"We're stopping here," he said hoarsely, raising a limp arm at an outcropping of rock that shelved over a stretch of sand, casting a jet-black shadow. The boy did not speak, but he knew that these rock formations were little less than refractory furnaces, concentrating in one innocuous spot the terrible radiations of the desert sun. Pete coughed again, his smooth skin paling. Suddenly a sort of sympathy came over the boy.
"Look," he said, tossing a bit of vegetation under the rock. It crisped and blackened. The outlaws stared, first at the cinder and then at Don. Pete's face twitched with strain as he spoke: "Smart kid? Maybe you're too smart for us!" His hand fell to his belt, where he wore his bell-mouthed electronic pistol.
The other of the two laid a hand on his arm. "Cut that out," he said slowly. Then, turning to Don, "Thanks, kid." Stolidly he spread out his sleeping-bag and squatted down on it to await the night. Pete sprawled face-down, breathing heavily till the darkness fell. Then Don, who had bedded down Gecko the Iguana, and the other slid him into the sleeping-bag.
Before he put up the flap of his own bag Don turned to the silent outlaw and said: "Half a tank of water left. Ought to hold out if we're easy on it. There's a water-hole ahead—there was once, I mean. Maybe it isn't dried up. But it's the wrong season."
"Right," said the outlaw.
Nothing more was said that night.
In the morning, after packing, Don measured out the remaining water into three canteens. He gave one to each of the outlaws and put his own on Gecko's back.
The heat was worse than the day before. By noon Gecko was voluntarily picking up speed, the spines on his horny back moving first one way and then the other. Don knew the signs. The lizard sensed water ahead.
"We can't be sure," Don shortly told the Earthmen. "It might not be drinking water—for us."
Thirty minutes later they came upon it, a small patch of rust-red mud and slime. One of the outlaws groaned.