Madsen was silent. Then he laughed, and turned to eye the remains of the antelope fondly.
"And to think we didn't even have to bleed it," he said. "When we get back, you might recommend some books for me to read, if you feel like doing a good turn."
Morley was laughing, too. "It's a deal."
When they resumed their trek, both knapsacks were loaded with meat, cut into strips, and well smoked. The travelers were staggering no longer, though once again they were traversing rising ground. An eight-hour march brought them to the summit. At their feet the ground fell away in a sharp slope, to level off a few miles in the distance, and there, flowing from the west and swinging in a broad arc directly into the south, was the silvery sheen of a river. It seemed like a great question mark, its ends disappearing over the deceptively close horizons of the little world.
Madsen peered at the bright interrogative streak.
"Pardon my ignorance, pal, but is that river really flowing south, or am I dreaming?"
"No, it's not a dream. We've been coming over a watershed evidently."
"That should simplify matters. We get to the river, build a raft somehow, if there's timber, and travel in luxury. Right?"
"Right."
A few hours of easy travel brought them to the bank. For some time it had been evident that there would be ample material for a raft. Now Morley looked at the foot-thick trunks around them, and said thoughtfully, "We'll have to work downstream and look for windfalls or something. We aren't equipped for lumberjack work."