Garth moved toward the cave just as Chiswell emerged. If there had been any doubt before that the man was mad there could not be now. As Garth approached him he stood there half erect, gibbering, ghastly in the pale ghost-light of the sun that was just beginning to reach down into the chasm.
Garth stood before the disgusting thing that was no longer a man. His fist moved only a foot and caught the thing in the throat. On Chiswell's face as he sailed backward there was a look of mild surprise, as if he could not quite understand how it happened or why; but when he hit the rocky wall he crumpled and lay still.
Garth looked at his fist wonderingly. He passed a hand across his brow. That's what he had needed. Clear, concise thought was coming back. He entered the cave and stood a full minute there in the darkness, before he remembered the torch at his side. He lifted it, and was about to flood the cave with light.
Then that familiar premonitory "awareness" was with him again; abruptly, startlingly, vividly it came, engulfing him. It told him not to click on that light.
Garth stood stock still for a moment, hand half lifted, indecision creeping on him.
Prokle's body was in here, he knew that. But—yes, that's what had brought the numb fear a minute ago! That's why this was different! Why had that madman dragged Prokle in here?
For the first time in his life Garth disregarded his warning premonition.
He clicked on the torch.
Out on the Station, in the long dreary days to come, Garth was to remember that scene.