There was a hissing crack and a bright stab of flame. The Mumum in front of Farr fell stiffly over backwards without a sound, an ugly smoking hole drilled clean through him. The others cringed and drew back as Farr swung the blaster in a threatening arc. "Get the idea?" he grinned.
Sweat plastered Farr's shirt to his back and streamed copiously down his masklike face. It was only an hour since he had entered the jungle, but already he was beginning to tire. His wiry muscles ached and his breath came wheezily, laboriously. Wearily he sat down on a porous rock and produced a vacuum-carton from his tunic pocket. The mushy food mixture contained in the carton was tasteless, but nourishing, and he ate in contemplative silence, keeping a wary eye on the foliage around him.
Thus far he had successfully avoided contact with malignant life-forms, but he did not allow this fact to lull him into a complacence that might prove his undoing. Even though the jungle denizens had not yet manifested themselves, he knew they were there, waiting for him to grow lax in his vigilance, waiting for his eyes to close in sleep—a sleep from which he would never awaken.
The Mumums—the pygmy people—were still with him. They stood a few feet away, soulful eyes watching him devour his meal. Their stares vaguely irritated Farr. What made it the worse, was that they never uttered a sound, but just watched silently, fingering those crazy silver tubes, moving when he moved, freezing into immobility when he called a halt, always keeping between him and the goal toward which he progressed.
Farr uttered a sneering laugh. They couldn't stop him! Let them stare. Let their saucer eyes reproach him. He would go on and emerge from the jungle with the secret that would place the fate of the world in his hands.
He laughed again and wiped the last particles of the meal from his lips. The food was making him sleepy. Gratefully he allowed leaden lids to close over sun-dazzled eyes. A keen sense of danger prodded his drowsy mind, telling him to awake, to throw off the torpor before the perils of the jungle closed in on him.
By will-power alone, Farr forced his eyes open and strove desperately to rise. He seemed to be rooted to the rock, and the insidious lump of matter was sucking out his life-force, draining him of vitality. Where he had been prepared to face fang and claw, this inanimate foe had caught him completely off-guard and was swiftly fulfilling the purpose for which it had been placed here—the destruction of interlopers who sought the secret of immortality by way of the jungle.
A less determined man than Farr would have succumbed to that compelling force, would have fallen back on the stone and let the life flow from his exhausted body. But Farr was made of stern stuff, and as long as there was life in him, there was fight.
Sweat stood out in glistening beads on his forehead and his lips compressed in a bloodless slit as he marshaled his powers of concentration. Slowly his hand moved to his side, clutching at the blaster that hung there. Minutes passed as his fingers closed around the butt of the gun and inched it from the holster.