In his mind Roal had been trying to cautiously avoid the subject of water. Now that he had allowed it in the forefront of his consciousness a parching thirst burned within him. He had to have drink, and soon.
He scrambled out of the hole and looked in the direction of the pointing finger of Toomar, the friendly Martian.
"Only a quarter of a mile," he estimated. "They can't miss me if I move that far. Let's go."
Taciturn, after the manner of their kind, the Martians made no conversation on the way. Their burrow was invisible on the surface to the untrained eye, but Roal's experienced vision detected its presence as they approached. A sand colored slab moved aside to offer them entrance.
Descending into the cool depths beneath the sand, Roal found himself in the near darkness which the Martians loved. This seemed to be an unusually large family and the chamber into which he came was crowded with the withered, shrunken creatures who made no comment as Toomar introduced him.
The cool of the burrow felt wonderful after the hours in the blistering sun, but after his drink Roal arose. "I've got to get to the surface. My plane might miss me if I remain. Good years to you for your services."
"Please remain," the guide said. "We have food."
Roal gagged at the thought of partaking of the repulsive soup of desert lizards which was the Martians' mainstay.
"It has not been long since I have eaten," he said. "Many thanks for the water. I must wait for my ship."