MacFarland slipped into his field boots. "I'll go with you," he said.
Outside a cold drizzle was falling, and from the way the leaden skies were piling up, Gallifa was convinced that it would stay around for several days. Evidently the weather boys had been right in predicting that the planet was about to be plagued by a rainy season.
As they drew near to the edge of camp, Cummings, the little, bald-headed meteorologist of the weather group, burst out of the weather shack, cursing soundly and waving a boot in one hand.
"Damn those piebald dwarfs," he shouted. "They've got more brass than a fire pole. They stole one of my boots."
He threw the boot and disappeared around the corner. "Get out of here, you little devils!"
"The gnomes seem to have invaded the camp," MacFarland remarked. "We'll have to take steps to chase them out. They might get into our stores."
"Yeah," Gallifa nodded glumly. He was too upset with the problem of Bradshaw and Samuels to worry about gnomes.
From all indications Samuels had developed the same malady as Bradshaw. The doctor pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. Thirty-three hours on the planet and two men suddenly, violently insane! Did that herald an epidemic, Gallifa wanted to know. Or could it simply be put down to an unlucky coincidence? Could it be a disease or a virus?
There were tests that might shed some light on the mystery, the doctor admitted. But it would take time to apply them and reach any kind of conclusion. Meanwhile, the work had to continue. The survey could not wait.
Samuels had been given a hypo and been moved to the ward with Bradshaw. Gallifa walked past the ward corpsman and looked in the door. Bradshaw was tossing fretfully in his sleep. Both he and Samuels were in restraint jackets.