He assented with a groan and stirred himself to move.  He stared about him for a space, sighed, and indicated a direction.  We struck out through the jungle.  For a time we crawled resolutely, then with diminishing vigour.  Presently among great shapes of flabby purple there came a noise of trampling and cries about us.  We lay close, and for a long time the sounds went to and fro and very near.  But this time we saw nothing.  I tried to whisper to Cavor that I could hardly go without food much longer, but my mouth had become too dry for whispering.

“Cavor,” I said, “I must have food.”

He turned a face full of dismay towards me.  “It’s a case for holding out,” he said.

“But I must,” I said, “and look at my lips!”

“I’ve been thirsty some time.”

“If only some of that snow had remained!”

“It’s clean gone!  We’re driving from arctic to tropical at the rate of a degree a minute....”

I gnawed my hand.

“The sphere!” he said.  “There is nothing for it but the sphere.”

We roused ourselves to another spurt of crawling.  My mind ran entirely on edible things, on the hissing profundity of summer drinks, more particularly I craved for beer.  I was haunted by the memory of a sixteen gallon cask that had swaggered in my Lympne cellar.  I thought of the adjacent larder, and especially of steak and kidney pie—­tender steak and plenty of kidney, and rich, thick gravy between.  Ever and again I was seized with fits of hungry yawning.  We came to flat places overgrown with fleshy red things, monstrous coralline growths; as we pushed against them they snapped and broke.  I noted the quality of the broken surfaces.  The confounded stuff certainly looked of a biteable texture.  Then it seemed to me that it smelt rather well.

I picked up a fragment and sniffed at it.

“Cavor,” I said in a hoarse undertone.

He glanced at me with his face screwed up.  “Don’t,” he said.  I put down the fragment, and we crawled on through this tempting fleshiness for a space.

“Cavor,” I asked, “why not?”

“Poison,” I heard him say, but he did not look round.

We crawled some way before I decided.

“I’ll chance it,” said I.

He made a belated gesture to prevent me.  I stuffed my mouth full.  He crouched watching my face, his own twisted into the oddest expression.  “It’s good,” I said.

“O Lord!” he cried.

He watched me munch, his face wrinkled between desire and disapproval, then suddenly succumbed to appetite and began to tear off huge mouthfuls.  For a time we did nothing but eat.

The stuff was not unlike a terrestrial mushroom, only it was much laxer in texture, and, as one swallowed it, it warmed the throat.  At first we experienced a mere mechanical satisfaction in eating; then our blood began to run warmer, and we tingled at the lips and fingers, and then new and slightly irrelevant ideas came bubbling up in our minds.