I couldn't place the difference.
Finally I selected one about two feet tall.
It was bulbous, thick skinned, terminating in broad members that were clustered to form a rough funnel. Their inner surfaces were coated with a glutinous substance. The main body of the plant was studded with warty projections about the size of walnut halves. And just below the terminal funnel was a corona of tapering members like leaves beneath a bizarre blossom. They ended in sharp points, bore flimsy surface bristles, and seemed to serve as protection for the trap.
I prodded the green-and-yellow mottled skin of the thing. It was tough, resistant, almost pneumatic—
I had this sudden, strong feeling.
About ten feet away was a tree with dull-reddish, overlapping bark segments on its trunk. There was a branch close enough to the ground to be reached if my leg would support the necessary spring. I tested the leg for leap and the branch for support. They held.
I uncapped the canteen and sprinkled the remaining water over the plant, making sure that some reached both the funnel and the corona.
I ran.
Seconds later, perched monkey-see, monkey-do on the branch, I lost any lingering feeling of foolishness.
I sat there for quite a while, sickened. I thought about the crew of 231, and the other pieces of the puzzle. One of them had to be arrogance—the natural arrogance of picked people that leads to a belief in corporeal immortality: Nothing can happen to me; you, maybe, but not me.