For half a dozen wing-beats nothing happened. Then the bee veered sharply. Its deep-toned humming rose in pitch. It made convulsive movements in mid-air. It lost balance and crashed heavily to the ground. There its legs kicked and heaved violently but without purpose. The wings beat furiously but without rhythm or effect. Its body bent in paroxysmic flexings. It stung blindly at nothing. After a little while the bee died. Like all insects, bees breathe through spiracles--breathing-holes in their abdomens. This bee had flown into the cloud of red dust which was the spore-cloud of the new mushrooms. The cloud drifted slowly along over the surface of yeasts and moulds, over toadstools and variegated fungus monstrosities. It moved steadily over a group of ants at work upon some bit of edible stuff. They were seized with an affliction like that of the bee. They writhed, moved convulsively. Their legs thrashed about. They died. The cloud of red dust settled as it moved. By the time it had travelled a quarter-mile, it had almost all settled to the ground. But a half-mile away there was another skyward-spurting uprush of red dust which spread slowly with the breeze. A quarter-mile away another plumed into the air. Farther on, two of them spouted their spores toward the clouds almost together. Living things that breathed the red dust writhed and died. And the red-dust puffballs were scattered everywhere. Burl and his tribesmen feasted, chattering in hushed tones of the remarkable fact that men ate meat of their own killing. _6. RED DUST_ It was very fortunate indeed that the feast took place when it did. Two days later it would probably have been impossible, and three days later it would have been too late to do any good. But coming when it did, it made the difference which was all the difference in the world. Only thirty hours after the feasting which followed the death of the clotho spider, Burl's fellows--from Jon to Dor to Tet and Dik and Saya--had come to know a numb despair which the other creatures of his world were simply a bit too stupid to achieve. It was night. There was darkness over all the lowlands, and over all the area of perhaps a hundred square miles which the humans of Burl's acquaintance really knew. He, alone of his tribe, had been as much as forty miles from the foraging-ground over which they wandered. At any given time the tribe clung together for comfort, venturing only as far as was necessary to find food. Although the planet possessed continents, they knew less than a good-sized county of it. The planet owned oceans, and they knew only small brooks and one river which, where they knew it, was assuredly less than two hundred yards across. And they faced stark disaster that was not strictly a local one, but beyond their experience and hopelessly beyond their ability to face. They were superior to the insects about them only in the fact they realized what was threatening them. The disaster was the red puffballs.