When they camped at the onset of darkness, Sampson and Garth alone remained.
The red-haired giant, swaying on his feet, squinted at Garth, his face haggard with exhaustion.
“Nice going,” he said sardonically, after a time. “What now? Maybe we’d better cut our throats.”
Garth managed a shaky grin. “We’re still okay. And there’s only one more day left. Tomorrow—we’ll make it then. We’ve got to.”
Unwilling admiration showed in Sampson’s eyes. “You’re dead on your feet. I don’t see how the hell you keep up this pace. Anyhow—we can’t go back now. That’s settled, anyway.”
“Yeah. The others will wake up after a while. We’ll have to stay on guard till then.”
They did, guns drawn, peering at the silent depths of the Forest around them, while the rest of the party lay motionless, helpless against attack.
After a time Sampson spoke. Garth could not see his face in the heavy gloom.
“What are you after, Garth?”
“Eh?”
“I had you ticketed wrong. A beachcomber. … There must be something plenty important where we’re going, or you wouldn’t be so anxious to get there. What is it? Treasure, of course, but—jewels? Or what?”
Garth chuckled. “There may be. I don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Hm‑m.” Sampson was silent, baffled. Garth’s mind swung back to that ever-present question. Had he killed Doc Willard? Very soon, now, he might know the answer.
But that was important only to him. The vital point was the black notebook Doc had with him.
After a time Captain Brown stirred and sat up. Then the others. The men were a little panicky, but the presence of Brown and Sampson calmed them.
Garth, relieved of guard duty, had fallen asleep almost instantly.
He woke at dawn. Red twilight filtered down from above. The others were lying motionless in their blankets. Sampson’s big body was huddled at the base of a tree.
Wearily Garth got up and went over to the giant. “Sampson!” he called. “Wake up! We’ve got a job—”
He stopped. Sampson’s eyes were open, fixed and blank, and his dark cheeks had a significant ruddy flush.
The Noctoli poison—!
Garth stepped back, white to the lips. A sudden, horrible sense of loneliness pressed down on him. In the jungle things seemed to move, closing in menacingly.
He was alone now.
Alone—with twelve helpless companions to guard!
Somehow—somehow!—he had to get them through. One more day, and they would be at their goal. They could not stay here, that was certain.
Garth searched Sampson’s pack till he found a half-empty whiskey bottle. He poured the burning stuff down his throat, though it rocked him back on his heels. But he needed artificial stimulation; it was the only thing that could keep him going now.
It helped. Garth took Sampson’s gun and stuck it in his belt. If his own jammed or ran out of ammunition, today, it would be unfortunate.
One more day.
One more day!
Somehow, he got Sampson, Brown and the others lined up. They would march when he gave the word. The hypnotic trance of the Noctoli pollen had turned them into robots.
Garth put Paula directly behind him. The sight of her wan, drawn face made him feel a little frightened, though not for himself. He was remembering Moira, who had died on Earth years ago.
Eleven men and a girl—and he was the only one who could save them.
Garth made sure that the packs were in place on the men’s shoulders. He took another drink, pulled out one of the guns, and gave the command to march.
Like automatons the line followed him.
If the day before had been hell, this was double-distilled hell.
Within an hour, Garth’s nerves were scraped raw. He had to be constantly alert. The wrenching strain of watching for camouflaged menace made his eyes ache. When movement came, he had to be ready. Ready to squeeze the trigger. …
He had to have eyes in the back of his head. For Sampson, at the tail of the procession, was as helpless as the others.
Liquor kept Garth going. Without it, he would have collapsed. By noon he was forced to call a halt, his eyes throbbing with the strain. But even then he could not relax. Danger waited everywhere.
He never remembered what happened that afternoon. He must have acted automatically, through blind instinct. But he got them through, somehow. …
It was like awakening from deep sleep. Garth was abruptly conscious that he was marching forward, his head moving rhythmically, his eyes searching the jungle. The red twilight was almost gone.
He whirled, to see Paula directly behind him, unharmed. The others were strung out in single file—all of them, with Sampson’s red head at the end. None was missing.
Garth shivered. His body was aching like fire. A quick glance showed him that his clothes were ribboned, his skin scratched raw, a long slash along his ribs. It had been treated with antiseptic, he saw, though he did not remember administering first aid, nor what had caused the wound.
What had wakened him? He peered through the gloom, making out a dark bulk, regular in outline, ahead and to his left. A few paces further gave him the answer. It was a building, of black stone or metal, no more than twelve feet high, and with an archway gaping in the nearest side.
Somehow it struck a chord of memory. They must be near their goal. No savages had built this structure. The Ancient Race?
The Zarno—they might be near by. It would not do to encounter them now, while the men were in their Noctoli trance. And here, in the Forest, they were without cover, at the mercy of the Zarno should they appear.
Garth reconnoitered quietly, leading the others, for he dared not leave them alone. The black building seemed untenanted. He could vaguely make out a flight of steps leading down into darkness, and, more important than that, the threshold itself was thick with dust and mould. The—temple—was empty.
Which made it a good place to hide. Garth was beginning to realize he could not keep going much longer, at
