"Flaunders," McBride said. "Where's Flaunders?" "Don't worry," the one who had passed the straws said. "He took his chance with us. Been working like a madman since Thompson went. He wouldn't stop, so I took the straws in to him." "I don't care about that," McBride informed. "But I've known him since we were kids. Just felt that I'd like to--well--maybe it's better this way." He started slowly away. "Where you going?" someone said suspiciously. McBride looked at the man with a feeling part disgust, part pity and a little of something unexplainable. He almost laughed. "I'm not depriving you of your next meal," he said. "I just feel like being alone for this." He walked slowly on, taking his thoughts with him. What was the purpose in all this? All a monotonous cycle, constantly repeated. From the torture of starvation to the torture of the shame and bitter self-accusation that makes one despise himself, back to the starvation. Men slowly becoming something lower than pigs, and knowing it all too well. A satisfying of the body at the expense of decency, even, of sanity. A Hell within souls. And all for what purpose? To live? For how long, and in what hideous way? There would be only one lonely and sick man left long before help could come. What would that last man do? Go completely mad and try to devour himself? Like the two snakes who met one sunny afternoon and decided to swallow one another. Each took hold of the tail of the other and both swallowed and swallowed until nothing at all remained. There was no purpose. No purpose or reason at all. * * * * * A short distance back among the trees McBride halted and looked back. There were bushes between the men and himself. This was it. He drew his automatic. Strange, he thought. I don't feel at all like I should about this. It's just like routine procedure, something you do every day. I actually think I'm glad I came out with the short straw. He even thought coolly about the best way to do it. The heart? Not sure enough. The brain, like Heinie? A little better, but what if there should be a nervous twitch at the wrong time and a deflection caused by the bone of the skull? A babble of voices came to him as if from a great distance, through his thoughts. Excited voices. But he was in a world of his own, now. All the others were behind him, cut off. Safety off, he put the muzzle of the automatic into his mouth and aimed it sharply upward. The most efficient way, probably. His finger tightened. He heard the deafening report and felt the recoil jerk his arm down. Somewhere he had heard that a man killed instantly by a gun never lives to hear the report. It puzzled him. Why didn't he fall? Why could he still see the green tangle of Venus and hear sounds?