As Ross recognized the big diamond-backs he knew instantly that he was trapped. To step down onto the floor meant death, a horrible, grewsome death. To remain on the table—
Instinctively, he drew his feet up onto the table as the big reptiles left the box, one by one. He counted eight in all.
Ross gave himself up to black despair. Down there on the floor awaited a fate too hideous for words....
It must have been fully two hours later, and dusk was already settling down and darkening the room, when Ross heard footsteps.
They approached his prison. For a moment his heart leaped within him at the possibility of rescue. But the door did not open. Instead, he heard the taunting voice of Ward from outside:
“Oh, you’re safe enough so far, Waring. They can’t get you as long as you stay on that table. I planned that. Wasn’t it kind of me to be so thoughtful? But there won’t be any food and there won’t be any water, and all the time you’ll be going through hell. I planned that, too. And then there’ll come a time when you can’t stand it any longer. You’ll either fall from the table from weakness, or you’ll go mad and step down onto the floor. They’ll always be waiting, Waring. And then they’ll get you, damn you!” The voice, rising to a shrill crescendo of passion, ended in a burst of wild maniacal laughter.
Receding footsteps told him that Ward had gone away.
As the gloom deepened into utter darkness it seemed to Ross that he would go mad. His brain seethed with wild impulses. A hundred times he pictured himself lying there on the floor, a bloated, blackened thing. A hundred times he went through death. Only that hope which “springs eternal” kept him from stepping down onto the floor and making an end of it.
Gradually Ross quieted. He finally settled back against the wall in a state of apathy, little knowing or little caring when the end would come.