“All right,” Cassirir said, getting out his compass. After a while the four of them resumed trudging.
There were only a few drops of hot, flat-tasting water left in the canteens, and their eyes were gritty and red from dry-ness and sand, when they topped the ridge that overlooked the nest. The word sprang instantly into Oberholzer’s mind, though perhaps he had been expecting some such thing ever since Robin One had compared the Calleans to ants.
It was a collection of rough white spires, each perhaps fifty feet high, rising from a common doughlike mass which almost filled a small valley. There was no greenery around it and no visible source of water, but there were three roads, two of them leading into oval black entrances which Oberholzer could see from here. Occasionallynot oftena Callean would scuttle out and vanish, or come speeding over the horizon and dart into the darkness. Some of the spires bore masts carrying what seemed to be antennae or more recondite electronic devices, but there were no windows to be seen; and the only sound in the valley, except for the dry dusty wind, was a subdued composite hum.
“Man!” Cassirir said, whispering without being aware of it. “It must be as black as the ace of spades in there. Anybody got a torch?”
Nobody had. “We won’t need one anyhow,” Oberholzer said confidently. “They’ve got eyes, and they can see in desert sunlight. That means they can’t move around in total darkness. Let’s goI’m thirsty.”
They stumbled down into the valley and approached the nearest black hole cautiously. Sure enough, it was not as black as it had appeared from the hill; there was a glow inside, which had been hidden from them against the con-trast of the glaringly lit sands. Nevertheless, Oberholzer found himself hanging back.