The boy gave Gecko a friendly whack on the tail. The lizard cocked a lazy eye and ambled off, the rest following.
Behind him Don could hear the two men talking in low undertones. Only one snatch of conversstion was clear. "Dumb Martian!" Pete had grunted, and his friend had snickered agreement.
The boy smiled to himself. Yes, he thought, he was a dumb Martian. What chance had he had to learn in a land where everything withered under the scorching sun, and where only ugly venomous creatures survived? True, he had read his father's old books, but he had only half understood them. They were mostly treatises on practical mining and engineering, the rest unreal blood-and-thunder tales of life in the space lanes.
Two hours later Pete called a halt. He never took his eyes off Don as preparations were made for the night camp. His companion cooked a meal out of tins; the outlaws ate most of it and flung the scraps to the boy.
"Brought plenty of water?" asked Pete, tilting a canteen.
Don nodded.
"That's good. Because if we run short you'll be the first to do without. When's the soonest we can expect to get to Propontis?"
"Four days," said Don shortly.
Pete raised his brows. "That long?" he asked. "We'd better bunk for the night." He pulled out his sleeping bag and dropped it on the bare sand. Don smiled grimly. That was no way to live on the desert, he knew. The boy burrowed down until he struck the red layer of sand that retained the day's heat. There he spread his sleeping-bag and crawled carefully in after taking off his heavy sand-shoes. With his free arms he banked the red sand over his legs before unfolding the top flap.
"Kid!" called out Pete.