Once again, Winters watched the gathering of the beasts of Shanga. Hidden in the thicket, beyond the reach of the rays, he saw the hairy bodies rush and jostle toward the central clearing. He saw the shining of their drugged eyes. He heard them moan and whimper, and all over the garden the mouthing whisper went—Shanga! Shanga!
Jill writhed and thrashed in the agony of her desire, her cries muffled by the wad of silk he had thrust into her mouth. Winters could not bear to look at her. He knew how she was suffering. He was suffering himself.
He saw that Kor Hal was leaning forward over the edge of the wall, searching the garden. He knew what the Martian was looking for.
The last notes of the gong rang out. A silence fell on the clearing. Hairy anthropoid, shambling brute that ran on all fours, nameless creatures beyond the ape, crawling thing with wet and shining scales—all silent, all waiting.
The prisms began to glow. The beautiful wicked fire of Shanga filled the air. Burk Winters set his hand between his teeth and bit until the blood ran.
It seemed to him that he could hear a faint thin screaming, rising out of the flowering shrubs by the lake. Low, tough-stemmed shrubs that lay under the full rays of the prisms.
Shanga! Shanga!
He had to go, into the clearing, into the fiery light. He could not stand it. He must feel again the burning touch on his flesh, the madness and the joy. He could not stay away.
In desperation he flung himself down beside Jill and clung to her, shuddering in torment.
He heard Kor Hal's voice, calling his name.