiting mire; no trace of Thorg's body.
"Vixen—" he began. He never finished for Voss pushed him over with both hands.
The black surface of the mud rushed up at him. Arms flailing off balance, he hit on his side with a heavy splash. He heard Charlie's yell from above. He raised his head from the mud, tried to brush the stuff from his eyes. A soft and clinging pressure was warm against his legs, his waist. Through the mud in his eyes, he saw the dark flat plain of the swamp stretching away into the mist. Turning, he saw the perpendicular rock wall of the island rising above him. The hot ooze crawled up to his chest and in his nostrils was the fetid smell of the swamp, dank with the warm breath of ancient decay.
The mud crawled higher. He struck out with his hands against it, struggled to pull himself upward but a grim suction tugged at his feet and legs, slowly drew his body downward. Then his wrists were caught in the irresistible pull. He couldn't move his arms. Looking down, he saw the black mire high on his chest. As he watched, fascinated, the mire rose higher. It was at his shoulders.
Keen and swift, panic struck like a knife in his belly and his arms strained, every muscle in his body trembled with mad flight. But he couldn't move and the mud climbed to his throat. This is it, he thought, and pictures paraded through his mind, irrelevant flashes. He saw faces, dim in the mist above him, blurred with water and the mud in his eyes. He shook his head violently, the faces cleared. There was choking pain in his throat. The faces were of three men, and a woman.
It was Vixen, looking down from the rock above. His head was strained back and upward against the rope, tight on his throat. He had stopped sinking.
"Have you found your tongue?" It was the woman's voice. "Where is the mine? Speak! Tell me or you sink!"
Flip stared at her and could say nothing. He was smothered with the noose on his neck. His eyes burned with the pain, with red hatred of the woman.