y the yellow stuff; grotesquely
formed clumps and feathers hung from the ceiling; fern-like fingers
kept spurting everywhere. Friday stepped back, before the advance, but
not the Hawk. Useless to try and evade the stuff, he knew, and he was
fairly positive that there was no immediate danger: the tough fabric
of the suits should resist it. A pseudopod-like surge flicked to his
leg; crept up; cloaked the suit in patches of yellow; thickened and
enveloped him. But it could not pierce through.

"Cap'n Carse! Look heah!"

He turned to the alarmed voice, brushing light, feathery particles of
yellow from his face shield, and found the bulky giant that was Friday
a few steps behind him, and pointing mutely at Harkness.

The young officer was slumped limply down against a wall, his legs
sprawled and body twisted unnaturally. His suit was covered with the
yellow, and he had fallen, silently, while they were watching the
advance of the fungus and checking the fastenings of their suits.

Carse reached him in three steps, stooped, brushed the fungus off the
face-shield and peered through. Friday looked over his shoulder. The
yellow enemy had laid its deadly fingers on Harkness's fine pale face.
Sprouts of yellow trailed from the nostrils; the mouth was a clump of
it; tendrils of spongy substance had climbed out the ears and were
still threading rapidly over the head, even as the Hawk and Friday
watched.

"That's how the others died," the adventurer said slowly. "Harkness
must have carried a bit of the stuff from aft. It was on him when he
put on his suit. At least I hope so. If it can get into these
suits...." He left the thought unfinished.

"You mean, suh," asked Friday haltingly, "you mean that maybe--maybe
it'll get in our suits too?"

"Maybe," said Carse without emotion.

They waited.

CHAPTER IV

_The Hawk Prepares a Surprise_

Hawk Carse's icy poise in times of emotional stress never failed to
amaze friends and enemies alike. Most of them swore he had no nerves,
and that in that way he was not human. This estimate, of course, is
foolish; Carse was perhaps too human, as was proved by the
all-consuming object of his life. It was rather, probably, an inward
vanity that made him stand composed as a statue while death was
gnawing near; that had, once, led him actually to file his nails when
apparently trapped and hotly besieged, with the wicked hiss of
ray-guns all around.

And so he stood within his suit