The white mocker died at midmorning the next day as they stopped for a rest. The yellow one crawled feebly to her side and died a few minutes later.

“So that’s that,” Humbolt said, looking down at them. “The only things on Ragnarok that ever trusted us and wanted to be our friends⁠—and we killed them.”

They drank the last of their water and went on. They made dry camp that night and dreams of cold streams of water tormented their exhausted sleep. The next day was a hellish eternity in which they walked and fell and crawled and walked and fell again.

Barber weakened steadily, his breathing growing to a rattling panting. He spoke once that afternoon, to try to smile with dry, swollen lips and say between his panting gasps, “It would be hell⁠—to have to die⁠—so thirsty like this.”