She looked down, and instinctively dropped her crippled arm behind her back. The glove was no longer fresh, but stained from the desert, though wrinkled where she had tried to launder it. Under the transparency of her sleeve the ugly stump of her arm revealed itself discordantly. With a forced gaiety, she crossed the room and pretended to hunt for their breakfast. But it didn't come.
"Maybe they don't know our eating habits," remarked John glumly, as he plastered his unruly locks with his hands. "Wish I had a comb."
At last the slide opened in the wall and a tray came in, but on it, instead of food, was a book. Hilda seized it eagerly, crying, "It's a lexicon. See, here are the English words, and the signs for their language. The ink still smells fresh. They must have just printed it."
"What's the sign for ham and eggs?"
"Maybe we'd better try just 'food'—can't be too particular."
"What'll we write with?"
"Here's a kind of pencil, but no lead on it."
"Look, Hilda, there's a new white spot on the wall. Let me have that pencil thing." A blue line followed his tracing, and it glowed with a faint edging of fire.
"Some kind of a transfer current I suppose. Well, here goes—Let me see that food character."