He tossed a crumb from his plate toward the peering head. Flicking a tongue like a lizard's, the visitor fielded it neatly in midair and advanced, peering hopefully at the circle of grinning faces. Palmer stretched out a stealthy hand and gripped it gently about the middle as it sniffed at his food can.
"Look at him," he cried delightedly. "He doesn't even squirm. He likes me!"
He tickled its ears, sliding his fingers down through the heavy, silky pelt. "You could make a fortune with these...." he dropped it abruptly with an anguished yelp and a string of blistering oaths, while his friends clung to each other and howled mirthfully.
"Your little friend, he pulled a knife on you. No?" queried Rodriguez sympathetically. The grin faded from his suddenly startled face.
"Amigo, que lo es? Hey, fellows—something's wrong!"
Palmer, his face shocked and dazed had dropped to his knees, whimpering and retching painfully.
"My God, look—his hand!" whispered Bradford.
They had removed their bulky gloves before eating and Palmer's exposed hand was black and swollen beyond recognition. Even as they watched, the skin split, leaking watery fluid. His body contorted, he rolled on the ground screaming with unbearable agony.
Bradford's hand dropped to his pistol and fell away again. He looked at the others pleadingly.
"We can't let him suffer this way. But my God—I can't do it...."