"Not so loud," Brand whispered. "The thing—a Martian left alive, I guess it is. Must have been somewhere out in the brush when we shot. It blew us up with an atomic bomb. Smith and Walker dead—blown to pieces."
"And the Prince?"
"I can speak for myself."
Hearing the familiar low voice, Bill turned. He saw the Prince squatted down, in the blazing sunshine, hands and feet manacled, hat off and face covered with blood and grime.
"Was it that—that green thing?" Bill asked.
"Looks like a sort of animated plant," said the Prince. "A bunch of green tentacles, that it uses for hands. Three purple eyes on green stalks. Just enough of a body to join it all together. Not like anything I ever saw. But the Martians, originating under different conditions, ought to be different."
"What is going to happen now?" Bill inquired.
"Probably it will suck our blood—as it did to the passengers of the Helicon," Brand suggested grimly.
Windsor fell silent. It was almost noon. The desert sun was very hot. The motionless air was oppressive with a dry, parching heat; and flies buzzed annoyingly about his bleeding cuts. Wrists and ankles ached under the cruel pressure of the manacles.
"Wish the thing would come back, and end the suspense," Brand muttered.