Both men whirled at a sudden crashing on their left. Something like a large splay footed kangaroo broke cover, and went loping away, clearing the fern tops at every bound. In one motion Morley whipped up the rifle and fired. There was an earsplitting report, the leaper kept right on going, under forced draught, and the two castaways stared in consternation at a rifle that resembled a bundle of metallic macaroni more than it did a firearm. Madsen spoke first. "You probably got some mud in the barrel when we stopped last time," he accused. "Look at us now." Morley started to mumble an apology, but Madsen cut him short. "Look at us now," he repeated, with all stops out. "It was bad before, now it's practically hopeless. Our only long range gun! What do we do now if we do find game--dig pits for it?" If a man can be said to slink without changing his position, Morley slunk. Madsen continued, double fortissimo. "A kid of ten knows enough to keep a gun clean, but you, Mr.--Mr. Unabridged Webster in the flesh--" He stopped, temporarily out of breath. Morley regarded him abjectly, and suddenly Madsen began to feel a little ashamed. After all, the fellow had figured out that business about the meridian. "No use in having any post mortems," he said, with fine logic. "Throw that junk away. It's that much less to carry, anyway." Two hours later, they plodded wearily through the last of the swamp onto higher ground. The two haggard, muddied figures that threw themselves on the dry soil to rest bore little resemblance to the men who had parachuted from Spaceboat 6 seventy-two hours before. The slope on which they rested was tufted with small bushes. One particular type with narrow dark green leaves bore clusters of fruit like small plums, which Madsen eyed speculatively. "Do we risk it?" he asked. "Might as well." Morley was completely unaware that he had just accepted the responsibility for making a decision. "We can't afford not to risk it," he said, adding, with little show of enthusiasm, "I'll be the guinea pig." "Take it easy, chum," Madsen countered. "We'll match for it." They matched and Morley called it wrong. He plucked a sample of the fruit and stood regarding it like some bewhiskered Little Jack Horner. Finally he broke the thin skin with his thumbnail and gingerly conveyed a couple of drops of juice to his tongue. The taste was simultaneously oily and faintly sweet, and after a short wait he essayed a fair sized bite. Madsen was about to follow suit, when Morley motioned him to wait. The next second he was rolling on the ground, coughing and choking, while Madsen tried grimly to feed him water from a canteen. It was no use. The throat tissues became swollen and inflamed in seconds, to the point of agony, and swallowing was totally impossible. To this was shortly added an overpowering nausea. When the retching finally stopped, Morley tried to speak, but in vain. Even the effort meant waves of pain.