“Shall we take the ship?”
Newton shook his head. “Too tricky navigating in here. The Belt isn’t far away.”
Grag flexed mighty metal limbs. “What are we waiting for?”
Presently the quartet was moving through the jungle of giant ferns. All about them was silence in the heavy gathering twilight. The bright sword of the Beam was fading, angling away as the opening in the crust was rotated away from the Sun.
Newton knew the direction of the Belt, that seared blackened strip in which the terrible heat of the Sun’s single shaft permitted nothing to live. He steered their course to head around the end of the Belt.
Again a beast-scream came from far away. There seemed no other sound in the fern jungle. But presently the Brain spoke softly. “We are being followed”, he said.
Curt Newton nodded. Simon’s micro— phonic ears, far more acute than any human auditory system, had picked up faint rustlings of movement among the ferns. Now that he was listening for it Newton could hear the stealthy padding of many naked feet, moving with infinite caution.
“I don’t understand it”, he murmured. “These Vulcanian natives were friendly before. This furtiveness —”
“Shall we stop and have it out with them?” Otho demanded.
“No, let’s go on. We have to find that citadel before dark. But keep alert — a thrown spear can be jus t as final as a blaster.”