desperately hoping the dog wasn't speaking in an official capacity after all.
“We did it to rabbits,” continued the dog. “Got rid of millions. Once a few were infected, they passed the germs on to the others. We're not sure if the cane toadvirus will work as well as that. Still experimenting. If you want more details, see the boss; he's the scientist. Oh well, nice to talk, but I'd better give him a yell.”
The dog disappeared.
Limpy's head was reeling with fear and panic.
He hung on to one thought.
Must warn the others.
Ignoring the pain in his back, Limpy flung himself up the side of the bucket. It was no good. He couldn't grip. The plastic was too slippery. As he slid down for the hundredth time, a shadow fell over the bucket.
The scientist, still with his beard, peered in.
“Good on you, little fella,” said the scientist. “With us at last.”
Limpy couldn't understand the language, but he was pretty sure he knew what the scientist had said: Now that my dopey assistant has spilled the beans, I'm going to have to kill you.
Limpy lay miserably in the bottom of the bucket while the scientist carried it into the bush. He didn't want to die, but he'd gladly do it ten times over if he could warn the others first.
Limpy felt the bucket tip up, and he rolled out onto soft mud. He thought of hopping for it, but he knew it would be no good.
The spade or the cricket bat would be crashing down onto him any second.
Bye, Charm, he thought sadly. Bye, Goliath. Stay off the highway.
The spade still hadn't come.
Thanks, Mum, he added. Thanks, Dad. I really appreciated all the love and peeled slugs.
Still no spade. Or folding chair.
Limpy, trembling, heard the scientist say something.
“Okay, little fella, now do your job.”
Limpy didn't understand the words, but he knew what they meant.
Prepare to die.
Then he heard an amazing sound. The scientist walking back toward his camp, whistling.
Limpy lay very still, mind racing.
Had the scientist gone to get a gun? Or a large rock? Or was he planning to use the four-wheel drive? Or a bike pump?
Limpy squirmed into the mud. He hoped he'd be harder to see there than hopping in circles.
He listened to the scientist pack up the camp.
He listened to the scientist drive away.
Into the distance.
Onto the highway.
Silence.
Limpy staggered to his feet.
I don't get it, he thought. I'm still alive. The scientist has let me go.
Why?
It didn't matter. The important thing was, he could warn the others.
With a surge of relief, Limpy headed toward the swamp. There was still time. He could get everyone packed up and off to a national park before the scientist started his plan….
Limpy stopped.
He remembered the needle the scientist had injected him with.
He remembered what the dog had said about infecting a few rabbits and their passing the germs on to the others.
Suddenly Limpy felt sicker than he'd ever felt before.
Not just because of the pain in his back where, he realized now, the germ needle must have gone right through him.
And not just because of the millions of germs that even now must be swimming through his veins.
Because of something far worse.
Limpy's glands and warts and throat sac ached with anguish.
Whatever I do, he thought, I mustn't pass the virus germs on to Mum and Dad and Charm and Goliath.
Which means I'll have to stay away from them for ever and ever.
L impy knew all about crying because he'd seen humans and car windshields do it.
Now, crouched behind the sticky sap tree, gazing sadly across the clearing at his dear family, Limpy felt like doing it too.
He tried to stop himself. Crying blurred your vision, especially when your tears were made of mucus. Limpy didn't want eyes full of slime, not now, not when he was looking at Charm and Goliath and Mum and Dad for what was probably the last time.
But he couldn't help it.
Afterward, when he'd wiped his eyes, Limpy saw the family were all crying too. They were gathered at the edge
“We did it to rabbits,” continued the dog. “Got rid of millions. Once a few were infected, they passed the germs on to the others. We're not sure if the cane toadvirus will work as well as that. Still experimenting. If you want more details, see the boss; he's the scientist. Oh well, nice to talk, but I'd better give him a yell.”
The dog disappeared.
Limpy's head was reeling with fear and panic.
He hung on to one thought.
Must warn the others.
Ignoring the pain in his back, Limpy flung himself up the side of the bucket. It was no good. He couldn't grip. The plastic was too slippery. As he slid down for the hundredth time, a shadow fell over the bucket.
The scientist, still with his beard, peered in.
“Good on you, little fella,” said the scientist. “With us at last.”
Limpy couldn't understand the language, but he was pretty sure he knew what the scientist had said: Now that my dopey assistant has spilled the beans, I'm going to have to kill you.
Limpy lay miserably in the bottom of the bucket while the scientist carried it into the bush. He didn't want to die, but he'd gladly do it ten times over if he could warn the others first.
Limpy felt the bucket tip up, and he rolled out onto soft mud. He thought of hopping for it, but he knew it would be no good.
The spade or the cricket bat would be crashing down onto him any second.
Bye, Charm, he thought sadly. Bye, Goliath. Stay off the highway.
The spade still hadn't come.
Thanks, Mum, he added. Thanks, Dad. I really appreciated all the love and peeled slugs.
Still no spade. Or folding chair.
Limpy, trembling, heard the scientist say something.
“Okay, little fella, now do your job.”
Limpy didn't understand the words, but he knew what they meant.
Prepare to die.
Then he heard an amazing sound. The scientist walking back toward his camp, whistling.
Limpy lay very still, mind racing.
Had the scientist gone to get a gun? Or a large rock? Or was he planning to use the four-wheel drive? Or a bike pump?
Limpy squirmed into the mud. He hoped he'd be harder to see there than hopping in circles.
He listened to the scientist pack up the camp.
He listened to the scientist drive away.
Into the distance.
Onto the highway.
Silence.
Limpy staggered to his feet.
I don't get it, he thought. I'm still alive. The scientist has let me go.
Why?
It didn't matter. The important thing was, he could warn the others.
With a surge of relief, Limpy headed toward the swamp. There was still time. He could get everyone packed up and off to a national park before the scientist started his plan….
Limpy stopped.
He remembered the needle the scientist had injected him with.
He remembered what the dog had said about infecting a few rabbits and their passing the germs on to the others.
Suddenly Limpy felt sicker than he'd ever felt before.
Not just because of the pain in his back where, he realized now, the germ needle must have gone right through him.
And not just because of the millions of germs that even now must be swimming through his veins.
Because of something far worse.
Limpy's glands and warts and throat sac ached with anguish.
Whatever I do, he thought, I mustn't pass the virus germs on to Mum and Dad and Charm and Goliath.
Which means I'll have to stay away from them for ever and ever.
L impy knew all about crying because he'd seen humans and car windshields do it.
Now, crouched behind the sticky sap tree, gazing sadly across the clearing at his dear family, Limpy felt like doing it too.
He tried to stop himself. Crying blurred your vision, especially when your tears were made of mucus. Limpy didn't want eyes full of slime, not now, not when he was looking at Charm and Goliath and Mum and Dad for what was probably the last time.
But he couldn't help it.
Afterward, when he'd wiped his eyes, Limpy saw the family were all crying too. They were gathered at the edge
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