He would have to manage his plan somehow without their help.
By signs, Wilding tried helplessly to convey a minimum of apology for the outrage of capture and attempted kidnapping. He might as well have waved his hand against the wind.
The fungus-thing goggled and trembled and waited, making no move to leave, none toward Wilding. Treble sounds spilled from the orifice of its waving trunk, almost made words, hinted at resemblances, at possible meanings. Wilding thought he made out a corrupt and garbled enunciation of a red Martian word.
"Tza-tchagalok," which means either priest or temple, depending upon the tone in which it is spoken.
The Pit Man slid away. He came back. He retreated to the dark areas, returned again. His flippers gyrated excitedly. He reminded Wilding of a dog dumbly trying to lead a man to a discovery. The parallel was obvious. He wanted Wilding to follow.
Wilding shrugged and went along. There was nothing to lose. If it were a trap, he was already in it.
The darkness grew lighter, but oddly misty, as if some radiant vapor swirled and flowed in the caves. He could now see surroundings but as if through a veil of dancing dust motes. Light increased as they moved forward, ever deeper into the rock heart of the asteroid. Wilding felt his skin tingling as if he bathed in a thick liquid full of sparks. Fatalistically, he wondered how much exposure to this a man's body could stand.
The cavern opened out, became an immense chamber. Walls fell back and the floor sloped into an abyss swimming with blinding mist. The ceiling lifted and lost itself in vaulted brightness overhead. Pit Men swarmed in the great cavern like bees crowding a giant hive. They paid no attention to Wilding or his companion.
There was music, or at least unholy sound. It swelled and flowed in monstrous organ notes, lingering on chords, measured by an alien off-beat rhythm. The Pit Men wavered like shoals of fish caught in powerful undertows. Their bodies swayed and bobbed in response to the movements of sound. Even the light flared and faded like a visual echo of the music.
Wilding's late captive, now his guide, paused indecisively and made abortive motions with his flippers. Again the bird-sounds chimed and whickered. Again, Wilding snatched at the Martian word for priest or temple.