"A kid of ten knows enough to keep a gun clean, but you, Mr.—Mr. Unabridged Webster in the flesh—"
He stopped, temporarily out of breath. Morley regarded him abjectly, and suddenly Madsen began to feel a little ashamed. After all, the fellow had figured out that business about the meridian.
"No use in having any post mortems," he said, with fine logic. "Throw that junk away. It's that much less to carry, anyway."
Two hours later, they plodded wearily through the last of the swamp onto higher ground. The two haggard, muddied figures that threw themselves on the dry soil to rest bore little resemblance to the men who had parachuted from Spaceboat 6 seventy-two hours before.
The slope on which they rested was tufted with small bushes. One particular type with narrow dark green leaves bore clusters of fruit like small plums, which Madsen eyed speculatively.
"Do we risk it?" he asked.
"Might as well."
Morley was completely unaware that he had just accepted the responsibility for making a decision.
"We can't afford not to risk it," he said, adding, with little show of enthusiasm, "I'll be the guinea pig."
"Take it easy, chum," Madsen countered. "We'll match for it."