"I don't know. Yann?"
"Here, damn it. If you'd pick more and talk less we'd be out of this pleasure garden sooner."
Trehearne could not place their positions. They sounded alike, all as though they spoke inside his own helmet. He worked on, hoping to catch sight of someone. The sick sun had worn out its burst of energy and was sinking into exhaustion, dimmer, redder, with the effect of an abnormal sunset. A kind of shadowy dusk crept between the feet of the tall distorted growths. Trehearne began to feel uneasy. He knew it was only the cumulative effect of the surroundings and the prisoning armor. He refused to pay attention to it. But it would not go away. It came in waves, with a prickling of nerve-ends and a lifting of the hair. He continued doggedly to throw the small fungi into his sack. He wanted to talk now more than ever, but he was afraid to, afraid that his unreasoning fear would show in his voice and disgrace him. He began to make long swings back and forth, trying to find somebody, but he could not, though he knew they must be close by. He was very hot, but his back turned cold and trickles of icy moisture ran down it. The unhealthy dusk grew thicker, and the shadows were red. He began to see movement out of the tail of his eye, as though something or someone walked stealthily just out of sight behind the screening growths.
"Yann?"
"What?" The bodiless, distanceless voice, speaking thinly in his ear.
"There's no life here, is there? I mean, outside of these stinking mushrooms."
"Not that anyone knows about. Why?"
"Nothing. It was only a trick of the shadows, I guess."
"Getting nervy, little Earthling?"
"Listen, the hell with you and your smart cracks."