The Stranger from the Stars by Malcolm Smith

Author:Malcolm Smith [Smith, Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2019-09-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

Nightfall

The hours weighed heavily on the three men. By late afternoon, even under normal circumstances, a long hike would have served to dampen their energy. With the extra burden and the loss of two sets of hands, a sheer bone weariness was creeping up on them. At first they sought to raise their spirits by singing; eventually even that petered out. Any sort of rise in the ground caused their legs to ache. There was a permanent ache in their shoulders and arms, and sweat trickled down their backs, for whatever relief the trees gave from the direct rays of the sun they compensated for in a stifling breathlessness. Even the alien suffered from the malaise. He no longer took an active interest in the scenery, but lay back in a closed-eyed reverie, only his pained reactions to jolts and bumps indicating that he was not asleep. They worried about him whenever their minds wandered away from their own troubles.

One of the disquieting aspects of the journey was its effect on the makeshift stretcher. It was sagging, and in some places tearing, and everywhere loosening. The possibility that it might collapse altogether was seldom far from their minds. Frequent stops were made to tighten it - perhaps more than were strictly necessary, for they welcomed every break as a respite from their labours. Even then they were always of two minds about it, for as they fiddled with the cords they could feel the minutes ticking away and the night drawing near. As soon as the immediate task was done and sore muscles stretched each member would seize a corner of the litter, always making sure that a different hand bore the load from last time.

Had fatigue not served as a counterpoise to frayed tempers, the short flashes of argument might have flared into something more serious. Minor irritations received more attention. Harsh words spoken earlier in the day were brought back to mind. Barry and Warwick tended to get on each other's nerves, but every so often Stan crossed into the firing line.

During one short break he fumbled into his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette.

"I can't understand you," said Warwick. "I would have thought you came to breathe the good clean air, and here you are bringing your own air pollution with you."

At any other time Stan would have treated the remark as it was no doubt intended: as a piece of harmless banter. But this time he detected a subtle harshness in it and he was in no mood to laugh it off. "Good clean air is all very well," he said, "but right now I need a fag."

"I would have thought an educated man like you would know better," said Warwick.

"Look," said Stan, "will this satisfy you?" He threw the packet into the undergrowth.

"Now you're littering," said the other.

Stan thought of something sharp to reply, but he was too tired to argue, and Warwick, for that matter, was too tired to continue the pettiness. Instead,

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