“Impatiently, he reached out a stick he was carrying: a newlycut, stout cudgel of dried wood. He stirred around with it in the growth at his feet. And then a cry broke from his lips.
“‘Ach, du lieber Gott—gnadig Gott im Himmel! Sieh’ da!’
“I looked where he was pointing. His hand trembled violently. And little wonder! The stick, for about twelve inches up, was a mass of gray!
“And as I watched, I saw, steadily growing before my eyes, that awful gray creep up and surround the wood. I’m not exaggerating; I tell you, in less time than it takes to tell, it had almost reached Von Housmann’s hand. He threw it from him with an exclamation of horror.
“It fell in the gray growth and instantly vanished. It seemed to melt away.”
“Sigmund looked at me. He was pale. At last he sighed.
“‘So-o-o! Ve learn. On vood it grows. I might haf guessed. Dot iss der reason dot no trees are here. It destroys dem. But so schnell; ach, lige fire it growed. My frendt, I lige dot stuff lesser als before. It is not healt’y. But vat vill it not eat?’
“I handed him my rifle. He took it, and with the muzzle poked the growth. Man, my hair fairly stood on end! Do you know anything about fungi? No? Well, I have never known or heard of any vegetable growth that would attack blue steel. But that stuff, I tell you, that rifle barrel sprouted a crop of that gray moss as readily and as quickly as had the wood!
“I grabbed the gun and lifted it out of the patch. Already several inches of steel had been eaten—literally eaten—off. I held it up and watched that damnable gray crawl along the barrel. It just seemed to melt the metal. It melted like sealing wax, and great gray flakes dropped off to the ground.