"I keep forgetting you're not my babies any longer," she said slowly. "Mothers do that, you know. You're both almost grown men; I know you have good minds, almost mature minds. The various things you've been through have done that. So I release you from my apron strings. You two take charge, and do whatever you feel necessary."
They threw themselves on their knees, one on either side of her, their arms about her.
"Oh, Mother, we didn't mean it like that!"
"We never felt you had us tied to your apron strings, Mom," Jon added. "We still want to be your boys, even though we do have to act like men—at least until Pop takes charge again."
Her smile now was warm and tender, all hesitancy and most of the fears gone. "Mr. C. and I have tried to make you self-reliant and resourceful, and he'll be as proud of you as I am. You're right—you are the men of the party and must do whatever you decide should be done. But be careful," she could not help adding.
"We will, Mother."
"We think just as much of us as you do," Jon quipped.
They left her sitting there, then, and went back to the control room. As they came close to the window-ports they peered through eagerly, and were surprised to see the huge carcass of the triped literally covered with strange looking winged, featherless but fur-covered, bird-things. The latter had large, sharp beaks, with which they were tearing great gobs of flesh from the hulk, gulping them down with ravenous relish.
"Scavengers!" Jon exclaimed, his eyes glued to the scene.
"Yes, there go our steaks." Jak's tone was so lugubrious that Jon looked up and laughed. "I had hoped for some fresh meat."