Page:Avon Fantasy Reader 11 (1949).pdf/53

 He writhed in his sleep.

Eeeeeeeeee! the sound burst from his mouth. Ahhhhhhhhhhh! he screamed.

“What's wrong with him?” asked one of the two rescuers.

“I don't know. More sedative?”

“More sedative. Nerves. He needs more sleep.”

They stuck the needle in his arm. Sale writhed and spat and moaned.

Then, suddenly, he was dead.

He lay there, the two men over him. “What a shame,” said one of them. “Can you figure that?”

“Shock. Poor guy. What a pity.” They covered his face. “Did you ever see a face like that?”

“Totally insane.”

“Loneliness. Shock.”

“Yes. Lord, what an expression. I hope never to see a face like that again.”

“What a shame, waiting for us, and we arrive, and he dies anyway.”

They glanced around. "What shall we do? Shall we spend the night?"

“Yes. It's good to be out of the ship.”

“We'll bury him first, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“And spend the night in the open, with good air, right? Good to be in the open again. After two weeks in that damned ship.”

“Right. I'll find a spot for him. You start supper, eh?”

“Done.”

“Should be good sleeping tonight.”

“Fine, fine.”

They made a grave and said a word over it. They drank their evening coffee silently. They smelled the sweet air of the planet and looked at the lovely sky and the bright and beautiful stars.

“What a night,” they said, lying down.

“Pleasant dreams,” said one, rolling over.

And the other replied, “Pleasant dreams.”

They slept. 89