I nodded and we went for the rifles.
Ginger had a short-barreled light-kicking Mannlicher, Harry and I carried Springfields and Mr. Stevenson had a big Marlin Magnum .375. We had enough firepower to stop anything the Venusian swamps offered unless something—such as a Wompan—stopped us first.
"Let's go out there," Mr. Stevenson said, loading a clip of ammo into the Marlin's magazine and ramming a single shell into the breech.
I led the way, followed single file by Mr. Stevenson, Ginger and Harry in that order. We went less than a hundred yards and could no longer see the stockade behind us. Venusian swamp jungle was like that. It was strangely quiet, though. We noticed that at once—the usual small jungle noises were still, as if waiting, watching....
"The Wompan," I whispered. "He's here, sir."
"How can you be sure?"
"Listen...."