Another eternity or two passed, and suddenly Madsen staggered and sat down in his tracks. He stared resentfully at his knapsack and then peered up at Morley.
"We've still got four of those melon things. If we eat them now, we won't have to carry them. How about it?" he mumbled.
Through Morley's weariness crept a doubt as to the validity of his comrade's logic, but it seemed to be too difficult to analyze at the moment.
They ate the scanty meal in silence, and rested for an hour, half comatose. Then, somewhat refreshed, Morley levered himself slowly erect. He stirred Madsen with his toe.
"Up and at 'em, chum."
Madsen blinked at him and started to rise. He was on one knee, when suddenly, he turned his head in a listening attitude. Morley had heard the distant hum, too, and was standing stock still, an anxious frown on his gaunt face. Madsen was on the verge of scrambling to his feet, when Morley spoke.
"Don't move."
"What's the—?"
"Shut up, for God's sake. Don't stir." He was trembling, his bony features white as paper under their coating of grime. Madsen froze, wordless. Sailing through the tall grass, straight toward them, came one of the gray antelope-like creatures. It passed within twenty feet. They could see the heaving flanks, the foam on its muzzle, the rolling, terror stricken eyes. Close behind, and closing in rapidly, came the origin of the hum. It was a host of tiny iridescent flying creatures, no larger than bumblebees. They streaked by, green and crimson winged gems, the hum rising to a vicious crescendo.
The chase ended a hundred yards away. As the cloud struck, the antelope screamed, a lone cry of agony and despair. It staggered once, tried to leap forward, staggered again, was down. There was a threshing, a violent movement of the grass, then silence.