When the whispering of scaled wings had died away, the castaways resumed their steady plodding into the south. Twice they crossed small fresh water brooks, providing a welcome opportunity to drink their fill, and replenish the canteens. The going was easy, since the footing was in fairly dense soil, and the scrub was not so thick as to provide any difficulties. After eight hours of nearly continuous travel, they reached the banks of a third stream. Here Madsen stopped, and dropped his knapsack to the ground. "Campsite," he grunted. "Alabama," Morley murmured. Madsen goggled. "Are you delirious? What do you mean--Alabama?" Morley laughed sheepishly. "Alabama means 'Here we rest,' I said it without thinking." Madsen was grinning now. "What beats me is how you remember all that junk. I'd go nuts if I tried to clutter up my mind with a bunch of useless data. Alabama!" "I don't have to try to remember things," Morley said thoughtfully. "If I read or hear something that seems the least bit curious or unusual, it just sticks. And sometimes it's useful." "Such as?" "Well, remember when Storybook ran a mile last year in 1.29? He was the first to break 1.30. Some joe that knew a lot about horses gave me an argument in a bar about the first horse to break 1.40. He bet me ten credits it was Man o' War. I knew it was Ten Broeck, and I got an almanac and proved it." Madsen looked up from the tin of coffee concentrate he was opening. "Hasn't anyone ever tried to win an argument by poking you one in the snoot?" "Once or twice." Morley was almost apologetic. "But I learned judo a few years ago, just for the hell of it, so I didn't get hurt much." "You're a whiz with the sabre, no doubt?" said Madsen dryly. "No, I tried swordplay for a while, but gave it up. It's a little too, er--primitive for my tastes." "Primitive!" Madsen glanced around at the alien scene and nearly choked. "I'm crossing my fingers, but what would you do if some carnivore, or a gang of those spiders suddenly appeared and started for us with evil intentions?" "I think I'd run," said Morley simply. "It was pretty dull at General Plastic but at least the comptometers weren't man-eating." Madsen blinked, and seeming to find expression difficult, forbore to answer. They ate, and relaxed on the soft sod, lulled almost into a feeling of security. Not being foolhardy, however, they slept in six hour shifts. Morley stood the first watch, and slept the second. When he awoke, Madsen was tensely examining a ration tin. Jarred into instant alertness by a feeling of urgency and alarm, Morley leaped to his feet. "Something wrong?" Without answering, Madsen handed him the tin. It was pockmarked with inch wide patches of metallic gray fungus, from several of which liquid was seeping. There was a sharp odor of decay.