"Okay," he said in a natural voice. "These walls are sound-proof. We can use our lights. We'll have to." "What happened?" Paula's voice said. "You said we were in a jam, Carver. Well?" "We'll talk as we go. Garth, you first. Paula, stay with me. Sampson, bring up the rear, will you?" * * * * * Garth obediently set out down the sloping tunnel, scarcely listening to Brown's explanation. There were side branches to the passage here and there. He had to use his memory, which seemed less accurate than he remembered. Once he almost blundered, but caught himself in time. Brown said, "Garth, we've got thirty miles of tunnel and twenty more above ground till we hit the Forest. Right? This is rough going. We won't get out of here till daylight. So we'd better camp in the passage, at the other end, till tomorrow night." "We don't have to do that," Garth grunted. "This isn't Earth. Jupiter won't rise for thirteen hours." "The men have heavy packs." Brown shifted his own big one uncomfortably. "Fifty miles is quite a way. Still, the quicker we reach the Forest, the safer we'll be." "There's a river." Garth's voice was doubtful. "We might use that." "Would it help?" "Yeah. But it's dangerous." "Why?" "Spouts. Geysers. The water's apt to explode under you any time. And there are big lizards--" "Would it take long to make a raft?" Garth shook his head. "_Lata_-trees are better than balsa, and they grow on the banks. Plenty of vines, too. But--" "We'll do that, then," Brown said decisively. "Speed it up. We've got thirteen hours. We can make it, all right." Garth didn't answer. After that it was pure monotony, a dull driving march through a bare tunnel, up slopes and down them, till leg muscles were aching with fatigue. Garth dropped into a state of tired apathy. He had no pack to carry, but nevertheless his liquor-soaked body rebelled at the unaccustomed exertion. But he knew that each step brought him closer to his goal. The thoughts swung monotonously through his brain. Doc Willard. The notebook. The cure. The Plague. Maybe--maybe--_maybe!_ If he got through--if he found the notebook--if it had the cure--that was what he wanted, of course. But suppose he also found the skeleton of Doc Willard on an altar, with a knife-hilt protruding from the ribs? He couldn't have killed Doc consciously. That was unthinkable. Yet the damnable influence of the Noctoli pollen did odd things to a man's mind. Doc Willard--Moira--the Silver Plague-- Half asleep, aching with exhaustion, he slogged ahead, moving like an automaton. And, whenever he slowed his pace, Brown's sharp voice urged him on faster. Grudgingly the Captain allowed them rest periods. But by the time they reached the tunnel's end the men were panting and sweating, and both Paula and Garth were near exhaustion. Thirty miles at a fast pace, with only occasional rests, is wearing work. * * * * *