"How are we to cross?" asked Quentin.
"Put on the space helmets!" ordered Cragley. "That stuff can't hurt you unless you breathe it!"
To prove his words, Cragley donned his space helmet and advanced into the mist. Looking back through the transparent facing of the helmet, he beckoned to us. Previously, many of the passengers had rebelled against Cragley's persistence that they carry the added weight of the space helmets. It had seemed utterly useless. Now, as they moved unharmed through the deadly fumes, they thanked his foresight.
We carried the dead body of the luckless man, who had saved us through his unfortunate discovery, to the top of the next hill where burial was made.
The second night, it came my turn to share guard duty with one of the crew while the others slept. The fires were plentifully fueled with dry branches and stalks. Fire material was piled in reserve. Grinstead, my companion watcher, went his rounds while I attended the fire, keeping the flames well supplied.
Protected by an embankment erected near a rocky ledge, the balance of our party slept. My eyes fell upon the little mound of boxes which contained the precious metal. Cragley and Quentin lay on each side of the platinum shipment. Not since we had commenced the march had they let it out of their sight or reach.
"Hantel!" It was Grinstead's voice. "Come here a moment!"
Hastily I ran to his side. He was stooped over a mark on the ground far to one side of our camp just within circle of the firelight. Mutely he pointed to a footprint—the footprint of a six-toed man.
"Troglodytes!" I exclaimed.
Grinstead nodded. "Fresh, too! Think we'd better awaken Cragley?" he asked. "These cave men don't seem bad when they're peaceful, but if they get going—they're devils!"