Craig followed, sweeping low behind him.
Then they were above the monstrous sextupeds—hovering, peering. Craig glimpsed grey movement amidst the green-gold grass-clumps ... a shimmering as of slime that crawled and eddied. He started to glide lower.
"No—!" Bukal cried. "Stop, Craig! Don't chance it!"
There could be no mistaking the urgency of his tone. Discing higher, Craig studied the ground below in careful detail.
Now it dawned on him that more than one grey splotch showed. Here lay another; there, two more. Like water, they seemed to seep across the land in slithering tendrils.
The djevodas were bunching now, crowding together. Their great feet hammered at the earth. They tusked up clods in sudden furies.
Bukal hung close. "You see? They are surrounded." His voice was bitter.
It was true. Everywhere, grey patches hemmed in the djevoda. While Craig watched, they linked and joined, eddying together ... grew larger, larger, till they lay on the range like a sodden, ever-spreading blanket.
The djevodas stomped and pawed. Rage echoed in their roaring bellows ... rage, and something more, something close akin to panic.
The grey took on new thickness. As if feeding on the very air itself, it piled in glistening layers.