"Yeah. But it's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Spouts. Geysers. The water's apt to explode under you any time. And there are big lizards—"
"Would it take long to make a raft?"
Garth shook his head. "Lata-trees are better than balsa, and they grow on the banks. Plenty of vines, too. But—"
"We'll do that, then," Brown said decisively. "Speed it up. We've got thirteen hours. We can make it, all right."
Garth didn't answer.
After that it was pure monotony, a dull driving march through a bare tunnel, up slopes and down them, till leg muscles were aching with fatigue. Garth dropped into a state of tired apathy. He had no pack to carry, but nevertheless his liquor-soaked body rebelled at the unaccustomed exertion. But he knew that each step brought him closer to his goal.
The thoughts swung monotonously through his brain. Doc Willard. The notebook. The cure. The Plague. Maybe—maybe—maybe!
If he got through—if he found the notebook—if it had the cure—that was what he wanted, of course.