“Leave her here and get out,” a man cried, the contagious tinge of panic coming out.

A second woman fell. “Too late,” Bossman said. It was always too late by the time they understood the manner of the next danger. “Better stick together and fight.”

“Fight what?” the man wanted to know. But the question was academic: a third woman was toppling.

In quick succession the women fell, to lie with skins smeared white. They did not appear to be in pain, after the initial spasm; but the acrid exudation grew steadily worse. It re-formed the moment the skin was wiped clean, and it was everywhere.

Aton, Bossman, and the other four men stood by helplessly. During the trek the men had taken more risks and died more readily, and the chimera seemed to prefer them. Now the tally was being reversed, as the mysterious malady mummified the females. Bossman did what he could. Taking a woman by the foot, he dragged her to the nearest pool and tried to wash the slime away. This seemed to help; she sat up and began to splash herself, slowly, but with some effectiveness.

They did the same for the others, dumping them into the water and holding up their heads by the hair until they revived. The crisis seemed to be over.

Then it started on the men.

The masculine attacks, as though to make up for lost time, were far more violent. Almost as one, the men went into convulsions. Their skin reacted, sending out the calcifying seat. It was the women’s turn to play nurse. Soon everyone was in the pool, and the water took on a milky hue. If this were to be a fatal disease, all would die.

But Bedside had omitted the bones.

Aton was the first of the men to recover. He had experienced no pain, aside from the extreme tightness of throat that had restricted breathing. Instead there had been a lassitude, a desire to let go, to drift—a desire shocked away by the cold water. Now, in reaction, he was disgusted. Not at the ludicrous communal bath, but at his failure to resist the disease.

“The Myxo!” he exclaimed. “This must be what Bedside was warning us about. Some kind of virus.”

The nearest woman looked at him. The black-haired one, no longer as pretty as she had been before the trek, but still interesting. She had always steered clear when Garnet was about; but Garnet had fed the creature with the white wake while the others were swimming safely across the river, and now the field was clear.

If things ever eased up enough to permit a relaxed disbursement... “Must be in the air,” she said. “We better get out.” And he had never learned her name.

Bossman revived. “Yeah,” he agreed.

They moved on, trying to escape the malady they knew they carried with them. They did not get far.