The sight of Mark's wide-mouthed astonishment made Margaret laugh.
'But it's incredible—fantastic,' he objected.
She nodded. 'Do you know what it reminds me of? Pictures in story books when I was a kid—only this technique's more modern. Enormous toadstools under which gnomes lived. There was one just like that in one book.' She indicated a particularly arrogant scarlet fungus, spotted with white. 'But I never thought I should see the real thing. Let's go nearer.'
They stepped from the firm rock border on to the loam, and examined the nearest mushroom curiously. Mark opened his knife and prodded it. It was quite soft. He sliced off a piece of the trunk and tasted it cautiously. The flavour was coarse, and the matter fibrous, nevertheless:
'It is mushroom, all right,' he admitted. 'If we can find anything to burn, we might make a fire and cook some.'
With Mark keeping a look out for a suitable specimen, they made their way farther along the edge of the weird forest.
'I suppose,' he said, 'that this is a kind of fungus farm, and that all these things are edible—but I'd rather not try them until we know for certain. I seem to have heard that you can eat lots of fungi if they're cooked the right way—the trouble is to know which is the right way.'
Margaret set the cat on the floor where it ran a little ahead of them, sniffing curiously at the thick stems
'The more I see of this place,' she said, half to herself, 'the less I like it. First, unknown forms of light, and now this unthinkable fungus garden. Surely if men were mining down here they would have provisions sent down to them. They wouldn't choose to grow this stuff for food. It's quite certain that these things aren't natural; they've been forced, or developed, or something. How is it they're only grown here when they might have been commercialised up above?'
Mark grunted. He had grown tired for the moment of puzzling, and felt in a mood to accept what fortune offered. Here, for the taking, was food which would reinforce their meagre supply. Presently he found what he sought. A great mushroom, standing detached from the rest, on the fringe of the bed. It was easy to undercut it by hacking out large, white, pithy chunks.
'Stand clear!' he warned.
The giant toppled over with a thud. The head broke off and rolled free. He followed it and began to cut off manageable sections. While he was stooping, Margaret came up behind him. Her voice sounded odd:
'Mark, I'm going mad, or something.—There's one of the gnomes!'
'What?'
He spun round and stared at her. She had picked up Bast and was holding her in one arm. The other hand was pointing to a fungus which looked not unlike a dingy yellow beach umbrella. Motionless in its shadow, the queerest figure he had ever seen stood watching them.
Against the phantasmagoria of growths it was impossible to make an estimate of the watcher's size. Mark could only be certain that he was considerably shorter than himself. The unclothed body was covered with a skin which was grey-white, like dirty vellum. So lacking was it in pigmentation that it could not have known sunlight for many years, if at all. All four limbs were thin, though without emaciation; a not ill-formed, slender body was surmounted by an unusually round head. Two large, black eyes were gazing steadily and unblinkingly: they gave to the slightly negroid features an expression of deep and permanent melancholy. There was something in the racial type which stirred Mark's memory faintly; somewhere, either in a picture, or in real life, he was sure that he had seen faces stamped with just such an expression of unending sadness.
'Look, there's another,' Margaret nodded a little to the right.
He saw another figure hitherto unnoticed and all but invisible, so like was its bleached skin to the colour of the fungus trunks.
'And another—and another. Dozens of them,' she added.
Mark began to grow nervous beneath the unwavering stares. How long had these creatures been there? He wondered. Were there more of them even now prowling closer through the fungus thickets? He could feel the impact of all those dark, mournful eyes, following every detail of his movements. He looked questioningly at Margaret, She shook her tangled curls.
'My dear, I don't know. They don't seem very dangerous, do they? Perhaps they're only interested....'
Mark thought. These queer folk must know the way to the surface—and they must be made to tell. They might intend no harm, but it would be better to make certain. He drew his pistol and assured himself that the magazine was full.
'We'd better get into the tunnel—it'll be less exposed,' he said, turning.
They had taken less than half a dozen steps when a rustle of movement came from among the fungi. An unseen signal put the white-grey men into simultaneous action. Mark, looking over his shoulder, was taken aback by their numbers; they showed in a score of unsuspected places, made visible now by movement.
'Run!' he cried.
A thudding of many bare feet sounded behind them, but they gained the tunnel mouth with a good lead. He stopped and faced round, putting Margaret behind him. The pistol was levelled threateningly; evidently it was known as a weapon, for they stopped short. He tried them in English.
'We want to get out. We want to go up,' he said, pointing to the roof.
The faces—nearly a hundred of them, he guessed—remained stolidly uncomprehending. He tried again. Pointing first to himself, and then again upwards.
'I—up,' he said hopefully, but the faces remained un-encouraging.
'Oh, damn!' He glared angrily at them. Now that they were clear of the growths it became easier to judge their size; the tallest of them he put at about four feet six, though several stood no more than four feet.
'Try them in French,' he suggested to Margaret.
She stepped from behind him, with the cat still held in her arms. The effect was immediate and astonishing. Before she could open her mouth the little men grew suddenly excited. As if they had abruptly come to life, a buzz of chatter arose. Gesticulating arms pointed at her, expressions became animated. She turned back to Mark, disconcerted.
'What on earth-?' she began.
'Look out.' He dragged her roughly back.
The little men came forward at a run. He pulled his trigger viciously, firing blind into the press of their bodies. There could be no missing. A number dropped, and the charge checked. Several injured were screaming with pain. The reverberation of the shots was still echoing back and forth across the great cavern. The mingled uproar was awesome and unnerving after the silence. The still forms on the ground looked pathetically like those of children. Mark felt slightly sick, but he continued to brandish his pistol cn the faces of the rest, waving them back. Margaret drew her breath with a sound which was half whimper. She forced her eyes from the fallen bodies and looked into his, horrified and part afraid.
'Oh, Mark, they're dead. You—you-'
He moved towards her and she shrunk back. The fear in her face was not of the little men.
'But, Margaret, I had to-'
'So suddenly,' she murmured. 'So horribly suddenly. A minute ago they were running, and now- Oh, Mark, what have you done?'
Mark turned away. He hadn't intended to kill—only to stop. It wasn't really himself who had pulled that trigger so vengefully; something had taken hold of him ... oh, damnation....
The men had drawn off. Their faces were expressionless once more, and their eyes watched enigmatically. Perhaps he had been too hasty. Perhaps, as Margaret seemed to think, they had meant no harm. But he couldn't afford to let them come to grips on a mere 'perhaps'. Besides, there had been an air of determination about that charge....