Some part of his mind screamed at him. "Cannibal!"
"The only chance!" cried another part.
"Vulture!" said the soul-part with unnerving keening. "Will you have loin? Or perhaps the rump?"
His flesh prickled, the sweat flowed in streams. Unheard murmurings distorted his mind.
"Only this once, for a little more time!—Maggot! Dungworm!—Only another week and maybe the Venus II, months ahead of time—Fool! Not a chance! Die now, quickly!—No, no, no! Still some hope! Never give up. Never say die! Oh, God, Heinie! Why did you suggest it?"
Gibbering conflict, a trend to insanity. The voices inside beat his brain against his temple and raged. The civilized man went to his knees and drew back. The beast man thumped his chest and screamed.
"Alright!" McBride shouted, wondering why his voice sounded so angry, why his face felt distorted. He drew his feelings within himself. His voice grew flat and quiet with bitter irony.
"Alright," he said. "Go ahead. Undress the main course."
When the meal ended the Hell came. Full stomachs restore sanity. The beast man lay down, well fed and sleeping, to leave the civilized man awake with his thoughts. A new kind of Hell, this one that started with a gun. You could see the fires of it burning the face of every man.