The COMPLEAT

Collected SFF Works

of

Sterling E. Lanier

1927-2007

Table of Contents

Join Our Gang?

Short Story

1961

Whose Short Happy Life?

Short Story

1968

Deathchild

Novelette

1968

Such Stuff As Dreams...

Novelette

1968

The War for the Lot

Novel

1969

Never Cry Human

Short Story

1971

The Peculiar Exploits of Brigadier Ffellowes

Ffellowes 01

Collection

1971

The Curious Quests of Brigadier Ffellowes

Ffellowes 02

Collection

1986

Hiero's Journey

Hiero Desteen 01

Novel

1973

The Unforsaken Hiero

Hiero Desteen 02

Novel

1983

... No Traveler Returns

Short Story

1974

The Syndicated Time

Novella

1978

Menace Under Marswood

Novel

1983

All Science Fiction and Fantasy fiction stories are include.

Join Our Gang?

Analog – May 1961

They didn't exactly hold a gun at anybody's head; all they offered was help. Of course, they did sort of encourage people to ask for help ...

Commander William Powers, subleader of Survey Group Sirian Combine—1027798 and hence first officer of its ship, the Benefactor, stared coldly out of his cabin port. The Benefactor was resting on the bedrock of Island Twenty-seven of the world called Mureess by its natives. Like all the other such names, it meant "the world," just as the natives' name for themselves, Falsethsa, meant "the people," or "us," or "the only race." To Commander Powers, fifty years old, with eleven of them in Survey work, the world was Planet Two of a star called something unpronounceable in the nebula of something else equally pointless. He had not bothered to learn the native name of Island Twenty-seven, because his ship had mapped one thousand three hundred and eighty-six islands, all small, and either rocky or swampy or both. Island Twenty-seven, to him, had only one importance, and that was its being the site of the largest city on the planet.

Around the island's seven square miles, a maze of docks, buildings, sheds, breakwaters, and artificial inlets made a maze stretching a mile out to sea in every direction. The gray sea, now covered with fog patches, rolled on the horizon under low-lying cloud. Numerous craft, some small, some large, moved busily about on the water, which in its components was identical with that of Terra, far distant in the Sirius Sector. Crude but workable atomic motors powered most of them, and there was a high proportion of submarines. Powers thought of Earth's oceans for a moment, but then dismissed the thought. Biological technical data were no specialty he needed. Terra might be suitable for the action formulating in his mind, but a thousand suns of Sirian Combine might prove more useful. The biologists of Grand Base would determine, assisted by data his ship provided, in their monster computers, what was called for. Powers had been trained for different purposes.

He was, as every survey commander was, a battle-hardened warrior. He had fought in two major fleet actions in his day, and had once, as a very junior ensign of the Sirian Grand Fleet, participated in the ultimate horror, the destruction by obliteration of an inhabited planet. For planetary destruction a unanimous vote of the Sirian Grand Council, representing over four thousand worlds, was necessary. It had been given only four times in the long history of the Confederacy. Every intelligent being in the great Union shuddered at the thought of its ever becoming necessary again. Powers stared moodily over the rocky ground toward a group of figures in the distance which were moving in his direction. The final delegation of the Mureess government, a world government, was coming for its last meeting before the Benefactor departed into the far reaches of space.

Powers braced himself mentally for a grand effort. He held equivalent rank to that of a Galactic admiral, and it was held for one reason only, because of his real work and its importance. He was a super-psychologist, a trend-analyzer, a salesman, a promoter, a viewer, an expert on alien symbology and the spearhead of the most ruthless intelligence service in the known universe. Long ago, he had transferred from the battle fleet to the inner school at Sirius Prime for the most intensive training ever devised. Now it would be put to the ultimate test.

He heard the air lock open and turned away from the window. He had a long way to walk to the neutral council chamber, for the Benefactor was a big ship, despite the fact that only twenty beings comprised the total complement. Down the echoing corridors he paced, brow furrowed in thought. Mazechazz would have his own ideas, he knew, but if they made no impression, he would have to put his oar in. Each being on board, whether he breathed halogen or oxygen, ate uranium or protein, had to be independent in thought and action under certain circumstances. The circumstances were here, here and now in his judgment.

He arrived at the door of the Council chamber, and entered, an impressive sight in flaming orange and blue uniform.

Four members of the Supreme Council of the Mureess rose solemnly and inclined their heads in his direction. They were tall bipeds of vaguely reptilian ancestry, most of their height being body. They stood on short powerful legs, terminating in flippered feet, and their long arms were flanged to the second elbow with a rubbery fin. Only four opposed fingers flexed the hands, but the dome-shaped heads and golden eyes screamed intelligence as loudly as the bodies shouted adaption to an aquatic environment. Around the brown torsos, light but efficient harness supported a variety of instruments in noncorrosive metal sheaths. All of the instruments had been discreetly examined by scanning beams and pronounced harmless before any contact had been allowed.

Across the central table, Sakh Mazechazz, of Lyra 8, leader and captain of the Survey stared red-eyed at his executive officer. Mazechazz resembled the delegation far more than he did his own officer, for he, too, had remotely reptilian forbears. Indeed he still sported a flexible tail and, save for his own orange and blue uniform, ablaze with precious stones, resembled nothing so much as a giant Terrestrial chameleon. The uniforms were no accident. Surveymen wore anything or nothing as the case called for it, and the Falsethsa admired bright colors, having few of their own and a good color sense. The gleaming jewels on Mazechazz's uniform stressed his superiority in rank to Powers, as they were meant to.

Of the twenty Surveymen on board the Benefactor, Mazechazz and Powers were the only two who most resembled, in that order, the oxygen-breathing natives of Mureess. That automatically made them captain and executive officer of the Benefactor. The native population saw only the captain and executive officer of the ship, and only the council chamber. On a world of ammonia breathers, Mazechazz and Powers would have been invisible in their own part of the ship providing advice only to the Skorak of Marga 10, Lambdem, and perhaps Nyur of Antares-bi-12. If a suspicious native saw an entity with whom he could feel a remote relationship giving orders to a weird-looking, far more, alien creature, a feeling of confidence might appear.

Since Mazechazz came from a planet of super-heated desert and scrub resembling the Karoo of South Africa, the resemblance could have been bettered, but it was well within the allowable limits set forth in the Inner Mandate. And in Galactic Psychology, every trick counted. For persuasion was the chief weapon of the Sirian Combine. Outright force was absolutely forbidden, save by the aforesaid vote of the council. Every weapon in the book of persuasion was used to bring intelligent races into the Combine, and persuasion is a thing of infinite variety.

As these thoughts flashed through Powers' mind, he seated himself in a plain chair and adjusted the Universal Speaker to his mouth. Beside him, on a more elaborate chair, tailored to fit his tail, Mazechazz did the same, while the four Falsethsa seated themselves on low stools and took similar instruments from the oblong table which separated them from the two Surveymen. Deep in the bowels of the ship, a giant translator switched on, to simultaneously translate and record the mutually alien tongues as they were spoken. Adjustable extensions on the speakers brought the sound to the bone of the skull. For different life forms, different instruments would have been necessary and were provided for.

Mazechazz, as "captain," opened the proceedings.

"Since this is our last session with you, we hope some fresh proposals have occurred to your honorable council during your absence," hummed the speaker through Powers' skull.

He who was designated First among the council of the Mureess answered.

"We have no new proposals, nor indeed had we ever any. Trade would be welcome, but we vitally need nothing you or your Combine have described, captain. We have all the minerals we need and the Great Mother—he meant the sea—provides food. We will soon go into space ourselves and meet as equals with you. We cannot tolerate what you call an 'observer,' who seems to us a spy, and not subject to our laws by your own definition. That is all we have to say."

That does it, thought Powers glumly. The cold—and entirely accurate—description of a Planetary representative of the Sirian Combine was the final clincher. The intensely proud and chauvinistic Falsethsa would tolerate no interference.

Mazechazz gave no indication that he had heard. He tried again.

"In addition to trade and education, general advancement of the populace," murmured the mike, "have you considered defense?" He paused. "Not all races who travel in space are friendly. A few are starkly inimical, hating all other forms of life. Could you defend yourselves, Honorable Sirs, against such?"

It was obvious from the speed of the answer that the Council of Mureess had considered, if not anticipated this question. The second member spoke, an obvious pre-assignment.

"In all our long history, you are our first contact with star travelers. Yet we are not defenseless. The Great Mother contains not only food, fish and plants which we harvest, but many strong and terrible beasts. Very few are left to disturb us. In addition, the implications of your ship have not escaped us, and our scientists are even now adapting some of our atomic devices used in mining to other ends." The voice contained a faint hint of pride as it ended. We got guns, too, buddy, it said, and we ain't pushovers.

The First of the Council spoke again. "Let me be plain, Respected Star-farers. It seems obvious to us that you have learned most of what we represent as a council, if not all. We are the heads of the Great Clans and we will not change. It hardly seems likely that you represent a society based on heredity if you include the diverse and nameless breeds of creature you have shown us on your screens. We do not want such an amalgam on our world causing unrest and disturbances of public order. Still less do we desire authoritarian interference with the ordered life we have developed. Your requests are one and severally refused. There will be no 'observer.' Trade, regulated by us, will be welcome. Otherwise, should you choose not to be bound by our laws, we must respectfully and finally bid you farewell. When at some future date, we develop ships such as yours, we may reconsider." The speaker paused, looked at his three confreres, who nodded silently. The First stared arrogantly at Mazechazz, and continued.

"Finally, we have decided to place a ban on further landings by aliens unless you are now prepared to negotiate a trade agreement on our terms!"

Powers thought frantically, his face motionless. This was defeat, stark and unequivocal. The parable he had in mind seemed indicated now or never. He turned to Sakh Mazechazz, and spoke.

"May I have your permission to address the Honored Council, Noble Captain?" he asked.

"Speak, First Officer," said the Lyran, his gular pouches throbbing. His ruby eyes, to his associate, looked pained, as well they might.

"Let me pose a question, Honored Sirs," said Powers. "Suppose that in your early history of creating your orderly realm you had discovered on one of your islands a race of Falsethsa as advanced and regulated as yourselves who wished nothing to do with you?" He could feel the alerted tension of the four as the golden eyes glowed at him.

"The implications of your question are obvious," the First of the Council spoke, as coldly as ever. "Do you threaten us with force from your Combine devoted to peace?" The flat voice of the translator hummed with acquired and impossible violence which Powers knew to be subjective.

The First continued. "We would resist to the ultimate, down to the least of our young and the most helpless female weed cultivator! Do your worst!"

Powers sat back. He had done his best. The hereditary dictatorship of a united world had spoken. No democratic minority had ever raised its head here. The society of Mureess was stratified in a way ancient India never thought of being, down to refuse collectors of a thousand generations of dishonorable standing. Ancient Japan had been as rigidly exclusionist but there had been a progressive element there. Here there was nothing. Nothing that is, except a united world of coldly calculating and very advanced entities about to erupt into space with Heaven knew what weapons and a murderous arrogance and race pride to bolster them.

He thought of the dead orb called Sebelia, rolling around its worthless sun, an object of nausea to all life. And he had helped. Well, the boys in Biology had the ball now. He forced himself to listen to the First of Council as he bade Mazechazz a courteous farewell.

"Depart in harmony and peace, Honorable Star-farers. May your Great Mother be benign, when you return to give your high council our message on the far-distant worlds you have shown us in the sky."

The Council departed, leaving Powers and Mazechazz staring at each other in the council chamber, their gaudy uniforms looking a little dull and drab.

"Well, Sakh," said Powers, his ruddy face a little flushed, "we can't be perfect. They don't know about spacewarps and instantaneous communicators. Plan II has nothing to do with us."

"Beyond our recommendation, you mean," said the Lyran flatly. "We have failed, William. This means death for thousands of innocent beings, perhaps more. Their world population is about eighty million, you know."

There was silence in the room until Powers broke it again.

"Would you have Sebelia, Sakh," he asked gently, "or Ruller I, Bellevan's world, or Labath?" There was no answer to this and he knew it. There was only one alternative to a dead, burned-out, empty planet. Mureess was in the wrong stage of development, and it would have to be brought in line. The Sirian Combine had to, and would remove any intelligent unknown menace from a position from which it could threaten its Master plan of integrated peace. As they left the chamber, Powers said a silent prayer and touched the tiny Crescent and Star embroidered on his shirt pocket. At least, he thought, the planted ultra-wave communicators would be there when the Falsethsa needed them. He looked out of a corridor port at the gray and rolling sea. The Great Mother, he thought bitterly, benevolent and overflowing!

Traleres-124, female gardener, aged thirty-two cycles, hummed in a minor key as she harvested weed of the solstice crop, twelve miles off the northern islands. A rest period was due in the next cycle day, and she and her mate were ahead of quota which should make the supervisor give them a good holiday.

The tall weed swayed gently against her and several small fish darted past in fright. As the first heavy beat of the water struck against her slim body, she looked up. Frozen with horror, she released her container, but in forty feet of water, the monster caught her before she had moved a hundred yards.

As it fed, horribly, other grim shapes, attracted by the blood moved in from the distant murk of deeper water.

Savathakeer rode his one-man torpedo alertly as he probed the southern bay of Ramasarett. He was a scientist-12 and also a hereditary hunter. If the giant fish, long since eliminated from the rest of the seas, were breeding in some secret area of the far and desolate southern rocks, it was his business to know it. No fish could catch his high-powered torpedo, while his electric spears packed a lethal jolt. Probably, he thought, a rumor of the poor fisher folk who worked the southern fringe areas. What else could you expect from such types, who had never even learned to read in a thousand cycles. Nevertheless, as he patrolled the sunken rocks, he was alert, scanning the water on all sides constantly for the great shape he sought, his skin alert for the first strange vibration. By neglecting the broken bottom, brown with laminaria and kelp, he missed the great, mottled tentacle which plucked him off his torpedo in a flash of movement, leaving the riderless craft to cruise aimlessly away into the distance.

"Your highness," said the Supervisor Supreme, "we are helpless. We have never used metal nets, because we have never had to. Our fiber nets they slash to ribbons. They attack every species of food-fish from the Ursaa to the Krad. The breeding rate is fantastic, and now my equal who controls the mines says they are attacking the miners despite all the protection he can give them. They are not large, but in millions——"

"Cease your outcries," said the First in Council, wearily, "and remove that animal from my writing desk. I have seen many pictures of it since they first appeared five cycles ago. It still looks alien and repulsive."

They stared in silence at the shape that any high-school biology student of distant Terra could have identified in his sleep.

At length, the First in Council dismissed the Supervisor of Fisheries and headed thoughtfully for an inner room of his palace. He knew at last the meaning of the strange metal communicating devices, discovered and confiscated, after the star ship had departed, six cycles before. It was a simple machine to operate, and he guessed food could be sent incredibly quickly to his starving planet. Just as quickly as other things, he thought grimly. And we have to beg. Hah. Admission to the great peace-loving Combine, may the crabs devour them.

But he knew that he would send and that they would come.

"I was comparing the two reports, my friend," said Mazechazz, "but I am not so familiar with your planetary ecology as I should be. When Mureess applied for admission to the Combine, I requested a copy of their secret directive from Biology, but I had never seen the older report until you gave it to me just now. Can you explain the names to me, if I read them off?"

"Go ahead," said Powers, sipping his sherbet noisily. He seldom wondered what alcohol would feel like any longer. Most Old Believers had tried it when young and disliked it.

"I've already looked up the names I didn't know," he said, "so start the Mureessan list first."

"Great White Shark, or Man-eater," read Mazechazz. "He sounds obvious and nasty."

"He is," said Powers. He put down his glass. "Remember, as usual, the birth rate has been at least tripled. An increased metabolism means increased food consumption, and no shark on Terra was ever full. This brute runs forty feet when allowed, in size, that is. A giant carnivorous fish, very tough."

"Number two is Architeuthis, or Giant Squid," continued the Lyran. "Is that a fish? Sorry, but on my world, well, fish are curiosities."

"It's an eyed, carnivorous mollusk with enormous arms, ten of them and it reaches eighty feet long at least. Swims well, too."

There was a moment of silence, then Mazechazz continued. "Smooth dogfish."

"A tiny shark," said Powers, "about three and a half feet in size. They school in thousands on Terra and eat anything that swims. Just blind agile appetite. They have a high normal breeding rate."

"Finally we have a Baleran Salamander, so you're free of one curse, anyway. Balera, I believe, is hellishly wet, although I don't know much about it."

Powers rose and stretched. "He's a little fellow with six legs and a leathery hide. A nuisance on Balera, which is the equivalent of a Terran swamp. He eats every vegetable known, dry or fresh, and, being only two inches long is hard to see. He doesn't bite, just eats things and breeds. There must be millions by now, on each island of Mureess. Then the eggs get carried about. They're tough and adhesive. You can guess what their warehouses looked like."

"At least two million starved before the Council gave in," resumed the Lyran sadly. "But they gave in all the way and abolished caste privilege before the first relief ship even arrived. They'll be full members shortly. And this older report?"

"Read the names," said Powers. He was staring out of the Club window at the stars. "They fed us our own dirt, because we hadn't eliminated all our competitors. Disease means microorganisms, so you choose the largest animal possible with efficiency, that is. Just read the list. My grandparents died, you know, but it had to be done, or we'd have destroyed ourselves. The Combine was a far greater blessing to us than it ever was to Mureess, I can assure you of that!"

He listened in silence as the Lyran read.

"Desmodus, the vampire bat,

Rattus Norvegicus, the common rat,

Mus Domesticus, the common mouse,

The Common Locust,

Sylvilagus, the Cottontail Rabbit,

Passer Domesticus, the House Sparrow,

Sturnus Vulgarus, the European Starling."

-

Powers sat down and stared at his friend. "Terran life by comparison with many other worlds is terribly tough because we have so many different environments, I suppose. Hence its use on Mureess. Of course, the Combine increased breeding rates again, but adapting that bat to stand cold was the last straw," he said. "The rest of them were all ready and waiting, but the bat was tropical. We'll start with him. Desmodus is a small flying mammal about...."

The End

Whose Short Happy Life?

Fantasy & Science Fiction - March 1968

Here is a story about a hunting party that includes a couple of real hunters and one indoor type. If there's anything worse for a non-hunter than being dragged along on a hunting trip, it's surely to accompany a party that is in search of dangerous game; after all, a guy can get killed ...

Personally speaking, I don't kill animals for fun. I don't mind people hunting, but I get no pleasure out of it. Not even of watching it. Why not stay in civilization, a nice quiet bar say, with a friendly young thing as company? But I had no choice.

"We're going hunting," the Boss says, just like that. I like my job so I say, "Fine, lovely, what fun," and all that. I like the Boss, mind you, a really great guy, one of the best. Aside from this silly hunting and the wife situation, he's a chap I really admire. Wives? Well, this tramp was the fourth. Half his age and completely, but utterly no good. Just like all the rest, I might add. The Boss is rich but he'd be a lot richer if he didn't feel he had to marry them. The joke is, after he marries them, they despise him. Can't stand him, cheat on him practically in public, laugh at him until he has to get rid of them. And then go find a new one just like the others.

Well, I knew what this was all about. This latest tramp was beginning to laugh. So we were going into one of the Reserves to show how brave and virile the Boss still was. I ask you! A good lay on with a leather strap once a week and he'd have had a happy married life forever. Instead, he has to look for real danger, and include me, who wants no part of it.

"You cheer me up," he says. "Those stories of yours are going to make this the best trip yet. I don't know why I never thought of bringing you before. You're a natural around the camp fire."

I shudder. How much is the job worth? Will this go on every time he splits up? Ugh. I steel myself.

I'll try it once, anyway, before I am forced to quit and find other employment.

If you like wild country, grass and sunlight (who likes that, I ask you), trees and birds and all that junk, I guess you might like the Reserves. We went to the one in the north of Ssgurrland and picked up our guide and vehicles and the guns. There was even one of those for me. It made me cold to look at it. I wondered if I could avoid carrying it, maybe pretend my arm was hurt. I figured that I'd blow my foot off if I ever had to use it.

The guide was terrible, one of those hams you see in the Tridees, all whiskers and muscles, about twice as big as he had to be. I felt small and insignificant beside him. No one was watching me, however. But I could see the Boss's wife giving this bum a fast once-over. And compared to him the Boss looked kind of old and grizzled. It made me mad. I knew what he'd done in the last war as a youngster. Had a lot of medals he never talked about and one of his old servants told me, or I'd never have known. He was twice the hero this brawny oaf would ever be, but the tramp would be in this guy's sack just as inevitably as the Sun went down.

Well, we swore all the Government oaths about never allowing an Escape, even if we died to prevent it. I can tell you, it made me feel creepy. To me the whole thing belonged on a Tridee screen, not for real. People were killed doing what we were. All the time it makes the papers. I still don't know why I didn't quit right then.

Anyway, I signed all the releases, next of kin, all that garbage, and then we went out and climbed in the Kombat Kamper. Some car. Armor and two turrets with sealed ports yet. Just the thing to make you relax. The glass on the ports was thicker than the armor.

The gate guard opened the three gates, one at a time, and we rolled into the Reserve. I knew there were cannon and gas guns trained on us as the last gate opened, in case there was a planned rush. That had happened once or twice in the past, I knew from reading up on the history of the Reserves. It was considered the real danger point.

To be honest, as long as I'm on the subject, I don't really see why we have to have the Reserves anyway. I'm not going to pretend I think it's a good idea, and don't kid yourself. I felt exactly the same way before I went in, and I'm not lying. I saw a Tridee program once, something on the Ed-Yu channel, where this big whisker of a skull tapper explained the whole thing. According to him, we all have a guilt complex and that's why the Reserves. I thought it over and so did some of the other guys in the bar, and well, we decided it was all crazy. Look, it was them or us, see? A war over the whole world, that lasted over twenty years. A war of extermination, that's the way I learned it in school. No quarter, no prisoners, no truce.

So as far as I care, you could clean out every Reserve there is and eliminate all of them, which is what they tried to do to us.

To get back to my thrilling tale of adventure, we saw nothing but a few deer and some birds that night. Nobody was packing laser blast rifles for things like that. For what the Boss was paying, you wanted only the Big Stuff.

We slept the clay through behind the high voltage, portable stockade the guide and his two flunkies set up. He made out that he wouldn't have used it if it weren't the law. What a phoney! The Boss didn't say much, but the tramp ate it up with the "Oh how brave you must be" routine. Enough to make you choke. I slept as well as I could, and we woke at dusk.

We had to listen to a lot of nothing from the guide while we ate out breakfast. All about trails and patterns and how he knew their habits and would put us in a position where even dopes like us couldn't miss. The Boss finally had enough and said sharply that this was his eighth hunt. That shut the clown up, because any one who will go into a Reserve that often is a real hunter. The fact is, the Reserves get even the guides down.

The danger is too real and the feeling of being watched too constant. You just can't shake five thousand years of heredity that easy, and anyone that says you can is a liar.

We packed up and moved out in the Kamper as evening began to blur the details. I felt better without the glare of the Sun, but not so much better I wouldn't have led a run for the nearest gate at the drop of a suggestion. No one made it.

After about an hour, nice and dark out, the guide tells the driver, who is one of his flunkies, to stop. Then he turns to the Boss and says, "I have been watching this area for some time. No recent hunts or sweeps here have turned up any traces. The gate people think there may be a combined movement going on here and asked me to check it. But I, ah, must warn you that it will be very risky if there is anything. If you wish, you can stay here in the vehicle, while alone I blah, blah blah." Finally, he ran down.

"Let's go," says the Boss, grabbing his gun. "You coming?" he says to me.

"Right you are," I say, grabbing my gun, just like in the Tridees. I get to the door before I realize what I'm doing, and by then it's too late to back out. Then I hear the tramp yacking it up. Oh no! Oh yes! She wants to come. After all she has her gun, just like we do. She pulls out all the charm, leans all over the guide and the Boss and finally uses the ultimate argument.

"If that little poop can go, it ought to be safe enough for an infant in arms." You get one guess whom she is pointing at. When the Boss looks at me in a calculating way and says OK, I really get angry. But what can I do?

We start off in a fan formation, guide on the extreme left, Boss on the extreme right. In the middle, me and the tramp, all of us about fifty paces apart. We carry our guns at the ready, and nobody talks, not even bigmouth, the guide. I remember everything I ever read in school about Them, and I guess the others feel the same way.

Pretty soon, I see the guide stop. He hand signals us to stop too and points ahead a way. It takes me a minute, but finally I see that we are close to a boundary fence, and that's what he is pointing at.

At his signal, we move along the fence, but not next to it, I can tell you. Those fences are loaded! Get too close and you are hit by every automatic weapon ever invented, plus mines and lasers, all firing in a random set up.

We had come maybe a thousand paces along the fence and about a hundred out from it, when I see the Boss tense up and stop. We all stop, even the tramp, and he points at something ahead of us in a grove of trees. All I see is a bunch of trees with no leaf on them, but I find out later on that it's the framework for a giant catapult, which is almost complete. The Boss signals with his free hand for the guide to join him. And then the fun starts.

The guide decides he will be a hero and waves us back while he goes forward alone. As if this idiocy isn't enough, the tramp follows him! What she has in mind no one will ever know, but I'll bet it's nothing more than some scheme to humiliate the Boss.

Then all hell starts. There's a scream like you never heard from the tramp, and something vast and dark rises out of the ground in front of us. In one easy motion the guide is hammered into the earth like a tent peg. Another giant limb sweeps the tramp up and away and I hear her hit a tree with a crunch. All of this takes seconds. I am frozen stiff.

But not the Boss! He may be old and a little fat, but you can't change a real fighting veteran.

He shoots his rifle into the middle of that colossus as cool as if it were a target. And he's been thinking too, not just acting on reflex. As the red flash of the laser zeroes in on the monster, the Boss is running towards me, shouting. Even before the beast begins to scream in its giant voice, I can hear the Boss.

"It's an escape! We have to get back and warn them! Stay with me and we'll cover each other!"

Well, you know, even I got a medal. The guide and the tramp got a posthumous citation apiece. What a farce that was. Because the only one of the whole outfit who deserved it was the Boss.

We know now that it was the most dangerous attempt ever discovered. They had a working catapult, rigged it at night, assembled the pieces and set it up to shoot a number of Them over the fence. Crazy! And so were the enormous parachutes made of animal hide chewed fine. So half of them get killed getting over, maybe two thirds even.

Would you want to meet one of the ones that didn't, one of the ones that got into the mountains and couldn't be found until it, or they, dug up some old weapons stores, buried since the war two hundred years ago? Maybe atomic weapons? Makes you think doesn't it?

Who knows what the Boss saved?

Personally, I remember almost nothing. The Boss and I ran back toward the Kombat Kamper. He knew where to go, I didn't. I just did what he told me.

"Shoot left!" He'd shout, and by God there would be one of Them, rising out of the bushes, those great paws spread out to grab. And I'd shoot. The fiery streak of the laser would hit the middle and the awful stink of burnt meat would come at once. Sometimes they screamed, a terrible howl; the volume alone would split your ear drums. Mostly though, they died quiet. And that shows you. That takes training, discipline. They were willing to die that way in the hope of not alerting the others, our two drivers and roustabouts back at the Kamper.

It all seems like a nightmare still, us running and ducking, shooting and dodging. Only an old counterpuncher like the Boss could have got us through, and even he says we're lucky to be alive. If it had been just a tiny bit farther to the Kamper, our blaster charges would have run out. There was the luck, I guess. Hitting the escape attempt on target like that was luck too, of course.

The two techs finally heard something and got the perimeter lights on. When one of them spotted us and saw what we were shooting at, he got into the top turret and started the flame cannon going over our heads. By that time we needed help. Just as we made the perimeter, one of them made a last try. He had a stone-headed club twice as long as I'm tall, and he brought it down in a long, looping slice at my head. Thanks to the Boss, I'm still alive. His shot caught the brute just as it swung. As you can see, it cut right through the fur on my head, grazed the top of my right ear and finally took off the last third of my tail.

Pain? Hell, I was in shock! I didn't feel any pain. You won't believe this, but as I stood there looking down at that naked monster lying dead there, what I felt was pity. Yes sir, pity. Those huge things had almost finished us off once, if you can believe the books. And now all they had were clubs, and we had the whole planet that they'd tamed for us. We had all the knowledge, the cities, the whole culture. All they had was the Reserves and clubs made of stone.

That's why I felt pity.

Of course when I learned how close they'd come ta getting out, after we'd radioed the guards and the planes had come, the copters and hover craft and all, why I lost the pity. That was just a bit too close for comfort. The old slogan about "even a cornered man will fight" wouldn't leave my thoughts.

That's why I want the Reserves abolished. Soft-heartedness could mean we'd be right back where we started, and you know where that was.

In a hole.

The End

Deathchild

Worlds of If – October 1968

This was the ultimate Quarantine.

Upon its total security depended

the life—or death—of humanity!

I

His name was Joseph. He was a blue-eyed blond and just a little bald in front, although a fuzz over his round forehead gave a promise of new hair still to come. He was healthy, weighed twenty-two pounds and was barely eight months old. He wore diapers and rubber pants, nothing else.

At the moment, he had a very intent expression on his small, fat face. Somehow, the brightly colored plastic beads on a wood-bordered wire frame were not doing what he wanted. They simply would not come off the frame to be thoroughly tested by his four teeth for true intrinsic play-ability and actual baby value. It was very unsatisfactory. He whimpered slightly and then sat up straighten his creased, plump legs assuming what looked like a Yoga position as they curled in front of him. A little sigh, almost inaudible, but weary, escaped him. It did not sound like a baby noise at all, but rather like the wistful regret of an aged man, brooding over the many mistakes of a long life. Babies make strange noises at times.

Joseph abandoned the beads to survey his domain out of round, cobalt eyes, thumb in mouth. The room was circular, dome-shaped and about twenty feet across. Soft white padding, spotlessly clean, covered the floor on which Joseph sat and ran up the gradually curving walls to a height of four feet. Above the edge of the padded covering, smooth dark metal, non-reflecting, rose to the top of the igloo-shaped room. Light, soft and lambent, flooded in from a round opening in the center of the dome, thirty feet over the middle of the room. Square black openings were spaced at regular intervals on the walls at a height of six feet. They gave back the blankest of mirrors where the light hit them, and the baby paid no attention to them. He now had located and seized a large, floppy, green dog among the simple playthings which lay about him on the floor. Staring absently off into some far distance, he held the cloth dog firmly in his chubby hands and began to gnaw reflectively on one of its tattered ears. Inside his small body, chemical warnings were starting to send an alert throughout his system. Dinner time was approaching.

Even as Joseph chewed on the dog's ear, his whole attitude was beginning to change. He was now watching only one section of the wall, a section which he had learned to keep an eye on, although it differed in no way from any other to a casual observer. Joseph stared at this particular part of the wall more eagerly now, and the green dog was dropped and abandoned. The child actually could hear nothing but the soft, almost inaudible hissing of the hidden air ducts, but his own body gave him a clock without compare, a timer provided by nature. The graduated intensity of the light in the room was an unnecessary assistance. Joseph knew it was noon.

His eyes widened in pleasure, and he held out his small, plump arms in what was obviously a gesture of welcome, combined with an involuntary plea.

Soundless, an opening the size of a standard door had appeared in the section of the wall he was facing. Framed in it stood a massive figure, six feet tall, which advanced slowly with a faint humming noise toward the eager baby, who now crowed with pleasure. Behind the figure, the opening in the wall closed as silently as it had appeared—with one difference, that is. From the figure a six-inch thick, shining cable led back through the wall, fitting a circular hole in the base of where the original door had appeared with micrometer smoothness.

A rich, warm voice broke the room's silence and two long arms reached down to gather up Joseph, who was now panting inaudibly and squirming and wiggling with pleasure. "Baby, hungry? Joseph hungry?

Here's the bottle, Love. Easy now, don't try and drink it all at once. There's still din-din. Mashed lamb and carrots coming, you know."

His blue eyes half closed, Joseph lay back in the warm, padded cloth-covered arms and inhaled his milk with mighty slurps and gurgles. While he drank and sucked on the bottle's nipple, he looked up with contentment at the immobile pink and white plastic mask and the blue, glassined eyes. As he continued his meal, the tapes played steadily, reeling off coo-ings and murmurs, loving gurgles and bits of lullaby with programmed precision. The pre-set warmth of the circuits in arms and breast reassured the baby and the duraluminum limbs rocked him ever so gently.

Joseph belched and then continued to drink. All was well. Mother had come again. She always did.

II

Brigadier General Albert Hardwick was thin, brown-eyed and a bachelor, young for his rank at thirty-eight. The fact that he. was a deputy-Director of G-2, Army Intelligence, and had been promoted to General's rank while serving in that capacity as a full colonel, made him even more of an anomaly. As he drove, he mused over these facts and others, while keeping a sharp eye on the road.

Only a superb combat record in Viet Nam and the acquisition of the Distinguished Service Cross and a Purple Heart with two clusters had warded off the mutterings within the inner circles of command. An M.A. in Political Science, earned while recovering from wounds, was distinctly not regarded as an asset in some eyes, some rather senior eyes indeed. Hardwick had gone as an undergraduate to Michigan State and entered the Army through R.O.T.C. A good school, Michigan State, fine American institution. Still, not the Point, though, was it now? And a general at thirty-eight!

Hardwick drove steadily on through the flat countryside of southeastern New Jersey. He was not worried about the rumblings higher up. He had faced them before when it came to a crisis point, and his record had always been more than enough—his record plus a few seniors of very high rank who cared nothing for mutterings and valued performance alone.

Cruising along through the unending scrub pines of the Jersey Barrens, illumined by a hazy September afternoon sun, Hardwick was not really concerned with military hierarchy. At the moment, the machinery of his mind was locked in on his present assignment, which presented enough puzzles for a decade of musing.

He had been working very hard of late. As head of G-2's Chinese desk, he had to co-ordinate with the C.I.A., the Navy, the Air Force and the whole network of Defense Department Intelligence. As the Far Eastern landmass gave birth to one confrontation after another in a grim and mounting progression, his task grew worse by the week.

The Chinese takeover of Burma in 1974, two years earlier, had been awesome in its smoothness and precision. Burma had gone lock, stock and barrel into the Chinese camp, albeit on a privileged and semi-independent basis, led by its own neutralist rulers in a calculated gamble. The opposition leaders, including a former Secretary of the U.N., had been liquidated by their own secret police overnight, with Chinese assistance when necessary. In something like a week, Burma was solidly Peking communist, from Rangoon to the Kachin hills.

Everyone, including the Russians, had been caught napping.

For the next two years, a relentless dual pressure had been grinding at India to the West and Thailand to the East, Well fed on Burmese rice and led by professionals, the Chinese Armies, their proletarian militia outlook totally discarded since the counter-purge of 1968, were now armed with the latest weapons. And they were firmly based on all their perimeters, facing out from every point of the compass. The Russian relinquishment of Outer Mongolia to Chinese Influence was now a year old. The long moribund Viet Cong had re-emerged in strength and American troops were again engaged in full scale war from the South China Sea to the Thai-Burmese border, and not winning either. A strongly hostile note had intruded into U.S.-Japanese relations, and Japan's government was pursuing a cold and distant attitude to United States overtures. And a month ago, two well-armed, well-led Hukbalahap corps had erupted overnight from the mountains of Western Luzon and attacked the Philippine Army in open and initially successful battle. Naval intelligence reports on a vast new fleet of Chinese nuclear-powered subs, mostly cargo and troop carriers, were pouring in. Everything, in short, was blowing up.

Why in hell, for the fiftieth time thought Hardwick as he drove, take a top man who is working a fifteen-hour day away from his job at the Pentagon and shove him out in the boondocks? Security Chief of Project Inside Straight, whatever that was! Super Q Clearance! No written orders! Unscheduled personal interview for assignment with the Secretary of Defense! Interview consisting of route information to Point Nowhere in Southern New Jersey, period. End of interview. Get on your civvies and go, man. He had gone.

The pine shadows were now darkening the narrow country road ahead. Hardwick spared a glance at his watch. Six-thirty. He braked as the road straggled lazily into a small clearing and a meaningless crossroads. A small wooden shack in front of which leaned a rusting gas pump, grayish hose in tatters, stood at one side of the road. Three broken windows leered over a sagging porch railing.

As Hardwick looked around, his eye caught a flicker of movement and a glint of metal at the left window, gone as soon as registered. His hands tightened on the Chevy's wheel, but his gaze swept calmly on. Mentally, he considered the memorized travel plan and came to a decision.

The small black car, an inconspicuous, two-year-old electro-compact, took the road opening to the left, away from the shack, and Hardwick drove on, his mind racing. His whole life from combat in Asia to the present had alerted him to be wary of observation, and for the last ten miles he was aware that he had been steadily watched. The few farm houses, the dark scrubby pines and green thickets, the empty roadside stands, the occasional battered trucks—all, he knew, had contained sleepless eyes. Whatever Project Inside Straight was, someone wanted the word sealed in.

Again he recalled the precise tone of Secretary of Defense Madden when outlining his route. Hardwick's hands again tightened on the wheel. Now, he felt a certainty that any deviation from the route he had been ordered to follow would meet with unpleasant results, results he would have no time to question!

The road at this point ceased to be even second-class and was no longer tar but plain dirt and sand. What kind of installation could this be? Hardwick cursed softly as he switched on the car's lights. He had seen no signs on the road of any vehicular traffic at all, and the road itself was in appalling shape. How did supplies and personnel get in or out? He steered around a large pothole, his right fender scraping into a tangle of blueberry bushes as he did so. It was suddenly almost full dark outside, and the last katydids of the season had started a chirping audible even over the crunch of sand under the wheels and the faint hum of the battery-driven engine.

Suddenly, the road ceased. Before him, as he braked sharply, the lights shone on black, oily water. The road had ended at a tiny, forgotten landing on a broad creek winding through the Barrens. A rickety dock stood forlornly at road's end, thrusting out ten feet into the stream, but that was all.

Hardwick switched off the engine and sat for exactly five seconds in the utter silence that followed, keeping time by staring at the sweep hand on his wristwatch, glowing in the darkness of the front seat. At the fifth second he opened the window wide and began to whistle a tune. It was Melancholy Baby. After precisely fifteen seconds, he stopped whistling and sat very still. Not a sound broke the silence outside, save the faint eddying noise of the water lapping around the piers of the little dock.

Then an eyebeam from a pencil flash hit him square in the face. Although he had heard no whisper of movement, he saw that someone was now standing next to his window.

"General Hardwick?" came a pleasant soft voice.

Feeling slightly ridiculous, he answered, "Aces over Eights."

"The Dead Man's Hand," said the voice approvingly. With that, a spray with an unfamiliar, sweet, pungent odor lanced in the window and settled over Hardwick's face in a cloud. He barely had time to wonder what was going on when the powerful anaesthetic knocked him out for the count-The trip was over as far as any volition on his part was concerned.

III

He awoke suddenly and sat up in bed, memory returning with a rush. He saw that he was wearing comfortable pajamas. Looking around the small room, he noted first a uniform of his own rank with all of his correct decorations hanging on a hanger from a wall hook. Under it on the floor lay shoes and socks, both O.D., and a single-starred cap straddled the hook.

He realized that he felt fine and got out of bed and stretched, still eyeing his surroundings. The drably-painted room was windowless but the air seemed fresh. All around him he was conscious of the pulse of machines. Could this be a power plant of some kind? One of the two visible doors opened on inspection into a tiny shower-bathroom; the other, he guessed a hall door, was locked. What seemed to be all of his personal possessions lay neatly on top of a bureau near his uniform. Curious, he opened the bureau drawers and found a complete supply of O.D. underwear, shirts, handkerchiefs and such, all in his size. He seemed to be booked in for quite a stay.

At this point a bell pealed gently high on one wall, and a voice came from a hidden speaker apparently concealed in the central light fixture on the ceiling.

"Please shave and dress, General.

You will have visitors in exactly fifteen minutes." There was a pause. "Repeat," said the voice, "Fifteen minutes." There was an audible click.

He stood with his hands behind him exactly fifteen minutes later, full-uniformed, and saw the locked door. open. Outwardly calm but extremely annoyed within, he watched two people come in and close the door.

In front was a woman, which surprised him, although his face stayed expressionless. Women do not normally achieve high rank in maximum Security operations. She was about five-seven, with brown hair and eyes, quite good-looking without being a raging beauty. Her eyes were sharp and very intelligent Hardwick guessed her age at about thirty-four and was surprised later on to find she was four years younger. She was wearing a well-cut brown suit and no jewelery.

The gray-haired man who stood quietly in back of her also surprised him, but for different reasons, and his impatient anger stopped mounting right there and then.

He had not seen Thomas B. Allen for over two years, but the mustached C.I.A. senior field agent, who somewhat resembled a caricature of Dr. Watson, was a man whom he respected anywhere or at any time. If Tom Allen was in this strange affair, he had better keep quiet and see what happened.

The woman looked at him for a moment and then came forward, hand outstretched and a smile on her face.

"General, you look like a man who needs an apology. I have nothing to apologize for and neither does Mr. Allen, but we apologize anyway. I'm Dr. Joanne Butler, the Technical Director of Inside Straight, and Mr. Allen, whom you already know, is the Security Director. Between us, we've been running things here. You're our new boss."

Mechanically, Hardwick shook hands with the woman, then with Allen, while trying to grasp this last sentence. His face must have relaxed and revealed some emotion, because Dr. Butler laughed, a sound Hardwick absently noted as low and pleasant.

"I'm not going to stay," she said. "Mr. Allen will fill you in, and later we can go further into the job. I'll simply say that all three of us are here at the direct—and in my case personal—request of the President. We're not playing around for the fun of it."

"I never thought we were," said Hardwick, flushing slightly.

"I know," she said. "But I wanted to make it plainer still. This is the biggest thing you've ever touched, General. Nothing and nobody must stand in its way. Too much has already been sacri ... has been done, by everyone, for this to fail. Do you understand me?"

Puzzled at the sudden break in her otherwise calm voice, Hardwick merely nodded. She had been about to say "sacrificed" and had changed her mind, of that he was certain.

"Good," she said, her efficient manner apparently restored. "I'll see you later then when Tom brings you along. Bear with us until you know the whole story. You have an even tougher job than ours coming up."

After the door closed behind her, the silent Allen seated himself in the room's one chair and pulled out a horrible-looking old pipe which he lit while surveying Hardwick from opaque gray eyes. He waved a hand at the bed, and Hardwick sat down on its edge while his mind went racing back into what he knew about Allen. Allen was the man who, as a young agent, had broken the Mossadegh government of Iran almost single-handed and then gone on from strength to strength, until nowadays he practically wrote his own orders. His brown suit and scuffed shoes, plus the gray, bristly mustache made him look like an out-of-tenure, absent-minded professor at some Eastern college, but Hardwick knew better. Very few people did. He therefore waited, with as much patience as he could muster.

His pipe going, Allen finally leaned back and spoke.

"You're looking well, General, but pale. The pressure getting pretty heavy back at the ranch?"

"I don't imagine that you're cut off from news here, Mr. Allen," he answered. "The roof is falling in all over, in every way."

"CM me Tom," said Allen, looking shrewdly at him through a cloud of blue smoke. "And I'll call you Al."

"All right, Tom," said Hardwick. "We'll be pals, even chums, in no time. Now what in hell is this weird business all about?"

"What do you remember reading or hearing about the Houston General Hospital disaster?" Allen asked suddenly, still watching him very carefully.

Hardwick thought for a second. This was obviously not a time for idle questions.

"Yes, I remember it fairly well. Some volatile poisonous gas or something got into the central air ducts, and the whole place went blooie in seconds when it was ignited. The place was deliberately set on fire to destroy any traces of what was there, as I recall. Lot of people killed by the gas first. So what? It just happened earlier this year, didn't it? I was in England at the time."

"That was eight months ago," A said Allen almost to himself. He sucked noisily on his pipe and exhaled a cloud of awful-smelling blue smoke before continuing. His voice had suddenly become precise and metallic.

"Because of that disaster, you were sent here under highest security orders to familiarize yourself with and take command of the installation in which you now find yourself. You were trailed from Washington out into the country, watched every yard of the way and then knocked out and dumped into a helicopter, which probably transferred you to one or two others on route. The only thing I can tell you is that you are nowhere at all, probably not by a thousand miles, near to where you last thought you were. This installation is so secret that probably not more than ten people in the world know its exact location. That includes me. I came here the same way you did. I think it's in the continental limits of the U.S., guess it may be underground, but I'm not sure of that either. It could even be underwater. Still interested?"

"Go on," said Hardwick, keeping his face impassive.

"Okay. You are going to have to familiarize yourself in detail with this whole place. There are over a thousand personnel here, mostly men, all working as maintenance and security. They were all—except one—kidnapped and convinced later, as I was, that this was a job that had to be done. A whole lot of the place is simply nothing but machines and more machines. You can always hear them. Half the people here are technicians, the other half guards. Half the technicians are concealed guards and half the guards are reserve technicians, held in case of emergency. Any questions yet, or do I go on?"

"Dr. Butler is the non-kidnappee, I suppose?" Hardwick asked thoughtfully.

"Pretty smart. Yes, she's the one. A Ph.D. in Organic Chemistry. She and the President, or maybe the Secretary of Defense, grabbed the others, I suppose. No, don't laugh. When you see what we're guarding and why and understand your part in it, maybe you'll believe anything. This place kind of gets to you."

Hardwick thought that if a place could get to Thomas Allen, on whose head the Soviets had once put a no-questions-asked price of one hundred thousand dollars, it ought to be worth looking at.

Allen regretfully knocked out his ash on a saucer from the night table and stuffed the pipe back in his pocket.

"No smoking outside your room, the dining areas and lounges," he said.

"I don't smoke," said Hardwick. "Do you really believe that this place could be underwater?"

"Wait until you see it," said Allen glumly. "It might even be on the Moon. Let's go take a look."

Hardwick glanced at his watch. It said eight o'clock. "Do I get any breakfast?" he asked.

"You get anything you want, except Out," answered Allen. "You're the new boss, subject only to Dr. Butler and the Science staff in pure technology. I'll walk you over to the cafeteria and show you what there is to be seen on the way.

"Oh, yes," he added, reaching into a pocket, "here's your new badge. Pin it on at all times outside this room. This is a very trigger-happy place."

"What's everyone so afraid of?" asked Hardwick, pinning on the large blue-metal badge. It bore inset a recent picture of himself that he didn't remember seeing before, a lot of mysterious numbers and the words Director of Security.

"Killing everyone in the country and maybe the world, I imagine," said Allen flatly and opened the door. "After you."

They emerged into a narrow corridor, well lit by a continuous fluorescent panel in the ceiling. The sound of machinery was louder now, a continuous, muffled vibrato in the background, not loud enough to interfere with speech, but rather like traffic noises heard from a lofty New York apartment

Down the corridor they were following, Hardwick saw a figure standing. As they approached, a tall lounging man in blue coveralls with a badge on them marked Security straightened up and waved casually. He was a light-skinned Negro.

"Jim, this is General Hardwick, our new boss. I'm showing him around. He goes anywhere, any time. Al, meet Jim Tableman. I don't know all the troops, but Jim was one of the first to arrive."

"Glad to see you, General," said Tableman and shook hands. Hardwick noticed that the left hand stayed in his coverall pocket.

"Got a gun?" he asked casually.

Like lightning, a .357 magnum snub nose emerged from the pocket, then vanished again, all in one fluid motion.

"Not bad for an M.A. in Biochemistry, is it?" said Allen pleasantly.

"Does he just stand here all day or all watch?" asked Hardwick, turning to Allen. He was getting a bit irritated again by all the apparent mystery.

"Show him what else you're here for, Jim," said Allen. "Stand still, Al, and don't move. My authority, demonstration purposes, Jim."

IV

Hardwick saw Tableman's hand flick out to an area of wall which appeared to the eye no different from any other. As Tableman touched it, a steel panel slid out from the equally unmarked ceiling and dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. The corridor ahead of them was now totally sealed off by what appeared to be an airtight, bullet-proof barrier. The whole thing had taken less than a half-second.

Tableman waited and at a nod from Allen touched the wall again. The steel shutter slid up as fast and as silently as it had come down and the empty corridor stretched before them once more.

"Thanks, Jim. Come on, Al. We can talk as we walk, and you want breakfast."

"How many Jims are there?" asked Hardwick as they strolled along. The corridor was always gently curved to the left, and Hardwick guessed that they were in a vast dome-shaped or circular structure of some kind, with many levels, both up and down.

Allen grinned. "Do you mean guards, biochemists or barrier watchmen?"

"Barrier watchmen, I guess."

"One hundred and seven. Each one knows his own wall section trigger, and none of them knows any of the others, except me and eventually you."

"You've memorized all those sections, all those hidden buttons?" asked Hardwick incredulously.

"No great trick for a good foreign duty agent, my boy. I'll teach you the method. You've been at a desk too long."

They passed other coveralled men and even one woman as they walked along. Despite his previous disclaimer, Allen seemed to know all of them by name. Occasional doors broke the smoothness of the corridor on both sides. Through one of them which was open, Hardwick glimpsed a lofty room almost filled to the ceiling with what looked like vast, throbbing turbines. It reminded him of a ship's engine room he had once looked at.

"Air re-conditioning boosters," said Allen. "The place is filled with them. Well, here we are at the restaurant."

He led the way through a glass-panelled double door, and Hardwick found himself in a large, pleasant cafeteria. People of both sexes, all sporting identity badges on their coveralls, sat about in groups or alone. Some read while they ate; others talked, and a few were writing in pads or on sheets of paper.

"Looks like the dining room of the Rand Corporation," remarked Hardwick as they chose a vacant table and sat down.

'The Rand Corporation couldn't get the three top cooks off the atom sub fleet," was the answer. 'Two others worked for the Waldorf. Order anything you like. They've damn near got it"

A pretty waitress, also in coveralls and badge, took their order and left. A few people looked at Hardwick and away, he noticed, and then spoke to one another. A steady hum of eating noises, crockery and conversation provided a background. The place could have been duplicated, save for clothes, at any number of science establishments he had visited at one time or another.

Hardwick asked few questions when the food arrived. He had ordered breakfast without thinking very hard, but the food was excellent, the eggs and bacon being exactly as he had specified. Over his second cup of very good coffee he again began to question Allen, who had been equally silent while eating.

"What next, Tom?"

"You get to see Dr. Butler—that is, after seeing the reason why we're here at all. That can be done on the way to her office. You'll understand a lot better what's going on if you see that first."

Finishing his coffee, Hardwick rose and followed Allen out of the noise and into the seemingly endless corridor outside.

They had only passed a couple of guards when Allen stopped at a blank door and gestured to Hardwick to stand beside him. Apparently there was some sort of scanning device in the featureless metal door, because it slid back at once into a grooved opening. Beyond the opening, a guard waved them forward into yet another corridor, but this time set at right angles to the first.

"How can every guard know everyone here?" asked Hardwick as he followed Allen on.

"They don't," was the answer. "In each specified area, only certain people of the whole population have any business. Anyone else doesn't get in; and if he tried, a report would go in to security center at once. Very fast action follows. I go anywhere, and so does anyone with me, of course."

They entered other doors, passed other guards, at one point used a ramp and at another, an elevator. It all seemed confusing to Hardwick, and he realized that it would be equally confusing to anyone who tried to penetrate the place from outside and managed to get past the outer guards.

"What's the level of education here if an M.A. in Biochemistry is a guard?" he asked, a bit further en. . "I have a B.A. in journalism from Connecticut," said Allen, "and I must be at the bottom of the ladder."

"Then this place was all actually built by these brains, if I understand you correctly, and they're now all cheerfully doing guard and maintenance work as a result?"

"I came late," was Allen's reply, "but they even had me doing some electrical wiring. The whole place was built in one and a half months, starting with the Center. The first work was done entirely in space suits, around the center dome, but we're not in space, despite what I said earlier. Another minute and you'll see something. This is the last checkpoint"

They stopped before still another featureless door. When it slid open, it revealed a metal desk and two more blue-coveralled men just inside, one seated behind the desk, one standing. They both nodded affably as Allen disgorged a short-barrelled Smith and Wesson .38, a German Fallschirmjager knife and a set of C.I.A. picklocks on to the desktop. Then he waited with arms raised as the standing man went over him in a thorough frisk.

"You too, Al," he-said. "These particular boys have orders to let only certain people, of whom you are now one, in here. But no one goes in un-searched, ever, including Dr. Butler. That's a house rule."

Hardwick was searched in turn and a small pocket knife was added to the pile on the desk.

"You see," continued Allen, "this is the inner circle. There are no guards from now on, only a few monitors and technicians. Everything that needs doing from here on could be done by robots and servomechanisms in an emergency, with the rest of the place sealed off completely. This last check is one against plain and simple lunacy. I could do a little damage here with my bare hands, but not much. So I give up the arsenal and pick it up on the way out."

By this time, they had left a short corridor and were now in a circular one, into which the first had led. A curve, like that of a rounded dome, made up one wall, as if the corridor in which they stood were circling a giant sphere. Near where the two had paused, a woman in a white lab coat was staring through a square glassed port in the dome wall. Her back was to the two men, but as they walked over, Hardwick was not surprised to see Dr. Butler turn and face them.

"I wanted to see your reaction, General," she said, unsmiling. "I have few diversions these days, and this is one of them. Come and meet the ruler of the world."

Hardwick walked to the inch-thick window and looked in and down. On the padded white floor below him, Joseph was having his morning nap. As Hardwick watched in amazement, he stirred in his sleep and a small pink thumb found its way to the cupid's-bow mouth.

Still unable to comprehend what he saw, Hardwick stared down at the sleeping baby for another minute and then turned back to stare in equal amazement at the other man and the woman who were watching him. In their eyes he saw a seriousness which left him no room for doubt. And in the woman's expression, Hardwick sensed a terrible pain, a pain which no man could ever feel.

There was a moment of silence as the three looked at each other and then Allen grunted.

"Come on back to Joanne's office with us. You've just seen Joseph, the most dangerous creature on earth. Now, you really need information! Your own mission, Al, is now starting, and you have a lot to learn."

V

Exactly five weeks later to the day—rather the night—Hardwick stood on the sloping deck of the United States Polaris sub Anthony Wayne and spoke quietly with a group of his fellow passengers.

Around the ship, little waves lapped at the hull, and in the near distance a muffled roar proclaimed surf breaking over the outer reef of a small atoll. The warm night air of the South Pacific flowed over the immobile submarine, and a blaze of stars in the black sky shed almost as much light as a northern moon at full.

Hardwick was exchanging idle talk with a tall gray-haired naval officer when the latter was called away by a voice from the next group forward.

"How much longer, Admiral? Isn't it time yet?"

"They're late now, Sir," was the answer. "We expected that. Sonar and radar report them out there, snooping around. Probably a matter of face, making us wait. We have orders to stay here for two hours, unless there's a counter order from Pearl."

A low call from the top of the submarine's towering mast sent the admiral hurrying over. The civilian to whom he had been speaking moved along the deck to where Hardwick was standing gazing out to sea.

"Think they're coming, General?"

"Mr. Secretary, 1 hope to God they're coming." Hardwick tried to read Defense Secretary Madden's expression by the tropic starlight, but the eyes in the pale face were simply pools of shadow.

"They said they'd come," he went on. "Their ambassador in Warsaw guaranteed all the arrangements. I think they'll come. What in hell have they got to lose?"

The tall figure of the admiral had returned, and he now reported to the Secretary.

"The instruments say a big sub is heading away from the pack out there and moving straight in at ten knots. I think you'd better get ready."

"I have my overnight bag and here's Chief Justice Reeves with his. Nothing left to do but for us to thank you for the trip. Good luck to all you gentlemen."

"Good luck to you, Sir, and you, too, Mr. Chief Justice. Hope to see you soon."

Hardwick continued to watch with attention when a little later, the squatter, more massive form of the Red Chinese atom sub moved alongside the Wayne. You never knew what tiny detail would come in handy in intelligence work. He had seen pictures of the new enemy vessels before but the real thing was awe-inspiring, considering that the Chinese navy of fifteen years earlier had been mostly P.T. boats and wooden minesweepers.

He was at the head of the gangway when the Chinese delegation appeared and he saluted them formally. The three uniformed members of the body saluted in return, albeit stiffly. The five civilians simply ignored him and walked on past to the deck of the U.S. vessel. Two officers motioned them to follow, and they all went below decks. Hardwick continued to watch the other vessel.

He watched the Chief Justice and the Secretary of Defense of the United States and their two aides enter the hatch of the enemy sub, now cast off, and then the hatch close. The great ship moved off at once, heading out to sea to join the invisible armada which had accompanied it. When it had vanished from sight, he went below to meet the newly arrived passengers.

They were standing about in the special lounge which had been fitted out for them, faces immobile, not even talking, when he entered. He closed the hatch behind him and moved to the center of the cabin, while they all turned to stare at him.

"Good evening, Gentlemen," he said, speaking in impeccable Mandarin. "I am Brigadier General Hardwick of the American army, your host for the duration of this journey, until you are returned to your compatriots. Please let me know of anything which I can do to serve you. Any questions you have will be answered to the best of my ability, barring certain matters of security, of course. May I know your names? Do you wish tea?"

Sixteen dark eyes regarded him implacably. But it was obvious that someone had to speak, and the senior officer, a gaunt man who wore the gold and red rank badges of a Marshal of the Chinese People's Army on his immaculate khakis stepped a pace forward.

'Tea will be welcome, General. I am Marshal Sun Lo Jen, chief of this delegation. My .companions in the service are Generals Wu Sen Fang and Li Peng, who command respectively the Sixth and Eighth Armies of the People's Defense Force.

'These other colleagues are Drs. Kai Li Po and Chang Hsien of our Central Medical Bureau and Drs. Feng Hsi Liang and Kuo Tai Min of the People's Ministry of Defense, Chemical and Bacteriological Division."

"I am honored to meet all of you," said Hardwick politely. "Especially General Wu Sen Fang, who so closely resembles another officer, General Lo Jui Chen, the recently appointed Director of all the Combined Security Services of the Chinese People's Republic."

"I in turn am flattered by your attention," said the now unmasked head of all the Chinese intelligence and police forces. He was a short, powerful man with an oval face, high cheek bones and close-cropped, Mack hair who smiled politely at Hardwick.

"We in turn are honored to have a Deputy Director of U.S. Army Intelligence serve as our guide," be continued in very fair English.

Hardwick nodded. Point and riposte!

"Here's the tea and some sandwiches," he said as the door opened to admit a parade of tray-bearing stewards. "If any of you would rather go straight to bed, I can have you shown your quarters. Well rendezvous with our carrier at about eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

"I think we would all like a little talk first," said Lo Jui Chen, who appeared to be quite undiscomfited by the disclosure of his identity. Although militarily ranked by the Marshal, he was a member of the Chinese Politbureau and far more important a man. Since he could »ot have hoped to deceive U.S. intelligence, the name change must have been for internal Chinese consumption, thought Hardwick to himself. There must still be power plays going on back home in Peking, then.

"There is no point in wasting time in foolishness," continued General Lo. He had reverted to Chinese, which made Hardwick sure he wanted his associates to understand perfectly what he was saying.

"Where are we going, if it is not too much to ask?"

"We are going, as I mentioned earlier, to meet a carrier," said Hardwick. "Why don't we all sit down for a moment, and I'll sketch the trip?"

He waited until the eight Orientals had seated themselves in a semicircle around his own chair and were sipping their tea before going on.

"From the carrier we will fly to the States, board a sealed helicopter and go to an unnamed installation. In that installation, whose exact location I don't know myself, by the way, you will be shown certain things and allowed to move about wherever you wish. You will be accorded free use of laboratories and equipment to make any tests you desire. I saw, from the cases you brought along, that a great deal of testing equipment was included in your baggage. That's fine as far as we are concerned. You will be given every facility to use it. I must, however, tell you that you will be rigorously searched and so will your baggage before arriving at the site. No communications devices or electronic homers of any kind will be permitted.

"You will be shown quarters at your destination which you may or may not believe to be free from bugs or observation. Anything of that nature you find you are welcome to destroy.

"At the end of seven days or even longer, as pre-arranged with your government, you will be allowed to leave the way you came. You will be expected to send one uncoded signal authorizing the re-exchange of Chief Justice Reeves and Secretary Madden at this same rendezvous. Are there any other questions?"

"I have so many that they would be completely pointless," replied General Lo coldly, "and I imagine my companions feel equally curious. To be frank, which you Caucasians consider a virtue, I believe neither in any of this fantastic story of a world-destroying weapon nor in even one of your assurances. I am obeying orders, however, and there is no more to be said. We would prefer to be left alone as much as possible. Perhaps we may be informed of the meal times and rest periods? Otherwise, we would wish to have as little as possible contact with your personnel, and certainly none of a social nature."

"As you wish, gentlemen," said Hardwick. "I will say 'Goodnight' in that case. You can reach me at any hour if you want something." He bowed and left.

VI

"They'll be here in half an hour, A Joanne," said Tom Allen to Dr. Butler. She merely looked at her watch and said nothing.

A week had passed since a sealed helicopter had brought Hardwick and the eight Chinese by night to the landing area of Project Inside Straight, which Hardwick was now fairly sure was under a mountain, somewhere in the far West of the United States.

The three, though Allen least of all, betrayed the strain of the past week by abrupt, staccato speech and nervous tension, try though they might to control it. Now, as they waited in the small auditorium for the Chinese to arrive for a final briefing and question period, they found it hard to sustain conversation.

"Tom," said Hardwick abruptly, "can you offer any opinion on what their reaction has been? I'm supposed to be an expert on Chinese affairs, but I've never pretended that my knowledge wasn't mostly theory. I've always felt that the Defense Department people in the field were miles behind you C.I.A. types in that kind of training and in getting under the skin of an alien thinker."

Allen gnawed meditatively on his unlit pipe for a second before answering.

"Hard to say, pal. I haven't been eyeball to eyeball with these guys since the last Khamba uprising in Tibet, and that was quite a few years back. They certainly sent their top spooks, I'll say that, especially General Lo. He expressed great regrets that my wife had died last year, by the way, and most of the people on our own team never even knew I had one. Wise bastard!"

He went on. "Well. I think they're edgy. Lord, why wouldn't they be? You both know all the daily tests we run on Joseph. They ran their own, and they all checked out, just as we knew they would. The one freak chance of a foulup would have been for him to lose his weird potential, maybe due to some obscure hormone or glandular change. I mean right while they were here, actually testing him, and that isn't likely or possible."

He snorted and waved his pipe.

"They're not crazy people, so I guess they must be scared. Hell, we're scared and we live with it day in, day out."

Hardwick looked over at Joanne Butler. Her expression, normally calm and impassive, was now, to his trained eye, getting a bit frayed at the edges. He felt again a quick moment of tragic empathy with this good-looking, quiet woman who had charge of so much grief and awesome power and who had carried the responsibility so well and bravely.

She sensed him looking at her and smiled briefly as she looked up, her face softening for a moment into that of a young girl. He had never known a woman who affected him this way, thought Hardwick. He had always considered himself a hopeless bachelor, a man who had found passion at rare and fleeting moments and then gone on back to his work. But now he felt a daily, almost hourly, surge of protectiveness toward Joanne and was detached enough to know what it meant.

Another thought also jogged his mind before he buried it forcefully. As the top boss of Inside Straight, he had, for the past month, spent many hours in going through the massive and voluminous personnel files. There, he had encountered almost in passing a tiny bit of information, something which had set him to thinking hard. He had been inclined to tell Allen when the first bizarre thought had stirred in his mind, but had not done so, and now he was glad. He suppressed the unbidden thought firmly and smiled back at Joanne as warmly as he could, conscious that the strain must be as visible on his face as it was on hers.

"It's ten forty-four, and they'll be here any second," said Allen. "Any last minute ideas?"

"We've said it all," the woman answered. "All we can do is let Al give his little speech and wait for questions."

As she spoke, a door at the far end of the auditorium opened and the Chinese delegation entered, the three military officers in front as usual. They had one Chinese-speaking companion, who had turned out, to Hardwick's surprise, to be Tableman, the chemist turned temporary gunman. It seemed that his job at his university had been that of a translator of Chinese papers on his subject. Not content with reading knowledge, he had gone on to learn the spoken language as well. It was he who had handled the scientists in the party and had conducted tours when Hardwick and Joanne were not available. He sat down quietly in the last row of seats while the Orientals moved up and took the first row.

Hardwick stood up in the center of the small stage, leaving the other two seated behind him, and addressed his audience in Mandarin.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Before we commence this final briefing, I must formally ask whether you consider your task complete? Is there anything more you wish to see, or feel you have not been shown, concomitant with your acknowledged purpose in coming here? It will be best to save time by answering now."

The Chinese glanced briefly at one another, but no one said a word. Then General Lo, long since fully and openly accepted as the delegation's real leader, stood up, nodded abruptly and spoke before resuming his place.

"We feel there is nothing we have not seen. Whether the tests are reliable under your apparatus and supervision is another matter, but we have done all we can here."

Hardwick grinned, but only to himself. The grudging admission was all he could have hoped for at this point. No modern Chinese, least of all a high Communist official, could publicly admit that anything Western was not somehow suspect, even if no tangible evidence existed.

Outwardly unmoved, he continued.

"In that case, I will now recapitulate the whole story, keeping it as brief as possible. As you now know, the history of Joseph began eight months ago in Houston, in the state of Texas. An outwardly ordinary baby, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Lucas J. Hittle, was born on January 15, 1976. The birth was normal in every respect, save one.

"As the child was born, everyone in the operating room died. Suspecting gas, an intern watching through glass from outside the room donned a smoke mask from a fire prevention kit on the wall, entered the delivery room and saved the baby, who was still barely out of his mother's body. The cord was cut and knotted, and the child kept warm.

"The mask and uniform, despite gloves, were of course not completely airtight, and the intern also died, but only after he had summoned help by phone. As fast as that help arrived, both doctors and nurses died within seconds of entering the room."

Hardwick paused and studied the impassive faces before him and then went on.

"The baby was not yet suspect, but an alert was broadcast and the hospital evacuated. Not, however, before many patients and staff members in adjoining corridors had also died. The hospital's excellent air circulating system probably saved the others.

"Finally, fully suited and masked firemen entered the hospital and found the baby crying in the chamber of death which had introduced him to life." Hardwick still wondered about this last line, but Allen liked it, so it stayed in.

"By chance, a brilliant and famous doctor was present. He heard of what had happened and was the first to pick out the baby as a cause of the mass deaths, working on the principle of Occam's Razor, the line of least resistance. He, that is the doctor, persuaded everyone to give out no news and to handle Joseph with every precaution for the time being.

"He also called Washington and reached a very high government official whom he had treated in the past. As a result of his urgency, the whole hospital area was sealed off and security measures of a drastic nature were established. The press was excluded, and the Intelligence service chiefs were called to a meeting in Washington."

Hardwick paused and poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher on the table next to him. No one spoke, and after a mouthful of water, he continued.

"Meanwhile, the firemen and medical staff who had cared for the baby in airtight masks and suits were now also dying, dying as they removed the suits and came into contact with a residue, however faint, of the most terrible poison ever discovered!

"And those with them were dying, from mere contact with the suits!

"It was possible to localize the whole menace only because the suits and masks were removed on the hospital premises or in an area close by. Chance again. If one man, still suited up, had gone back to the fire station ...! None did so, luckily.

"By this time, Washington was fully alerted and subsequent suited personnel were drenched, on orders, with an hour-long spray of almost corrosive chemicals before removing their protective clothing and helmets. They were volunteers, these brave men and women, even so, because they all expected to die. They did not, however, and a check showed that their equipment was no longer lethal. This was the beginning of our project here, the first evidence that this incredible pathogen was controllable or had any limits.

"Washington now went into full operation. The newsmen and everyone else were told that a lethal gas had been released by a maniac into an air-conditioning duct. It was open* ly hinted that it might even be radio-active, although this was not flatly asserted. The area around the hospital was cleared for a distance of fifty blocks, and the hospital was first scientifically burned out and then razed to nothing but ash and rubble. A continuous chemical spray was maintained for a week over the ashes, every inch of them. Even so, a terrible fear gripped the few who knew the real story. Would the burning, demolition and chemical bath do the trick? Or would the smoke spread the instant killer, whatever it was? The chance had to be taken, since the alternative might be worse.

"Joseph, by now definitely identified as the carrier of the lethal pathogen, was secretly, with every due precaution, removed to a hidden site, and with him all who knew the truth of what he was.

"I am the first person who knows this story ever to leave this installation, and I do not know the area I have left and to which I returned with you gentlemen. We may be under the Rockies, in Mammoth Cave or buried under an oil rig offshore in the Gulf of Mexico. It is not important. What is important is what followed the decision to save Joseph, to hide him and to try to find out what caused his monstrous inheritance. I will now turn this meeting over to Dr. Butler, who has presided over this project from its inception. Since not all of you gentlemen speak English and Dr. Butler speaks no Chinese, I will translate. Those of you who do speak English can insure that my translation is an accurate one."

VII

Joanne Butler got up and came over to stand beside Hardwick. He saw her swallow once, and then she began to speak, her low voice carrying clearly to the men seated below. She paused at the end of every short paragraph, and Hardwick put the words into his best Mandarin, before she re-commenced.

"Gentlemen, you now know who I am. I am a biochemist who, among other things, has worked for some years for the American National Foundation of Science. I also hold a degree in psychology, which helped in my selection for this position.

"I was virtually kidnapped in the middle of the night by agents of the U. S. government and taken to an interview with three of the highest officials of this country. At first, I thought they were mad when they explained what had happened and what they wanted me to do. My patriotism was not prepared for such a test. And, gentlemen, it still is not!"

She waited, while Hardwick translated and then continued, her voice soft and even.

"My patriotism is not, as I said, up to the test of running the scientific side of this project. But something else is, my feeling for all humanity."

Hardwick expected at least a cynical smile from General Lo at this point, but to his surprise, noted nothing of the kind. Indeed, the Red security chief had leaned forward to hear better, and his face was completely serious.

Joanne went on, after the translation.

"When I heard the proposal that this child and his awful gift be used as the Ultimate Weapon, I was revolted to every fibre of my being, I refused the task for which I had been selected. But—I was persuaded at least to listen further.

"I was told what the leaders of my government planned. They desperately fear a third World War, a war of total annihilation using every ghastly weapon ever devised, from bacteria and gas to the cobalt Hell bombs. They felt, and feel, that such a war is perilously close. They felt humanity had one last chance, and that chance was Joseph—whom they had christened the Deathchild.

"It was made very clear to me," she went on, "that there would be no conquest of any foreign country, China or any other. China would be the target for Joseph, however, if all else failed. Russia could be discounted, and even allied, since the Soviet staffs were already in secret and joint discussions with those of the West.

"But China and her new arsenal of conquest, her new tributary states and her new attempts to rule the entire mass of eastern Asia, meant war. This was demonstrated to me in a hundred details. Whether you gentlemen here agree or disagree is not important, since / believed it and I still do.

"I have been in charge of this place and all that it implies for over seven months, which I regard as seven months of torment. I have helped in and supervised the chemical tests and extractions of fluid from the baby's body and their subsequent processing. You have seen and tested the arsenal of test tubes which resulted. They are my work. You have seen the fantastic and hitherto-unheard-of safeguards used to take care of the Deathchild and also to protect him. You have been allowed to talk freely with the scientific staff of this place, to examine and pry into every detail, save for certain security measures, that exist here. You have seen the extraordinary robot mother designed to keep the baby in a happy state of mind as well as body, since we dare not tamper with anything that affects his overall well-being. And you have observed the baby and his own care and treatment."

Hardwick thought he heard a very faint catch of breath when Joanne said "mother," but he could not be sure. He dismissed the idea temporarily and went on with his translating. The thought could be recovered. She continued, her voice steady:"

"You have seen all the films of Houston General Hospital, the death films and those of the destruction. You have, and I stress this point for the scientists among you, been allowed to examine the test animals, and have seen that the new death does not affect them. It is reserved for humans, who brought it into the world.

"You have had access to our shielded labs and have run tests of your own, utilizing a lot of equipment you brought with you. You have examined all the cunning air and waste disposal devices, the flame incinerators, the filters, the chemical baffles. Is there anything you have not seen and still feel you must?"

Again there was silence, and again no one spoke. Eventually, after a look at his silent companions, General Lo shook his head.

"Very well," said Joanne. "My responsibility for this group is over. I return you to General Hardwick." She walked back and sat down next to Allen again, shutting her eyes as she did so, from what seemed simple weariness.

"You have heard Dr. Butler speak for, and to, the scientists," said Hardwick, resuming his conversational style. 'There are a few other points to be mentioned. We have no clue to this day of Joseph's lethal mutation. No germ or bacteria, no virus, absolutely nothing, has been isolated. We remain as ignorant as at the beginning on what we are dealing with. You have seen the medical records of every member of the baby's family which we could provide, from birth to death, as far back as-we can reach. There is nothing, no hint, no lead, in any of them. All were ordinary, simple Americans, differing in no way from the norm, physically or mentally. His father, poor man, is in a well guarded mental home, suffering from shock."

Hardwick's voice hardened. "But we can, by using the baby's wastes, his blood, his perspiration, dilute and render usable in a military sense the death that he carries. We have done so on volunteers, people who were inevitably soon to die anyway of disease or of natural causes. These magnificent people, all doomed to die in any case, gave the brief remainder of their lives to test Joseph's continuing power to kill. You have seen the films and records of the men and women who died, not knowing why or how, to make sure the Deathchild could still kill. Their passing, as in all other cases, was instantaneous and painless. Beyond that grace, we have nothing to give them but honor.

"Two of your members selected certain of their bodies, carefully preserved by freezing, and performed dissections with every device we could give you to aid. You have their findings. This ends the discussion on the local level. I will now read a document, an official copy of which will be given to you for transmission to your own government."

His voice steady, Hardwick pulled the papers from his tunic pocket and began to read:

"I, as President of the United States of America, in accordance with the powers vested in me by Congress, and in defense of not only the national security of the United States but the security of the entire human race, make upon the Government of the Chinese People's Republic the following requirements, to be listed here below by number. Any failure to abide by any and all of these requirements will be met by the seeding of the entire Chinese People's Republic with the serum of the Deathchild. Every plane, every missile and every means of utilization known to man, will be employed to this end. Three weeks will be granted from the date of exchange of personnel, and no more will be allowed for an affirmative answer.

"The method of negotiation initiated by the United States, by which the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court and the Secretary of Defense passed into custody of the People's Republic of China in exchange for the high dignitaries and scientists of that nation who will inspect the Deathchild and his facilities has, by the time of the reading of this document, been fulfilled in part. It now remains for the re-exchange to be completed and for the transmission to and the consideration by the People's Republic of China of these proposals.

"The Requirements are herewith listed:

"1) That all armed forces of the People's Republic of China immediately withdraw all equipment and personnel to within the borders of that country.

"2) That a delegation will be sent at once to negotiate for a mutual and joint permanent exchange of arms control and nuclear power control personnel between the United States and the People's Republic of China.

"3) That the People's Republic of China at once apply for admission to the United Nations.

"4) That ....

VIII

Two weeks had come and gone when Hardwick emerged from his daily visit to the guarded communications center. It was four o'clock in the afternoon by his watch, and a feeling of futility and depression rode him like the black dog his Irish grandmother used to talk about.

There was still no answer to Washington from Peking, and time was running out. In only another five days he would have to give orders to start loading the sealed cases which were Joseph's gift to his fellow humans. The helicopters would come to the hidden field far above, and the cargo of death would depart, to begin its journey to the far-scattered launching sites, airfields and submarine pens.

And what would happen then, be thought? If his deepest and almost unconscious suspicions were correct, what would happen then?

He strolled along the corridors toward his quarters, nodding absently to the guards as he passed them. He had nearly reached his room when he saw Joanne passing ahead of him at a cross corridor.

Without even thinking, he called out to her, and she waited until he had caught up.

Hardwick had not seen much of his female counterpart since the departure of the Chinese delegation. She had totally withdrawn, staying in her quarters and having most of her meals sent in. The only time she had come out was for work, the continual and never-ceasing tests and inspections of the baby's byproducts and serology. Otherwise, she had simply stayed away from everyone, even from Tom Allen, who was her closest friend in the installation.

Now, under the unvarying glow of the fluorescents, she waited almost passively as he approached. Her face, he saw with an inner wrench, was white and drawn, the skin taut over her high cheekbones, the eyes smudged and blurred looking, without expression.

"Hey, lady, where you been?" he asked in a gruff voice. He took her by the arm, and she followed as if without a will of her own. Inwardly, he cursed the world and its problems which had brought the two of them together under this man-killing strain and these cave-dwelling conditions.

"I prescribe a stiff belt in my quarters," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. "You don't mind not being chaperoned, I hope?"

Her only answer was a wan smile, but she made no resistance and allowed him almost to lead her to his room. It was as if the unending responsibility had finally drained away all her will power and left a semi-robot, capable only of routine tasks.

He had barely seated her in the room's only chair and started to open his little wall refrigerator when his private phone burred, the green light indicating a closed line. He put down the ice cubes and picked it up, wondering what now.

"Okay, pal," said Tom Allen. "I was just in the comm room. They gave in. A little haggling, but they gave in. A few of our reports have picked up the start of a pullout from Burma already. Congratulations! Say so to your friend as well Good luck." There was a click, and the fine was dead.

Hardwick put the phone down slowly, wondering, as he had in the past, where Allen got some of his information. How had he known Joanne was there? And why "Good luck"? Maybe ESP was his secret.

He looked at her, staring at the wall, her face dead and gone to outside concerns, and felt a violent need to bring her back to life on a crash basis.

She sipped the drink he gave her but still said nothing, like a child doing what an adult has ordered, dutifully but uncomprehendingly.

"Joanne," he said softy, standing over her. "Look at me. We've won. That was Tom on the phone. The Chinese are coming to terms. It worked. We're really going to have peace for a while."

She looked up slowly and blinked. Then her tired eyes filled with tears. She put the glass on the floor and buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Hardwick stood over her, his own face working, and wondered, like a normal male idiot, what to do.

She solved the problem for him by rising and coming into his arms so quickly that some of his highball sloshed over her back. Neither of them paid it any attention.

It was half an hour before any sense returned to the room, and by this time they were both in the chair.

Joanne was curled up in his lap, her arms still around his neck, her hair in total disorder, an expression of bliss on her face, which seemed to have lost years of age in mere moments.

Cursing himself for what he had to do, Hardwick rose, lifted her and laid her gently on the bed. Then he stood away from her, looking down, his hands behind his back.

"Honey," he said, "we have to settle something right now. I've lived with a crazy idea for a long time, and the crazier it got, the more sense it made. I have to know the answer."

The smile slipped from her face; she lay back on the pillow and stared at him.

"Whose child is Joseph?" asked Hardwick quietly. "And aside from not being toilet-trained, what else prevents him from adorning a living room rug in any normal home?"

To his amazement, after a quick catch of breath, a very faint smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. She stretched and locked her arms behind her head in relaxation.

"He's mine, Al. Had you got that far?"

Hardwick exhaled a gust of air and sat down suddenly in the vacated chair.

"And there's nothing wrong with him at all is there?"

"Not a thing, dear."

"Who else knows?" asked Hardwick. He got up and made himself a new drink, feeling curiously lightheaded.

"Make me another one too, will you? No one knows the whole story but the President, Tom Allen, me—and now you. It had to be that way. I'll have to report you, of course, unless you'd rather do it yourself."

"Who's the father?" Hardwick asked thickly. He was not looking at her and had faced the other way.

"A man who had supplied the sperm bank of a small hospital in Billings, Montana," came the unruffled reply from behind him. "He was medically fit and' a citizen. That's all I know, except that Tom destroyed all his hospital records, whoever he was."

"I checked on a few things while going over the personnel record files, Joanne," he said, at length. "You have a small birthmark on your left calf. It didn't register until I noticed that Joseph does too. These things frequently are hereditary. My father and brother had identical ones. No proof, but it got me to thinking. It seemed absurd, of course. It meant everything had to be a fraud, from beginning to end. Then I thought of the code name of this operation which, by the way, the Chinese never heard. "Inside Straight"! Who thought that up, I wondered? A desperate and unlikely gamble, using a sucker's attempt to fill a bad hand. A bad, almost hopeless hand, one intrinsically worth nothing! I'm no psychologist, but that struck me as odd. Who could believe the United States, with life or death, at stake would gamble on nothing, a dud poker hand? But if it filled, as it just has, then it's a real hand! The most colossal gamble in human history!"

He drank and turned to face her. "Who thought it up?"

"Tom Allen and I. His wife, Lee, is—was my sister. Do you want me to tell you the whole story, in order?" Her placidity was once again restored, as it had been when they first met.

"You know very well that I do."

"All right, here's what happened."

Joanne and Allen had seen a lot of each other in Washington after the death of Allen's wife. They had often played complicated games for amusement, including one they had invented, which they called Super-spy. In this game, each one had to present the other, who represented a major power, with a fait accompli, a means meticulously worked out, by which his or her country was absolutely compelled to surrender. The opponent, faced with this overwhelming menace, had to somehow frustrate or nullify it. From this game came the concept of the Deathchild, the lethal mutant in reverse, the one weapon to end them all. But something was missing, the actual convince the gimmick which really caused death.

Then, exactly at the right time, a report had crossed Allen's desk, coming directly from a field agent who operated in the Virgin Islands. No one else in Washington had seen it before Allen. It told how a young biochemist in a small, marine laboratory, working with animal proteins and alkaloids derived from corals and other forms of sea life, had discovered and isolated a terrible poison. So awful did he feel this substance to be, he had actually contacted the C.I.A. directly, not even informing his superiors at the research station where he worked.

Allen had called Joanne at once and simultaneously sent a pickup order for the man and his family.

"Where are they now?" interrupted Hardwick.

"On our Ascension Island base, under total security wraps. He had always wanted to write, and now he has the best private library in his field. He and his wife volunteered, without knowing why. One more group of unsung heroes, but his job is a lot easier than most."

Allen had had the authority to go, and did go, straight to the White House. Approval came after a week, and meanwhile six C.I.A. chemists had died testing the poison, which acted in many ways much like the nerve gases, only in far smaller quantities. Further, like a number of proteins, it left absolutely no trace. The original discoverer had simply not refined it sufficiently and thus had lived.

Joanne had then become pregnant under a false identity. They had felt this was the only way to insure complete security, and it had been Allen's suggestion. She had asked him to be the father, and he had refused, feeling it would make her task unbearable. The whole matter from then on had been so falsified that no one concerned had known anything but inconsequential bits of the total story.

Next had come the selection of the hospital. Houston General was fairly old and a new one was badly needed. The pictures of the dead and other evidence were fakes, all concerned being of C.I.A. agents, none of whom were later associated with the project. The staff of the hospital was a harder problem, but not insoluble. Mostly they had been carefully dispersed, with only a final hard core remaining, who were put under

National Security Oath. None of them were in the hospital on the day of Joseph's supposed birth. The dead firemen and patients, the heroic doctors and nurses who gave their lives, were all agents, and all were pulled off the project immediately after and reassigned as far away as possible.

At each level, a new team was introduced and an old one scattered to the winds. A few of the more pertinacious inquiries were dealt with by top level interviews, and the blanket of National Security was invoked.

Only Allen and Joanne were in it all the way. Not even the Cabinet knew the real story, nor did the Intelligence department heads. The Secretary of Defense and the Chief Justice didn't even know the details of the cover story, a fact they were well aware of, and indeed had been instructed to tell the Chinese:

The plant installation had certainly been built with every precaution, just as if the whole thing were true. To everyone who thought he knew the actual truth, save for the President, Joanne and Allen, the precautions, guards and secrecy were vital.

"I can understand that," said Hardwick. "If it wasn't believable to the last ounce, the whole atmosphere was gone. But I don't see how the stuff got moved around. Does it really kill in the atmosphere in those minute quantities?"

"Al, G-gas practically does too, and that's been around since the Second World War. But Josephine, which is what Tom and I call the poison, dissipates almost at once. There are no traces any test can detect. It seems to be a close cousin of Ciguatera, the tropical poison that kills people after they eat certain marine fish. They may even be two aspects of the same thing."

The chemical fiddling was very tricky, she went on, but not impossible. Every technical loophole they could think of had been blocked a month before Hardwick had arrived. In a way, he was the last test. Allen had a high belief in Hardwick's intelligence and had argued that if he could be fooled, anyone could. Hardwick felt professionally pleased at the tribute, but was still puzzled.

"Couldn't any of your science people have realized that vents and hidden ducts and secret pipes in the filters were feeding this stuff in and that none of it came from the baby?"

"They could, but only if the idea were given them first. The place was built to be believed. Workmen who had no idea of what they were doing installed all those hidden bits and pieces on the orders of engineers who had no idea why they were wanted. Then they all left. Then and only then, don't you see, did the science staff come and get the full treatment. Why shouldn't they believe it?"

"Yes, I see," said Hardwick. "The belief just grew and grew, until it spread to every new person like a miasma. And I suppose you and Tom checked the mysterious machinery and the poison apparatus yourselves?"

This was correct, she said. Allen was, among other things, a trained electrical engineer, and she was a competent chemist as well as a psychologist The two could not have built the apparatus originally, but it was no trouble to monitor and maintain it, once installed. Any heavy or serious checking was always done during a mock evacuation or fire drill of the particular area needed.

There was a long silence while Hardwick simply sat and stared at the floor, hands clasped between his knees.

Eventually he looked up and met her sympathetic gaze.

"What now, Joanne? It worked. Sounds banal, but you seem to have saved the world. But what about Joseph? Who saves him? And what happens to this place? I've never had a chance to think about that aspect before, but you and Tom must have." He signed. "What happens now? And what about your child, your little boy?"

She got off the bed, came over and knelt at his side.

"We stay here, dear. Joseph stays, and we stay. He's my son, and I love him desperately, fatherless, alone and thinking that a filthy robot, padded with cloth, is his mother. But he stays. Tom stays. We all stay. The play goes on.

"We can't let up. You can see that, if you think a minute. In five or ten years, peace may be secure enough for us to come out and change our names. Maybe it will I don't knew.

"But meanwhile, the Deathchild has to stay. He had to be believed in, hidden, guarded, cared for. Tom says the enemy will never, never stop looking for him. We may have to move, may have to rebuild this whole place somewhere else. So everyone has to believe in it, totally, religiously, especially our staff. They're giving their lives and devotion to an idea. The idea has to stay valid. It may be trite," she ended, "but we have each other now. That helps."

It helped, Hardwick guessed, as he sat looking down at her, but somehow all he saw in his mind was a round-faced baby, who might have been his son. It was silly, in the face of world peace, to quibble about one atom of mortality, but he wondered if he would ever be able to hold Joseph in his arms.

The End

Such Stuff As Dreams...

Analog – January 1968

The entrance exam for the mysterious Survey & Contact division didn't take long—but it was a dilly, and everlasting as Death if you flubbed it!

Commander William Jahangir Powers had reached a point where he was more than simply bored and annoyed.

He was neither a fool, nor a person who lived solely for physical was action. He was a combat veteran with a distinguished service record and at the age of thirty-six, a very good officer indeed. His opinion of himself was only fair, but he had never felt outclassed by too many of his fellows. Now, however, he was feeling extremely angry.

He looked around for the fiftieth time. The room in which he sat was small and contained a plain desk and chair, a drab sofa and a monotone rug. He had come in the only door visible in the gray wall and now had been sitting for an hour on the sofa. Across the room behind the desk, sat a fat, stupid-looking woman of about fifty, with gray hair tied up in a bun and a mottled complexion. She had a figure like a lard can and wore a smocklike dress of olive green, ill-suited to her complexion. She might have been from Earth and might not. Humanoids capable of interbreeding with Terrans had been found four times elsewhere, possibly due to independent evolution. No one knew. In any event, this one was slowly writing something by hand on a pad, and had not even looked up when he had come in. She had grunted a few words, waved at the sofa, and continued writing, as she was still doing.

Powers stretched and yawned. His trim black-and-silver uniform felt sticky, and he was unpleasantly warm. The temperature must be at least 85° Farenheit in the small office, and he wondered where he was and grew thoughtful. Survey & Contact had a strange reputation among the regular services and did little by accident. He decided to mention it—the heat.

"Always this hot in here, Madam?"

An opaque, beady gaze lifted from the desk and focused on him. A nasal whine answered.

"Survey & Contact maintains perfect temperature control throughout Headquarters. We cannot be continually annoyed and questioned by visitors if any work is to be done." With that, the woman resumed her slow progress with the scriber, paying Powers no further attention.

Feeling silly at having spoken, he examined his wristchron—2:00 p.m., local time. He had been in the office almost two hours, waiting and doing nothing.

When the order to report to Survey & Contact Headquarters had appeared on his desk early that same morning, he had been processing some routine requests for equipment. The official summons was blunt and directed him to be at the entrance—which entrance was not stated—at 11:45 a.m. When he had finished reading it, he suddenly realized that it was already 10:00 a.m., local time, and also that he had no idea where on Sirius Prime Base the Survey front office was located. He examined the summons and found it had no directions on it and also no time or date of dispatch, which for an official document was unusual, to say the least. To add to his annoyance, as he stared at the thin sheet of buff paper, it began to dissolve before his astonished eyes. In two seconds a little dust was the only evidence that any such document had appeared on his desk!

All at once, the strange nature of Survey & Contact had again struck him. He had never met a Survey man or other being, and knew of no one else who had, either. All the rest of the services had an awesome respect for the branch, but no one seemed to know much about it. It was supposed to be open to any serving officer or enlisted man, but aside from the idea that it both contacted new races and functioned as a super intelligence net, little detail was really grasped by the rest of the galaxy. He could not remember when the idea of applying had first entered his mind, but the mystery was certainly in itself a factor.

Survey & Contact recruited humans and nonhumans as well. Everyone knew that a being capable of serving in Survey & Contact category was the absolute top, but it was still almost impossible to find out anything concrete about the corps. A veil of silence existed about its operations and makeup.

Intrigued and curious, Powers had patiently begun to amass a file of his findings about Survey, commencing the day he had first formally applied for entry, and a strange file it was. He had first transcribed every service rumor he had ever heard about Survey accomplishments, and then gone looking for more solid material. All his recent leaves had been spent in archives and dusty libraries. The interstellar newspaper files had been combed for any item, however fragmentary. And service files to which he had regular access were also scanned, as far as his rank would carry him without direct authorization from above.

The picture which had emerged made the strangeness of Survey & Contact both more interesting and more baffling than ever. Their personnel were paid triple service standard, for one thing! Secretive though the branch might be, this item had to be published in the annual appropriations of the Unified Services.

Public interest was obviously minimized and diverted by someone. News stories often said little more than that a new world had been visited or opened to trade by Survey & Contact. Gradually, as Powers' interest grew, he realized that entities, human and otherwise, of the Division must be located everywhere, all through the services and in civilian life as well. But the anonymity was fantastic.

Omnipresent, but invisible, Survey & Contact seemed to be all about, had a hand in everything, but was never seen or even acknowledged, except in the sparsest and least-revealing way. Further, Survey & Contact apparently seemed to have its own ships, bases and equipment. No one ever seemed to have seen any of these either, or at least would acknowledge it. A whole new world!

Within his own service, Powers had heard, on good authority, of at least three major crises in which battle fleets had been held ready. They were never needed. "S. & C. got in first" was the story in each case. The crises had simply evaporated and the fleets had then been taken off the standby list. Powers had friends in the regular intelligence outfits, but on questioning, they knew less than he.

Powers' ultimate decision to join was based not only on what he had learned of the extraordinary work of the Mystery Division, but also on his own increasing boredom. A bachelor, with each increase in rank, his desk grew fuller and his planet-side duty longer. His personal initiative and drive seemed to him to grow lazier as well. At the time when the Survey legend began to grow upon his mind, he was actually thinking of leaving the Space Force and looking for a more exciting civilian career, if only to stop the walls of routine closing in. The less he could find out about Survey, the more attractive the idea had become, until finally it had assumed the force of nothing less than a compulsion.

His own application for the Division had been made over a Galac year earlier. Since then, he had continued his duties as a commander, Sirian Combine Space Force, without any real hint as to what had become of the request. But official forms had begun to appear on his desk at Sirius Prime, where he was serving a hitch at Grand Base Communications, and he had dutifully filled them out. They were mostly psychological questionnaires and almost all had been meaningless, at least to him. All had borne the magic title of Survey & Contact on their covers however, and so he had doggedly persisted.

One had ordered him to write an essay about the joys of dying of thirst! "Stress the appeal and pleasure of water deprivation," the form said. Another asked him how —in two thousand words or less— he would explain a new color to someone who had not seen it. Still another stated that he must imagine he was the survivor of an aerial disaster on his own planet, Terra, and that he had managed to save a two-month old baby. He and his charge had parachuted to an uninhabited island in the Tropics. A list of the plant and animal life on and around the island was attached. Problem—in a thousand words or less—how to feed the baby.

The endless questions and tests, which seemed to have no clear, discernible reason behind them, had finally begun to get him down. Only the fact that they all emanated from the legendary Survey & Contact Division had made him persevere, giving them the fullest and best attention of which he was capable. Somewhere, he forced himself to believe, a picture must be building up of his personality, brains, and all other attributes, and these bizarre exams and essays were just more steps on the road. He simply had to assume this.

Thus, when he had stared at the dust of the vanishing message on his desk, he got two new ideas. One, he was suddenly and absolutely sure that the summons was genuine, and two, that it would never be either confirmed or repeated. The disappearing paper was one little touch of mystery, maybe to simply pique his curiosity, perhaps yet another test of some kind. At any rate, it had to be pursued at once.

Powers had moved quickly in the next hour, very quickly indeed. He had called for directions through the Command Center, asking for the planetary location of Survey & Contact Headquarters. The stupidest clerk he had ever encountered had taken twenty minutes to find and report the location, which then turned out to be on the far side of the same continent which housed Command Division. Raging with impatience, Powers had ordered a special, one-man jet sled, and this also had been unaccountably delayed.

Using the highest speed possible, he had been exactly three minutes late when he braked down on a deserted landing strip near a quiet, blue arm of the ocean. Behind the strip rose a bulging, blobby gray building which seemed to have no basic design at all, and which showed no visible windows or doors. However, as Powers got out of the sled and narrowed his eyes against the sunlight, a figure appeared around a corner of the building, and moved slowly out to meet him.

As a commander in the Combine Navy, Powers had seen some strange members of the military services, but this specimen was outstanding. As he came to a leisurely halt in front of Powers, he brought a hand up in a sloppy salute.

He was a tall, powerfully-built, blond man in the green uniform of a sergeant, Special Landing Forces, and appeared to be a Terran. His insignia was tarnished, his boots dirty, and he needed a shave, the yellow stubble showing through a tanned skin. His whole posture was casual and insulting. He said nothing, just stood and blinked sleepily.

Keeping his temper barely under control, Powers returned the salute.

"At ease, Sergeant ... if you aren't already. Is this place Survey & Contact, or an abandoned supply dump?"

"This is it," said the tall one lazily. "You got orders here?"

"Call me 'Sir,' " blared Powers. "I am Commander William Powers, and the orders were ... well, they were verbal. Now brace up and take me inside before I get those stripes yanked off and charge you with being insolent as well as dirty and unshaven on duty."

The sergeant gulped and straightened up a little. "Sorry, Sir, I haven't had any field duty for a long time. Guess you get out of practice, huh, Sir? You got any luggage I can carry, Sir?"

Powers stared coldly at the man, but could read nothing in his eyes except stupidity and fright. How could Survey & Contact have an eight ball like this around to welcome visitors, he wondered? He merely waved toward the building and they set off across the dusty landing strip, the sergeant in front.

The N.C.O. marched straight to an apparently blank wall and leaned on it. Silently, a door appeared, a black rectangular opening in the gray smoothness. The sergeant stood to one side and indicated that Powers precede him. It was not until Powers was in the corridor beyond that he realized the door behind him was closing. As he spun around, he heard a malicious cackle from outside.

"You're a hell of an officer. Three minutes late, yet!"

Then the door shut, as silently as it had opened. There was no knob or button on the inside.

Fuming, but also deciding to waste no more time, Powers had walked forward along a dimly-lit corridor, blank, gray walls revealing no opening. After about a mile of meaningless curves, all appearing the same, and passing nothing but a thousand atomo bulbs in the metal ceiling, he had suddenly emerged into the office in which he now sat. And had been sitting. And sitting ...

The sour-faced prune behind the desk had spoken exactly twice, the first time when he came raging through the door.

"Commander Powers?" she had whined in Universal. "You are late. Please sit down and do not disturb me. I have work to do." The second time had been when he had commented on the heat.

Inwardly, he continued to seethe. The whole day so far had been one foul-up after another. Nothing had gone right from the moment he had received the message in his office. And now, after months of filling out gibberish forms and tests devised by lunatics calling themselves psychologists, he had finally cracked the portals of the fabulous Survey & Contact Branch. Hah! A madhouse staffed by rejects and morons! The minute someone in authority appeared he would politely ask the way out, leave and withdraw his application for Survey Service.

As he brooded over the wasted time and energy he had expended, a dull ache in his midsection reminded him that he needed lunch. He decided to check the time again and examined his wristchron. It still said 2:00 p.m. Annoyed, he held it to his ear. The thin hum of the atom battery was silent. Stopped! Sweet suffering epaullets! He had put in a new battery only two months before and they were good for three years! One more stinking item to add to a wasted day.

Across the now stifling room, the elderly woman continued to slowly scrawl on her pad. Powers decided that she had one of the most unpleasant faces he had ever seen. As he studied it for the fiftieth time, he suddenly thought it looked not only revolting but strangely familiar. Where in the cosmos could he have seen her before? Whatever the memory was, it evaded him, and he stared at the featureless brown wall again, determined not to speak. By God, if they wanted to annoy him, he would not be annoyed. An officer of the Senior Service had more control than that. He began to formulate abstract math problems in his head, his eyes fixed and unseeing.

At some indeterminate time later, Powers suddenly tensed, every sense alert. He was a graduate of the Lyran Nerve Training School, and his body had unmistakably sounded a subtle warning. It took a split second to identify what his system was being alerted against, and this was too long for him to take action or hold his breath. Sleep gas! Subtly it had filtered into the room and he was already going under. His last memory before he lost consciousness was one of surprise, because his eyes registered the flabby hag across the room writing steadily away, obviously unaffected. Then he passed out.

When he woke, it was with full consciousness of what had occurred, and he came to his feet with a rush, only to relax. He was in the same office as before, overheated, bare walls and desk, nothing changed. He was still hungry, sweating and irritated, but now had a headache as well. Then his eyes steadied on the figure behind the desk and he grew alert again.

A short, fat man with a long, droopy nose, again presumably Terran like himself, was smiling at him. The man was bald, looked about sixty years old -and wore a featureless coverall of gray. Two scribers were clipped to his pocket, but nothing else gave a clue to his position in life. Powers studied the face in front of him and felt repelled. In lean, hard condition himself, the sight of the bloated body disgusted him and so did the oleaginous smile which was fixed on the sweating, jowled face.

The man spoke, using Slavang, the language of Terra, fluently, but with a guttural and unpleasant accent. Powers noticed that the smile never reached the cold, black eyes and readied himself again, sitting down as he did so and trying to appear at ease.

"I have a few questions, Commander," the man said. "Please answer them promptly and don't waste my time being indignant. You asked to be here, you know, we didn't send for you. You applied for Survey & Contact voluntarily." There was nothing pleasant about the thick, grating voice or the words, but the meaningless smile never left the fat countenance.

Powers gasped audibly because the other's statement had taken the wind out of his sails. His protest and request to withdraw his application died stillborn. After all, he had volunteered. Steadying himself, he nodded, incapable of calm speech.

With no more preamble, the fat man began a stream of brutally personal questions, noting the answers on a pad in front of him.

Did Powers like women? Sexually? What other ways? Was he sexually attracted to men? Had he ever been? Which women had he been attracted to? Where? Under what circumstances? How? What forms of love-making did he prefer? Had he experimented with women of other races than his own Caucasoid strain? With men? With creatures of other races? From other worlds? Did he go to joy houses? Alone?

Bill Powers was a healthy, and perfectly normal male, a bachelor, but no celibate. The stream of questions began to really disgust him, as they passed from personal to prurient, from clinical to obscene, while all the time the fat smile and the jet eyes never wavered. Biting his lip, Powers managed to contain himself, although barely, and continued his increasingly terse answers. Just when he felt that his patience was about to snap completely the questions stopped. The fat man folded his notebook pad and tucked it into a side pocket. Then he rubbed his fleshy hands together and placed them on the desk, before addressing Powers.

"Do you still wish to continue your application for Survey & Contact, Commander? If so, I must tell you that you are in mortal danger."

Hungry, hot, furious and baffled, Powers stared back at the cold eyes. Despite his intense irritation, he was conscious suddenly that he was being told the exact truth. The greasy smile had disappeared from his interrogator's face and the short figure had assumed both a menace and a dignity it had not previously possessed. The annoying accent was still present, but the voice was unmistakably sincere.

Powers thought hard for a moment. "Can I ask what you mean?" he said.

"You may ask, indeed," said the fat man. "My answer may not satisfy you. The next step in interrogation is a test, but a physical test—a survival test. I can give you no details whatsoever about it, but I can say this. Failure is lethal. Every member, real member, or Field Agent, of Survey & Contact, excluding hired help, has passed it. If you choose, you may return, as of this minute to your normal duties, and your regular service. There will be no mark on your record. You may become a Fleet Admiral and a very good one. But your application file for this branch will be closed and never reopened." He paused and then continued.

"There is one final point. The records of those who have failed this next test are also closed. Failure in this test, you see, means death. The percentage of failures is 37.9. I can allow you, by Survey & Contact regulations, our private regulations, exactly three minutes for a decision."

The words rang hollowly in the small room. 37.9! Failure is death! Powers thought desperately. This was insane. Get out of here quickly and forget the whole business. No one but a madman would consider such a lethal proposal. He looked up and heard the fat man speaking.

"All failures die. They are marked as dying in the line of duty. A full pension is paid to any person or persons designated."

Powers stared at the floor again, his strong hands clenching and opening convulsively. This was the end of the line. To hell with courage. Get out now, Powers!

He looked up and met the fat man's stare evenly, conscious even as he did so that breakfast might have been his last meal.

"I'll do it," he said flatly. "Do I sign anything, any release?"

He thought he detected a flicker of something, possibly respect in the jet eyes, but he couldn't be sure.

"Not necessary," was the answer. "The service regulations cover it. The test starts—now!"

Powers felt the Sleep gas hit again, but as he went under he knew surprise, for he could hear the fat man still talking, this time with no accent at all.

"Good luck, Son, and remember —never give up ... never!"

Then all faded out again and was gone.

As he came awake, he was conscious of two things, the light and coolness. As he opened his eyes, a third, an up-and-down motion, was added to the other sensations. Finally, the fact that he was dripping wet was brought home to him with a vengeance as his head was suddenly buried in water, which made him choke. Fighting clear of it into the air, he spat out the liquid, finding that it was salt and bitter-tasting as well, and sat up, staring about him.

He was sitting on a tiny raft, a crude thing, low and awash in the water. Made of a few logs, loosely lashed together with what looked like vegetable fibers, the raft rode soggily on a dirty-looking sea. The ropes holding it together looked frayed and creaked audibly as the waves lifted the raft.

The water was dark and scummy-looking and the waves were mild. Overhead, a cloudy, brown sky hid the sun, but enough dim light came through so that Powers could see fairly well in every direction.

Looking down, he saw that he was almost naked, wearing only issue cloth shorts and a belt. He was barefoot. From the belt hung a short, heavy dagger, and he slipped the two-edged blade out of its metal sheath with satisfaction, testing its sharpness on his thumb.

Then he stood up, balancing carefully on the two center logs of the four-log raft, and slowly turning his head. He could see nothing in any direction but one, save water. About a mile away, a rocky island rose out of the ocean, its sides sheer and menacing. No other object broke the limited horizon. A black structure which looked artificial and not natural crowned the island's height.

Sitting down, Powers drew his knife and cut off a tiny piece of wood from one of the logs. The wood was soft, waterlogged almost, but would still float. Throwing the chip over the side, he re-sheathed the knife and watched the movement of the piece of wood with one eye, while estimating the distance to the island with the other.

At the same time his mind was racing furiously. He assumed automatically that he had been knocked out by the Sleep gas, put in deep freeze and dumped on an alien planet. Unless, of course, he was in some monstrous environmental testing lab maintained by Survey & Contact for the purpose. This latter was possible though unlikely, from the sheer amount of space involved.

He checked the wood chip until it was out of sight and tried to estimate his speed. He was drifting at about one knot on a current right for the island, which was almost certainly no accident. Looking up, he could see it clearly in the gray light, even from a sitting position, and decided the raft would bring him to shore in about two hours, if nothing changed.

A faint drizzle, imperceptible almost as a mist, began to fall, but, although his exposed skin felt chilly, he was not acutely uncomfortable. The ocean, or whatever it was, seemed about 72° Farenheit and the air perhaps 10° cooler. He could survive a long time under such conditions. He was conscious of mild thirst but it was only mild, and the fact that he had missed lunch could be dismissed also. He might have been in deep freeze a month or ten seconds but he felt perfectly fit.

Keeping an eye on the island, already perceptibly closer, he began a careful examination of the raft. All the survival courses he had ever taken had stressed utilization of whatever unlikely materials were available. He could hear the instructor now at Grand Base O.C.S. during the castaway's course.

"Beings, remember! Examine and catalog what is available at once! If an emergency strikes, there will be no time!"

So far, nylon shorts and belt, metal buckle, seven-inch, two-edged knife, its metal sheath clipped to the belt, plus a sagging raft.

Just how sagging, he soon discovered. It was breaking up. The lashings as he had thought, were tattered bits of some plant fiber rope, and very few were still holding. Even as he watched, a section snapped, -worn out by time and hard usage, and a log drifted away. The raft was only minutes away from dissolution with three logs left.

He thought quickly. Where in the universe could he be? Was that grimy-looking ocean dangerous? Although it tasted unpleasant, the flavor was more that of a dirty tide pool than something poisonous. But if harmless, what lived in it? It looked capable of concealing anything, and for the first time a thrill of fear ran through him. He could die on this test: almost half the applicants had, according to the fat man.

Another fiber parted and the two logs supporting Powers' weight began to come apart at one end of the raft. At the same time paralysis seized him, numbing his muscles and sapping his nerve to the breaking point in a split second.

Out of the gentle curve of a wave, black and shining, a high, pointed fin had appeared mysteriously, no more than a few yards from the left side of the disintegrating raft. It stood at least a yard out of the water, the droplets gleaming from its smooth surface and then subsided as silently as it had come, leaving a man gaping at the dark water, frozen with a fear so stark and awful that his heart had almost stopped beating.

As a boy, Powers had been taken on a vacation to the South Pacific by his parents, to Rarotonga, and while swimming one day he had seen a native of the island seized and devoured by a huge Tiger shark, the clear water revealing every nasty detail. He never had got over it, and while not afraid of water, had never gone swimming alone since, nor entered any but clear, cold water, and fenced at that, if in an ocean. Now all the horrors rushed back and the screams of the long-dead native beat again upon his eardrums. He must be on Terra, some lost backwater of his own planet, and in front of him cruised a monster capable of shredding him apart in one bite.

But it was only for a second that he was bereft of control. A lifetime's arduous training and discipline overrode the panic, and he began to function as a reasoning being once more. He felt self-contempt wash out much of the fear.

A quick glance showed that the raft was almost gone. The two former center logs were tightly secured only at one end, by a loose strand in the middle where he crouched, and not at all at the other end behind him. He drew his knife, holding it blade up and looked at the island.

It now lay between one half and one quarter mile away. And for the first time he could see the black object which sprawled upon its peak. And this confirmed his decision. He was on Earth, on Terra itself. For before him, plainly visible, towered an ancient house, huge, colored in grays and blacks, with peaked roofs and chimneys and what looked like a myriad, black, gaping windows, staring out over the misty ocean.

Even as Powers fixed the identity of the house in his mind, the logs beneath him began to move apart. There was no delaying the decision, and while a tiny part of his mind still cowered in fear, shrieking "you'll be killed," it was overridden by his will.

He dived cleanly into the black water, and struck out for the island, using a side stroke which allowed him to keep his knife in his right hand.

As he rose on the first gentle wave, his stroke faltered. Two waves away, directly ahead and between him and the island, rose the towering dorsal fin. Now it had risen clear out of the water, and a six-foot length of shining black skin showed the back of whatever carried it.

But Powers had been driven too far by will, and in any case, could not now turn back if he wished. He had no place to go and knew it, except forward. He continued to stroke smoothly, straight for the island and the fin, too, although that had silently vanished again. His body seemed one giant nerve ending, keyed up to the surge of water against his skin which would give a useless warning of the monster's rush. But his knife was ready as ever, and he was prepared at least to leave a gash on its hide. A wave broke gently over his head, filling his open mouth with the taste of the water, salty and unpleasant, but his steady stroke never varied. On and on he went, numbing his imagination, swimming steadily and slowly for what seemed eternity.

And suddenly, he was there. His feet scraped bottom, and, hardly able to believe it, he staggered ashore on to a pebbled beach under the towering face of rock, and fell on the hard stones, his knees giving way from the strain and his heart pounding with relief.

It was at least five minutes, he estimated, before he could sit up. The prospect before him was not inviting, but at least he was on dry land and unharmed.

He was on a tiny beach, about ten yards long by eight deep, surrounded on all sides by walls of bleak, granitelike stone. No seaweed or shells lay on the margin to mark a tideline, and further back, no plants of any sort grew. He got up and began to examine his landing place carefully, noting absently that the light seemed to be decreasing. It must be evening, but the low cloud bank hid any trace of stars or sun, and the light was not that of a normal evening, anyway. His belief that he had been transported to Terra wavered for a moment, while he searched the desolate shingle for a clue as to where he might be.

The house! All at once the great house on the headland came back into his mind. He must be right below it. Even if it were empty, there would at least be shelter, and possibly food and water. There ought to be water at any rate.

Gloomily he studied the bleak walls of his temporary prison. The damp rock did not even have lichen growing on it. There was no other sign of life on the shore. He looked out to sea, but the visibility was far lower than when he had arrived. It was not night, but a gloomy dusk which now covered the waters.

Once again he circumnavigated the grim little beach, this time looking for footholds on the cliff. Above the center of the shingle, at its broadest point, the black face of the frowning rock actually leaned out, casting a deeper shadow, but at no place, even on the sides, was there a trace of footing. He found a small pool of water at one place, apparent seepage from the dank stones above, but it was evil-smelling and undrinkable.

This left the beach. Carefully, he waded out to the right-hand edge, holding on to the cliff as he did so. Where the cliff ended, his probing foot went down and he drew back hastily. He still could not see around the cliff. Looking out to sea again, he suddenly saw the great, black fin. It lay, almost motionless in the gentle swell, about fifteen yards off shore, a silent sentinel.

Shuddering involuntarily, he stepped quickly back on the beach and sat down. A gentle breeze had come up and the misty rain still fell, but the wind was barely audible and the regular plash of the tiny waves on the shingle was the only sound he could hear.

Sound! Perhaps the strange house was not empty! Springing up as the thought came to him, Powers yelled, funneling his hands around his mouth. Three times he bellowed, "Help," and then stood waiting, his ears straining. After a minute's silence, he tried again, and again stood listening.

This time he felt sure he heard something, but the answer was neither what he was expecting, nor was it reassuring.

From far above him there seemed to quaver for an instant a brief, high sound, somewhere between a wail and a shriek. It only lasted a moment, rising to an almost inaudible tremolo, and then abruptly ceased, so that Powers was left wondering if he had really heard anything at all. In the end, he decided that he had, but also that he could derive little comfort from the sound. Whatever made it did not have human vocal chords, and there had been an element of want and hunger in the keening cry which had impressed itself most thoroughly in the stiff hairs on the back of his skull. Something strange, eerie and half-remembered had come into his mind, leaving him momentarily shaken and nerveless.

He stood for a moment, arms rigidly folded, cursing the Survey & Contact Division under his breath and adding a final epithet for himself and his own stupidity in volunteering. Then, once again, he rallied and began to review the known facts he had to work with.

He was marooned on a rocky island, and there was an odd old-fashioned house. The house looked Terran, but the sea around the island tasted weird. Still, there was a monster shark offshore. But was it a shark? Other planets produced remarkably similar adaptations. Powers was neither a biologist nor an ecologist but he had done a lot of reading and he had seen similar life forms listed from several other worlds beside Earth. And now, there was that chilling sound his shouting had evoked from the clifftop. Some deep-buried memory, perhaps ancestral in nature, told him plainly that the sound he had heard was never produced by anything that walked on Earth. And yet there was that haunting sense of familiarity. Where was he?

Abruptly dismissing further speculation as profitless, he walked over to the left-hand end of the beach and began to wade out, as he had done earlier on the other side. The sheer cliff of the island came down just as sharply here, but to his delight he could wade around the corner of the cliff in no more than a foot or two of murky water.

Peering cautiously around the el-bow of rock, he found he could see about a dozen yards clearly. There was no corresponding beach on the other side, but at first glance there appeared to be a slight inward angle to the cliff face, offering possible handholds for climbing.

Ever so carefully, keeping his left hand on the rock, he waded out, shuffling his naked feet, so as not to step into a pothole, or a sudden dropoff into deep water. He glanced once out to sea, but this time there was no sign of the fin.

About twenty feet along from the corner of the bay, he found what he was looking for. A narrow crack angled up the cliff on a steep, but not impossible, slant and, moreover, the cliff drew back a little, so that peering up, he could see the dark line which marked its top, even now through the brown and baffling dusk.

He decided to take one more precaution and waded inch by inch out into the water directly in front of the crack. As he expected, it deepened within two yards. Satisfied, he waded back to the base of the crack. If he became stuck higher up on his climb, he could at least leap out into the sea and try to make the little bay again by swimming.

Then he stood breathing deeply for a moment and said a silent prayer. At length, he began to climb. He did not like climbing heights and never had. In fact he dreaded it, but he was in good condition and his nerves were under rigid control. Keeping his face to the wall and looking up, not down, he made slow but steady progress. He had learned the basic elements of climbing long before in various survival schools, and he was surprised how easily they returned when needed from the depths of his memory. At one point a considerable distance above the sea, the crack widened suddenly into a narrow chimney, and he braced himself on both sides automatically, going up like an inchworm.

He felt the strain of unused muscles only slightly, but it was a relief to discover a small ledge fifty feet up the chimney on which he could sit and take a breather. The ledge had room only for his buttocks and his legs hung over the drop, but he could rest his back and relax, at least momentarily.

Looking out over the strange sea, he felt a chill, not of his skin, but from deep inside. What was this uncanny place? The light had faded even more, and although the fine rain had now stopped, the visibility was still dropping. And yet it was not a true night, but rather a dark, gloomy evening, which nevertheless maintained some odd, diffused source of light, never entirely absent. The wind had risen until it was audible as a faint moan, which added to the increasing unease in Powers' mind. He was conscious of a feeling of forlornness, of being hopelessly lost and adrift, which he had never felt before, and against which he had to continually brace himself if he were to keep going.

He gathered his feet under him on the ledge and got set to resume his progress up the cleft. Looking up, he saw with some surprise that the cliff edge was not very far away. He looked down briefly and estimated that he must have climbed at least two hundred feet, and now had another eighty or so to go. A brief wave of nausea made him turn quickly away to his task and he started to climb again.

Now he looked neither up nor down. Despite his rest on the ledge, he was becoming tired and he didn't dare use up any reserves of nervous energy getting frightened by heights. He just climbed, feeling for handholds and levering himself up in a steady, undeviating motion. The wind ruffled his hair, bringing no coolness, but rather a nasty feeling of delicate fingers probing for him, and its soughing on the damp rocks seemed to have a malignant note.

The clifftop came as a shock. His outflung arm, searching vainly for a new grip, encountered nothingness and a brief spasm of panic struck him before he looked up and saw the line of the top only a foot above his head, dark against the lighter sky. Drawing on a last store of energy, he gave a mighty heave and snapped his body over the top in one motion, to lie gasping on the moist ground. He lay face down, panting, the sweat pouring from his body, dead to everything but the need to rest.

When his starved lungs had finally fulfilled their need for air and his overstrained muscles stopped their spasmodic twitching, he sat up and stared about him, now cold again from congealed perspiration.

He was lying on the cliff's edge, at the bottom of a gentle slope. A yard from his position, a verge of brownish, tussocky grass led into a tangled mass of shrubbery and bushlike vegetation, with here and there a low tree, all tossing in the rising wind, their colors a variety of duns and brownish shades.

Rising out of the scrub and wood, about a half mile away, was the house he had seen from the sea, an enormous structure of peaked and crenellated roofs, broken chimneys and countless windows, black pits of emptiness in the gray walls.

As he stared at it, he saw that flecks of reddish light now played here and there over both the building and the surrounding foliage, and looking up, saw a vast dim, red moon had appeared, partly veiled by flying murk and cloud. It gave little light, and only added a mottled effect to the landscape, which was unpleasant enough anyway. The view now appeared both spectral and unclean, in some manner which disturbed the inner part of his being. The moon was far larger than that of Terra, but blank and featureless where the surface showed.

Looking at the house once again, Powers felt a tug of memory. Somewhere, he had a feeling, he had seen it before, and in some connection he did not like to recall. The feeling was momentary and he suppressed it quickly. Whatever the place looked like, he had to have shelter, for as the sweat cooled on his skin, he was aware of an icy chill which penetrated to his bones, and at the same time, thirst, not a severe problem until now, made itself felt as a sharp pang.

He stood up and unsheathing his knife stepped on to the edge of the shaggy grass. His bare feet, which were now sore from many small cuts, registered that it felt greasy and unpleasant, but it seemed to contain no thorns or brambles. In only a few steps he had crossed it and entered the shadow of the shrubbery. For as he entered it, he had realized that this was the correct word. He was in the ruins of some mighty garden or estate, surrounding the huge and apparently empty house like a barrier to keep out intruders. A few more cautious steps confirmed this view. He could not identify the low, wind tossed bushes around him or the larger trees that jutted up from their midst, but the whole appearance of the place was unmistakable.

As he stared about him in the strange half-light, he began to pick out overgrown paths, heavy with rank grass here and there through the bushes. In one place through the trees a faint gleam flickered momentarily as lighter than the rest, and seemed to speak of stone. As the identification registered on his forebrain, so, too, did his now acute thirst. Gardens should contain fountains, which meant stonework.

Stumbling slightly over the longer grass stems, he headed in the direction of the faint gleam. He found a dim, overgrown path which led that way, although winding here and there through the dark vegetation. Soon he emerged in an open space, and there, sure enough, was water.

It was a dark, round pool, perhaps twenty feet across, oily and repellent in aspect, backed by the broken wall of whitish stone, which he had seen in the distance. Patches of some bloated weed lay here and there on the still surface. The slimy, light brown roots of some water plant sprawled on the edge and spilled up and over into the rank grass which surrounded the verge.

Still, it was water and presumably fresh, and he now badly needed water. Crouching, one wary eye on the house, which now lay much closer and to his right front, he left the bushes and moved toward the nearest part of the silent pool.

As he did so, a strange and terrible thing happened. The fat, ropy tendrils of ochre weed which he had seen lying on the brink of the stonework lifted suddenly and began to wave and oscillate in the air, like monstrous feelers trying to grasp some unimaginable prey.

He was no more than a yard or two from the water when it happened, but drew back convulsively to the edge of the bushes, and numb, stared at the thick dancing tentacles which whipped and vibrated all around the edge of the pool to a height of six feet. He had never seen a more disgusting sight, and he felt almost physically sick. Even as he watched, the movements began to slowly die down, until in a few moments the pool was once more still under the evil rusty moonlight, as calm as when he had first appeared.

He stood a moment more in concentrated thought. Whether animal or plant, the evil-looking guardian of the pool had clearly been somehow alerted by his approach. To try and get a drink from the water now would be madness, particularly since he had only a knife.

What particularly annoyed him, even more than his painful thirst, was his own fright. Since waking from the Sleep gas, he had been conscious of recurrent waves of fear passing through his system. Although he had mastered them and gone on, over one menace and obstacle to yet another, they were still surging against his inner being. As he raised his eyes to the great house, frowning above him, the fear returned again, so strongly that his body shook as if with an ague.

His mind fought the fear back, and he held his fist out stiffly until its trembling subsided and the dagger point ceased to waver. Helping him muster strength was a renewed feeling of rage, rage at Survey & Contact for dumping a man in this ghastly place and using the forces of some unknown area as a trap for an almost defenseless man.

Once again he started for the house. Skirting the neighborhood of the uncanny pool, he kept in the shadow of the trees and moved around the water in a wide circle. Although he watched carefully, he could not see any movement from the strange inhabitant which lurked there.

On the far side of the open space, he found, as he had expected, a continuation of the path which had brought him thus far. The tussocky grass was now knee-high, but the opening was unmistakable, and pointed straight up the slope toward the house.

As he entered the gap in the trees, the wind rose from a moan to a shriek, and glancing up, he saw the moon clearly, with only a few racing scuds of cloud to shield it. Then he knew that it was no moon he had ever seen before. It was not only a far larger orb, but the sickly red of its light was an actual color he had never before glimpsed.

Looking down again, he moved steadily on down the lane of windswept trees. He was not on Terra, but on something alien, some lost planet. But then, the house! How had that come here? Even as he pondered it, it appeared before him.

Clearly delineated in the moonlight, now grown brighter, it stood, less than a hundred yards away, across another belt of brown grass. The trees thinned back on both sides and so far as he could see, approached the place nowhere closer than the distance which separated him from the walls.

He had not realized the sheer bulk of the huge, stone building or its countless convolutions until now. It had four rows of windows in the main body, which was directly in front of him, but wings led off on both sides and innumerable towers, separate roofs and chimneys broke the outline. Here and there, small balconies and walks with black doorways behind them broke the outline of the walls. The place could have housed an army, he thought and realized that if it had ever done so it had been long ago. For the house walls were crumbling, piles of rock and rubble marking where weaker parts had long ago crashed to ruin. Holes were visible in the slanted main roof, and many of the chimneys were gaunt fingers of stone with two or three sides missing. Windows here and there were irregular in outline, as if etched out of their true shape by time's acid. And over all brooded a feeling of age, desolation and decay.

And more, of menace. As Powers swept the vast building with his gaze, he was suddenly and sharply aware of that. The monstrous pile might be crumbling and falling to the ground, but there was life somewhere about, inimical life, horrible in purpose. His brain, sent this message by some subtle chemistry of the body, filed and accepted the fact, and he steeled himself for an encounter, crouching to earth under a low shrub as he did so.

And suddenly he saw something. To his left, where a wing of the house extended beyond his vision, in one place a walk had been built into an angle of the building, at the highest level of windows and doors, just before the peaked roof actually started to rise. A crumbling stone balustrade marked the line of the walk along a fifty-yard stretch of the wall. His eyes, alerted by a half-seen flicker of movement, switched left and centered on the walkway.

Along it, at speed, came a great dark shape, moving at a lumbering yet fluid pace. It was hard to see details, but before the body passed from sight into a dark doorway further down the balcony, Powers had received several impressions.

One was of size. The thing he had seen was at least the size of a Terran bear, and not unlike it in outline and movement. But the head, in the one glimpse he had caught, was rounded and without visible ears. It had seemed to move on all fours, but he had an ugly and innate feeling that it could move on two almost as easily.

The total impression given him was one of mind-chilling stealth and ferocity, schooled into his brain by previous encounters with alien forms of life on a dozen worlds. Nowhere had he seen anything like this, and yet he knew it was dangerous, hideously dangerous, on the instant.

All these sensations flooded into his mind in a split second. Even as they were recorded, his ears were assailed by a cry, coming from behind him in the dark and tangled wilds of the forlorn and abandoned garden. It was, he realized instantly, the same noise he had heard when calling for help at the foot of the cliff, a shrieking wail, rising above the wind and dying away in a high, piercing tremolo. But it was now far louder and nearer. As he crouched, numbed by a new terror, it sounded again, closer still.

With the simultaneous realization that it must be on his track, Powers darted from cover, his limbs galvanized by desperation. Better the house and its lurking occupant than meeting the author of that horrid sound in the open. In the house, he had a chance at least to take cover. He raced for the building, momentarily not knowing or caring what might be hidden there, and hurled himself through an open ground floor window head first in a spaceman's roll. He hit with a thud on a stone floor, the breath driven out of his body, but still clutching the knife in the ready position.

Sparked by adrenalin, he staggered to his feet and peered out of one corner of the window, hoping to gain a view of whatever was following him. As he tried to muffle his gasps for breath and quiet his twitching nerves, he raked the space in front of the windows with his eyes. But only the tossing bushes in which he had recently sheltered, swaying in the wind, met his gaze. Under the fitful light of the red moon, the lank grasses waved undisturbed. Of whatever made that uncanny wail, no trace presented itself.

He swung back into the room of a sudden, damning himself internally for a careless fool. As he peered from the window, anything might have stolen upon him from the inner doorway of the small chamber in which he found himself. It was solid stone, walls, floor, ceiling, with no trace of any furnishings, the floor only faintly dusty. A man-sized doorway opened on to dimness beyond, but no door was in evidence.

Moving silently, but with every nerve thrilling, Powers went to the opening and peered into the dark beyond. His eyes were now well-accustomed to the poor light, and he found that he could see clearly.

The small room gave upon a long, high corridor, unlit except for patches of lessened dimness marking other doors. In both directions it ran away into darkness, but one glimpse off to the right gave him a flash of hope. This was a gap in the corridor wall which looked like the base of a stair.

Once more checking the corridor for sound or movement, and finding neither, he gripped the knife firmly and ventured out of the room, moving slowly along to the right, every muscle taut as a wire.

Underfoot, the stone felt slimy and cold, but it was smooth and well-worn, presenting no obstacle to silent movement.

He passed the doorways of several rooms, four of them lit by the moonlight outside, to his right, and two on the inner wall, dark as tombs. In each case he braced himself for a sudden assault from one of the openings as he passed, but nothing happened and he soon found himself at the foot of the stair which he had hoped for before starting.

It was narrow, also of stone and seemed perfectly sound. It wound in a tight spiral and pausing at the foot, he tried to see up. He listened, to the point of straining his eardrums.

No sound broke the silence but the faint noise of the wind, outside, now muffled by the house walls. But another sense, one long-used, screamed "Beware" in his mind, and he continued to stand frozen while his tired and overwrought brain sought to identify it.

It was—scent! Musky, abominable and mephitic, a strange odor hung about the stairway. It was not strong, as if whatever had made it had not been present recently, but it was not stale either.

Powers had no doubt what the origin was and felt the panic rising to the surface again. The black bulk he had seen on the upper stories of the house had been here, and could use the stair.

He began to mount, testing each worn and greasy step and finding it firm beneath his sore feet. He nerved himself as he passed the small landing of the second floor, but heard and saw nothing. He went on.

Nothing happened at the third floor either, but he had no trouble realizing that his passage might still have been marked by a silent listener. Narrow windows, set high in the wall of the stairwell, gave some light, but he could not see out of them and could only continue his progress. He was acutely sensitive to each minute scuff of his feet on the smooth steps, his own breathing, which he fought to keep even and the noise of the wind outside, as it hummed around the house.

He arrived at the fourth landing, and far down inside his being, felt better. Some heritage from tree-dwelling ancestors made heights seem safer, he mused to himself, even as he stood waiting and listening.

The stairs climbed no higher. One doorway opened off the landing, just as in the ground floor, a rectangle of blackness. He tried to catch the elusive and acrid odor he had detected earlier, but it was gone. Gripping his knife, he passed through the doorway and found himself in another corridor.

This one appeared even longer than the one on the ground floor of the house, and it was far better lit. Not only were there windows admitting the rays of the red moon, but breaks in the roof were numerous as well, and the passage had piles of rubble here and there on its floor. The noise of the wind seemed suddenly louder, almost a yell as it raced through the many openings and surged down the length of the whole building.

For no particular reason, Powers turned right rather than left and began a slow reconnaissance of the corridor, watching for any place that might provide at least a temporary shelter, in which he could hide until daybreak. If there is such a thing as day in this place, said his weary mind.

He passed a doorway on his right, no different from any other, when he halted suddenly and spun back. There had been an actual door, and his tired brain had failed to register it. It was hung on great metal hinges and stood solidly, a great, unadorned mass of a seeming black wood, opening on the room or inward side. There was no bolt or lock.

He checked the corridor again, saw and heard nothing and then moved quickly into the room. Unlike the other he had seen, it was not completely empty. Several large timbers, fragments of old beams, lay scattered on the floor, and a large wooden chest, minus its top, stood in one corner, under the window.

Powers summoned his last reserves of energy and by sheer strength managed to close the heavy door on its harshly grating hinges. The noise he made terrified him but there was no help for it. Dragging over the largest fragment of beam, he made a sturdy brace against it, and then sat down, facing the window and the moonlight. He noted idly, while listening, that a small hatch was set in one wall, the left, which might communicate with some forgotten pantry and that it seemed to have something dark like rotted velvet stuffed back in its recesses. A vague unease about the texture of what he had noted in passing made him look back again. And this time he saw movement where the material had been.

Into the room, slowly and with infinite caution there came a hand. It was five fingered and each huge finger was tipped with a polished claw. The hand and the colossal arm behind it were furred in black, close-lying pelage, which he had mistaken for velvet. It moved slowly and stealthily in his direction, already as long as his leg and twice as big around. With it came a wave of the foul and sickening odor.

Frozen momentarily, he saw his error. The hatch he had seen was actually a connecting window to the next room and he had awakened what was lying there when he moved the beams and braced the door.

A great gust of fury awakened in his exhausted body. Just when he had found a shelter, some hideous thing sought to devour him! Within a bare second of his moment of discovery, he sprang across the room and with his knife, slashed at the groping black limb, aiming at the inner elbow, and hoping to sever a tendon.

The arm jerked back like lightning, and simultaneously, he was almost deafened by a scream of rage and pain which shook him physically with its sheer volume.

He leaped back, alert, his gaze fixed on the little window and saw, framed in its square, filling it from side to side, the visage which guided the arm.

The face was twice the size of a man's and rather like that of a colossal cat. Black fur covered it to the blunt, naked muzzle, which was damp and wet. The eyes were huge, red and lambent, with vertical, black pupils, and he could just see tiny, upright ears on the sides of the great head. The wide, lipless mouth opened and again he was deafened by that awful cry, even as he saw the terrible teeth, a row of razor-sharp carnassials. The stench of the brute filled the room like a fog, but as he poised, ready for further battle, he saw with satisfaction that dark drops and pools on the floor showed his own power. He waited, tired but alert, for the monster's next move, his eyes fixed on that dreadful face.

As he waited for the next attack, the beast screamed again. But the cry was different, higher and wailing, even though it still left the man shaking from sheer vibration. And all the time, the strange eyes never left him, their stare of concentrated malignancy seeming to will him to remain, to freeze there and never move.

And even as that thought crossed his mind, a faint sound from outside came to his ears through the window, and he knew the bitter taste of his own folly. He had ignored all the warnings, the scream in the garden as he entered the house, the almost simultaneous shape on the balcony that he had watched, and now the familiar wailing howl from the wounded animal, followed by the scrape of claws outside. The balcony ran outside this very room, and there were two hunters, not one!

All this flashed through his mind as he was moving. The beast in the next room could never get through the connecting window. All he had to do was stay out of its reach. He dropped his knife and spinning to the old chest he had noted in the far corner, lidless and battered, he stooped and with a convulsive effort raised it from the ground. Half hurling and half pushing it, he aimed it straight at the outer window and his timing could not have been better, although it was largely luck.

As the second hideous head rose to the window level, preparing to scramble in, a hundred pounds of ancient but solid wood struck it squarely with all the force a tired but powerful and desperate man could put behind it.

A massive crunch was followed by an awful, choked-off snarl and scrabbling sounds and then the window was clear again. From far below came the sound of something heavy hitting the ground with a squashy impact.

Powers had fallen to his knees, and, still on them, turned to face his original enemy. But the small connecting window was also empty. Must get up, he thought, and find that knife. But he could not rise. And the room was getting darker, much darker. His strong body was at last betraying him, when he needed it most, giving way to all the physical effort that had been demanded of it, giving way to the hours of fear and tension, the lack of food and water. The other one will come in the window, said his mind: fight! Once more he tried to rise and do battle and actually managed to totter erect, even as the room went completely black and he knew that he was falling forward. He never even felt the floor as he hit.

Which, under the circumstances, was not really too surprising.

"He's coming out now," said a voice. "The last shot should do it. Keep his arm immobilized as long as that tube is in it. Twenty more units of Adrenergon before his balance is built up again."

Powers was aware of being alive and comfortable even before opening his eyes. He felt tired. But pleasantly so, and cool and clean as well. Something soft covered his recumbent body and a pleasant odor, fresh and bracing, was in the air he breathed. Stretching ever so slightly, still only partly awake, he felt his right arm immobilized and the feeling brought all his memories back in a wave, causing him to try to sit up, his eyes open with shock.

"Easy, easy, Commander." A firm hand on his chest and another on his left shoulder kept him from moving. A tall, blond man of his own age was smiling down at him, his arms restraining any movement. Powers blinked stupidly at him and then stared past him at the others in the large room. All present, but one, wore white coveralls.

A short, elderly man with an aquiline, clean-shaven face and a stubble of cropped, gray hair stood grinning at the foot of Powers' bed. Next to him, also smiling pleasantly, was a handsome gray-haired woman. And lounging against the far wall was the tall figure of a Lyran, wearing service Blacks with no insignia, his great goggling eyes fixed oddly on Powers' face, his greenish tail curled neatly around one leg, making his race look even more than usual like monstrous parodies of Terrestrial chameleons.

Powers lay back under his white sheet, idly noting the bustle of a group of human technicians, farther back still, who were moving some massive equipment from the room on silent wheels. He also noted the tube inserted in his arm and leading to a hospital intravenous feeding unit.

"O.K.," said the blond man who had been holding him down. "Stay quiet, don't move and you can talk. We're here to answer questions. But let me say one thing first. You graduated."

A sense of lassitude almost stopped Powers from answering, but he was too curious.

"Where was it? What planet was I on?"

The older man at the bed's foot answered. "No one will ever land there, or ever has, Commander. You are its first, last and only inhabitant and always will be."

"That's impossible," said Powers. "How did you get me there? How did you get me away? And what about those black demons and the ..." He stopped, because all those in the room were smiling except the Lyran who could not, and he was emitting the leaking-kettle noise which passed for laughter with his race. A light began to gleam in Powers' eyes and his mind started to race furiously. He was in a hospital. Had he ever left it?

"He's getting it," said the woman. "Let's put him out of his misery quickly. Commander, you have spent six Galac hours, no more, battling the deadliest dangers, the most vicious adversaries in the galaxy, as well as surmounting the worst obstacles known to man. But none of us can ever really go where you have gone, see what you have seen or do what you have done.

"You see," she continued pleasantly, "You have fought monsters of your own creating, battled difficulties existing only in your own imagination, dredged from the worst horrors of your subconscious fears and dreads. You have never left this building, never moved a muscle in actuality, except to tense one occasionally." She paused.

"I'll take over," the older man said. "Ever see the clown who was just holding you, Commander?"

Powers glanced at the tall, blond man, then shook his head. This would take a whole lot of time to sort out.

"Think of him in a dirty uniform, unshaven and with Landing Force insignia."

Powers stared again, then smiled in recognition.

"Yes, I remember. He met my flier at the building. Why?"

"Annoyed you, didn't he?" was the question.

"Yes, he did. So did that hag in the office and that toadstool of a psychiatrist. Again why? What does it prove?"

This time he flushed when he saw them all grinning.

"Yes," smiled the woman. "I'm the hag. Dr. Anna Fradkin at your service. We're rather good at disguise around here. I was made up as a grade-school teacher you once had and whom you loathed. Pretty good research, eh? The ex-sergeant, very ex, is Inspector Jared Morgan of the Terran Criminal Police. Sakh Mazzechaz of Lyra Seven is against the wall. And our toadstool psychiatrist with the disgusting interest in sex is at the foot of your bed. Galac Rear Admiral Dulip Singh, to be formal."

Powers could only gape at this point, but the smiling flag officer helped ease his bewilderment.

"Look, Powers, relax. You are now, and only now, a Galac Field Agent of Survey & Contact. You've passed the final tests. There's a lot more to learn but it's school work, although some of it can be rough.

"Survey & Contact has a very small corps. Human and nonhuman, and we're a minority, there are only about three thousand Field Agents. Not many for a galaxy, largely unexplored, eh?

"You've been tested for over a year. Your mail has been read, your messages, oral and written, monitored. You've been spied on, checked, watched and studied. Those forms and tests you filled out were like the one seventeenth or whatever of an iceberg that appears above water. We know you pretty well. Frankly, we planted the original idea of joining us in a thousand, subtle ways. We do it all the time, although most never get here at all. We are always looking for new people. The good ones are scarce.

"If we had found anything we didn't like, you'd never have joined. It would have been harmless, but you would have lost interest. We have some pretty good psych people, too. Survey & Contact still would be a mystery to you, and not an interesting one at that.

"All right, we had brought you to a certain point. We could go no farther. The final test was devised by ... well, never mind, some day you'll learn, if you live that long.

"Anyway, this morning was it. Disappearing messages, late fliers, no lunch, endless waiting, a busted chron, dirty, unkempt sergeants, nasty prying about sex, alternate jolts of gas, we arranged all of it. Getting a picture? Then, bingo, a threat of death and you're out like a light again. You're strapped in, the electronics wizards connect their gadgets, and you're on your own. In the worst possible place you can think of. The bottom of your own subconscious dread, fighting the demon world of your own Id! You see, a world, even a universe, that you loathe and fear can be induced, forced to appear in your mind.

"Don't ask me how it's done. That's not my area. You may have a leaning that way yourself. If so, we'll find it. But to get back to the point, you were on a ghastly world filled with childhood fear symbols, half-remembered ghost stories, everything you personally were afraid of, most afraid of, I should say— like that house. A search of your early childhood on Terra disclosed that you had to pass one on your way to school, an empty, old, 'haunted' house that looked like that, and it must have scared Hell out of you so you brought it back. We could follow you on some of it by means of instruments, but you'll have to tell us the rest later. We need the data for our files.

"At any rate, we had you, irritated, tired, enraged, frustrated, and—keyed up to the highest nervous pitch, which is the only point to all the petty irritations, we had you on, or in as I said, this awful place. You had to fight or go under. Now get this. Those statistics I gave you back in the office were absolutely truthful. You could have been killed. A lot of good men and women have been. So have many other entities. Some minds simply cannot take what they call up out of their own depths. It's the last, ultimate test for a flaw. If you can keep coming, never stop, and never let up, against the worst in your own subconscious, you can't be stopped by anything. Killed, physically, of course, but not stopped." He paused. "Any questions?"

Powers felt numbed and overwhelmed by what he had heard, but he still had things to ask.

"What happens now, Sir, about my regular service, I mean?"

"You'll be transferred, probably to Supply & Requisitions. And be promoted steadily in grade. We have no rank, only assignments. Today you obey me. Tomorrow—the reverse. You may make admiral, but I doubt it. Too impetuous.

"And then you'll go to school. Our school. And go to work. But no one will ever know. What else?"

"Well, the gentle being from Lyra, has he something special to say to me?"

"Oh, him." Admiral Singh turned and winked at Mazzechaz, who politely snapped a nictitating membrane in a return gesture.

"Seems he wants you for a partner. He liked your total profile in our files. We all have them, partners, that is, to begin with, sometimes permanently. Don't know what he saw in you, myself. More?"

Powers sat up and stared at the faces around him. It all seemed unbelievable, but it must be true.

"Is this graduation, Sir?"

"All you'll ever get, Son. Now we'll clear out, let you get some rest. Oh, yes, one more thing." The admiral assumed a rigid posture, a deadpan expression.

"Do you still want to join?"

Powers was awfully tired, but he managed to rise to the occasion.

"Hell, yes, it beats work, I guess."

There was a long silence from all those around the bed and then the tall Lyran spoke for the first time, in a sibilant whisper.

"Welcome, Brother."

The End

The War for the Lot

A tale of Fantasy and Terror

(1969)*

Prologue

Silence lay upon the woodland called The Lot. The spring starlight, filtering through the silver birches and oaks, touched the dark laurels beneath hut only increased the blackness below them. Along the old stone wall, the poison ivy clung in thick clumps, mixed with strands of honeysuckle and wild grape.

Shadows drifted from the top of a tall tulip tree to the trunk of a lofty beech, only the scratch of tiny claws on bark and the windless night betraying the flying squirrels, revealing them as alive and not the last of the winter leaves drifting down in the soft air.

A few hardy crickets had begun to sing, foreshadowing the full-blown insect chorus of the high summer. But the main body of the night's music came from the pond and bog at the north end of the wood, where frogs were finishing their annual spring song among the reeds and wild flags.

Deeper in the wood, along Bound Brook, the scrub willows grew in patches, providing cover for the Jack-in-the-pulpits on their tall stems, the wide leaves of skunk cabbage, and the drooping fronds of fern.

The flavor of green and growing things perfumed the New England night, and the peaceful wood seemed to dream of the summer cycle of warmth and upwelling, of increase and birth, oft-repeated and always new.

Yet, to an observer wise in the ways of the forest, something would seem different, odd perhaps. Under the countless scurryings on the floor of the wood, the tiny movements of shrews and the mousefolk in the leafmold, there was urgency of a new and frightening kind. The small bickerings of the chipmunks along the old wall were taut with something besides the usual feeding, play, and nest-building. From a boulder in Bound Brook, old Scratch, the big raccoon, was fishing for freshwater mussels, his clever hands dabbling in the white sand, yet with his whole body strained and tense. Even the frog music from the swamp seemed to vibrate on a note of strangeness and fear.

Fear. That was the clue. Throughout the whole wood, and out into the starlit pastures beyond, from one end of The Lot to the other, there ran a current, subtler but more pervasive than electricity. From the smallest birds huddled on their night perches down to the newest muskrat kit in its house deep in the bog, the same thrill sent a warning.

The Lot was afraid.

1

Through the window next to his bed, the brown eyes of Alexander Geoffrey March sleepily surveyed the sky of late evening. He was very tired, but still so excited about his day that he had to think about it some more. At his age, new experiences crowded in so quickly that there was hardly time to even have them, let alone think about them properly. And what an incredible day!

The night before, Alec had said good-bye to his mother and father for the entire summer. His parents had also been upset, but they knew that the boy's grandfather would look after him properly. Old Professor March, until his retirement to the Connecticut countryside, had been one of the leading medieval historians in the world. A healthy, tough old man, long a widower, he had been only too happy to have his young grandson for the summer. His housekeeper, Mrs. Darden, and her husband, John, who had looked after Professor March for many years, were equally pleased.

Alec's father, a marine designer, had been offered a contract which would require him to live for three months in the Far East. His wife would accompany him. It meant living in hotels and moving constantly about from one country to another as Mr. March examined shipyards, saw foreign dignitaries, and dealt with fellow engineers from other countries. The offer from Professor March to take Alec for the summer on his old farm, The Lot, seemed a godsend.

The Dardens were childless, but Louisa Darden, a thin lath of a woman with warm blue eyes, had long been known as the finest nurse in the whole area of Mill Run, Connecticut. She was a member of a family which had first settled Mill Run in the seventeenth century and never allowed John Darden, a "foreigner" from New Milford, forty whole miles away, to forget it.

John was a tall, silent man in his sixties, who kept the house and its surrounding lawn and garden in wonderful order. He was one of the last of a vanishing race, the New Englander who could do anything. No machine, from the power mower to a delicate French clock on the study mantle, was too intricate for him to fix. His large vegetable garden produced asparagus and strawberries no hothouse could have bettered. He was a wonderful shot, and crows and woodchucks gave both his vegetable garden and his flower beds a wide berth. But John never hunted for sport and the wild things had learned many years ago that they could do what they liked as long as the vegetables and flowers were left alone.

Both John and the Professor were agreed in refusing to allow hunters or trappers into The Lot at any season of the year, and its acres were a sanctuary for animals and birds. In the deer-hunting season, the beautiful creatures cropped the lawn within full view of the house. During a hard winter, piles of hay would appear mysteriously in the upper pastures along with blocks of pink rock salt. John never mentioned these unless questioned, and then would only mutter something about not wanting "to have the bark eaten off the fruit trees by a lot of worthless varmints."

The great apple and pear trees, in appearance at least dating back to the original settlers, grew all about the house, although not encroaching on the lawn. Several clumps of them grew even in the pastures. They were always carefully pruned, although they produced more fruit than ten families could have eaten in a year. Somebody ate the fruit, however, and a stroller walking out on a late summer evening under the trees could hear the rush of small feet as the night's diners fled.

Birds abounded on The Lot. Quail loved the overgrown pastures and cock pheasants called under the very windows of the house. The drummings of a male ruffed grouse echoed from the depths of the wood, and at intervals in the evening the strange and lovely song of a courting woodcock spiraled down from the sky over the lower swamp.

Baltimore orioles hung their basket nests from the two giant elms which shaded the front walk, and house wrens disputed nesting sites on the roof of the wide porch and under the eaves. Robins haunted the lawn and the garden, and blue jays flashed from the wood to the orchard and back, pursued by smaller birds whose nests they had robbed. Bird song encompassed the house during the summer days and the calls of whippoorwills and owls rang from the shadowed trees at night.

Alec had visited the old house with his parents on two or three occasions previously, but had never been there for longer than a weekend, and that in winter. A city boy, his first day in early June had seemed an endless round of new and interesting sights.

He had followed John on his rounds of work and had been presented with an oak-handled spade of his own "so you can help me feed the house," John said.

Carrying this acquisition, Alec had next made the acquaintance of the house tomcat, a stout, lazy, orange fellow named Worthless " 'cause he is. I seen mice running over him while he lay there wide awake!" who followed them about, a bell on his collar jingling softly. The bell had been placed there so that even a very careless bird could get out of Worthless' way.

John had made Alec listen until he heard the clear song of the white-throated sparrow.

"That's a Peabody bird. Hear him? 'Peabody, Peabody,' over and over."

Then he had been shown how to put pellets of moist cat food on a stone near the old well, until a fat, mottled brown toad had emerged and gobbled them up, much to the annoyance of Worthless, who was held firmly by the collar. The golden eyes of the toad had blinked at the boy and seemed to say something strange and wild.

Amused and pleased by this, he had next been led to a small, newly made pen near the back stairs to the kitchen. The pen held a pile of leaves, a bowl of water, some cut-up vegetables and a handsome yellow-and-black box turtle, who on spying the visitors, instantly came over and begged some of the cat food.

"Pick him up," urged John. "I found him in my garden, the varmint, digging for worms after a rain. He don't bite. There's a lot of critters around for a boy to play with. He's your first, but we'll get plenty more. Put him down now and we'll poke around a bit over the place. There's a lot to see."

Replacing his first country pet carefully on the leaves, Alec promised mentally to pay him a visit as soon as possible. A family of turtles would be fun, he thought.

John led the boy at an easy ramble around the house and up into the pasture on the hill behind it, talking in a quiet voice as he explained the layout of The Lot.

"I dunno why it's called The Lot. Actually, there's at least eight lots in the whole setup, but the whole place has been The Lot, Lou says, since there was nobody here 'cept Indians! She ought to know, 'cause her folks been here since then. I asked her once if her folks was Indians, but she took on so, I didn't push it none. She's funny about some things, for a fact.

"Anyway, look down there. That's our patch of woods, to the left of the house and reaching up the hill here towards us. That ain't the house first built here either, although it's old enough, around Civil War times. But there was two houses earlier on that site.

"Your Grandpa picked it up for a song in the 'thirties. He didn't want to farm, just fixed up the house and used the barn to put his car in. Seems a pity not to farm, but there's no living in it nowadays, not in Connecticut. When I was a boy over to New Milford, it was all farms through here and only a few factories."

John pointed with a large brown hand. "See there, where the drive comes in from the road? Now you go left and there's Mill Run village where you can just see the Congregational church steeple over the trees. Maybe you can go to church on Sundays with me and Lou, if your Grandpa don't mind.

"Our land stops over there on the right, by the long wire fence. That's a camp for Scouts, all that forest area, and the boys come up from the city and camp there and stravagle around in the woods all summer. Does 'em good, I tell you, but I wish they wouldn't light fires so durn much, even if they have them counselors with them.

"Now, here behind us again the boundary goes to that old wall. There's a big lake a long way over there, full of city people in little shacks all round, till you can't see the water for laundry and mailboxes. They got so many outboard motors on the lake the fish don't dare move off the bottom, and I hate to think what the sewage goes into."

The easy contempt of the countryman showed in his voice, bred from generations of men and women who disliked crowding and were invincibly suspicious of cities and the value thereof.

"So you see, sonny, we're on kind of a triangle here."

The big hand traced a rough triangle in the pasture's loam, where a fox had overturned a rock in search of mice the night before.

"Up here, near the point, there's the house, on the left side. There's good second-growth woods over most of the place, but in the parts that get sun, you look out for poison ivy. After a while you'll keep away by instinct, like."

He had showed Alec the three glossy leaves on their short stem, and warned him of the way the treacherous plant could wear different colors, being red, yellow or green seemingly at whim.

"I expect you'll get it anyway, but it ain't bad on most people. Just tell Lou if you begin to itch. She knows a poultice that's better than anything the doc can do for it.

"Now down here, there's a brook we call Bound Brook. Must have been a boundary once, I guess. Goes through the woods down to Musquash Pond. I had it tested and it's over five miles of scrub oak and brush to the spring it starts from. So you can drink it. Don't tell Lou that, though; she thinks any water from outside will make you sick."

John winked one blue eye as he spoke, and Alec winked back, conscious of the trust imposed in him.

"There's little pools in the woods, where the brook widens," continued John, "just the right size for you to go swimming on hot days. I'll show you some and maybe we can dig them wider yet, for a real swim ... Well, that's about it for now. Let's go see what Lou has for lunch. It's around noon and I'm hungry!"

After a hearty meal, Alec had gone to look for his grandfather.

He found him working in his study, a vast, rambling room on the first floor, full of walnut bookshelves right up to the ceiling and pleasantly lit by large windows along the outside wall. Books were everywhere on tables, in corners and even on the floor. In the middle of the room was an enormous, rolltop desk, also covered with books. In a swivel chair of an antique variety, made of fumed oak and heavily padded with dark leather, sat Professor March, a small, square, ruddy old gentleman, with a closely trimmed white mustache and a shock of coarse white hair bristling on his head.

His studies had apparently overcome him, for his head was bowed on his breast and a resonant snore proclaimed at fixed intervals that his thoughts were more than wandering.

But he awoke at once upon Alec's gentle knock on a corner of the desk, and clearing his throat, glared affectionately at his grandson.

"Well, Alexander, good to see you. I was musing over a commentary on Irenaeus an lucubrating, as it were, upon the question of his alleged laxness with heresy. But it can wait, it can wait! What can I do for you?"

"I thought you were asleep," said Alec, provoking a series of "harumphs" and, "No, no, nothing of the sort's," which finally died away under the boy's stare.

"Well," said the Professor, sheepishly, "I was asleep. As a matter of fact, I sleep a lot. I'm seventy-two, you know, Alec, and despite what they say, old people like me do sleep a lot. We just don't do it all at once like younger people, but take little naps all the time. Sometimes, when you've been in bed for hours, I'm down here working. I mean really working, not pretending to, as I was just now. So you may find me resting from time to time. If the door's not shut, come in and wake me up. If it is, I really need peace and quiet. Now what's on your mind?"

"John told me about how you bought the house," said Alec. "Could you tell me more about The Lot?"

The Professor looked reflective.

"It's a funny place, in some ways," he said, "but it suits me. There used to be legends about it. Lou told me some of them, as a matter of fact. There are always more animals around here than in any other part of the country, and apparently the original Indians never hunted in this particular area unless they were starving. They were a small tribe, an offshoot of the Mohegans. They served as shamans medicine men and priests, you know to the other Indians around here. They didn't allow hunting, even by the first white settlers, in any of this area. They were pretty rough about it until they died out or were run off.

"Lou can tell you more, but that's why John doesn't hunt and, frankly, one reason why I don't allow hunting or trapping. The Lot was the center of all the sacred territory, and the Indian priests used to hold ceremonies in the woods down there."

"When did they leave?" asked Alec.

"Long ago. The last Indians moved out in 1780 or thereabouts. Still," he continued, "you'll see lots of animals around. I gather from Lou and your parents that you like animals?"

"They interest me more than anything!" said the boy. "I want to study them when I'm older, but I read all about them now. Mom lets me go to the two zoos and the American Museum of Natural History in New York, and I know some of the scientific names of mammals and birds."

"Hm," mused the Professor, cocking one eyebrow at the boy. "From medieval studies to marine engineering to zoology in three generations. Not a bad mix ... Now," he continued, "it's too nice a day to stay in for you that is and I am going to do some real work. Why don't you explore some more? Don't go too far from the house until you know the lay of the land better."

Alec promptly took this advice and set off outside, steering for the gray, tumbledown stone wall along the brow of the hill. As the sun warmed his bare head and a gentle breeze ruffled his brown hair, he watched a ragged flight of black crows drift over, cawing hoarsely at the sight of him. When they had vanished, a blue jay came and sat on a branch not ten feet away and stared, first with one bright eye, then the other, until Alec laughed at the twisting azure head and frightened the bird away. On and on he strolled, until he had passed far out of sight of the house.

He sat down finally in the shade of a large oak and simply watched the old wall and its life, somehow realizing that he would see more when not in motion himself.

It was very hot now. He had walked for almost an hour. Insects buzzed around him and birds called in almost deafening numbers. Along the wall, he noticed the striped chipmunks darting about, although none came close to him. He watched a large brownish-gray bird, a mourning dove, eating berries and walking about on its short legs through a dense cluster of poison ivy. He decided that the bird was not affected by the plant's poison and made a mental note to ask John if this was true of all wild animals.

Alec sat down. The blend of bird and insect voices and the heat had made him drowsy. Half-asleep, he was just closing his eyes when a rustle of leaves came from the left. He saw a beautiful black-and-white animal, the size of a cat, with a long bushy tail held proudly in the air, calmly surveying him from not more than a yard away.

He watched, strangely unafraid, as the skunk sat up on its short hind legs and sniffed, peering shortsightedly at him and wrinkling its pink nose. Its small forepaws were tucked into its chest, like a squirrel's, and it rocked slightly on its haunches as it stared at him.

Another human, I see. It looks small; no doubt a cub or half grown. Harmless, I guess, no nasty smell or metal. Wonder where it came from? Oh well, I can't sit here all day like some I could name. Will it throw stones? Probably. But there you are, you can't have everything. I'll go into the trees where it can't aim. Just one more interruption. Still, as I say, we can't have everything.

When Alec finally moved, the skunk had long since departed, having climbed the broken wall and trundled steadily off under the trees and into the undergrowth.

The sun had gone down quite a bit toward the brow of the hill behind the house, when the boy, feeling slightly cold and stiff, got up and walked slowly home.

He trudged up the gentle shoulder of the hill, kicking the tall, new grass and weeds until he passed under the old fruit trees and reached the edge of the lawn by the side of the house. Here he turned to stare back at the wood. The tall trees, radiant in the light of late afternoon, nodded and swayed in the golden air, green, impenetrable and silent.

Alec began to run toward the house, turning the corner and flying to the back steps, head down and breathless, caught up in a sudden feeling of apprehension.

Here he was brought to a sudden stop by running smack into Lou Darden, who was coming with an armload of wash which she had removed from the clothesline.

Barely managing to avoid falling backwards, wash and all, she recovered her footing and stared hard at Alec. She had seen at a glance that the boy's set white face and abstracted expression meant some kind of problem.

"Now, honey, tell Lou. Something give you a scare? A snake, maybe?" She knew that a few copperheads lived in the woods and that, rarely, a rattler moved down out of the hills from the northwest.

Alec only shook his head mutely. For a minute they stood facing one another, Lou puzzled by his reluctance to speak. Then he sat down and looked up into her wise eyes and lined face.

"Lou," he said slowly, "is there anything funny about the woods down there? Does anyone live there?"

The woman also sat down on the lowest step, cradling the laundry, and beckoned wordlessly to the boy to come close. For a moment they sat together in silence.

"Did you see something, boy? Or hear it?" she asked quietly.

"I thought I did," he answered. "I thought I heard an animal talk, Lou. But I know that's not possible. Is it? I just day-dreamed it, didn't I?"

For a space of seconds, the old woman stared at him. She looked away before answering.

"Some can hear them," she said finally. "My brother, Jared, could. He's been dead and gone, nigh on thirty years now, but he could do it. Not often and not always. And mark you only around here!"

She sighed, rose and laid the wash carefully over the back porch rail and then reseated herself on the step, smoothing out her white apron.

"I used to think I heard the birds and critters talking when I was little, younger than you. I expect most small children do. We played all over this area when we was young and school was out. But Jared was different. My family, the Griders, have been here since the white men first came to Mill Run." Her voice dropped until it was almost a whisper.

"And maybe earlier yet. It ain't nothing to brag on, but my granny told me once, when I was sassing her, that I was a throwback to Chief Paccomuc, and no wonder! I asked my ma what she meant later on and she took on something terrible, wouldn't speak about it at all, and told me I was a bad girl.

"But I asked Pa one night when she'd gone to bed, and he didn't seem so het up or surprised. He said we was supposed to have Indian blood in the family and that one of his early great-grands had married a daughter of Paccomuc, the biggest medicine chief in all Connecticut."

She smoothed her apron again and then glared sternly at Alec, whose wide, brown eyes stared blankly back.

"Now don't you go repeatin' this, not to Darden or your grandpa or nobody," she went on. "It's my business who my family was, and I'm telling you for a reason. My brother Jared told me time and again never to say nothin' to anyone. We were close, me and Jared, being only a year apart in age. He told me he was going to shoot a squirrel once, right down there in the swamp, with his old shotgun, and he heard that squirrel say, No, no, don't!

" 'Twas an easy shot, he said, but he couldn't do it after that. He knew better than to tell anyone but me, though. Times after that, when he'd been prowling, he'd come to me later and say, 'Lou, it happened again,' he'd say. A cottontail rabbit or maybe a raccoon. He figgered out by himself it all came from The Lot, or the woods here, anyway. I tell you, it skeered him! He'd look plumb white afterward. But he'd come back here again and again, just to see if it would keep on happening. Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn't." She paused for breath and locked her hands over her bony knees, rocking back and forth.

"Indian blood could have done it, I guess. They say them things dies hard. A big chief a sachem, they called them could maybe talk with animals. They claimed to do all manner of things, and most of it was lies, likely as not. But Jared's long gone, died of the influenza years back, and now there's you. You ain't got no Indian blood?" she asked.

"I don't think so," Alec said.

"So it must be The Lot. Always was a holy sort of place for the Indians, you know. Kind of like a church is for us. The poor heathen had no other churches."

"I know," Alec said. "Grandpa told me it was a special place and no one could hunt the wild animals here."

"Now then, don't be such a wise-head," Lou said sharply. "Who do you think told him that, for all his book learning and long words? Me, that's who! Not another person in town knows a thing about it. So there!"

Conscious of having reduced her audience of one to silence, she continued, half to herself, half to Alec. "Yes, it's The Lot. I think some people, not just anyone, mind, can get through. Kind of like a one-way telephone. Might be easier for a young 'un, too. Not so much clutter on their minds, so they can hear the critters better, 'specially when they're scairt."

She turned back to Alec and took his nose between two long fingers, tweaking it gently to and fro as she spoke.

"Now look, boy, this here's a secret, all we've spoke about. I want you to tell me if it happens again and I want you not to be frightened. Them little things down there can't hurt nobody, not a soul. I expect all they want is to be let alone. There's nothing to scare you. Think of yourself as lucky and don't tell anyone but me!"

"I won't tell, Lou," he promised. Had it really happened? Surely not. He had imagined it. When Lou went into the house, Alec even allowed himself a small smile. He wouldn't say anything about the skunk's talking. People would think he was crazy!

When Alec finally relaxed on the big sleigh bed in the attic bedroom that night, sleep did not come. He lay and listened to the sounds of the night, the hum of insect life and the whickering of a screech owl, long after the noises downstairs had faded to silence. It was a warm night, and the window was wide open only a few inches from his pillow. The scent of a giant flowering honeysuckle vine, which grew up the side of the old house, poured into the room and the bright stars of early June glittered in the night sky.

He felt more disturbed than ever before in his life. But had the impossible really happened? Alec decided he must believe it had not. People did not hear animals talking, regardless of what Lou said. This was the only way to treat the situation.

Eventually, sleep did overcome him. He never saw the great shadow which drifted out of the night an hour later and landed on his window sill, making no more noise than a single feather falling.

He dreamed on as two great yellow eyes stared solemnly at him and blinked and stared and stared and blinked.

2

It seemed to Alec that he had never been asleep, he awoke so quickly. One minute he was dreaming, the next awake, and the transition was so sudden that he almost flew out from under his yellow blanket.

A father robin, who had been teaching his fully-feathered child a few fine points about wing strokes, pushed the startled young bird off the window sill and flew down after it, calling loudly. The sun was on the other side of the house, but light streamed in the windows anyway as the New England day began.

Dressing quickly, Alec raced down the corridor and the back stairs to the kitchen.

"Well," said Lou, turning from the long, iron sink. "I thought the Indians had got out of the TV screen and were charging down the stairs. I see you're awake, anyway."

"Awake enough for three boys, I'd say," said John from the kitchen table, where he had been loafing over a second cup of coffee. It was only seven o'clock, but he had already put in fifteen minutes weeding his garden before breakfast.

"Anything we can do today, John?" said Alec. "Any jobs I can help you with?"

"Not so much of a shout, there, please," said Lou, advancing on him. "You ain't tied your sneakers. And you're going to have breakfast with your grandpa before you go wandering off and getting into trouble with Darden."

When at length Lou had got him looking "decent" and not "like a heathen," she sent him, quieted down a little, back upstairs to brush his teeth and comb his hair.

As he brushed away, he reflected that older people attached far too much importance to neatness and cleanness and made a prompt resolve that he would never brush his teeth when older, but would have them pulled and wear false ones, made of purple glass, so that people would be appalled when he smiled. Finishing his teeth, he ran a comb through his hair and stuck his tongue out at his face in the mirror. Then he ran back downstairs, this time the front way, arriving in the big dining room with a rush and a clatter.

His grandfather, who was wearing an old blue wrapper over his pajamas and carpet slippers, was waiting for him. Once Alec was seated, the Professor reached for the large brass elephant bell in front of his plate and rang it loudly.

Lou entered at once from the pantry, carrying a tray laden with hot buckwheat pancakes, maple syrup and fresh country sausages, the blend of delightful odors preceding her like a wave.

"Well," said Professor March. "I've been asking for a breakfast like this for months and haven't breached the boiled egg barrier in a cat's age. Do I infer that Alec gets preferential treatment?"

Lou glared at the smiling old gentleman, whom she spoiled in every conceivable way, and answered tartly.

"Alec ain't on no doctor's orders, Professor, and not likely to become an old man with too much weight in front, like some I could name."

"I see that I am once more reduced to silence, a prey to slander in my own house," murmured her opponent. Nevertheless, he seized a healthy portion of the cakes and sausage from the serving plate when it was passed to him. Lou retired to the kitchen, vindicated.

Alec ate voraciously but silently. He knew it was impolite to talk with a full mouth and he wanted to get the food in as soon as possible, because he had thought up a thousand questions that badly needed answering. As a result, he was finished in no time.

"Grandpa," he said suddenly. "Do any wild animals around here bother people? Do they bite people who walk in the woods? Did the old Indians get bitten? Can you get lost in the woods? Are there any big animals? Does anybody but animals live there?"

"Hold on there! Whoa, take it easy!" said his grandfather. "I haven't even finished eating and I get enough questions to answer in a split-second that would last me all day. Wait 'til I get to my coffee, will you?"

"All right," said Alec, "but I want to go down into the woods and I thought I'd better ask first." He subsided and waited as patiently as he could, staring out of the large rounded windows in the bay at the end of the room at the bright day outside. The light flooded in and the center window was open, although screened, letting in a profusion of sweet odors and a welling chorus of birdsong.

Finally, the Professor's chair scraped back, and he crossed his legs and looked thoughtfully at the boy, stirring his large coffee cup absently as he did so. He spoke now professorially.

"The largest animals you are likely to glimpse will be Odocoileus virginianus the local whitetailed deer, my young zoologist," he said, "and they will take good care to stay out of your way. Still, you may get a look at one, particularly in the evening, near the edge of the pasture.

"A buck in the fall that's when they mate can be bad-tempered and ugly; but I never heard of anyone in these parts getting bothered. There hasn't been a painter that's what they used to call the mountain lion or cougar in this area since the early 1800's. No bears for nearly that long, either, and no wolves since the eighteenth century, when the locals killed the last ones off. So that takes care of two of your questions.

"Let's see. If my mind functions properly, you wanted to know if anyone but animals lived down in the wood? Presumably you mean people?"

"Yes," said Alec. "Indians maybe, or somebody like that. Somebody who would hide and not want to be found." This was as close as he could come to saying that he had a strange feeling of some presence other than that of the animals out beyond the wall of trees.

"The answer is no," said the old gentleman. "What were you thinking of? We have never had any gypsies in these parts that I know of, and the last Indians left before your great-grandfather was born. Even the old tramps have left the roads and I never heard of a local hermit around here, such as some towns have. As a matter of interest, Alec, the town children don't come out here, although it's not far from the center of Mill Run. I don't discourage them, but they just don't come. Too much to do in town, I imagine.

"The Lot is heavily posted with signs, you know, against hunters and fishermen; and John and I keep a pretty sharp lookout in hunting season. The local people know this. It's been three years since we caught an illegal hunter, and he was a city man.

"Any more questions, or is that it?" he said, as Alec stared past him out the window.

"I asked if any of the animals that were here, the smaller ones, bit people," the boy answered, still thinking over what he had just heard.

"The only danger from any small animal, unless you bother it, of course, is this," said the Professor, "and it's most uncommon. I'm referring to rabies, a very serious and fatal disease that drives animals crazy, and people too, when they get bitten. Dogs catch it, but cats seldom do, for some reason. Move too quickly, I guess.

"Anyway, I never heard of any signs of it in this area. A good rule is to avoid any animal you see acting oddly. If you see a fox, say, stumbling blindly around in daylight or a little bat flying about in the sunlight, bumping into things, or a stray dog with foam around its jaws, then run as quickly as you can and get away from there. But that's all very unlikely. It's something to remember and not worry about, like watching for a green light before you cross the street. Now then, what's left? You know what a porcupine looks like, so don't try to pat one. We get them here once in a great while. The same goes for a skunk. Leave him alone and you'll be fine, because he'll do the same. We have a few copperheads, poisonous snakes. I've never seen one but John has, and even a rattlesnake or two, he tells me. Don't stick your hand into anything you can't see into, like a hole in a stone wall, or under an old log. The rattler is a gentleman, and you'll hear his tail snapping if you're anywhere close. The copperheads are very shy. You practically have to sit down on one before he'll do anything ... And that's the whole shebang. Anything more?"

Alec shook his head. He could think of nothing more to ask which would not have come dangerously close to revealing matters better kept to himself.

"Thank you, Grandpa," he said, and got off his chair. "John said he'd take me around. If I think of anything else, I can ask him, can't I?"

"I should think so, and better than me for everything outside," agreed the Professor ungrammatically. "Why, John has more knowledge about this area and what's in it than I do, by a million times. He had the whole place soaked into his bones, and I sometimes think he knows when each blade of grass starts growing." He picked up the morning newspaper as Alec ran from the room and out to the kitchen.

"John is out rambling," Lou informed the boy, "but he's somewhere nearby. Give a good yell," she said firmly, "outside the house and that will fetch him."

John appeared at once around the corner of the house in response to Alec's call, carrying a bushel basket and his long, iron spade. Worthless, the cat, orange tail aplume, came padding in his wake.

He grinned at the boy and gestured at him with the basket. "Get your own spade now," he said, "and we'll take a walk down to the brook. Lou makes homemade sarsaparilla, and she can't do it without fresh roots. That means you and me, 'cause somebody's got to dig 'em first."

The spade having been secured, the two strode off through the green-shaded orchard and into the lower pasture, where John led off toward a clearly defined break in the old tumbledown wall. Worthless followed behind.

At the entrance to the wood, however, the big cat ceased to accompany the pair. Planting his fat behind firmly on the earth, he meowed loudly that he was going no further. The cool, green shade which beckoned so invitingly ahead was clearly a barrier to him.

Alec looked down the meandering little path which started at the gap in the wall and then back at the cat before asking:

"John, why doesn't he want to come? Is he scared?"

"Must be," said the man, staring at Worthless. "Come to think of it, he never has liked the woods. Once in a while he'll come in a little ways with me, then he just clears out quick-like and I find him back at the house. Probably met a skunk or something when he was a kitten."

Worthless meowed in apparent agreement and then began washing himself. Without another word, John started off down the path, and Alec followed close behind. Not far inside the shade of the first trees, Alec looked back and saw the cat staring after them. Then a bend in the path hid him from sight, and the boy forgot Worthless as the forest closed around him.

Poplars, tulip trees, great oaks, and maples towered above the heads of the two as they pursued a gentle, winding slope deeper into the heart of the wood. Around them, revealed in flecks of sunlight, the exuberant undergrowth of an uncleared forest had burst from the mat of brown fallen leaves and was struggling for light, the oldest struggle on earth.

Dark green ground pine and lighter mayapple formed patches of blanket-like growth under elder and laurel bushes. Green predominated, but for the white blossoms of the laurel, but there were a thousand shades and permutations of hue, and Alec noticed that no two different plants seemed to have quite the same color. Ferns of every size and tint of green were everywhere.

"Look here, boy," said John, halting and pointing at a lovely, pink flower on a short stem, which grew next to a rotted log.

"That's a moccasin flower. City people call it lady's slipper, and your grandpa told me it's an orchid, related to them they sell in fancy florists. But it looks like an Indian moccasin, don't it now?"

The word "Indian" started a fresh chain of thoughts surging in Alec's mind, and he looked at the beautiful plant in silence, wondering if anything else Indian in nature was still lingering in the forest.

A busy scratching in a pile of leaves to the left of the path drew his attention next, and observing his desire to see the scratcher, John halted and whistled loudly. Out of the leaves appeared a robin-sized bird with a short beak, red breast and a smart black back and tail, fringed with white. It chirped loudly at them. Then it flirted its long tail and plunged back into the leaves, sending them flying and making a loud scrabbling noise.

"Towhee, some call him," said John. "Chewink is what I call him and so do most New Englanders, I guess. Makes enough noise for an elephant for all he's just a little bird looking for bugs. Come on now. If we stop and look at everything, we'll be here til next week, and I've got chores to do besides digging these roots."

There was life all around them, birds flitting from branch to branch, their song exploding in bursts of music, their small shapes showing as they darted from tree to ground or branch to bole. Insects buzzed steadily in a constant background of low-keyed noise.

On the ground itself, small furtive movements seemed never to cease, and its direction was far more purposeful. Alec could never get a clear look at any of it; but walking along behind John, he saw small whiskings and dartings behind trees, going on continually on either side of their line of march. Whenever he tried to pin one of these elusive flurries down, it halted and he would be conscious of another small movement somewhere else.

Once he saw a bright eye staring at him from the depths of a small cluster of wild grape vines; but as soon as the two humans drew close, it vanished. Again, as his head swiveled about, the boy caught the barest flash of motion on the other side of the path, and saw something dark brown and low-slung dart behind a large granite boulder projecting from the leafmold.

John seemed to see none of these things and the boy walked as closely as he could behind him as the old man strode along, slat basket creaking as he swung his arm. But the tiny movements and the sense of being observed never left Alec for a moment. It seemed somehow familiar, recalling something to his mind that he badly wanted to remember. He tried hard to recall what it was, while never failing to notice the shadowy comings and goings with all of his senses.

Winter, that was part of the memory! Now why winter, when it was certainly summer now? A book, that was another part! Winter and a book, he thought, keeping his eye on John's broad, blue shirt back. And faces!

Suddenly, it all came back with a burst of memory. A narrow little wedge-shaped face. The Wild Wood in winter! Mole and his desperate flight in The Wind in the Willows, which Alec's father had read aloud to him back when he was six. He and John were being followed. If not hunted, they were at least being kept under constant observation by a lot of animals!

This thought was almost too much for him. He had to speak to John, to tell him what he had seen and share the knowledge, as well as gain some comfort.

But he hesitated. Lou's warning had specifically named her husband. Alec had to keep silent. Besides, he thought, perhaps the animals were really doing nothing unusual. Maybe they always followed people. His grandfather had told him that few human beings ever entered the woods. Maybe the little wild things found them merely a new sight, something fun to look at.

Alec swung his spade in a casual way. But deep inside he felt that none of the "maybe's" were true. The animals followed for a purpose; they watched for a purpose; and he, Alec March, was part of that purpose!

But his mind refused to accept this idea and he tramped on, his eye now excluding anything but John Darden's tall form in front of him.

Then a new noise came into his range of hearing, deeper than the birdsong and the muted insect throb. Ahead, John had stopped, and there before them lay Bound Brook.

It ran down through The Lot from the higher land to the west, gurgling in its bed of sand and dark pebble, twisting and turning around mossy boulders and elbows of snow white quartz. Not for nothing is most of Connecticut famous as the rockiest ground in New England, and the stone underlying its surface was clearly visible where the waters of summer and the ice of winter had cut through the soil and deposited leaves of countless years.

"Sit down, boy, and look around," said John, choosing a large, smooth rock for himself. "Nothing prettier than clean water, running through a woods. Take a drink if you want. Like I told you, it's safe, and it tastes better'n any city water you ever had. Got the soil and the trees in it."

"Are there fish?" asked Alec, who was kneeling by the bank, trying to see into the brown depths of a pool which was all of three feet deep.

"Just little minnows, maybe a tadpole or a baby hornpout or madtom small catfish," said John, peering about for signs of a sarsaparilla plant. "There's some bass and pickerel down in the pond where it's deep, lower on The Lot, but that's got a lot of swamp around it. It's pretty, though, if you can stand a few mosquitoes. I'll take you there later on if you want, but there's a lot of mud."

Alec saw a movement in this particular pool and instantly plunged his bare arm in up to the shoulder. He yelped in surprise a second later and yanked back his arm with a creature like a tiny brown lobster clinging by one claw to his thumb. As his arm left the water, the small animal released its hold, dropped back in with a plop and disappeared, leaving the boy rubbing his pinched finger.

"Ho, hooh," said John, laughing at Alec's indignant face. "Crawdads don't fancy being picked up, now, do they?"

"That hurt!" said Alec, although the soreness was quickly leaving. "Was that a baby lobster, John?"

"Just a crawfish or crawdad, we call them. Good for bait, and not much else. But don't you go a-grabbing everything you see, Alec. A madtom catfish no bigger than that crawdad could give you a poison sting with his fins and your finger would be almighty sore for a week. Best to look before you grab. Now come along and let's find us that sarsaparilla before we forget why we came."

In a short time, he located a clump of short, five-leaved plants with white puffball blossoms and began to dig them up. Alec assisted, and before long the basket was full of the white roots. John cut the leaves and tops off with a large pocket knife.

Alec noticed that wherever they dug, John was careful to fill the holes with leafmold and leave as little trace of their work as possible, always smoothing the ground back as well as he could into its original condition. The leaves of the dug-up plants he buried in one of the holes.

"Alec, if you want a place to look nice and stay the way it ought to be, you try not to make a mess.

Don't leave trash around. Put back what you take out. There's lots of little things can be hurt easy and the more people mess up a pretty place the harder it is to get it back the way it ought to be."

His voice died away in a murmur about "kind of a special place down here, and ought to be kept right."

John hauled a large silver watch from his denim shirt pocket. "I'm going to take these roots back. Some hours still until your lunch time, Alec. Want to come back or stay here? The path is right behind you, so's you can't get lost if you stay by the brook. Or would you rather come back with me?"

Alec wanted to go back, but he also wanted to stay. He was afraid of the forest, but he also felt a sudden tremendous compulsion not to leave. A feeling of pressure built up inside his head. Before he knew it, he had said, "I'll poke around right here for awhile," and sat down by the edge of the dancing water.

"Right," said John, shouldering the basket of roots and picking up his spade. "Don't get too wet. Water's still a might cold, but that never hurt a boy in June. Come back up the path when you've a mind to eat, now."

He swung off up the little slope between two laurel bushes and disappeared over a rise almost immediately. And then Alec was alone in the heart of the ancient wood. He looked about nervously. The thought of the animals he had glimpsed on the way down from the meadow returned with full force, but he could see nothing.

Patches of amber sunlight glowed on the leaves and lit clumps of fern and an occasional skunk cabbage. Worn granite boulders, flecked with pale lichens and rock tripe, lay all about, half buried in the dead leaves of the old year. A large red dragonfly darted past to perch on the withered stalk of a wild iris for a second and then hover and flash away down the stream toward its mates on the distant pond.

The pressure, the sense of being expected and even needed, which the boy had felt so strongly before John left, had vanished. Instead, he felt relaxed and comfortable. He was conscious only of peace and a desire to rest. Without being at all sleepy, he was yet in no mood to move, but only to sit and stare at the brook. Minutes passed and he still sat, rapt, hugging his spade, his mind idle, transfixed by the melody of the water and the breathing, throbbing background of woodland noises.

The message came as a shock, even though the one bearing it tried to make the transition as easy as possible.

"Turn around and don't be afraid. We have been waiting for you."

The boy stared. Two animals, moving quietly, had emerged from the path behind him and were sitting not six feet away, looking him over as he sat on the bank of the stream.

The one on the left was a large raccoon, grizzled coat and black mask gleaming in a stray sunbeam, black-and-white ringed tail coiled neatly by his side. Alec knew at once that his was the voice he had heard, although how he knew it he could not explain.

The other animal was an enormous old brown woodchuck, who must have weighed at least as much as the raccoon, say thirty pounds, and whose gray muzzle was lifted high in the air as he peered nearsightedly from his small eyes. Great square front teeth, yellow with age, showed as he wrinkled his nose at intervals.

"Now don't go jumping around like a silly grasshopper," came the voice again. "We have to talk to you at once, and we aren't going to hurt you. Or you us," he added.

The blood throbbed in Alec's temples and he remained unmoving on the ground as if rooted there. Everything in his body seemed numb and he could hardly breathe.

"And put that spade down!" The animal stirred irritably, shifting his weight on his plump haunches.

Alec relaxed and obeyed, although he kept the spade at his side.

"That's better," said the raccoon. "You have a lot to learn in a short time and nobody can learn anything if they're scared half to death. Now just be sensible. This isn't easy for us, either, you know. I can talk to you but it's hard. You can't talk to me yet, because you don't know how. That takes learning. So simply relax and it will all go more smoothly."

Despite his astonishment, Alec could not help being fascinated. Just as in his previous encounter with the skunk, the conversation was clear, although it seemed to come to him almost instantaneously.

"Call me Scratch," said the raccoon. "This is Stuffer," he added, indicating the big woodchuck. "Say something to the human, stupid."

"Hello," said Stuffer slowly. To Alec the woodchuck's "voice" was totally different from the quick conversation of the raccoon, being heavy and labored, quite like the clumsy-looking animal himself.

"We don't have names, like you humans," said the raccoon, "but you have to call us something. Stuffer never stops eating unless he's asleep, and I'm always scratching something up. I thought of Washer," he added, "but I don't really wash all of my food, so Scratch is better."

"I'm not eating now," said the thick woodchuck voice suddenly, "and I'm not asleep, either. What's his name, anyway, or does he know it?"

"Aha," said the raccoon. "Glad you woke up. Of course he has a name, but he can't say it to us. That's why we're here, remember?"

He directed his attention back to Alec and moved a few feet closer. The boy felt his fear ebbing away as he watched. The animals were obviously not about to harm him.

The raccoon sat down again and looked up at him.

"You have to talk to us, too," he said. "Try and tell us your name."

"I'm Alec!" the boy said loudly.

Both the animals visibly flinched. The raccoon, Scratch, raised one paw in protest. "Not so loud, for goodness' sake," he said. "All we get is a tremendous noise that doesn't mean a thing. You don't have to talk by using noise, you know. We don't."

It was true, Alec noted in amazement. Although the animal's conversation sounded clearly in his mind, they were not speaking to him with words at all.

"Try again, but not so hard."

The boy shut his eyes to concentrate better, and tried to think his name.

"No good," came a grunt from the woodchuck. "He's trying, I will say, but it doesn't tell me anything."

"Nobody thought this would be easy," retorted the raccoon. "Give him a chance. A beaver dam wasn't built in a day, as the saying goes." He sent another thought to Alec.

"What do you like to do best, human? Try thinking of yourself doing that, whatever it is."

Alec thought hard and finally decided he liked playing with, or watching, animals. He was nervous about thinking of himself at the zoo or museum (for fear of hurting feelings), but he tried to think of the zoo as having no bars and the animals in the museum as being alive.

"Hm, huh, hmm," came the rough voice of Stuffer. "I think I'm getting something now. He likes to look at animals, I think. No metal sticks or killing things, just looking. A nice enough young human, I guess."

"We already knew that," said Scratch brusquely. "Why do you think he was picked? But it gives me an idea. We can call him Watcher. Now, Watcher," he went on, "think of yourself, a picture of you, watching an animal. Can you do that?"

Alec tried to fix his mind on seeing himself standing watching a raccoon. In his thought he removed all background so that only he and the animal appeared in his thoughts. Watcher. I am Watcher.

"Not bad," said Scratch. "Did you get that, you rooteater?" he threw in for the woodchuck's benefit. "He's trying hard and it's coming through. Almost as good as one of my own young ones!"

"All right, all right," said Staffer. "But all he's said is his own name. We need a lot more than that." Alec heard all of this, of course, and flushed with shame. The human irony of being jibed at by a woodchuck never occurred to him. He just felt badly about not being able to do better at something the animals seemed able to do so easily.

"Try again," said Scratch patiently. "Give us your name picture. Good. That came over clearly. Now try something harder. What did you eat this morning?"

The boy tried.

"Round meat things and flat cakes, I got that faintly."

Now it was Stuffer's turn to defend Alec. "He's just learning," said his slower tones. "All young animals talk blurry when they're starting, Scratch."

"I know," said the raccoon, "but he's making my head itch!"

The practice went on. After about an hour of learning to send out simple pictures, such as those of his family, his belongings, and the house up on the hill, Alec began to feel more confident.

By this time the woodchuck and the raccoon were sitting right next to him, and at times were actually pawing his legs when they wanted to emphasize something or became impatient. Around them the rest of the wood went on about its regular business, the birds and insects behaving as usual, the sun shining down through the green canopy of leaves overhead and light breezes ruffling the tops of the trees.

But below on the ground, the three figures remained intent and preoccupied, paying no attention to anything else except what they were doing. The white shirt stayed bent over the two small pointed heads and they in turn kept their eyes fixed on the human face staring down into theirs.

Alec had now attained a limited ability to send two or three pictures at once. While not yet ready to "talk" on the same level as Scratch and Stuffer, he could at last ask questions. He had discovered that the easiest way to do this was to make a picture and then make his mind a total blank immediately afterwards. While not as fast as human speech, at least as yet, he learned that he could still find out a good deal.

"What do you eat?" Alec asked Stuffer. He thought about a picture of a bare patch of earth and the woodchuck sitting in front of it.

Back came a series of pictures of grass, roots, leaves and fallen fruit.

"What about you?" The boy turned to Scratch. This time the list was far longer. It included items ranging from green corn to frogs and mice, which gave rise to still more questions.

"Do raccoons and woodchucks always go around together?" Alec did this by showing Scratch and Stuffer with a wall between them.

This last question made the two creatures terribly excited, and they both began to "talk" so fast that Alec could hardly understand them. Conflicting pictures poured into his mind. But he had picked up a lot in the time he had already spent learning, and he was able to grasp, after a good deal of hard effort, most of what they were saying.

Apparently the local animals were acting very strangely, and were not fighting and hunting as they usually did. In the ordinary way of things, a raccoon and a woodchuck had nothing at all to do with one another, nor did a skunk and a fox. Deer and mice had even fewer interests in common, any more than did birds and animals that lived on the ground or in holes.

But now this normal state of things was all upset. All, or at least most, of the resident forest people had buried their past animosities. The hunting animals, such as the foxes, all hunted outside The Lot, as far away as possible, and did not disturb any of their small neighbors. Squirrels had stopped robbing the local birds' nests; and the big birds of prey, such as owls and hawks, hunted miles away from their home territories.

A complete and very effective truce was in fact being carried on both night and day throughout the whole length and breadth of The Lot. The two animals were quivering with nervous energy and delight when Alec made it plain that he finally understood all this.

Of course, the next question was obvious. Why? And the boy asked it, without realizing how hard such a question is to ask with pictures. But he did it without even thinking and actually, as he later learned, very rudely by showing Scratch and Stuffer fighting. Then he showed them sitting side by side in a "question" picture.

But the two simply would not, or could not, tell him the answer. They did tell him something else.

"Can you get out at night?" said Scratch, resting a long-clawed front paw on Alec's knee. "Can you come out to the wood and see us here tonight? It's very important. We have to see you, but we can't tell you why right now."

The big raccoon's black eyes seemed to implore the boy to say yes.

Alec stiffened in dismay at the question. The thought of where he should be that night, secure in the big sleigh bed, brought back the human world he had left. Go out at night? Leave the house, come down here to the dark wood alone, in the pitch black?

"Don't be scared," said the woodchuck. "We'll meet you. There is nothing to be frightened of in the dark. All of us will watch you and guide you."

"Yes," Scratch said. "There is nothing to fear. We need you badly. To help us. But we must see you at night. You can rest in the afternoon, and then you won't need to sleep tonight. But you simply must come. We two will wait near the house, and the minute you get close, we'll be beside you. There's nothing wrong with being out at night."

Alec relaxed a bit as he stared at the two earnest and pleading faces. He was both frightened and attracted at the same time. It was nice to know that he was needed, for whatever it was. His sneaker scuffed a clump of small pink mushrooms idly, and Stuffer promptly leaned over and gathered them up with his small front paws. He began to eat them in gulps and the sight of the bulging cheek pouches and busy face made Alec laugh.

Scratch was quick to note the change in his manner. "You'll come, won't you?" he said, anxious to take advantage of the boy's happier mood. "It's terribly important!" His whole body quivered and the ringtail fluffed up like a round brush. "You will, won't you?"

"I think so," said Alec slowly. "I'm not supposed to go out at night, and I'm sure I'm not supposed to come down here. Suppose someone hears me?" He was so wrapped up in what he was saying that he never realized that he had passed the last "language" test. He was now "talking" to the two animals almost as freely, if not quite as quickly, as they were to him.

"You must be quiet, that's all," grumbled the woodchuck. "Can't you go quietly down from where you sleep, like one of us?"

"Everything will be ruined if the big humans find out," added Scratch. "We can't talk to them. You're the first human any of us has talked to in in well in so long a time we've almost forgotten how. Once there were people here, not like you, with different colored skin, and they talked to us. But only a few of us remembered this and it was many, many lives ago." He did not say "years ago," but Alec understood him. Alec also understood what was said about the long-vanished Indians, better even than the two animals did, for of course he knew more.

A sudden interruption brought all three to rigid attention. Down the wind, and over the forest noises came a wailing call, the sound of a human voice. "Alec, A-a-a-lec! Lunch ti-i-i-ime!" Even at that distance, it was readily identifiable to the boy as a summons from Lou.

"I have to go," he said quickly. "But I'll try to come tonight. But I don't know how, or when I can sneak out."

"We'll wait in the apple orchard," messaged Scratch, and Stuffer mumbled agreement. "We'll wait all night if we have to. But if you can, come as soon as it's dark."

Alec was already running up the path as the last words came through. He stopped at the turn and looked back. The two animals sat up on their hind legs, staring after him. Something imploring in their manner touched his heart. Mentally, he vowed that he would get out that night, somehow.

He ran on, panting a little, and soon burst out of the edge of the woods and into the open pasture.

Up at the edge of the last fruit trees he saw Lou, who waved at the sight of him, and he was suddenly conscious of being both tired and very hungry.

Behind him, the forest lay silent, even the bird voices hushed in the heat of noon.

3

From his open window, Alec could just see the brow of the hill behind the house and the upper pasture outlined in the sunset's afterglow. A few scattered dwarf cedars, one of the few that will grow on worn-out New England soil, stood in black clumps in the field, their feet already hidden in the shadows of oncoming night.

From deep in the distant wood there came faintly the liquid notes of a veery, the loveliest singer and shyest of all the forest-haunting thrushes. Aside from scattered bird voices and the buzz of insects, the stillness of late evening lay on the softened landscape.

Earlier, Lou Darden had not scolded him for dawdling in the woods and being late for lunch. She had seemed rather to be pleased that he had enjoyed himself, and had asked many questions about what he had seen. She had made it quite plain that she wanted to know if he had been frightened again, or had had any strange encounter such as that of the previous day.

Alec did not like to lie and was strongly tempted to tell her all that had happened, but he remembered, just in time, that he would have to tell her also what his plans for the evening were, and he knew very well what her answer to that would be! And so he had given a totally fictitious account of how he had spent the morning unsuccessfully trying to catch small fish in Bound Brook. This seemed to satisfy her, and she asked no more questions.

Alec had eaten two huge cheese sandwiches, a bowl of soup, a glass of milk and a piece of apple pie; and then he had gone quietly upstairs and lain down, for he was quite tired. Lou was not in the least suspicious and later told Darden that she thought the fresh air was doing wonders for the boy, but that he needed more rest.

Alec spent the afternoon out of sight of the house, simply continuing his rest in the shade of a dogwood tree on the edge of the orchard, not seeing either Darden or his wife. He had loafed the long afternoon away, occasionally rousing enough to hear the sound of John's hoe in the garden lower down on the hill. Once he had wakened sharply to find a soft, warm body pressed against him, but realized immediately that it was only Worthless, who had sought him out to use as a pillow.

Struck by an idea, he had tried for some minutes to communicate mentally with the big cat, but had got absolutely nowhere. The fat, whiskered face and great yellow eyes stared blankly back at him, and gave no sign of either interest or response. In fact, after a moment or two, Worthless fell asleep and even his deep, rumbling purr ceased entirely.

This actually did not surprise the boy. It seemed plain to him that only wild animals, and perhaps not all of them, possessed the ability to talk. He simply accepted this fact without question. Worthless couldn't talk and there it was: a simple matter, nothing to get upset about.

The warm afternoon had lazed on and so had Alec, in a pleasant dreamy state halfway between sleeping and waking. His plans were all made and it was only a matter of passing the time. He knew that he needed rest. He tried, not unsuccessfully, to keep his thoughts away from the night ahead, and although it was hard, he got through the afternoon somehow.

He ate with his grandfather by request, since the old gentleman was hungry earlier than usual. They had a very good time. The Professor possessed reams of information on a thousand subjects and sometimes forgot, during a long speech about something or other, that he was not addressing a learned audience or arguing with a former university colleague. This suited Alec perfectly, since he could merely listen and extract fascinating words and not really have to answer at all. That evening, he had learned that something called "caltrops," devices apparently made for hurting horses, were a much underrated weapon in the Middle Ages. Also, that a good deal of field work was needed to solve the very real problem of the "Irish dispersal to Iceland." And finally, that Richard the Lionheart (one person Alec had actually heard of before) was a bad man and a bad king, worse perhaps even than his brother, King John, whom everyone thought so evil ...

But now here Alec was, waiting for the last light to die and dark night to come. The stars were out and the full moon had appeared. The frogs in the distant swamp had begun to call, and a few more insect buzzings hummed in the air as night drew on. Alec sniffed a clump of honeysuckle blossoms which peeped over the sill and tried to see if he could spot any trace of light still left in the sky. It was ten o'clock by the chimes of the hall clock.

"Are you ready?" said a voice in his mind. He almost fell off the window ledge as he bounced erect and jumped back. He could see nobody.

"I'm on the vine," said the voice. "Don't be afraid, Watcher, I've come to take you outside to the others." It was a new voice, one he had never heard, he realized at once. It conveyed a touch of lightness and delicacy, of someone quick and dancing. And something else, too. As he fought to make his heart stop pounding and get his breath back, he realized that it was this difference which startled him the most. The raccoon and the woodchuck had been so clearly male that the first female animal voice in his mind was a real shock. Why, this was a lady!

As he stared at the window, something very small moved there, and he realized that he had been looking right at it for several seconds, but missing it because of its size.

"Call me Whisperfoot," said the voice, and as the boy moved slowly forward, the tiny creature came out further from the vine and sat looking at him. It was a mouse.

For some seconds, the two stared at each other without speaking. Whisperfoot was a white-footed, or woodland, deermouse. She had a snow-white belly, legs and feet, while the rest of her was a warm reddish-brown color, save for the large, pink shell-like ears and the long tail. She looked incredibly neat and tidy, and gave Alec an instant feeling that his hair wasn't combed, or his face washed.

"Well," said her tinkling mind-voice at length, "are you scared of me?" There was just a hint of laughter in the voice and Alec blushed as he caught it.

"Hello," he said slowly. "Did you say I was coming with you? I don't think I can, climbing down that vine. I'd fall."

Again there was a hint of elfin laughter in her voice. "No, we didn't think you could climb that well. I'm going with you. That is," she added demurely, "if you don't mind carrying me. I can ride on your shoulder and tell you where to go."

Alec considered. He could creep downstairs, carrying his wee guest, and go out the side door in the library, which he had carefully left unlatched that afternoon. And now that he would have a companion, the whole trip no longer seemed so frightening.

"Okay," he said. "I guess I'm ready if you are." He came closer and gently laid his hand on the window sill. Quick as a flash, Whisperfoot was up his arm and onto his shoulder. She was so light that he could hardly feel her tiny feet through the cloth of the T-shirt.

Scratch had decided to leave nothing to chance in his scheme to get Alec out to the wood. The wise raccoon had sensed the boy's fear. Knowing that an animal the size of a mouse could hardly be a fright to anyone, he had issued a call for volunteers to some of his small allies, and the young deermouse, only a half-year old and with no family, had bravely said that she would go.

The whole idea had worked exactly as Scratch had hoped. Alec felt heartened and he also felt protective. He realized that it was a tremendously heroic thing for such a little creature to place herself at the mercy of a strange human giant a hundred times her size, who could crush her by a mere wave of one hand. He resolved that she would not regret coming to him.

"I'll take my spade," he said to her. "Then if anything bothers us, I'll whack him over the head!"

"Don't do that," she answered. "The other animals might be afraid of it. And no one will bother us, unless it's that yellow cat you humans keep here. And he's so stupid and slow a blind beetle could get away from him. You can hear him breathing a mile away, he's so fat," she added contemptuously.

Alec was amused at the description of poor Worthless, for he saw that to a wild, free creature, the bulky tomcat would probably look pretty funny.

"All right," he answered. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, let's hurry. There's a lot to do tonight and we have to go down deep into the wood where all the others are waiting at the Council Glade."

Alec felt a return of uneasiness when she said "deep into the wood" and "all the others," but he fought it down gamely. After all, he had done a lot of thinking since the morning, and it was plain that Scratch and Stuffer had not just been speaking for themselves, but for a lot of other animals as well. Whisperfoot's presence on his shoulder was a clear proof of that.

He tiptoed over and opened his bedroom door. Whisperfoot thought he was terribly noisy, but then no wild creature thinks a human is properly quiet. Actually, Alec made very little sound (he had tied two knots in each of his sneakers earlier, to prevent loose shoelaces) and he passed into the long upper hall like a shadow.

Down the hall from the Dardens' sitting room came the faint sound of a television set in action, an occasional popping noise indicating that Western badmen and heroic marshals were conducting their nightly gun duels for Lou and John's benefit.

The hall was dark except for a thin line of light under the Dardens' door. The hall windows, opening on the outside of the house, were merely patches a lighter shade of gray than the rest of the wall. The entrance to the front stairwell loomed like a black pit just in front of them. No noise or light were apparent from the ground floor.

Silently, Alec padded to the head of the stairs and started down. A pinch of claws on his shoulder told him that the mouse was not quite as brave as she had made out to be.

Halfway down the stairs, on the landing where they turned, he stopped and listened, all of his senses alert. He could see the library door, slightly ajar, with no light behind it, and at the sight he realized that he had completely forgotten his grandfather in his calculations. Where was the old gentleman? Asleep in his chair in the library? Wandering around the house? Outside, having a walk in the cool night air? Alec's heart almost stopped as he wondered what to do.

"What's the matter?" came the crystal mind voice of his companion. "Why are you scared again?"

"It's my grandfather," said Alec, feeling miserable. "I forgot to figure out where he'd be. If he catches me, I'll never get out."

"Hmm," said the mouse thoughtfully. "Is that the old human with the white fur on his head? If it is, you need better ears, Watcher. He won't bother us. Listen!"

A long muffled snore, which Alec had been hearing without even realizing it ever since he had left his bedroom, echoed clearly down the upper hall from the master suite occupied by the Professor. Having eaten early, he had probably decided to retire early as well.

Alec stole down the rest of the stairs and into the library, shutting the door gently behind him. He wondered for a second when he would get back, then headed for the French doors opening onto the side lawn.

As he eased one of the doors open, the fresh, scented air of the summer night cooled his face. He took a deep breath and then walked out of the house and stood for a moment under the stars.

"Whew!" said Whisperfoot in relief. "Now we're safe, with nothing to worry about." Alec realized for the second time that she had been really terrified inside the house, and again he appreciated how brave she had been.

"I'll look after you," he said. "Don't worry. I can punch anyone on the jaw who bothers us."

"No one needs to look after me," she said somewhat crossly. "I'm just glad to be away from all those nasty smells. I don't see how you humans live with them. I thought I'd choke before I got out."

"But we have mice in the house already," said Alec without thinking.

"Mice, indeed!" came back the angry answer. "Those dirty little things? They don't even come from around here. They followed you humans from some horrid place over the big salt water, and all they can do is live in your houses and steal your leftover food. And the dirt they live in!" Her thoughts expressed the dislike that a wild leopard might feel for a poor alley cat, covered with mange. It was a contempt mixed with pity and a little sorrow, that an animal could so lower itself as to both be dirty and deliberately live with humans. To an untamed woods animal, always spotlessly clean and living on freshly-gathered food, the humble likes of a house mouse seemed beneath contempt.

"Come on, Watcher," she said, as Alec still stood by the wall of the house. "We have a long way to go. The others are waiting out under the last apple tree."

Reluctantly, the boy moved away from the building and out across the lawn. He crouched a little and quickened his pace as he left the house, finally breaking into a run as he headed for the nearest trees in the orchard. He felt that numerous eyes were peering out of the night, all directed at the center of his back.

Once under the shadow of the first big Seckel pear tree, he stopped, his heart pounding with the sudden excitement.

"Why are you stopping?" came the mouse's voice.

"Come on, now, hurry up, or we'll be late. Straight ahead, out to the edge of the orchard and that last big tree."

His white shirt showing momentarily as he dashed from tree to tree, Alec worked his way out in the direction Whisperfoot had indicated. Finally, one lone tree, a giant aged apple tree, its outer branches sweeping the ground, lay before them. His sight by now perfectly attuned to the dappled moonlight, the boy stared around him from the shade of another tree. The starlight made fine details hard to pick out, but he could see clearly the slope of the meadow and the way it fell toward the old wall. Black and grim a quarter of a mile away, the forest reared like some impenetrable wall a shade darker than the night sky, the tops of the trees barely outlined against the stars.

The scent of clover and other meadow flowers mingled with the pungent odor of wild onion in Alec's nose. Wet grass, soaked with early dew, brushed his knees. He unconsciously quieted his breathing and tried also to stop his heart from pounding. He knew that once he had crossed the patch of pale meadow to the last tree, that there would be no going back.

"Just relax," Whisperfoot said, her delicate voice seeming to chime like a tiny bell in Alec's head. "We are all your friends, remember? Nothing can hurt you while we are all here."

He rushed out of the shadows and scuttled under the branches of the big apple tree, where he came to a halt by the trunk. Two dim shapes rose from the ground at the base of the tree to greet him.

"Good," said the remembered mind-voice of Scratch. "I see she got you here, and earlier than we expected." A clearly audible sound of chewing and a mental grunt indicated that Stuffer had, as usual, been storing up food against any contingency.

"Nobody brought him!" retorted Whisperfoot sharply. "He brought himself, and me, too, for that matter. He's a very brave person and you don't have to sound so pleased with yourself. I'd like to have seen you when you were young. Probably spent all night hiding in a hole in some hollow tree with your stripey tail over your face!"

The raccoon chuckled. "I see he's made a new friend, anyway, which is all to the good. Not that we're not all his friends," he added hastily. "Still, you can't have too many. Let's get moving. I'll go in front and warn you of any branches or stones. Stuffer, stop eating those weeds and bring up the rear. Look sharp, now!"

"Wait," said Alec suddenly. "I'm not scared, but I have to know something. How late will it be when I get back? I can't come back when it's daylight. You have to bring me back while it's still night. And where are we going?"

"If we stand here all night," said Scratch impatiently, "we'll never get back. We thought of all this before. Humans aren't the only creatures with brains, you know. You'll be back in plenty of time, but we have to get moving."

"All right," said Alec. "I'm ready. Go ahead."

In single file, which is how almost all animals travel, the little party went out into the open and headed for the woods. The raccoon and the woodchuck, both being short-legged creatures, humped up in the middle as they flowed over the ground, but they still moved briskly along.

Alec found that he had, without realizing it, put his right hand up on his shoulder and curled it around his passenger in a protective way. "Don't worry about me," she said. "I can move pretty fast when I have to. But thanks anyway." He noticed that the raccoon was not aiming for the break in the wall which he and John had used that morning, but instead was angling further downhill, to a place where the wall bent to the right and headed for the driveway to the house. It was toward this corner that they were going.

They came to the angle and Scratch promptly scrambled over the loosely piled stones and vanished into the blackness of the trees overhanging the wall. From ahead, his voice came back to them. "There's a path here and nothing to climb but the wall. Come ahead."

Alec carefully examined the wall, and saw what he felt sure was poison ivy, growing over one large rock. This he avoided and climbed over carefully, using both hands to balance. Behind them, he heard the scratch of claws and a low grunt, to indicate that Stuffer was still following in the rear. Ahead the thick darkness seemed impossible to see through, and he almost jumped when a paw touched his foot.

"I'm right here, and I'll still go in front," said Scratch. "Walk slowly and keep one hand in front of your eyes, in case a branch swings down that I don't see. There's a narrow path here, but it goes quite straight for a long way. If we come to any obstacles, I'll warn you."

They were standing at the entrance to a deer trail, used by these larger animals when they came out to the upper meadow at night to feed on the grass and fallen fruit. Like all such trails, it was quite clear but very narrow, permitting only one deer at a time to pass along it. Alec stepped out hesitantly, one arm up, and cautiously began to walk forward. As he gained confidence, he was able to see better and he realized that even here, under the overhead canopy of leaves, there was some dim light, however filtered and dwindled. The eyes of his companions had no such difficult, for of course they were all three animals who went abroad at night and slept through much of the day.

They went down a long, gentle slope in silence, save for the murmur of the breeze in the trees high above them and the rustle of leaves under Alec's feet. He noticed that even the awkward-looking woodchuck made very little noise, while Scratch might have been walking on air for all the sound his feet caused. Occasionally his voice would send a message to the boy's mind, of a stump near the path, or a low branch; but Alec could now see so well that most of these warnings were unnecessary. Once the raccoon warned of a cat-claw vine across the path and Alec lifted his feet over the thin, spiny bramble, which he could not see in the dark. Other than that, their steady march was uninterrupted.

The faint frog voices, which had sounded quite noisy, though distant, from the second floor of the house, had died away and become almost inaudible when they first entered the forest. Now they gradually began to grow louder again. The earth underfoot was softer, and Alec had the feeling that they were coming to water. The air felt moister and the ground had leveled off, as if the group had left the slope of the hill and was now advancing on the flat.

As the frog chorus grew, Alec became conscious of yet other sounds. Small, muted cracklings and soft rustlings sounded from either side of the path, and he was quick to remember his trip to the woods in the morning. It was the sound of many other creatures accompanying the little group, and despite their care, their numbers were betrayed by the noise of their passage. Once again, the boy's fears returned. What was he getting into?

"They are all going to the same place we are," came the voice of Whisperfoot. "Don't be nervous now. Nobody wants to hurt you. We all want you to help us, and you can't do that if you let yourself be frightened." She had sensed his rising panic and her soothing message helped to calm him down.

Ahead of him now, his night eyes began to see more light. The full moon had risen yet higher, adding its pale strength to the dim starshine.

An open glade became gradually visible, ringed by tall trees, mostly oak and pine, and the little path was leading directly into it. The frog chorus was quite loud now, and Alec decided that the clearing must be located quite close to the pond. Tall, damp grass brushed his thighs as he followed the dimly-seen form of the raccoon out into the open. Once inside the clearing, he stopped and looked around. He found that he was able to see quite well and the sight held him enthralled.

The entire area was filled with secret movement. Small bodies were packed in wherever they could fit, larger creatures looming over them, and all were shifting restlessly about, as if they could not stay still but had to keep in continual motion. In the pale moonlight, Alec saw two red foxes quite near him, side by side and staring calmly at him as they stood, shifting their dainty feet occasionally in little dancing steps. A whole swarm of cottontail rabbits, adults and young, the latter only the size of large mice, were crouched around the foxes, paying no attention to them at all. Almost at the boy's feet, a gray opossum, its long naked tail catching the faint light, ambled slowly through a horde of meadow mice like a battle tank moving through a restless sea of infantry soldiers. Further off, Alec saw the black-and-white gleam of two skunks, and wondered if one of them was the animal he had seen, whose mind voice he had heard the day before.

Turning his head, he now saw to his left some large pale patches of movement, so large, indeed, that he almost started in amazement. His eyes were used to taking in smaller creatures and the realization that he was seeing a whole herd of deer not thirty feet away left him shaken. The big animals, at least a dozen at a guess, were keeping to the edge of the wood in an effort to avoid crushing the smaller beasts which filled the glade almost to overflowing. But they, too, were drifting back and forth, a prey to nervous energy and excitement.

And aside from the rustle of countless feet there was not a sound! Not the youngest mouse or smallest chipmunk baby made a squeak. Only the scuffing of the grass and the soft susurration of animal bodies in movement broke the quiet of the night. Even the frogs had suddenly stopped their croaking from the nearby pond. The hum of tiny insect voices and the drone of a mosquito or two were the only exceptions. The whole night seemed to wait.

But Alec felt something else now, and didn't like it at all. There was a new sense of pressure and heaviness in his head, a feeling that a swarm of bees had got inside his mind and were flying around banging into things, trying to get out and not succeeding. With every second this feeling became stronger and stronger, until he could actually feel a sharp pain in his temples. Forgetting the marvels all around him, he gasped, his hands going up to his throbbing head. It felt now as if his head were in a great press, which was steadily and remorselessly crushing it. Then, just when he was about to scream and throw himself on the ground, so terrible had the hurt become it suddenly ceased.

He stood, swaying slightly, his head ringing like a bell from the cessation of pressure, but the pain was gone. And all about him he was conscious of utter and total silence. A thousand eyes were fixed upon him, but nothing moved. From the largest whitetail buck to the newest mouse child in the grass, not a creature stirred. "Not even a mouse," he thought absurdly.

The voice of Scratch came into his mind. "Sorry, Watcher. They have all been waiting for you and they got so excited that they all began to think at you and try and catch your thoughts in return. Pretty bad, wasn't it? They didn't mean to hurt you and when I saw what was happening, I made them stop. They all want to say they're sorry and it won't happen again. How do you feel now?"

"I'm all right, I guess," said Alec, shaking his head to make it stop ringing. "Can they hear me when I talk to you? Boy, that really hurt, what they did."

"Yes," said the raccoon. "They can hear, but they won't try to talk again, unless it's one at a time. Don't worry. This is just as new to them as it is to you. No one had talked to a live human, except by accident, for so long that the whole forest didn't believe it could be done, or even ever had been done, for that matter. Now they know better. Can't you feel the difference?"

He could. There was no longer any hurt or pressure, but he caught a strange feeling in his mind, as if a great soft blanket had arisen from the earth and flowed gently over him, warming and soothing at the same time. It was a very comforting feeling and he knew that he was not in any danger from the multitude of creatures gathered around him. But he was not to be given long to think about it.

"Come with me," said Scratch. The raccoon began to move forward toward the center of the circle and the animals that stood between him and his goal parted, making a narrow path. Hesitantly, the boy followed him, watched by countless eyes as he came further out into the open.

"Put me down now," came a thought message from Whisperfoot. "You have to go out in the middle by yourself. I'll see you again afterward." Alec stooped and laid one arm gently on the warm earth.

The shadowy shape of the deermouse darted down his arm and vanished into a sea of small creatures to the right of the open path. Then the boy stood up again and followed Scratch, his feet steady but his heart hammering.

The big raccoon stopped finally near the middle of the clearing and waited for Alec to catch up. As he drew close, Alec saw that a circular space in the exact center of the Council Glade had been left clear. A ring of animal faces surrounded it on all sides, but none encroached upon it.

There, the grass was clipped like a lawn, the blades only an inch high. In the middle of the smooth grass was a circle of large, smooth, flat stones, hardly protruding from the ground. They in turn guarded a space about five feet square, where the lawn was so closely trimmed that no individual grasses could be seen at all. As Alec approached, Scratch moved to one side and his voice came into the boy's brain.

"Go out to the middle, between those flat rocks, lie down, and shut your eyes. Nothing will hurt you, but it has to be done this way. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said Alec. And he wasn't. He felt a compulsion to go forward which had nothing to do with the animals any longer.

He had been called, his presence had been demanded, by something as far removed from the creatures around him as an ant is removed from a star. Something ancient and wise, a force as undefined and mighty as a hurricane and yet as placid and inflexible as a giant tree, was beckoning.

The soul of the ancient wood had waked after long years of dreaming, and had summoned a human for purposes of its own. Without the slightest bit of fear, Alec walked through the ring of flat rocks, lay down and folded his arms across his chest. He closed his eyes.

A gray mist seemed to cover his thoughts. He seemed to walk in a cloud of haze and smoke which shifted and drifted constantly. All feelings of heat and cold were gone, as were the senses of smell and hearing.

Then the mind-mist began to thin and there appeared a Face.

He could never quite be sure, in later times, whether it was human or animal. It seemed to change somehow between the two. Now it was the bronzed head of a huge Indian warrior, long braided plaits of black hair hanging over the ears, painted bars of color on the broad cheek bones, black jetty eyes staring into his. Then suddenly, the human aspect would leave it completely and the appearance of a giant tawny cat would be poised in the fog, the yellow eyes with their dark slitted pupils drilling into his mind as if in search of his most secret thoughts.

Then back would come the head of the great Indian, only to be replaced by the mask of a huge wolf, with long gray muzzle, pointed ears cocked, and white grinning fangs. And always the eyes never left his and the Face itself hung motionless, poised in nothingness. It might have been gigantic and a hundred miles away in space or normal in size and only a few yards distant.

Alec felt himself caught up in the tide of great forces, forces long sleeping and quiet. A test was being given him, far more thorough than any he had experienced. His memories, his most hidden thoughts, were being probed and turned over, held up to an outside scrutiny and then gently replaced. A vast intelligence, beyond human comprehension, was studying the mental pictures it had extracted from his brain. And all the while, as Alec felt the power of the mind, he also felt its age.

For it was old beyond the meaning of the word, born in an age so remote as to make all human history seem only a second in time.

At last, after what seemed hours to Alec, a loosening came of the invisible bond which held him fixed in the place of swirling clouds. A voice, tremendous and vibrant, seemed to fill the whole universe like the strokes of some great bell.

"I have called you, young human, to come before my Gate. Are you afraid?"

Alec answered, but not as he had talked to the animals. Rather he spoke in his human voice, or it seemed to him that he did.

"I'm not afraid. Why am I here? Who are you?"

"I have many names," said the voice, which rolled and echoed in his mind like thunder over distant mountain peaks. "Once I was called Manibozo by a red people who have since dwindled and passed away. I have many Gates, of which this is the least, and moreover one long unused. I live both in your world and outside, coming and going as I choose.

"Many Gates and many names have I, and all the life of your human world is little to me, who was here first, as I shall be last. For I have no longer anything to do with your race or kind. From out of the past, beyond the memory of the first of your people who ever lived, I came, who had been here long ages before the red race came from over the western seas to hunt the hairy elephant and the giant sloth.

"And when all are gone I shall still be here, who belong to the land and the beasts, the rocks and the trees, the waters and the wind. For a time the life of the world may forget me; but always I return and always the land is here and always are the seasons renewed.

"I have been worshipped as a god. But I am no god, but only one of the first things to come alive and breathe and move in all this wide earth. The animals have named you 'Watcher.' Well, I am one of the Watchers of Eternity, and all the forests and lakes and plains and mountains, and all that live therein are my concern. In other lands beyond the great oceans are others of my kind, and in the seas are more. But here I am the First, who have guarded the life of this land since before the mountains were young and newborn, and a helpless, gasping thing struggled across the mud to gain a distant pool, knowing not that its clumsy fins were the first legs.

"At this late day my people, the little forest creatures around you, have remembered my forgotten Gate in this glade where once the red-skinned folk used to pray for my aid. And I have listened and harkened and I have come. I have told them that you are one who may help them. For against men and their works I can do nothing." The voice paused for a moment, and a strange note of sadness crept into it.

"Men have their own Judge and their own perils and it is given to other hands than mine to balance their evil and their good. Men answer to Another and on their day of reckoning I will not be there, unless as a witness.

"A peril threatens my forest people here and also my long-forgotten Gate. And the menace is one which comes from the same source as do I, and to meet it falls within the authority I was given in ages past."

A note of humor, vast and ironic, came into the voice. "But I must call upon a human to aid the small folk of tree and earth. I offer no reward, even had I the power to grant any. But there may be one, anyway, though granted not by me. I cannot compel you. I have searched your mind and found it clear and good.

"Now comes the choice. Will you help save the forest? Say no, and all of this will be like a dream, unremembered and lost, and you will be restored to the life of your people, recalling nothing.

"Say yes, and there will be fear and hardship, peril and strife. Reward there may be none. Consider well." There was silence and the Face stared at Alec out of the clouds and mist, still immobile, only the eyes alive and glowing.

As Alec considered, there came to his mind the picture of two animals, Scratch the raccoon and Stuffer the woodchuck, staring hopefully after him as he ran up the woodland path towards the house on that morning when they had first met. They really did need him, for something they could not do themselves. And if he did not help them, who would? His mind was made up at that moment.

"All right," he said. "I'm ready. Whatever it is, I'll try to do my best."

The great eyes seemed to soften for a second, and then the voice rang out.

"So pity was the balance weight. It is seldom wrong to pity. I promise nothing, remember, but you may thank me yet. Now, there are things you must know if you are to act properly. When I have finished, the beasts will tell the rest so that you may do what must be done. Then comes the doing, and that is in your hands. Others may help before the end. Mowheen still lingers, the last of the three forest lords. If all comes to a right ending, perhaps we will speak again."

The voice took on a note of iron. "Look now upon your enemy, who threatens my Gate and must be defeated if the wood is to be saved."

The Face disappeared, and in its place in the swirling clouds, a circular shape began to form. It was like a round picture frame but with edges of living light. It grew larger and larger until it filled all the space before Alec's eyes.

A shape began to build in the center of the frame, a crouching, squat form. A naked, scaly tail was revealed and a narrow snout. Bright, black eyes stared directly at Alec as if he were clearly visible. The grayish-brown, dirty haunches tensed as the creature sat up and seemed to glare straight at the boy, malice and anger evident in its gaze.

It was an enormous rat.

4

Alec looked at the rat and the rat looked at Alec, or at least appeared to be looking at him. He could see that it was sitting on what seemed to be dark earth, but around it there was nothing but pearl gray light, with no background or any other detail to be seen.

As he looked more closely he could see that the animal was obviously the veteran of many fights. Its pointed snout was scarred by old wounds; and other white weals, long since healed, showed on its grizzled flanks and legs. As he watched, the rat sat up and wrinkled its nose, displaying big, sharp, yellow teeth and making its long whiskers twitch from side to side. Its large round ears were dirty and the left one had a triangular hole bitten out of one edge.

A friend of Alec's had owned a white rat, bought in a pet store, which had pink eyes and an engaging manner. Alec had held his friend's pet in his hand and the little creature had frisked about and played with his fingers, as tame and confiding as anything could be. But this rat he was watching was no pet, no playmate. From its bright and venomous black eyes came a scheming hatred and a concentrated malevolence. The very attitude of the beast was not animal-like at all, which puzzled the boy. He tried to think of what the difference might be, and it suddenly came to him.

It was confidence! The rat acted utterly confident, as if it were the absolute ruler of its world. There was an air of arrogance and triumphant vanity mixed with the hatred, the malice, and the cruelty. This creature believed itself to be the master of everything around it.

Why, thought Alec, not realizing what a terrible condemnation he was giving to his own birthright, it acted as if it were human! The thing's entire dirty body seemed to radiate a feeling of grim competence and ferocious command. Whatever he was involved in, the boy realized, he had an enemy whom he instinctively loathed, without knowing why, but whom he also feared.

Then the vision blurred and faded. All was mist and haze for a brief moment and then there was nothing and his mind went blank.

Alec was awakened by a feeling of pressure on his left arm. He opened his eyes and moved the arm, to realize he was lying on the grass. Looking straight up, he saw above him the night sky, full of blazing stars with the moon now directly overhead. He sat up. He was still in the circle of flat stones, it was still night, and beside him sat Scratch the raccoon, who had awakened him by pulling his arm.

"Are you all right?" said the raccoon.

Alec rubbed his head. He felt stiff, but otherwise fine. He looked around for the horde of animals that had ringed the enclosure. Where was the sea of eyes and bodies that had packed the little arena in the wood to overflowing? All were gone. No wait not quite all. Besides Scratch, Stuffer the woodchuck was still there and a large skunk as well, who stared at Alec from a few feet away. Before he could get around to asking who the skunk was, a strange new voice said, "Good evening, young human. Look up if you want to see me." The voice felt hollow and echoing and soft, all at the same time.

Alec looked up and saw a large brown bird with a streaked breast, fluttering right over his head. As he stared, it came down, its wings beating soundlessly, and landed as lightly as one of its own feathers on the ground beside him. It was a big barred owl.

"My name's Soft Wing," he said to the boy. "We've watched you at night when you were asleep. Sometimes you snore."

"Never mind that," said Scratch impatiently. "We have to get him out of here and back to his house. Who cares if he snores?"

"Wait," said Alec. He reached out a hand and touched the owl's head, which felt as soft as down.

Obeying an urge to regain touch with the ordinary world again, he began to gently ruffle the feathers with the tip of one finger. The owl moved closer and his voice said, "That feels nice. Don't stop." His bird's mind voice was very different from the animals Alec had heard so far, being both quick and yet somehow floating or hovering as well as very gentle.

"Before we go anywhere," said the boy looking around at the others, "I have a lot of questions. And who is this?" he added, looking at the strange skunk.

"I'm Stamper," he began, but before he could say anything else, Scratch cut in again.

"We haven't got all night, Watcher," he said. "All of us here are the animals who are supposed to stay near you and help you. If some of us have to be away, then others of us can take over, so you'll always have a messenger or someone who can send word to the rest of us. Soft Wing can fly to your window at night and the rest of us can take turns being in the orchard or somewhere close by during the day. That's all there is to it."

"And I'm going to be with you all the time," said a small voice very near Alec's ear. Twisting his head, he saw Whisperfoot again balanced on his shoulder. She had run up his back without his even feeling it.

"There," she said in a satisfied tone. "Now someone with common sense, and not just a lot of silly quarrelsome males, can advise you."

"Will you really stay with me in the house?" said Alec. He was delighted that she was back, and he had a feeling that she would be very useful in helping him to deal with the others.

Alec was still not altogether in touch with reality. He had just undergone an immensely disturbing experience and his mind was unsettled. At the back of all his thoughts was one major one: would he be able to measure up, to really do his part in whatever followed?

The gentle night wind stirred his hair and he shivered a little. Overhead, the moon was slowly passing from the zenith and the hour was obviously far advanced. There was no sign of light in the east, but the night was drawing on just the same. He turned to the skunk, who had been sitting patiently, waiting to be recognized.

"Hello, Stamper," said Alec. "Why did you pick that name?"

"Because he stamps his front feet before he just before he well, does what he does," said Scratch. A skunk's terrible weapon, the cloud of awful choking gas which he can release on demand, always makes other animals a little nervous. It is rather like having a time bomb around, or a giant firecracker which needs no fuse. Very few animals can bear the brunt of a skunk's attack, and because the gas is invisible, they find it all the more terrifying.

"I never use it unless I have to," said Stamper. His voice was calm and serene, and almost a little absentminded. "We skunks don't bother anyone much unless we're attacked. But the rats are different. At least these rats are. They aren't part of the woods and they hate all of us. They don't belong here and they want to kill or drive everything out, so there's no one but them left. They make us all feel sick somehow, because the way they think is wrong. Twisted." He fell silent and Scratch took up the tale.

"We remembered something. Something about this place where we are now. The animals don't come here much, only the deer and they only eat the grass down low, like it is now, and then go away.

"But we remembered, a few of us, anyway, that this was a place we could come and ask for things. The humans, the red-skinned people that used to live here, came. Some even talked to the animals now and then. Not many of us remembered about this place but a few did."

"Were you one of them one of the ones who remembered, I mean?" asked Alec.

"No," said the raccoon sadly. "I never heard about it; just that this was a good place to stay away from. Even the deer didn't really remember anything. They just felt they had to come and eat the grass here every so often."

"I remembered," said Stuffer unexpectedly. The big, fat woodchuck had been sitting quietly, not even nibbling the short grass of the circle. Alec had the feeling that the little clearing was indeed a special place if Stuffer could restrain his tremendous appetite for green things here.

The woodchuck continued. "Everyone thinks woodchucks sleep all winter. We sleep a lot, but we talk too. And we dream long, long dreams in the winter. My mother passed a dream on to me, seasons back when I was young. It was all about this place and what you could do here. You could talk here. Something here liked woodchucks and would help, if you needed it. I told Scratch about it."

"That's what I was going to ask next," said Alec. "Who did I talk to? He said he sent for me. What do you know about him anyway?"

He looked around, but there was no answer. The animals seemed embarrassed and confused. Only a blurred image of some need came from them to his mind, with the skunk seeming to be the one who felt it the most.

Finally Scratch spoke. "We don't know what you mean, Watcher," he said. "We were told to bring you here, but we didn't see anyone or anything. The place just told us, like when you know it's time to eat. It said, 'Go now and bring me a human. Do not be afraid. You can talk to some humans, you creatures who live near the Gate. Try a young one. They speak to us more clearly.' Then it said, 'Bring him here at night, all of you. Await my words.' We all, all the animals, felt it the same way we know it's time to hunt, only stronger."

Alec realized then that his friends had no actual idea of the strange presence to whom he had spoken, no true understanding of what had happened. Their own experience was on a very different level and they were quite unable to grasp what he was asking. Manibozo was an instinct to them, although a very powerful one, rather than a person.

"Listen," he said, thinking hard. "First I've got to know more about rats where they live, how they act and especially, how this all started. What's going on here, anyway? Is there a war, or what?"

The raccoon again answered for the others. "The war hasn't really begun, not with real fighting, it hasn't. But it's only a matter of time. The brown rats have lived in the town dump of that human village near here for years, stealing from humans, destroying stored food, but never coming very far out of town. We don't have anything to do with them as a rule. If one comes out here into the real country and once in a while one will he doesn't last long. They almost always come at night."

"Not if I see them, they don't," said Soft Wing with a click of his curved beak. "Or Death Grip, my big cousin with the ears." All the animals flinched a little at this, even Stamper. The great horned owl, Soft Wing's cousin, feared absolutely nothing, not even the fearful smell of the skunk, and he was so strong and terrible that he was dreaded by the entire forest.

"Don't worry," said Soft Wing, noticing and rather enjoying the fright he had caused. "He'll be with us when he's needed. He's been observing the truce just like the rest of us."

"Anyway," continued Scratch, "the owls, and us too, killed any lone rats we ever saw outside the human village. Lately though, they have been coming out scouting in big gangs at night. Sometimes fifty or more, all fighters. That's too many for even the biggest of us to tackle alone. They weigh as much as five pounds apiece, and they aren't afraid to fight. Almost every night for the last two moons, they've sent at least one mob this size out of town, first on one side and then on the other."

"But why?" the boy asked. "Why don't they just stay in the dump?"

"We don't know," said Stamper. "It's one of the things we don't understand about them. But they want to move out and take over. We have too much evidence not to be sure what they plan to do. They talk to the other animals, brag a lot at times. It means just one thing: They plan to take over The Lot, the woods, everything!"

Stamper paused, then added, "They don't come from this land, you know. They're like the mice that already live in your house, coming from over the big water someplace. They've been here a while, but they won't ever belong here."

Alec looked at him with interest. The complete menace in the news about the rats hadn't really sunk in yet, but he felt this handsome new ally had a clear way of putting things, even things hard to understand.

"Were you the skunk I heard yesterday?" said Alec. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you apart, at least not yet."

"No, that was my uncle," said Stamper. "He's pretty old and slow, and when he finally realized you had heard him, he was already far away in the woods. He didn't like the idea of your hearing him at all, but he came and told me anyway. He knew we were all looking for a human who could talk, but it made him so nervous he went back to his hole and lay down. Probably still there. He's a bit old-fashioned. Talking humans,' he said. 'What next, talking trees?' "

"Never mind your uncle," broke in Scratch rudely. "Listen, Watcher, did you learn anything while you were lying down, or did you just dream, or what? Can you really help us? We all like you, you know, but still, there it is we need help badly."

"I have to learn some more first, myself," said Alec. "How did you get to me, instead of someone else? What made you organize this truce? And I still don't see why a human is needed. All of you here, except Whisperfoot, could probably kill a lot of rats, all by yourselves."

"Yes, that's so," said Scratch. The big raccoon paused for a moment before speaking, as if trying to put his thoughts in order. "Look, we woods animals don't think the way the dump rats do. They all think together, move together, work together, and fight together. We just can't do that, not by ourselves. So we were told to try and get a human to help us. We have to have someone to keep us from arguing all the time, to make us be sensible and concentrate on the rats and not go off about our own private businesses. The truce in the wood is as far as we can go alone. Even at that, we have lots of trouble enforcing it. But we know we animals all have to stand together or the rats will smash us, because they stand together. Do you see?"

"I think so," said Alec. He saw indeed why the Spirit of the Wood needed another planner, a directing brain. The boy was still contemptuous of the rats, however, and felt the task a rather easy one. "Now look," he said, "I've got to get back home. When can I meet you all next, so we can talk?"

"Remember the bank of the stream where we gave you your talking lesson?" When Alec had said yes, Scratch went on. "Go upstream, to your left, and after a short walk you'll come to a clump of big fir trees, very close together. We'll be in the middle of that, waiting for you. When do you think you can come?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," said Soft Wing. "That's my roost, my place there. Why there?"

"Why do you think I picked that place?" the raccoon said. "You can't fly in the daylight you're too blind; and this way you can meet with us and not have to move. Four other birds nest in that tree anyway. Who said you owned it?"

"That's fine," said Alec hastily, for Soft Wing was ruffling his feathers again and was obviously about to retort in a cutting manner. "I'll be there, I hope, by the middle of the afternoon, and I should have some good ideas by then. But now I have to get home."

Stuffer promptly got up and led the way out of the circle, into the clearing and up the path, with Scratch bringing up the rear. The skunk and the owl simply left. Animals do not usually say "Good-bye." Their lives are too uncertain and too subject to change to use the idea of leave-taking. If they are going to see you again, they will try to be at whatever meeting place they have arranged. No one is ever blamed for lateness. Who knows what may have kept him? Perhaps he narrowly escaped death only seconds before.

The stars were still bright enough to give light for the boy to pick his way from tree to tree of the old orchard. He finally reached the house, eased open the French doors of the library and slid inside. At this point the pinch of tiny claws on his earlobe told him that the deermouse was no happier to be inside the house than she had been before.

"Don't worry," he said silently. "There's no one around. I'll look after you."

"There is so someone around," she said. "That stupid cat is asleep in a chair right over there. He may be half-witted but he still might try something if he saw me." Alec looked and saw that she was right. Worthless lay sprawled in an old spool chair near the fireplace, his eyes shut, his tail over his face. His even breathing was quite audible now that the outside door was shut.

Alec stole a look at the mantle clock. It said two minutes of three. He moved cautiously toward the door, one eye on the slumbering cat, and reaching the knob, slowly turned it. Only the tiniest scratching sound broke the silence of the big, dark room as the door slowly opened. Worthless lay immobile, all his feline faculties apparently useless. Alec slid through the narrow opening he had created and closed the door as silently as he had opened it.

Behind him in the library, two great yellow eyes stared at the door, blinked once, then opened again. A set of excellent claws, white and gleaming, were stretched from their owner's front paws, inspected and resheathed. The big cat wondered to himself if the young human had realized that the library door was not completely shut when he had gone out.

Worthless yawned smugly. This looked as if it would be an interesting summer after all.

5

The following day, Wednesday, dawned red and cloudy. The weather had changed in the small hours of the morning. A wind had risen from the east and rattled the shutters of the old house, warning of rain to come. It blew into Alec's open window and urged him into wakefulness at the usual seven o'clock time. He stirred sleepily and rolled over, one arm outflung on the pillow, dimly feeling that something needed doing.

He sat up staring out at the lowering clouds through the window. The gray light and the moan of the wind told him that the day would be a bad one. As the events of the past night came back to him, he shivered with remembered excitement. No one else in the whole world could say that they had a friend who was a raccoon, a woodchuck, an owl or a mouse! Whisperfoot!

On reaching his bedroom the previous night, Alec had gone over it as carefully as he could in the dark, looking for a safe place for the deermouse to hide while he was out of the room, or even out of the house. He wanted a place that Worthless could not possibly reach, even if the bedroom door got left open through carelessness. The bureau and desk were ruled out. Lou Darden, who kept the house in a spotless condition, might open either to clean or simply inspect.

It was Whisperfoot herself who spotted a good place. Just above Alec's head, near one curled end of the big sleigh bed's headboard, a large knot some time in the past had popped out of the ancient pine paneling. The mouse had climbed up the bed and simply jumped in. Emerging a moment later, she had sneezed, but said the knothole joined an old and long-unused mouse residence further back in the wall, and aside from a little dust, it was perfectly clean.

Alec had gone to his bureau and taken one of his stock of seldom-utilized white handkerchiefs and torn a piece of it off. This he had pushed partway into the knothole, and the mouse had dragged it the rest of the way in. She reported that it made an excellent bed and that she was more than comfortable. Alec stuffed the torn handkerchief in his pants, to be discarded later. Then they had wished each other a good rest, and the boy had fallen asleep ...

Now here Whisperfoot was, calling cheerfully to him from her new nest.

"I'm right here, Watcher. Right where you put me last night. And look what I found!" There was a brief scratching sound. "Come on out, you! I told you it was perfectly safe. For the tenth time, he won't eat you."

Alec realized that Whisperfoot was not talking to him but to someone else, and waited expectantly, his eyes fixed on the knothole. The pretty deermouse emerged first, jumped down from the top of the headboard and sat looking up at the hole.

"Come on," she urged again. "I'm right here sitting next to the human. He doesn't bite."

Out of the hole peered a small, brown, whiskered face with two round ears. Slowly there followed a fat little body and a longish tail, though still much shorter than Whisperfoot's. Finally a plump, rather scruffy-looking house mouse emerged and sat blinking nervously at the mouth of the hole.

"I thought you said last night—" began Alec to Whisperfoot, but she cut him off before he could bring up her previously expressed low opinion of house mice.

"Never mind that," she said quickly. "He's not a bad sort and he wants to be helpful. They all do, as a matter of fact, all of his people, and I think we can use them."

"Here, you," she continued to the other mouse, who seemed frightened out of his wits. "Tell the human your new name, the one I gave you, and tell him what you told me earlier."

Alec waited as patiently as he could while the house mouse twitched his whiskers and blinked and stared. Finally the boy was about to speak himself, when a small scared voice in his mind formed a picture of the mouse skulking and creeping about the edge of a wall, flattened to the floor so tightly that he was practically moving on his stomach.

"I see," said Alec, trying not to laugh. "You called him Creeper, I guess?"

"Creeper will do," said Whisperfoot. "There, Creeper, aren't you proud? You have a real, human name. Don't you feel braver already?"

"No," said the house mouse timidly. "I don't. But I don't think I ever will. I never heard of a brave house mouse. It's all very well for you woods people to talk," he went on with a sudden rash of speech. "I'd like to see you living with a cat as a permanent member of the household, mousetraps everywhere, stuff left all over that tastes like good food and kills you dead, humans pouring boiling water down your hole whenever they see you, and all that!"

"Why don't you go live in a hole in a tree?" said Whisperfoot, cleaning her immaculate whiskers as she spoke. "I'll help you find a nice place." There was a twinkle of delicate humor in her mind voice, but although Alec caught it, Creeper was too appalled to notice.

"Live in the woods! In a tree!" The house mouse's horror and indignation were so strong he actually squeaked out loud. "Out in the open, in a place full of owls and weasels and minks and foxes and skunks and hawks and—" he sputtered for a moment and then went on. "And be cold and wet all winter and be flooded in the spring and afraid to go out in the summer and hungry in the fall?" His whole fat body shook at the very idea.

"Too bad," said Whisperfoot, suppressing a ladylike yawn. "I had such a nice hole in mind. You could have shared it with two pine mice. It's built in the bottom of a crow's nest." The teasing note in her voice was very apparent to Alec, but not to the house mouse.

The boy had enjoyed watching the deermouse poking fun at the fat, absurd, little creature, but he now decided enough was enough.

He said soothingly to Creeper, "I'm sure no one will make you go and live outside. Not if you don't want to. And you can always come up here. I'll keep the door shut and see there are no mousetraps left around the room. Maybe I can find some cheese now and then. How's that?"

"Very handsome, if and when, and no offense meant," said Creeper. "Smelling is believing, as the saying goes. Not but what I'm sure anyone this lady says is a friend, really is. It's just that talking to a human is something new to me. Usually at the other end of a broom or jumping on chairs yelling, that's the way we see them we house mice, I mean." He seemed more relaxed at the boy's words, however, and settled back on his fat rump, eyeing them both, his beady eyes no longer so furtive and wary.

"Now, Whisperfoot," said Alec. "What did you mean when you said Creeper and the other house mice could be useful? How are they of any use to us when they never leave this house?"

"He found me asleep this morning, early," said the deermouse. "He was checking the old knothole because no one has used this room for a long time and he thought you might have left some food around he could steal when no one was looking. I woke up and asked him what he wanted, and he almost ran away, he was so frightened."

"Now then," interrupted Creeper. "Not so much of this frightened business. Careful is the word for it, if you please." He was obviously recovering his nerve and was now quite cocky.

"We got to talking about this and that," resumed the deermouse, "both of us being small, and I told him about you and what we were trying to do out in the wood. He got terribly excited, because he says the other house mice know something about this rat business. He went running off before I could stop him and said he'd be back as quickly as he could. I could see you were still asleep and it wasn't dawn yet, so I just waited for him. He came back a little before you woke up and told me he'd been talking to his friends. But I think he'd better tell you himself."

Alec could see that the dainty deermouse didn't want to admit that she found that the two kinds of mice had a great deal in common much more, for instance, than perhaps either might with larger animals.

"I'd be glad to hear what he has to say," said Alec. "What is it you know, Creeper?"

The dingy little animal swelled with importance at the question, until he looked like a midget fur balloon with attached ears and whiskers.

"We know a good deal, we house mice." He preened his whiskers with an air of mystery. "We have our own ways of getting news. We have friends and relatives living in lots of places, even in town where all the houses are. Never been there myself. Too far to go, in my opinion, for a busy mouse with affairs of his own. Why, I have to help find food for a whole family and let me tell you, it takes some "

"Yes, I'm sure it does," said Alec impatiently. "But we want to know about the rats. What do you know about them, and how do you know it?"

Eventually, with both Whisperfoot and the boy prodding him and dragging him away from his own troubles every so often, this was how his story came out:

"Us house mice are just as disturbed about dump rats coming here as any of you woods animals. Brown rats kill us house mice when they can find us. They even go hunting for us when they are feeling mean.

We have no way to resist, because we're so much littler. Nothing but the size of our holes and our quickness saves us. But rats are pretty quick, too. Making a small hole bigger is a much easier job than chewing a new one, you know. They even eat us, and they like our little babies."

It seemed that Creeper and his friends and relatives were in constant communication with all the other house mice who lived in nearby houses, and these in turn with still others, closer to Mill Run, and these finally with mice who actually lived in the town itself. Despite their fear of the outside world, house mice do go out on occasion, usually at night, to pay visits and look for new homes. This is when they meet and exchange news.

And now, the town mice of Mill Run had some recent news. A certain few of them were actually allowed to live near the village dump by the rats, and were not molested. Occasionally the rats even gave them food. In exchange, the mice were expected to furnish the rats with any news they might have of happenings of interest in and around the town. It was they who had passed on the recent information about the rats.

For some time now, the rats had been asking their mouse informants everything they could think of about all the country surrounding Mill Run village. Recently, however, their questions had been only about one area, The Lot. The mice had told them as little as possible, pleading ignorance about a place so far away and wild, but they hastened to pass on the question and its meaning to their cousins in the country. "Look out," they had said, "we think the rats might be coming your way."

This was Creeper's information. "When considered," said Alec to Whisperfoot, "it tells us pretty much what we already knew, that the dump rats are planning some kind of attack."

But then something else occurred to him. He and the local animals had to know much, much more about the plans of the rats. And the house mice might help.

He quickly shared the thought with the two mice.

"Look," he said to Creeper, "you house mice don't want rats out here any more than the woods animals or us humans do. So you'll have to help. Can you arrange to have news of what the rats are doing brought every night from one house mouse to another, until it gets to me?"

Creeper looked dubious for a moment, and scratched one ear while he thought. "We don't go out every night, you know, not right outside. Very dangerous, that is, and not done often."

"Well, it will just have to be done," said Alec sternly. "You have just as much of an interest in keeping those rats out of here as we do. Besides," he added, "you could take turns, couldn't you? There must be a lot of you."

"I don't know," said Creeper. "It will have to be thought about. I'll have to talk to the others. Us house mice aren't much for wars and danger and things like that. The others may not like the idea. But I'll talk to them."

"Be sure you do," said the deermouse, bristling with indignation. "If the rats come to The Lot, what do you think will happen to you?" But Creeper had already vanished into the knothole and was gone.

"You really let him have it," said Alec admiringly to his small ally. "Do you think he'll try to help?"

"I can't be sure," said Whisperfoot. "They're not a bad sort, these little dirty things, but what cowards they are! One of my own people, or even a meadow mouse, would be worth fifty of them. House mice never stop thinking about hiding for a minute!"

"Just a moment," said Alec. "You've given me an idea! Why couldn't we get the house mice in the dump to pass information to the meadow mice? I saw some in the Council Glade the other night."

"Why, that would probably work quite well," said Whisperfoot, sitting up on the bedstead. "I'll go and talk to them about it right now." She darted over to the open window and shot down the vine out of sight before Alec could say another word.

He dressed himself, remembering to tie his shoes, and went down the front stairs to breakfast. His grandfather was not yet up, and so he went into the kitchen, where he found Lou washing dishes.

"Just a second, honey, and I'll get you some breakfast," she said. "You'll look a little less bouncy than yesterday. Weather got you down?"

"No," said Alec, thinking quickly. "It just seems like a sleepy sort of a day, that's all." He looked out at the cloudy sky and the wind-tossed trees, visible through the kitchen window. "It's going to rain, isn't it?"

"Yep," she answered, "sure is, from the look of things. A northeast wind does bring rain at this season. Maybe you can stay in today and watch TV instead of going outside and getting all wet. Darden has to go to town for supplies in a little while now. Like to ride in with him?" As she spoke, she had been moving about the kitchen, and in no time at all, cereal, milk, and orange juice were planked down on the kitchen table.

Alec nodded as he began to eat. "Yes, I would like to go," he said. "I've never had a really good look at Mill Run."

"Not so much of a town," said Lou. "Still, I was born there so I expect I favor it. It is pretty in summer and not so cluttered as some, nor so full of tourists and nasty little stores and such, either. Soon as they get rid of that dirty town dump, the way they're fixing to this year, the place will look real nice, the way it did when I was a girl. I just hope that new shopping center the village selectmen voted for ain't going to be ugly, and Land's sakes, what's the matter, boy?"

Alec had suddenly choked on his milk and his face had turned bright red. Of course! That was why the rats had to move! That was why they were scouting The Lot. They wanted to make it their new home.

Lou pounded Alec's back and mopped the milk off his face with her apron.

"Now pay attention to what you're doing, Alec. Finish your breakfast and I'll give a yell for Darden. Your grandpa felt tired this morning, I guess. He works too hard on his books for an old man, if you want my opinion. Seems as if no one in this world will ever do what's good for them. I'll take the Professor his breakfast up on a tray. That riles him worse than anything I know. He'll get up so fast you won't even see him go, he gets that angry when I pretend I think he's ailing." She winked at Alec and made him laugh.

As Lou bustled about the kitchen, the boy looked out at the gray sky, now even more ill-omened than when he had awakened. As he watched, the first patter of rain sounded on the roof and big drops began to hit the window panes. It soon settled down to a steady, hard downpour, and the muffled roar of water pouring off the tin rainspouts and the high peaked roofs maintained itself as a constant noise in the background.

Alec drank the last of his milk, his thoughts gloomy. Would the animals still expect him to come out to the woods this afternoon, in this weather? He decided, on consideration, that they probably would. Rain almost certainly didn't mean much to wild animals. They probably figured that he was capable of getting out in any weather, so long as it was daytime. He owned a yellow slicker, a matching rain hat and boots, all of which had been carefully packed by his mother and were now upstairs. Why shouldn't he use them? He decided to try a test shot.

"There's no reason for Grandpa not to let me out in the rain so long as I have my rain things on, is there, Lou?" he asked innocently.

Lou cocked a wise blue eye at him. "Grandpa, nothing, Mr. Smarty. It's me that says who goes out and in what. Why, Professor March probably wouldn't take notice if you ran out in your bare skin! I see what you're about, trying to get around me like that!" She considered, still looking at him, then glanced outside at the weather.

"It's still coming down pretty hard. Go to town with Darden and maybe it will let up some. If you still want to go out later, we'll see."

"Okay," said Alec. He knew when he had won a partial victory and decided not to push his luck.

"I'll go get my stuff and then look for John. Thanks for breakfast."

"You do that. Have a good time in town, now, and don't let Darden get into trouble." Alec couldn't imagine John getting into trouble, and decided the last comment was not meant to be serious.

Alec put on his rain gear and went outside to see his turtle. He felt that he had neglected the poor animal and wished he had thought of him earlier. But who could think of a pet turtle with all the other things that had happened?

The box turtle seemed delighted with the rain, which had brightened his black and yellow shell. While Alec watched from a perch on the rail of the back porch, the turtle dug up and ate several large earthworms from the dirt floor of his pen. John was not in sight and Alec had a sudden thought. Could turtles talk? He directed his thoughts as hard as he could, but there was no response at all. Then he tried "listening" with his mind, to see if the beast could or would send him any message in return. To his amazement, he did pick up a dim mental picture. Not surprisingly, however, it contained only a blurred view of earthworms, lots and lots of earthworms, and a feeling of hunger as well. Alec tried again to send a message of his own, even thinking of himself digging earthworms and giving them to the turtle. But no sensible answer came back, only the dim thoughts of food and appetite. Discouraged, he decided turtles were simply not "tuned in," at least not to him.

He got up from the rail and went around the corner of the house. John had pulled the car out of the barn and was just getting in when Alec appeared.

"John, Lou said you were going to town and I could come," he said as he climbed into the car.

"I was only ready this second. Glad you could make it," said John amiably. His sole concession to the weather was a battered hunter's cap of leather and a thin denim jacket which matched his blue pants. On looking around, Alec saw that several flats of flowers, young plants and bunches of cut flowers, were carefully arranged on the back seats, and with them were some bags of new asparagus and boxes of strawberries.

"I'm a deacon over to our Congregational church in town," said John, seeing his glance. "There's some old and sick folks as don't get out much and I bring them a little garden sass and plants and flowers now and again. Cheers them up, to eat fresh-growed food and see things coming up as if they was growing outside. Your grandpa don't mind, 'cause he knows I grow enough for us and them, too. As a matter of fact, your grandma, Mrs. March, done the same when she was alive, poor lady. So it's kind of a house custom, you might say."

Alec was interested and asked what a deacon was, as the big station wagon rolled down the long driveway under the dripping trees. They chatted about this and other matters until the town's central green, with its bronze Minuteman, was reached. The whole drive had only taken a few minutes, and Alec was surprised to find out how close Mill Run village actually was to The Lot.

They bought groceries from a long list provided by Lou and then went calling. Most of the people they visited were elderly, except for one younger woman surrounded by swarms of rather tattered-looking children. One old lady gave Alec a sugar cookie and told him that he looked exactly like his father. She also told him that his grandmother was still remembered and missed. "She was a real saint," said the old lady, adding in typical New England fashion, something which was quite lost on Alec, "in spite of being Episcopal."

Finally, all had been visited and John said they could now go home. Light rain was still coming down but the sun seemed to be trying to get through high above.

As John started the car, Alec said, "John, Lou said there was a town dump they were going to turn into a shopping center or something. Could I see it? I've never seen a real dump before."

"Kids always want to see something nobody ever thought of asking about," said John, eyeing him aslant. "Now what in tarnation do you want to see the town disgrace for? We've been trying to get the selectmen to vote that mess out of here for ten years now and you act like it was a national monument."

"Well," said Alec, "maybe there won't be any when I grow up. Maybe they'll all be extinct. Then I'll never see one. Couldn't we, anyway?"

"So be it, if you really want to," said John, shaking his head. "Mightn't be a bad idea at that. If you ever get to be president, you can keep all the dumps in the country from getting out of hand."

They drove a short distance down a pleasant tree-shaded lane, and turned a sharp corner onto another road, which brought them to a dirt track running away from town. A little way down, beyond a small signpost, lay the village dump, and the smell of it caught Alec's nose even before it came into sight. On reaching the edge of it, they parked.

It was an ugly sight, even softened by the rain, but also fascinating to Alec. A swollen mound of debris bulging out to about the area of an acre or more, it was built up of garbage, rotten automobile tires and rusty tin cans. Small fires smoked here and there, spitting out greasy, gray smoke as the raindrops hit them. Parts and bodies of old, abandoned cars lay about in various places at the edge. The whole scene was inexpressibly sad and disgusting, especially after the lovely country town with its neat gardens, green lawns, and white houses.

Nevertheless, it was not without interest. Abandoned toys lay here and there. Alec noticed a broken tricycle, some tot's abandoned vehicle, and near it a headless doll. A refuse heap of human civilization, like those of the ancient past, it accurately reflected the lives of the people who had thrown their unwanted and used-up belongings here.

And somewhere near it or under it lay the stronghold of the rats! A more evil-appearing castle or fortress would be hard to imagine, the boy reflected.

Looking over his shoulder, Alec could see the church steeple and realized that the town was really quite close.

"That's right," said John, seeing his look. "People are just plain lazy. They been using this place since the whole town only had ten people in it and the town's grown out right to the dump now. Even so, we had to get up a petition before them stubborn selectmen would do anything."

"Aren't they going to build something here, some new buildings, Lou said?"

"Yep," said John. "Nothing so nice as a park, but better than this anyway. Trees don't pay taxes, and that's all them selectmen can think about, more taxes. They're going to bury all this muck by bulldozing it into that hollow over there. That'll fill in an old cave full of garbage and vermin that's supposed to be hidden just down the slope. They'll level that little hill next and then they can take dirt and spread it over the whole area and make a foundation. On top of that goes a new gas station, cleaning establishment and drugstore, all in nice, new, shiny, concrete buildings. Personally, I'd rather have trees, but when I made the suggestion, Old Caleb Wilson looked at me like I was crazy. Still, it'll be better than this mess, full of filth and rats. Some of the boys has come out here at night and plinked at the rats with their .22 rifles. Don't get many, though. The rats learned to lay low after a little of that. Rats is smart."

"Why don't they come and kill all the rats with guns?" said Alec. "Or maybe poison them?"

"Well, you're sure in a bloodthirsty mood," said John. "Sonny, even if the whole town come out here, they'd maybe shoot three rats between them. Them rat holes are all over this dirty mess and all through the hill and the hollow beyond. You might get a lot with poison gas pumped in the holes, the way I hear tell they do on ships, but there's so many holes that most of the rats would get away anyhow. Poisoning em would cost a fortune.

"No, the best way to get rid of rats is to get rid of the dump. A few will always be around. Nobody ever figured out how to get rid of all the rats in creation. But most of them will light out and go somewhere else."

The boy felt suddenly cold. Indeed, the rats would go somewhere else. And he had a good idea where, even if John did not! Somehow, in some arcane manner, the rats had learned or guessed what was going to happen to the dump. And they must have taken very careful steps to locate new territory in which to settle.

"Well, you seen all you want?" asked John, switching on the engine. "You can say you saw the worst little town dump in all the whole Nutmeg State. That makes you an expert on dumps." The car turned and they headed back.

Alec saw that he was expected to smile, but his heart wasn't in it. The fact that adult humans, with rifles and even poison gas, were so pessimistic about their ability to destroy rats discouraged him greatly. What on earth could one boy and a lot of woods animals do if grownups were unable to do much? He thought for a moment of enlisting John in the cause, but it was only a passing thought. It would be easy to give up all responsibility, stop worrying, let a grownup take over. But as soon as the thought appeared, Alec dismissed it. The trust had been laid upon him. If an adult could have done the job, one would have been selected. He would just have to work it out himself. He sighed as he thought of all the problems. He had to learn so much more so quickly.

The rain was now only a mist, and the sun had actually come through in places and lit the black, glistening asphalt ahead of them and the trees on either side. As the big car approached the stretch of road leading to The Lot, Alec watched the sides of the road carefully. The station wagon was cruising along a section of state forest which lay directly between The Lot and the Mill Run dump, and it had occurred to the boy that he had better start learning how the land lay. He wondered if the rats, when they came, would be smart enough to circle The Lot and come from the west or south, rather than come directly from the east.

As the car rolled up the long drive, Alec sat silent, thinking of battles and what he knew about them. In early school grades, he had learned about Paul Revere, the battle of Bunker Hill, "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes," and such matters as that. From the conversation of his parents and other adults, he had picked up bits and pieces about World War II and the other later wars that plagued the world. But it didn't help much. The rats didn't wear red coats like the old British used to, there were no guns (or anyone to shoot them) and no planes, ships, helicopters or atom bombs, either. It was all very discouraging. How could he find out more about real battles and how they were fought?

Then he suddenly thought of his grandfather. Professor March knew almost everything in the world, reflected Alec. Perhaps he could be asked for help in such a way that he would have no idea what the reason behind the questioning was.

The station wagon came to a stop in front of the house, abruptly jolting him out of his reflections.

"Hope you liked your ride," said John. "You seemed pretty quiet on the way back. That dump get you down a bit, maybe?" he asked shrewdly.

"Yes, it did," said Alec hastily. "It seemed awfully dark and gloomy and full of lost, broken things. But I really enjoyed myself. Thanks a lot for the ride."

"Any time," said John, reflecting to himself that the boy was a deep one.

Meanwhile, Alec had run up the two front steps and gone in the door. The idea of getting hold of his grandfather at once had seized him, and he was determined to extract as much information as he could immediately. The rain had entirely stopped. The wind had died and sunlight sparkled on drops of water gleaming on every bush, tree and blade of grass.

He found the Professor in the library as expected, working at his cluttered desk. The old man was delighted to see him.

"I understand you have made your first trip into town," he observed, looking at his young grandson with affection. "Hardly a roaring metropolis like New York, but infinitely more restful. Fresh air, too. What did you see anything interesting?"

"Oh, lots of things," said Alec vaguely. "Nothing special. That's not why I came in here, though. Grandpa, I've been thinking about what you said last night, all about King Richard and the way people fought battles in the Middle Ages, and all that. And I got interested because I wondered what people did when they didn't even have swords and spears and battle-axes and things. How did they fight then? Can you fight well if you don't even know how to hit people with a sword or even a stick? Did the ancient people fight battles without any of those things? Do you have to have swords at least before you can have a war?"

The Professor was very pleased, both with his grandchild and also, truth to tell, with himself. The old man had been afraid that it would be boring for a youngster to listen all summer to someone of his advanced age. The Professor beamed. Alec saw that he had pleased him somehow, and felt better about his hope of getting some useful information.

"Now then, Alec, you want to know whether people fought organized wars before the invention of tools and weapons. Do I understand you clearly?"

"That's right," said the boy. "How did they fight? What did they do if they wanted something other people had and hadn't any spears or knives or anything to fight them with?"

"Well, my boy, this is rather hard to say. You see, there aren't any people in the world today who are so primitive that they have no weapons. The Australian aborigines are pretty far down the cultural scale. But even they have spears, and they invented boomerangs, those curved things that come back when you throw them. The South African Bushmen use bows and poisoned arrows, and they, too, are very primitive.

"Going back into the remote past, the cave men the Neanderthalers and the Magdalenian people called Cro-Magnons they all used weapons, beautifully-made ones at that. Even the so-called apemen used sticks and bones and stone tools, mostly crude hand axes. So you see, if even the most primitive humans had weapons, your question becomes almost impossible to answer. Weapons and humans seem to go together, unfortunately, and always have."

Alec reflected. He was sure that his grandfather had some vital information, if he could only think of the right way to ask him. There just had to be some way of getting it. Something the old man had just said came back to him.

"Grandpa, you said the apemen had tools. But how about the apes themselves? Do gorillas have sticks and things out in the jungle where they live, to fight with? I've seen them at the Bronx Zoo, but all they had was a ball and an old car tire."

"Well, if you must leave the human level, there are some analogies, I suppose," said Professor March, in an interested voice. "Gorillas have no tools, although I have read recently that some chimpanzees do use sticks to extract white ants from their nests for food. And neither chimpanzees nor gorillas fight wars. They are, fortunately for their own souls, not 'intelligent' enough, if that is the right word." He looked away, over Alec's head and stared blankly at the bookcase, obviously thinking.

"Baboons do fight in packs though. They have regular territories, just like countries only much smaller than ours, of course, and they defend these from other baboons. Some of the reports, I believe, speak of hundreds of them, real armies, having pitched battles. Is that what you wanted to know?" he asked the boy.

"Well, I guess so," said Alec. "Actually, I mean, what I want to know is how they fight. Do they send out scouts, and well, set traps for each other? Stuff like that?"

"I'm afraid my memory's not too strong on the intimate details of baboon military campaigns," chuckled Professor March. "I guess they probably do something of the sort. They are rather intelligent brutes, and a great nuisance to farmers in Africa, if my recollections serve." He paused and looked sharply at the boy. "What are you really after, Alec? This seems to be very important to you. You haven't smiled once since you came in here."

Alec shifted nervously and scuffed one sneaker on the faded oriental rug. He could not meet his grandfather's piercing eye.

"It's just, well, I got to know about war, that's all! I thought you could tell me how two sides fight a war, and it would be simpler if I left out all the weapons and guns and things, so I could understand what a general does, or somebody that tells soldiers what to do and where to go." He looked anxiously up at the white head above him. "That's all, honest."

The Professor sat back, satisfied. "I see now," he said. "What you want to know are the principles of war. And of course you didn't know how to ask, so you did it this way. Not a bad way, either. Do you know for a moment I had a crazy mental picture of an army of animals marching in ranks!" Fortunately for Alec, this last observation was made while Dr. March was lighting his pipe, so he could not see his grandson's face.

"The actual principles, the basic ideas which govern any war, are very old indeed. And very simple, too, at least to talk about or describe. It's putting them into practice that's the hard part. Most of them were written down by the Chinese two thousand years before Christ.

"One very successful American general, named Forrest, who had no formal military training but who learned all by himself exactly what to do, once said that success in battle meant 'fustest with the mostest.' What he meant was, get to a key position with more men than the enemy has in the same place. Somebody else, I forget just who, said, 'Hit 'em where they ain't!' He meant that the place to strike hard was where the enemy least expected you. If the enemy was watching and guarding the north end of some valley, say, then you should attack the south end.

"Other successful military men have said other things. Napoleon said that the pursuit of a beaten enemy must be instantaneous and pressing. He said that if a beaten army were followed, constantly attacked and harassed by cavalry or light troops and given no chance to recover, it would then be totally destroyed and never able to re-form and fight again.

Is this the sort of thing you wanted to know?"

Alec's brown eyes were shining. "Yes, that's it! That's just what I need. Do you know more? What happens when an army is coming and you know pretty well where, but not when? How do you fight them if you have less soldiers than they do?"

Smiling at Alec's enthusiasm, Professor March continued. "It seems to me that if you knew where the enemy was coming at you, half the problem would be solved. You could pick the place you wanted to fight. For instance, suppose there was a narrow place, like a mountain pass, that he had to come through. You could block it in front and attack from both sides."

"But how?" asked the boy.

"Look, Alec. I've told you the basis. It's simple really. There almost always is a defensible obstacle. If not a mountain pass, then a swamp or a wide river. If the ground is in the enemy's favor, perhaps flat with no obstacles or defenses, why then you retreat or advance, go back or forward, to a place where there are obstacles and defenses. If the enemy knows what you're doing, you have to be careful. If not, it's pretty easy."

"I get it," said Alec thoughtfully. "You wait until the enemy comes to you, where you're waiting for them, in the best place to fight."

"Exactly," said Professor March, blowing a large smoke ring.

"But how do you do that?" said Alec, puzzled. "I don't see what you can do to make them come just one way and not others, unless they just happen to, by mistake or something."

"I'll tell you," said his grandfather, "and you'll see how easy it is, or rather, how easy it looks. If the enemy is smart, it may not be so easy to do! Still, suppose an enemy army is marching on your country. You want them to come only one way, and no other. So you could start rumors. You let them know that the other ways are guarded. You move men around to all the other places and make them look as strong as possible. And you make the one special place look weak. You keep the men you have there hidden and any defenses concealed. Then you hope. Often, it works. If it doesn't, you must wait until they actually begin to march. Then you attack continuously, but with only a few men, called skirmishers or scouts. You may add more men to them if you can and if it's needed or called for. You try to make any other route so unappealing and difficult that the enemy will half drift, half be driven, into the one way you want. How's that?"

"Great! That's wonderful! But what about time, Grandpa? Suppose you're not sure when the enemy will come? What do you do then?"

"That's difficult," said Professor March. "You could get into trouble. But there are people in every army called intelligence officers. They are the ones who try to find out what the enemy will do. Now, your intelligence men will do their best to find out how and when the enemy will move. And each army gets news from spies, too, people who live in the enemy country and pretend to be part of the enemy. Sometimes they help a lot; sometimes their news is too late or wrong. But I suppose that's not what you wanted. You just want the beginning principles, eh?"

"No," said Alec. "I mean, yes. I mean, that's great, just what I wanted. Thanks a million, Grandpa, for all that stuff. I really understand now, I think. Well, I got to go." He ran for the door. Just as he got there, however, another thought sprang into his mind. From somewhere, the strange word, the mysterious name of the "other helper" flashed across his mind. He stopped and came slowly back to the desk, where his grandfather still sat looking at him.

"Forget something, son?" Professor March said to him.

"I saw a funny word the other day," said Alec, choosing his words carefully. "It was written in a book, I guess, but I don't remember. Maybe I heard it. It was Mowheen. Do you know who it is?"

"Mowheen," mused his grandfather. "No, doesn't ring a bell. Wait, though, I do remember something, but very dimly. It's an Indian word, by gum. What the devil does it mean? I heard it years ago, or read it. Alec, you ought to take up my profession. You ask the darndest questions and they're hard to answer."

The boy waited silently.

"Mowheen, Mowheen. Algonquin, maybe?" The old man ruminated, chewing on his short mustache with his lower lip and teeth. Then he stared out of the open window at the sunlit lawn in front of the house.

"Got it," he said suddenly. "The old boy's not senile, not yet, he's not! Now, I wonder where did you see that word?"

"I can't remember, Grandpa. Who is it? Is it a man?

The Professor shook his head. "No, son. Not a man. Mowheen is the old Indian name for the great black bear."

6

Alec picked his way cautiously over boulders and rotting logs, through wet laurel bushes and clumps of fern. Indian pipes poked through the leafmold, skunk cabbage spread all around, and beautiful scarlet-and-tan mushrooms showed here and there in shadowed nooks. The birds called all about them, and he could hear crows cawing in the distance. To his right, the brook, swollen from the recent rain, babbled and gurgled as it raced through tussocks and around great rocks, straining to reach the distant pond in the marsh.

He soon saw the clump of seven big firs ahead, so dark that they made a menacing blot in the sunlit forest. They were huge old trees and their needles were so dense that he could see nothing through them, even when he had drawn quite close. Other eyes, looking out, could see better, however, assisted by keen ears and noses.

"We all got here, Watcher," came the now familiar voice of Scratch, "and you're even earlier than we hoped. Do you have any ideas? We're under this first tree."

Alec got to his knees without answering and crawled under the prickly outer branches. The ground, although completely dry, was rather prickly, too, with all the twigs, needles and cones which had fallen. Inside it was just like being in a tent. When his eyes grew adjusted to the dim light, he could see the black mask of the big raccoon, the grizzled head of the woodchuck and the black-and-white skunk, all sitting at the base of the tree waiting for him. On a low branch, about three feet above the carpet of needles, sat Soft Wing.

"Get your breath back, Watcher," said the big raccoon. "We were worried that they wouldn't let you out if it was raining. I've noticed that humans don't like to get rained on."

"I was worried, too," said Alec. "The rain stopped though, so there was no trouble. But Whisperfoot arranged about the messengers to come from town, not me. Whisperfoot, you tell them, because you did it all."

"I did some work, but Watcher thought of it all, really," she said, jumping from his body to a low branch nearby. There she began to groom herself, continuing to talk. "I went to see the meadow mice. It's working out fine, at least so far. They have sent out messengers to contact the house mice and other meadow mice all the way into town. By tonight, we'll have a chain of mice passing news back and forth regularly."

The pretty deermouse tried to give the credit to Alec, of whom she had come to be very fond, but she didn't really mind being the center of attention. She asked the other animals to pass the word that no house mouse was to be molested or killed if it was seen out of doors. This was necessary, because house mice had not been included in the truce the forest animals had arranged.

"I'll do my best," said Scratch. "Some of the bad elements aren't going to like it, but they'll just have to agree. I have a complaint about one of the meat-eaters chasing one of our local rabbits. I finally found him and gave him a real going over, but you can't trust any of them except Slider and his family. They're good people and with us all the way, but the others, well, you have to keep bearing down on them." His mind had formed a sort of mass picture of a whole jumble of different animals and Alec couldn't understand what the raccoon was talking about.

"What do you mean," he said. "Are some animals not being peaceful around here? Who's Slider, any way?

"Here he is, coming up the stream right now," said Stamper the skunk. "He wanted to meet you, but he and his family were fishing miles away until today and he couldn't get back in time for last night. Shake yourself off outside, will you? I don't want to get soaked." This last was addressed not to Alec but to someone else.

A long, brown, slick-furred body wormed into the tent made by the tree and sat up on short hind legs, balancing on a long, heavy tail. A bluntly-pointed head with small, sleek ears and large, brown eyes faced the boy at his own eye level. It was a big dog otter.

"Hello there, Watcher. Glad to see you." The mind voice was almost noisy, quite hearty and rolling, and it told quite as much about the animal talking as the quiet tone of the skunk or the argumentative, gravelly impression given by the raccoon.

"Sorry I missed the meeting the other night," said Slider. "You know how it is, had to go check out a trout farm over to the east a few miles. Sure enough, the netting was loose. The humans will be plenty annoyed when they look at some of the tanks. Still, I have seven to feed, counting myself. What's going on here? Anything been decided yet?" His whole manner was confident, breezy, and yet extremely alert. Alec decided on the spot that this was a very valuable ally.

"We were about to tell Watcher about all the bad elements, the hold-outs, when you arrived," said Scratch. "Since most of them are relatives of yours, why don't you take over?" Here again was a sample of animal politeness. If anything rude had to be said, it ought to be kept in the family, so to speak, and not said by other, unrelated animals.

"Right," said Slider. He inched closer to the fascinated boy, who could now detect a distinct odor of fish about him, not really too unpleasant but still noticeable.

"The fact is," said the otter, "some of my smaller relatives are just not easy to keep in line. No sense of humor, no responsibility, no team spirit. Fill your own belly and never mind tomorrow, or anyone else either. Can't think ahead. I'll show you some of them."

Into Alec's mind came the picture of a small, brown animal with white underparts. It was long and slim and darted around the ground on tiny legs, bending like a furry snake to get around obstacles. He recognized it as a weasel. Before he could say so, another animal projection appeared, this time of a larger beast, so dark brown as to be almost black, but shaped very similarly. The boy had no trouble with this one either, identifying it as a mink, a fact made even more evident because it was shown swimming gracefully in the picture. Then came still another picture of a large brownish spotted cat with tufted ears and a short, stub tail, bounding through the forest on big furry pads.

"That last one, he's no relative of mine," added the otter, interrupting the pictures. "Fortunately, he's the only one of his kind around and we told him to plain get out, and come back in a moon or so, or we'd all get after him, all of us at once. He's a big coward and he left, spitting and snarling. He knew we meant it, though. I don't think he'll be back for awhile."

Alec had recognized the bobcat by this time, and he asked if there were any more animals still to come.

"That's about it," said Slider. "Wait, there's another, or I should say, others. They're the worst killers of the whole bunch because there are so many of them. There's probably one around now, out under the leaves. Wait here a bit, I'll see if I can find a sample."

With a graceful, looping motion, like a giant brown inch worm, he was out of the tree tent in a flash.

Alec heard a brief scuffle in the leaves outside and nearby. Then, whisk, the otter bounded back in, carrying something small in his mouth. At the same time a tiny, shrill mind-voice began to shriek and scream.

"Bite, kill, eat, fight, bite, kill, fight, eat," it went on, over and over. Small though it was, the mind-voice exuded sheer savagery and hatred to an astonishing degree. Alec could see that Slider was holding in his iron otter's jaws a tiny, brown animal, like a small mouse, which had a sharply-pointed nose but invisible ears and eyes. The otter held the little thing delicately by the scruff of its neck, but as Alec watched, it turned around and tried to sink its tiny fangs into the larger animal's lip. Slider snarled and shook it once, then flipped it over in front of the raccoon. Scratch instantly moved one of his long-clawed front feet in a hard-smashing blow. The savage little mind-voice in Alec's brain stopped abruptly and the tiny animal lay there, limp and unconscious on the bed of brown needles.

Alec had never seen or heard of a shrew before, but the assembled animals managed to make it plain to him that these common, tiny creatures were impossible to talk to and never stopped either killing or eating except when asleep. They also fought each other and were cannibals, attacking anything they could smell or hear. There were hundreds of them in the forest, but fortunately they were solitary creatures and did not combine in groups. Whisperfoot, as a mouse, dreaded the tiny killers, for mice were a favorite prey of theirs.

"That's the whole crowd," said Slider. "That last little one and his kind are no harm to us big ones. They're too small. They get so hungry they have to eat every second they're awake, that's their trouble."

"What about the others, though, Slider?" said Alec, sending pictures of the mink and the weasel to the otter's brain. "Can't you make them see what it means to have thousands of rats coming in here? They could be a great help. Aren't they great fighters and don't they often kill rats anyway?"

"Yes, they do, but they won't do it for or with anyone else," replied the otter. "Always act for themselves, that crowd. They said, when I spoke to them (and they listen when I speak) that they'd kill all the rats by themselves, when and if they came the rats, I mean. I tried to tell them that odds of fifty to one were too much and they'd find it out later, but it made no impression. It was all we could do to get them to hunt away from the woods for a while. That was absolutely all they would agree to, and the rest of us had to get pretty rough before they would even do that. No, I'm afraid we'll have to plan without them. Too undependable, if not plain untrustworthy."

"Yes," added the skunk. "Now who else is there? Do you think Soft Wing's big cousin means it and will really help?"

"All he said was, 'Let me know the time and place,' " said the owl. "But he should come. He's reliable enough even if he makes you all nervous. As a matter of fact," he confided, "he makes me a little nervous, but I never heard him break his word."

"What about the foxes I saw?" said Alec. "And there was a 'possum too, wasn't there, and more skunks? And what about the deer? They could crush a lot of rats under their hooves and spear them with their horns, couldn't they?"

The animals looked at each other, rather dismayed. Things that were plain and obvious to them apparently had to be explained to this young human in detail, and yet he was now supposed to lead them.

It was the big raccoon who restored their confidence.

"Look," he said, addressing not Alec, but the animals, "there's no reason why he should know everything about life down here. After all, he only came here a few days ago. It's no discredit to him that he wasn't taught more about all of us and how we live. We need him and we have to do the teaching.

"He's already picked up quite a lot," Scratch continued, "and we just have to keep on letting him see how it goes out in the wild."

He turned back with his mind to Alec and he sensed at once that Alec had caught the feeling of doubt and distress at his ignorance and he felt that he had somehow let his friends down.

"Now, don't worry," said Scratch. "You just have to learn a lot in a short time. We should be worried, not you, because we ought to know that you can't have learned everything about us not yet, you can't. Stamper, tell him why the deer are no good to us."

The skunk promptly took up the tale in his quiet, calming mind-voice.

"First, though, you asked about the foxes. Well, there are about six of them and they may help and they may not. Funny, twitchy, changeable folk, the red foxes. They want to know everything anyone else does and they say they'll think about it, and go off laughing to themselves. At least they aren't hunting around here, which is something, and they may end up helping. Mark them as possible, not certain.

"There are fourteen of us skunks and we'll all help. There's one family of opossums and what they'll do is beyond any of us. They really are the strangest animals in the whole forest. They can actually stop thinking thoughts, so you can't hear them at all! You can talk to one all day and never get him to admit he's even heard you. Then he'll finally say something that has nothing to do with anything you said before, and walk away. We find them a puzzle. Their minds don't seem to work like ours. More like a frog's or turtle's, really."

The skunk went on. "Finally, there's the deer. Well, forget them. I don't know why they bothered to come the other night, except to eat grass. You mentioned the sharp stickers on their heads, Watcher. Well, only the male deer have them, and they only get them in the fall. Those things are soft and tender now and no good for anything. And what do they use them for, I ask you? Fighting with each other over females, that's all.

"Their hooves are sharp and they can fight with them all right, but they only use them when they're attacked. We could probably murder the whole rat army if we had them on our side, but there won't be a chance of that."

"Silly idiots! I asked one of them to help," cut in the owl suddenly. "What do you think he said? 'Who, we deer? We can't fight. We'll just move to another wood. Ask us to mess around with a lot of grubby, little animals and get our hooves all dirty with blood? Really!' "

"Yes," said the otter in agreement. "That's the deer for you. Forget them. They can't think of anything but green leaves and running around at night jumping over things. And they think they're better than anyone else. Won't even say 'hello' if you pass one, just look the other way and pretend no one's there. They're hopeless."

"What about squirrels and chipmunks and those animals?" said Alec. He was trying to draw up a list in his mind of how many creatures he could depend on, and it didn't look very good so far.

"They are all my relatives," broke in the slow, bumbling voice of Stuffer. As usual, he had simply been sitting up and staring, pop-eyed, so that only an occasional twitch of his nose prevented his looking like a dead, stuffed animal. "Some aren't so bad. The gray squirrels are all right, but they don't like coming down on the ground, at least not to fight. They say they may come and they may not. They change their minds all the time, just like the foxes. We can't count on them. The chipmunks are too small. You can't ask them to fight brown rats. They're like Whisperfoot up there willing to help, but no good for fighting.

He ruminated a moment, then went on. "There's a few red squirrels around, and they might fight. Goodness knows, they fight with each other enough. But they hate leaving their trees worse than the grays. They're pretty small, too. So don't plan on them. That leaves us woodchucks. There's only six of us grownups and we'll all be there when we're needed." Stuffer sat back in silence again, having nothing more to add.

Nor did anyone else. Alec was counting up in his mind. Six woodchucks, fourteen skunks, one raccoon "Four raccoons," cut in Scratch four raccoons, seven otters "Four, I'm afraid," said Slider, "three are cubs" four otters, one owl "Don't forget my big cousin with the ears," said Soft Wing two owls. That was it. Plus some foxes and squirrels who were fairly good chances, and some 'possums who were pretty bad ones. If the doubtful animals showed up, perhaps between thirty and fifty were available for the actual fighting line. This small number against what might amount to thousands of big, tough rats. The boy's heart sank. These were grim odds!

"What about the birds?" he asked Soft Wing. "Are you and your big cousin the only ones who will help? Aren't birds afraid of a lot of rats eating their eggs and babies?"

The barred owl ruffled his feathers and blinked several times. Even in the deep shadow of the giant fir tree, he seemed to feel there was too much light. It also appeared he was thinking hard. Finally he reached a decision on what he was brooding over.

"I'm afraid they mostly won't be any good. Most birds aren't very organized, not in the same way we are here, except for crows. And they wouldn't help anybody who had an owl on their side. They hate owls worse than anyone else. I'd drop out and leave the woods, and I could persuade my big cousin too, I think, but it wouldn't do any good.

"You see, the rats are coming at night. That's the only thing we're sure of. They can't come in daylight because even the humans would see them then. If that happened, it would be the end of them and they know it. So it means night work. Well, there's only me and cousin Death Grip for that. The other night birds are small and eat insects. They couldn't do a thing. If it were daytime fighting, we could get a few hawks, maybe even old White Head, the eagle from over east at the big river. But not at night. We two are the only birds who can do much for you."

Alec was discouraged. Wherever he turned, it seemed, a refusal of help was the answer.

"But there is someone else," said his own subconscious mind. He had forgotten all about the word of Manibozo. Mowheen, the black bear! Would he help? And who would find out? He tried to catch himself, suddenly realizing that if the thought of a bear frightened him, it would probably paralyze the others, the smaller animals. But he was too late.

"What's that?" Whisperfoot said quickly. "What did you have in your mind? That huge thing? What's he got to do with this? Why are you frightened?"

"I didn't want to show him to you," the boy said miserably. "The, well, the Person whom I talked to when I lay down there, down in the woods, he told me that Mowheen might help us. I learned that Mowheen meant a bear. That means there's a bear around here somewhere."

"Bear!" The mouse's tone was shocked. "That giant animal? He only passes through the wood once in a great while. When he does, the forest falls silent until he is gone. I have never seen him but others have. He can break a tree with one blow. What would he do for us?"

"Yes, what are you thinking about?" demanded Scratch. "Not of asking that old terror, are you? We don't even know where he is, not now. He only comes here later in the summer. He's in a terrible temper most of the time, always mad about something."

"I don't know," said Alec. "But the great Person who spoke to me, and who made you get a human to help, said the bear might help, too. You know, I was told by my Grandpa that there were no more bears in this area. They're all supposed to be dead and killed a hundred years ago."

"So much for what humans know," Scratch said. "I told you, he doesn't live around here. He's supposed to live away up west, in the hills. But he comes down now and then. There's a patch of blueberries beyond the swamp that he goes to. Every one of us knows right away when he comes and we all hide."

Whisperfoot shivered. "He eats us, or anything else he finds ants, bee's nests, skunk cabbage, there's nothing he won't eat."

Alec thought for a moment. Then he said, "Look, if there's a truce going on, nobody around The Lot hunting, why wouldn't he behave? He can't want a gang of garbage rats in The Lot running things and chasing everything else out. Why shouldn't he be asked?"

The picture of what the animals all thought about the big bear was that of a great, snarling, destructive force, ranging the woods in a growling fury. He smashed bushes flat for no reason at all, and attacked any animal he saw, large or small, even when not hungry. It was a frightening picture and Alec felt goose pimples come out on his skin as he took it in.

"No, that's not what we meant, not quite," said the raccoon in a critical manner. He was like an English teacher who wants every sentence to say exactly what he means. "We're all afraid of him; who wouldn't be? But we're sorry for him, too. You see he's always alone. We think that's why he's in such a bad temper all the time."

"He's very old," put in Soft Wing. "Owls live a long time, but my mother told me when I was an owlet that the bear had always been alone, even when she was a young bird."

Alec began to see some of the reasons why the animals pitied the ferocious old creature. There were no other bears around, perhaps none anywhere in Connecticut, and the old brute was desperate for lack of company. He probably never had a mate or cubs or anyone to talk to about things that interest bears, thought the boy. No wonder he was bad tempered!

"Maybe we'll have to think about getting him to help. I don't know how, but the great Person I talked to said that the bear might help. We'll just have to think about it some more. I think you should all pass the word around to keep an eye out for Mowheen. If he should come around, we'd want to know about it right away."

"No fear of that," snorted the woodchuck. "As soon as that old brute appears, everyone in the forest knows at once. No one wants to be in his way when he's on the rampage."

"He leaves some of us alone," said Stamper in a somewhat smug tone. Even an angry bear would probably want nothing to do with a skunk.

"I'm all right if there's water around," said Slider. "I'd hate to meet him on land, though," he admitted frankly. "With deep water under me, I'm only afraid of humans and traps."

"Too bad we can't get the rats into deep water," said Scratch reflectively. "I can swim and dive pretty well myself. I could handle three times as many rats in the water as I could on land."

"I could handle thirty all by myself," boasted the otter. "But what good does it do to talk about it? We might even get that whole clan of weedeaters down in the pond to help. There must be fifteen of them at least. But who can get the brown rats to go swimming?"

Alec was interested in this exchange and forgot the problem of the bear for a moment. "What do you mean 'weedeaters'?" he asked. "Are there some more animals who might help us?"

"Yes," said Stamper. "Actually, they are relatives of Stuffer's. He can tell you about them."

The old woodchuck stirred slightly as if awakened from a doze. From his mind came a picture of a low, rounded pile of dead reeds and sticks, projecting from water, on which sat several stout, brown animals with small ears and fat, round, naked tails. "They're all for us, I guess," he said slowly. "But they won't leave the water." The woodchuck's picture now showed one of the animals eating a freshwater mussel, cracking the shell with his big square teeth. "That's the boss," said Stuffer. "Clam-Eater. He runs the whole pack of them. But I don't think they can do much."

Alec had been searching his mind for a memory of what these creatures might be. Their tails were too thin and round for beavers. Muskrats, he thought, that was it. And apparently there were quite a lot of them.

"They look pretty tough," he said to the others.

"Won't they even leave the water for one fight, if they understand how important it is?"

"No," answered Stamper bluntly, "they won't. They wouldn't even come to the meeting place last night. They say that water is where they belong, and it's too bad and they'd like to help, but they can't leave. Stuffer was pretty rude to Clam-Eater, but it didn't do any good.

The boy crouched, his chin on his hands, apparently staring at the trunk of the fir tree. Finally, after several minutes had passed, he began to talk.

"We need to know two things badly, the way I see it," Alec said, speaking slowly. "Mowheen the bear, now. When he comes back to this part of the country, someone has to talk to him, to find out if he'll help. We have to know that for sure."

He looked around at the animals, none of whom had anything to say, and then went on.

"Next and this ought to come first, really, because we don't know when the bear will come back, or even if he'll ever come at all we need a live, healthy, dump rat."

"Why?" said Slider at once. "What good is that? They're hard to catch now, I can tell you, because they don't leave the dump except in gangs and big gangs at that."

"We need information," said Alec, "and I don't know any other way of getting it. We have to have a rat; not just any rat, either, a leader rat who knows something. If we don't get exact information, they can bury us with numbers. The only chance is to be sure what they plan to do, how they'll attack, see?"

Already a plan was beginning to take shape in the boy's mind, although he was hardly aware of it himself.

"I'll see what can be done," said Soft Wing.

Now Whisperfoot said, "What about that bear? We must get him to help us. But it won't be easy. He only comes at night, because of humans with traps and killing sticks. And I've told you twice, he doesn't live here, but just comes through."

"We can't wait for him to come to us. We'll have to go and look for him," Scratch decided. "But I don't know where he is right now."

"You can find out," said Whisperfoot, in a firm voice. "Send the birds out. Soft Wing can look himself when it's dark. He usually comes from away up west, so that's where to look first."

"And what if we find him?" said the raccoon irritably. "What then? Are you going to ask him to come down here? He loves mice for breakfast."

"No," said the mouse calmly, "at least not alone. Watcher and I will ask him, along with one other." Alec felt a qualm pass through him.

"Who's the other?" said Scratch hollowly. "Me?"

"Stamper," said Whisperfoot, "and I'm sure he's not afraid." Again there was a pause while this new thought was considered.

The skunk spoke first. "I'll go," he said quietly. "Even a bear thinks twice before walking into it. And if he goes for Watcher, I can get in between and at least delay him."

This was a very brave speech, as the animals realized, although it was some time before Alec himself appreciated it. He was, frankly, too scared to notice. No one knows what an angry bear will do, skunk-scent or no. But the woods creatures do know that a bear can go crazy with rage in a way no other beast ever does. Bears have charged into fires and even leapt from cliffs trying to reach their enemies, seeking only to deal death and never caring for the consequences to themselves.

During this conversation, Alec felt cold to the very center of his bones. He had said nothing when Whisperfoot volunteered him for the mission of seeking out savage old Mowheen. Pride kept him from shouting "No!" But the very idea of deliberately looking for the morose monster filled him with dread. The deermouse, and the others too, could see that he was frightened and they simply waited for him to make up his mind.

"Somebody has to go see him," he said at last, "and I guess it had better be me. I'll take Whisperfoot and Stamper when and if the bear is located. But the business of catching a rat won't wait that long. I'm going into town to the dump for a prisoner tonight. Who's coming on that trip?"

Again there was a pause. Then Soft Wing spoke. "I can fly ahead, keep watch and maybe grab a rat who isn't looking."

"I'm going everywhere you do, Watcher," said Whisperfoot firmly, "so I'm coming."

"I just had an idea," put in Scratch suddenly. "We're fighting rats, right? Well, why not get a rat on our side? He might be the biggest help of all."

"How do you expect to do that?" said the big otter. "Do you think you can win over a rat into being like us, thinking like us? Sounds to me like you've stopped thinking yourself."

The raccoon chuckled. "But listen, Slider, we have a rat who thinks like us. What about Whisperfoot's large cousin, the one who collects things?"

Into Alec's mind now came a picture of a beautiful animal, a large rat, but with lustrous, brown fur, a spotlessly brushed white belly and great dark eyes. The animal was as immaculate in appearance as any cat, and no more like the dump rat he had seen than a dirty city sparrow is like a song sparrow of the wild. Although he had never seen one except in pictures before, the boy realized that he was seeing a woodrat or pack rat, famous for the habit of moving human campers' belongings and leaving sticks or pine cones in their places.

"Why haven't we tried to get him before?" said Alec. "This is the first I've heard of him."

Whisperfoot said from her branch, "Wandertail's very shy and doesn't like being near most other animals. And he lives deep in the wood with his family and won't come out, even a little way. Or at least he wouldn't before."

"Try him again," said Alec, thinking fast in turn, "and make sure to tell him that the whole wood is depending on him. It's life or death for all of us. Take Stuffer along. He's very convincing. I want both of you to try and persuade your cousin to go into the inside of the rat hill at the dump. There's supposed to be a big cave there, and I'll bet that's where they have their headquarters."

"That's an idea, all right," said Stamper, after the animals had thought a moment. "But," continued the skunk, "animals use their noses mostly, not their eyes, you know. The dump rats would pick Whisperfoot's cousin up right away by smelling him, even in the dark."

"Get him anyway, Whisperfoot," said Alec. "I'll try to think up some way around the smell business."

Around them the dimness of the great tree was a fitting background for their various thoughts, all of which were now rather black and gloomy. The light and life of the forest outside was only shown in occasional spots of sunlit green, visible through small gaps in the mantle of dark needles and long boughs. The birds sang on in the outer world, but under the tree there was only silence and reflection, none of it very cheerful.

7

Later that same morning, after his return from the meeting in the wood, Alec lay face down under a great spreading apple tree in the orchard above the house. Although he had striven to control himself, the confident leader of earlier in the day had vanished.

The full responsibility he was shouldering, the planned meeting at some future date with the dreaded bear and the dangerous trip planned for that very night to examine the dump and spy on the rats all these things had got him down badly. He was feeling very young and miserable as he lay with his head pillowed on his arms, trying not to let the last remnants of his courage ebb away.

He was aroused by a rasping purr and the touch of a coarse tongue licking his right ear. Sitting up abruptly and wiping dirt from his face with a grubby hand, he saw Worthless eyeing him calmly. Impulsively he reached out and gathered the big orange cat into his arms and hugged him tight. He squeezed rather hard, he was so grateful for someone to share his apprehension; but Worthless did not seem to mind and his purr grew to a loud rumble. The cat even reached up and dabbed at the boy's chin with one broad, velvet paw and then lay back in the lap Alec had made by crossing his legs.

"I wish you could talk, Worthless," he said out loud, his voice choked with the remnants of hard-fought tears. "I sure need someone to talk to. Cats are supposed to be awful smart and I sure could use someone smart right now." What he didn't realize was that he had become so accustomed to the mind speech of animals, that he was thinking, even while he actually spoke, the same thought that he had spoken aloud. He hugged the cat again, his misery and fear of the future beginning to return in fresh waves of emotion.

"Now then, don't crush me, Watcher! I'm not made of old rags," came a voice into his brain. Alec froze, his arms locked around the cat, his whole body stiff and rigid. Had he been dreaming? Was he awake now?

"Of course you're awake," said Worthless. The cat's mind-voice was rather like his purr, a sort of rumbling, growly voice, but with an up-and-down rhythm in it which rose and fell as the mind-pictures came and went, something like background music in a Western movie.

Slowly, Alec loosened his grip. He looked down at the big cat and sent out a thought.

"You can talk? Why haven't you talked to me before? Do the other animals know you can talk?"

The great yellow eyes stared at him with a hint of supercilious amusement far back in their depths. Worthless got off Alec's lap and stretched luxuriously, then sat up and looked at the boy with an unblinking stare.

"To all of your questions," said the cat, "there are several answers. I don't talk to the other animals. I listen. Most of what they say isn't interesting anyway. I was brought here as a small kitten and I couldn't talk this way until I was full grown. And I don't think all cats can talk. It's this place, I think."

"Yes," interrupted Alec, "it is. That's why I can talk anyway."

"I don't go into the woods much," the cat went on calmly. "No need to. I have everything I want up here. And there's something down there I don't like, that sets my fur on edge. I have been down in the forest under the trees, although not far and only at night. In fact, that's when I first heard the other animals talking and learned how to listen to them. But they never heard me. You're the first one I ever tried to talk with." He yawned widely, exposing long, ivory fangs and then began to wash his sleek, orange coat. But his mind-speech still went on.

Alec leaned back against the broad base of the old apple tree, feeling weak from reaction. He was tired from pent-up emotion. The realization that Worthless could talk, and even seemed to know all his plans as well, was hard to take in.

"I know about the rats," Worthless continued, "and I know you've got the woods animals organized pretty well. I listen to those silly mice in the walls at night. That's why I don't try to catch them. It's more fun listening and not having them know I can hear them. That's how I learned your name, too. The other day, when you tried to talk to me up here, I wasn't sure yet. But now I think you need my help."

"Do you still listen to the others from the woods?" asked Alec. He was feeling slowly more relaxed.

"Once in a while," said Worthless. "I could probably do better if I tried harder, tried to talk to them myself, perhaps. I've never been that interested until now." He yawned again. "I know most of what you're doing, but not all. I thought about it for a long while and decided I'd better go along with you. You need more help than those stupid mice and things. It should be interesting. I like the idea of killing rats, too, lots of rats." His thoughts were suddenly very bloody and grim, and Alec winced at the pictures he received.

"Are you really going to help us?" said the boy after a pause. "We can use more fighters and you look like a good one."

"I am a good one," said the cat. "All cats are good fighters. Have you got that big stump-tailed animal from the woods to help? He's some kind of cat and should be useful." A picture of the bobcat appeared in Alec's head.

"No," said Alec regretfully. "He wouldn't help at all. He wouldn't even keep the truce."

"Too bad," said Worthless. "Cats are the best fighters of all. He would have been useful. Who cares about an army of chipmunks or rabbits? They can't fight and they're no good in this business. The bobcat could have been a lot of use to you."

Alec was getting a little annoyed. The cat's bland assumption that cats were superior beings, who need abide by no rules except their wishes, was irritating.

"Now listen," he said. "I don't care how good cats are at fighting. We have maybe thousands of rats to fight, and everybody has to obey the rules. If you want to help in the war, you obey, too. Otherwise, you can stay here and eat catfood and mind your own business."

"No cat takes orders if he doesn't want to," said Worthless, his eyes glowing. "Either he helps or he doesn't. I thought you needed help."

"We do," said Alec, "but not from somebody running around doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants. We all have to work at exactly the same time and obey orders or not at all. We can't lick all those rats by each one being the boss and doing only what he feels like."

"All right, all right, no need to be unpleasant," said Worthless more calmly. "I have a right to know what's going on, I suppose? I didn't actually say I wouldn't obey anybody's orders. Your orders, though, not from some woods animal. That's why I came to find you up here and have a quiet chat. You tell me what to do and I won't make any trouble."

"To start with," said Alec, "I want you to leave any animal around here alone. All the woods animals have a truce until this rat business is settled. You don't need to hunt anyway, with all the free food you get by just asking."

"That's no trouble," said Worthless. "I seldom hunt anyway, except to try out my claws now and again. I promise not to touch anyone but rats. That good enough? What else do you want me to do?"

"Listen," said Alec earnestly, "I have to go to the dump tonight, to try to explore and to catch a rat alive if I can. Whisperfoot's going, I guess, and we're trying to get a woodrat to come and disguise himself as one of the dump rats. Want to come along and help?"

"That sounds interesting, I must admit," said the cat, yawning widely. "What else is going on?"

"It's almost lunchtime," said Alec. "I'm going to go exploring down by the pond right after lunch. I'll take Whisperfoot, the mouse. Want to come along then, too?"

"Hardly," said the cat. "I might get all wet and dirt}'. I'll rest now so I'll be ready for tonight." Yawning and stretching his front legs, Worthless climbed off the boy's lap and sauntered away.

"All right, Worthless," said Alec. "I'll go get lunch. Come and see me later."

"I'll be there, ready to supply any advice needed," said the cat and disappeared around a tree.

Alec ran back down to the house feeling a thousand times better than when he had left. He had a new friend and, moreover, one who could think cleverly. He felt that the problems and the endless waiting for news were not so bad now.

Rushing into the kitchen, he seized the astonished Lou by the end of her snowy apron and danced around her, pulling at the apron edge until she was compelled to spin around in circles following his laughing face. Finally, out of breath, he dropped the apron and hugged her.

"Hi, Lou," he said, squeezing her as hard as he could. "Isn't it a great day?"

"Well," said Lou, at last having been allowed to stand still, "I can see you feel just fine. Go along with you now, boy, and play some. Get the devil out of you." With her gruff words, she tried unsuccessfully to hide her affection. He tore out of the sunlit kitchen and raced up the back stairs to his own room, to find Whisperfoot and possibly Creeper to learn the latest news.

As he ran down the long hall on the second floor toward his door, his eye took in without noticing the many pictures which hung the length of the corridor. He had looked at them all before, including the painting of a little woods scene by someone named Homer, which he had been told was very valuable. Near it hung a funny old colored map of an ancient battle in Europe called Ramillies, drawn (it said) by a Captain Mossburger, of General Dopf's dragoon regiment. He had liked the old map especially, both because of its bright colors and also because all the old-fashioned "s's" were written as "f's" so that the words looked all wrong "Ramillief," "Moffburger" and "dragoonf." He used to say the names aloud to himself as if the letters were really "f's" and then scream with laughter. Just beyond where the old map hung on the wall was the entrance to his bedroom.

Today as he rushed past the map, it caught his eye. And suddenly the fact that it was a map and not simply a picture registered in his brain. A map, and the map of a battle at that! He came to an instant stop and stared at the faded old print. The hills, valleys and streams were clearly marked in green at intervals. Between all these things, he saw the armies, shown as narrow rectangles and square blocks of different colors, red for the Allies of long ago and blue for the French of Louis XIV.

As he looked at the map, he began to think hard. This was what he needed, a map of The Lot on which to place the various animals and the areas they would fight in. If he could do this and get everything where it belonged, then all would become much clearer. He stood, lost in thought. Could he draw such a map? Aside from his efforts at school, he did very little drawing. Perhaps, though, if he asked properly, his grandfather would help him.

This last idea struck him as a piece of genius. Without going into his room at all, completely forgetting why he had come up there, in fact, he wheeled and rushed down the front stairs headed for the library. He burst into the room and found the Professor seated at his big desk, buried as usual in papers and opened books, his pen scratching on a yellow pad as he prepared a ponderous attack on some other professor's latest theory. Alec's sudden appearance, however, in no way disconcerted the old gentleman. He looked at the boy over his horn-rimmed glasses, then took them off and waited for what he had to say.

"Grandpa, can you help me draw a map of The Lot, the whole place, just like a real one? I want to have one for my room so I can look at it whenever I want and see where I've been and where everything goes and well, like that."

All of this came out in one tremendous burst and the words ran together like machine-gun fire. It took a few seconds for the Professor to absorb it, and then he looked thoughtful. Getting up from his desk, he walked over to a tall walnut cupboard in one corner and bent down to reach for the lowest drawer.

"Come here, Alec, and give me a hand. I haven't opened this dratted thing since your grandmother died and no one else has either, from the feel of it.

But there used to be some stuff in here that just may be what you want. Ah! Easy does it."

The two of them, tugging and hauling, managed to pull the stiff old drawer open, and it disclosed a mass of papers, some spread out flat and others tightly rolled and bound with pieces of ribbon and string. Settling back on his knees, Professor March began to remove the various sheets carefully, examining them as he did so. Alec waited expectantly.

"Let's see now. Here's that set of colored prints of all the sea battles Lord Nelson fought in. I forgot I never had them framed. Your grandmother never liked them. She said they made her sea-sick.

"What's this? A set of charts of the Florida Keys. I must have planned to sail there once, I suppose." The old man kept up a running commentary, half to the boy and half to himself, as he unwrapped the papers, finding long-forgotten treasures and family mementos, occasionally chuckling as he recalled the origin of some sheet or other.

"Here's your great-great-grandfather's commission as a lieutenant in the Navy, signed by Lincoln during the Civil War. I'll keep that out. You ought to have it. Now, these should be what we want. Not bad for an old fellow to remember where he put something thirty years ago, eh?"

From the bottom of the heap, Professor March had pulled a sheaf of maps, laid flat and still un-creased. They were all identical copies and were beautifully and clearly inked in black showing the whole acreage of The Lot brook, fields, walls, and even individual trees if they were large enough.

"This what you want, boy? I had these made as presents for friends when we first bought the house. They're based on the local survey, but for fun your grandmother and I re-surveyed everything ourselves. See, here's the pond, Musquash Pond it's called. That's the Indian name for the muskrat and there are always some there. Notice all the little numbers in the water? For the heck of it, I went out in an old canoe we had then and took soundings, so you can tell exactly how deep it is in each part. A piece of silliness, but I wanted it to be as exact as possible. We mailed out a lot of them at Christmas that first year, then put em away and forgot about them. You'll never get a better map of The Lot than that, though, no matter who does it."

Alec asked whether he could borrow one of the copies.

"Borrow, borrow!" snorted his grandparent. "What do you mean 'borrow'? You can have all of them. No, wait, let me keep one. I'd forgotten how good they were. I'll have one framed. No, I'll have three framed, one for me, one for your parents and one for you. No, I'll have four, another one for John and Lou. I had them done before they came; I'll bet John's never seen one. He'll be tickled pink."

By this time, Alec's face had grown longer. How many were left? He needed one to draw on, and not to frame and hang on a wall.

"Let's see, there's seventeen copies, minus four, leaves thirteen. Thirteen enough for your own exploring?"

"Gee, Grandpa, one's enough. Just so I can draw on it things I find and stuff I see and want to remember. One'll do fine."

"Take the one, then, and go find out everything I missed and put it all down. And remember, don't worry if you lose it; there are twelve more whenever you want them." The old man carefully replaced all the papers and shut the drawer, keeping out four copies of the map. Standing up slowly, he dusted his hands and returned to his work, never noticing that Alec had vanished.

Upstairs in his room, stretched on the big bed, Alec went over every inch of the map with his eyes. Tracing the different places with one finger, he found in turn Bound Brook, the old orchard, the house itself and Musquash Pond deep in the wood.

Around the pond on three sides were strange little marks like this -L, repeated over and over again. He studied the rest of the map and found them nowhere else. He was puzzled for a minute until he remembered John had said it was "boggy and marshy" down there. The little marks must mean swamp or wet, muddy ground. All the rest of The Lot was higher, so of course the swamp must all be down around the pond. He studied the pond again with more care. The little marks were on three sides; now what did that mean? The fourth side was the one closest to the road to town, the way to Mill Run. Alec thought hard, then looked back at the map. It must be steeper on that side, he thought.

The pond seemed to be shaped like the letter U upside-down, with the entrance of Bound Brook coming in at one arm in the U. The other arm, nearest the road, had the number 10 written on it twice. The arm lying furthest away from the road said 4 and 3. At the curve between the two arms the number was 6.

Feeling a sense of being watched, although he had heard nothing, he looked up and saw Creeper's face peeking at him out of the knothole. Then he remembered his apologies.

"Hey, Creeper," he said. "What's happening? Any news? Where's Whisperfoot? What about the rats?"

Creeper came out of the hole and swelled with self importance. "Nothing new. I'm keeping very closely in touch. All the news comes straight to me. Same old thing so far. The rats are going to move some place soon, and they're still asking questions about the roads and trails in this direction. That's all, though."

"Where's Whisperfoot?" repeated Alec.

"Dunno. She hasn't been around since I saw you this morning, Maybe out seeing the field mice. Well, I've got work to do. Be nice to find some cheese here this evening for dinner, now, wouldn't it?"

"Suppose I told you I was going down to the dump tonight?" said the boy mischievously. "And that I wanted you to come along. Would cheese still interest you as much?"

Creeper looked appalled, if a small, fat mouse can do such a thing. "Down there?" He seemed to choke with emotion. "That's plain crazy. The rats have guards out everywhere. Some of them are hid way away out from the dump. Why, a cockroach can't get near that place without them knowing about it. You won't get me into such a thing, no sir!"

"Okay," said Alec. "I'll have to go alone or with someone else, I guess. Don't worry. And I'll try to remember some cheese."

Downstairs Lou rang the big kitchen cowbell and Alec knew that lunch was finally ready.

He went downstairs and found the kitchen table set for three.

"Your grandpa's out to lunch today," Lou informed him.

The back door opened and John came in, mopping his face with a red bandana. He went to wash up at the kitchen sink and then seated himself.

After grace had been said and eating commenced, Alec reverted to a subject occupying his mind to the exclusion of most other things.

"John, are you busy this afternoon?"

"No more than usual," was the reply. "What you got in your mind?"

"I thought I'd like to go down and look at the pond," said Alec. "It's not hard to find, is it?"

"Don't see why not," said John. "Come and find me at one-thirty, cause I'd like to go too. But that consarned power mower broke down again and I got to try and take her apart first. I'll be ready for a jaunt around then. Dad-blasted thing ought to be sold for scrap," he added.

"Professor March offered to buy a brand new mower, Darden, and you know it," said Lou briskly. "You just love that old piece of tin and won't part with it, that's all. Don't go ablaming the tools when you could get new if so be you wanted."

"I don't get any credit for being a real, saving, tight-fisted New Englander," said John, straight-faced and helping himself to more hamburger. "Over to New Milford where I come from, we still drive our first cars, but around here the spending urge has took over from the New Deal."

Alec watched and listened to the ensuing battle with only half an eye or ear. John and Lou endlessly bickered in an affectionate way over everything under the sun, and the boy had soon realized that this was their tart Yankee way of expressing their deep love and devotion for each other.

"John," he said during a temporary lull in the Mill Run-New Milford conflict, "do you know all of the animals that live around here? All the different kinds, I mean?"

"Reckon I mostly do," said John thoughtfully. "Some you don't see much, of course. I seen a fisher marten last winter, though, and there ain't supposed to be any around these parts. Like a great big dark mink and climbs better'n a squirrel. Haven't seen one since I was a boy. Didn't tell a soul but Lou, though. The pelt's so valuable, some trapper might try a line in the woods. Why you asking?"

Alec hesitated, framing his next question carefully. The mention of the fisher marten had thrown him off. He made a mental note to ask Scratch if it were still around, then went on.

"Grandpa told me that deer were the only big animals around here. But he said to ask you because you know everything about the woods and he doesn't go out much. Is that right? Are deer the only really big animals?"

Darden selected a home-made doughnut from a pink china bowl in the center of the table and pushed his chair back. Eating the doughnut, he stared, not at the boy, but at his wife.

"Bible says you can't tell a lie, don't it, Lou?" he queried between bites. "The tad here asked a question needs an honest answer."

Lou knew her man and came alert at once.

"Darden, you been keeping something from me! What's down in them woods? Been nothing but deer all my lifetime and long before. You know something, though, don't you?"

"Yep," said John. "There is something else, or at least now and again there has been. Maybe dead now."

Alec's spine tingled with excitement as he waited for more. "What's there, John?" he implored.

"Bear," said John firmly, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "An old he-bear from the way he claws trees up high. Never saw him, but I been seeing his fresh tracks and claw marks, five, ten years back now, usually in summer."

"Darden," cried Lou from across the table. "You let this boy go down alone in them woods to be eat by a hungry bear? You ain't got the sense God gave a chipmunk! What are you thinking of?"

"Now, now, just take it easy," said John. "First off, the boy's in no danger. A bear that can even live in this crowded part of the country is so gun-shy, he won't stop running ten miles if he even smells a human nearby. Black bears don't bother people anyway, 'cept a she-bear with young. This is a male, woman, and he won't bother no one. The only way the boy'd be in danger is should word get out and a hundred crazy city people come tramping around with guns. We'd all have to wear red shirts to bed to keep from getting shot. That's why I never told."

His voice hardened, a rare thing for the quiet, easygoing old farmer. "And that's why I don't want no one told, either. Alec's more liable to get run over by a car down to New York City than he is to even see that bear. One old bear, maybe the last in five hundred miles of here, ain't bothering no one, and I want him let alone. He don't really live here anyway; just comes around once in a great while."

Lou sat in silence while Alec's head swam. Despite what the animals had told him, he had not really believed in the bear. But there was truly a bear, an old male bear, and he, Alec March the Watcher, had to find and talk to the animal.

"John," said Lou, her voice now gentle, "Alec won't be in danger, will he? You and me argue a lot but this is different. A bear, any bear, can be mean. Are you sure?"

"Think about it, Lou," said the man in an equally gentle voice. "Between us we hear gossip from all over this county. There's a million Boy Scouts up here every summer. There's all them tourists up at the lake to the west. And us locals. Legal hunters every fall as thick as fleas. And illegal ones all year, too, enough to keep the game wardens busy. And never one whisper, not one mention ever that there's an old bear around.

"He's an old brute, so spooky that he won't let any human get within sight even. Bears is shy anyway, much more than most critters. If he even saw Alec's shirttail, he wouldn't stop running until he fell in the Connecticut River. There ain't no need to take on." He finished and stirred his coffee a little.

"All right," Lou said reluctantly. "On your head be it. I guess you know more about animals than most. Still, it does give you a turn, don't it? A real live bear after a hundred years or more." She turned to Alec. "Are you scared to go down in those woods now?"

"If John says he's harmless, I'm not afraid," he said. "Besides, he's not there very much, is he?"

"Nope," said John. "Only in summer so far as I've noticed, and only at night, if my thinking's right. Since you're tucked in your bed every night I doubt much you'll know he's around even if he does come. I figger he just roams a bit. Probably looking for a wife, though he'd know when he was well off if he thought about it some." A grin accompanied this last, which made even Lou's lips twitch.

"Enough of this chatter," exclaimed Lou, picking up the lunch things. "We'll say no more about this to anyone. Alec, if you see the bear, you just run. Now go along and play. Darden, are you going to sit around here all day cluttering up my kitchen?"

At 1:30 sharp, Alec tucked his rubbers into a back pocket in case of mud and ran to join John, whom he found out in front of the house. Together they set off through the orchard and past the vegetable garden for the corner of the field where Alec had gone the night of the meeting in the forest. But of course he said nothing about this and simply followed John's tall figure as if it were all new to him.

But the boy did have his new map and a pencil with him. He showed the map to John, who was greatly impressed, and told him that he planned to add new details to it.

They entered the wood at the same break in the corner of the wall, and walked down the same narrow deer trail as Alec had before.

Eventually, moving steadily down through the sunlit wood, they came to level ground and the Council Glade, open and green in the bright sun of afternoon. It didn't look nearly so impressive now, but it was a lovely place anyway. Butterflies hovered over the short grass and birds flew back and forth across the opening from one tree to another.

"Funny place," grunted John from ahead of Alec. "Never seems to get trees or weeds right here. Looks like somebody mows the grass all the time, too. Gives you kind of a peaceful feeling when you set and rest here a minute."

Alec said nothing, but smiled to himself as he looked at the circle of flat gray stones. John would never know why the place was so peaceful!

Passing through the clearing, John led on, still taking a narrow path through the bushes and trees. The ground was beginning to squelch a bit. Alec stopped to put on the rubbers and he could smell new scents in the moist air.

They came out suddenly into the open, and Alec saw, glancing at the map, that they had left the cover of the wood at the point of land between the two arms of the pond. John had brought him to the base of this little peninsula, perhaps a hundred feet in length, and they were able to see Musquash Pond in its entirety. There seemed to have been no apparent change in the pond's shape since the Professor had drawn his map.

Tall reeds grew in clumps at the water's edge, and red-winged blackbirds, disturbed at their nests, shouted "quonka-ree" at the two humans. To the left, the arm of the pond was covered with the yellow blossoms of the cow lily and its broad leaves almost formed a mat over the shallower water. Dark brown cattails grew along the shore, towering above the shorter reeds. Clumps of wild flag iris blazed in blue clusters here and there. On the right, which Alec was studying carefully, the water appeared darker and deeper, as the map said it would be, and few lilies broke the smooth brown surface except near the shore. Spatterdock spread broad green leaves over the verge, however, and mixed with pickerelweed to form a green bank over the dark mud of the shore.

Red, blue and green dragonflies darted about over the water, hawking gnats and mosquitoes; but except for the annoyed blackbirds, little else moved.

Out in the open water, Alec could see large piles of dead vegetation thrusting up through the lily leaves. Before he could speak, John pointed out the same things.

"See all them musquash houses, sonny? A man could almost make a living with a trapline down here. Must be a dozen houses and maybe twice that many rats. I come down here once at night and the hull place was just one big splash and wiggle. 'Course I don't trap nor allow no one else to, but there's sure a plenty rats here. You can see why it's called Musquash Pond."

The boy again studied the water to his right. The far bank was higher than the point of land on which they stood, and sloped up to the screen of trees at a rather sharp angle.

"How far is the main road to town up there, John?" he asked.

"Maybe about two hundred yards," said John. "You can't see the pond from the road, but it's not too far. Just the trees and brush in the way is so thick. I can see you figured out where you are pretty good," he added.

Alec reminded him about his grandfather's map by holding it up and explained that he wanted to know where everything was on The Lot.

"What's on the far side of the road from here?" he asked. "Just more trees?"

"For about a little over two miles, yes," said John. "Then you hit the edge of town and a few houses. That old dump we looked at ain't too far either, to the right of the houses a bit, maybe three miles from where we stand. Town's not so far as it looks by road, but the road swings in a curve instead of going straight in."

"Do you come down here much at night?" asked Alec.

"Not hardly at all," said John. "I used to fish a little, but I ain't even done that for some years back. Maybe we can get some stuff and try to hook a bass or pickerel some time if you like. Ought to be some fair-sized bass in here."

"Great," said Alec. "I'd like that a lot."

"I'll try and round up some gear then," said John. "Anything else you want to see?"

"No," said Alec. "That's all, thanks. I'll wait till we can go fishing to come back. Boy, these bugs sure bite." He had been slapping mosquitoes for some minutes and his thin, short—sleeved shirt was little protection.

"Come on," said John. "I forgot you weren't wearing a thick shirt like mine. Let's go back. The bugs and skeeters stay near the water." The pair went back the way they had come, and the blackbirds fell silent as they vanished into the trees.

8

It was late afternoon when Alec got back to the house. He went upstairs and headed for his room, and was not surprised to find Worthless curled up outside his door. The boy greeted him before opening it, glad to see the big cat.

"I just got here," said Worthless. "I've been talking to your little friend through the door. She seems pretty smart for a mouse, maybe too smart. Also I gather she thinks I'm a waste of time." He paraded into the room ahead of Alec and jumped onto the bed.

If he was hoping to frighten Whisperfoot, he failed, because she sat calmly watching him from her place on the headboard and never moved.

"Whisperfoot," said Alec, "here's Worthless. He may be a lot of help to us tonight and later on, so I hope we can all get along."

"I can get along with anyone," she answered, "even him. I'll wait and see just how big a help he is." The tone of her voice indicated great doubt.

"Splendid," rumbled the cat. Tm sure we will become great friends, my little woods scurrier." He stared hard at the mouse with his great yellow eyes, then shifted his attention to Alec.

"Is this visit to the dump still going to take place?" he said. "Because if so, it seems interesting enough to make it worth my while going along.

"What do you say, Whisperfoot?" said Alec. "Did you get your cousin, the woodrat? How about tonight? And what other news is there?"

"Well, the news is fair, so far," said the pretty deermouse. "To take your questions in order, Stuffer and I persuaded Wandertail to at least come and meet us partway to the dump. You don't know how shy he is! If he'd heard about this cat coming, that would have been the end of it, right there. As it is, I just don't know what he'll do or how far he'll go in helping. There's not much other news. No one has seen the bear yet. The rats are still busy around the dump and a few scouts were seen not too far from the pond early this morning. That's all."

Alec reflected for a moment. He was still not entirely sure what he planned to do when he got near the dump, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt that Wandertail the woodrat was a key which might open many doors.

"What time are we going out?" said Worthless. "I may as well catch up on some sleep if it's going to be late."

"We won't leave until fairly late," said the boy. "Stay close enough so I can call you when I want you."

The meal that evening, eaten in the kitchen, seemed intolerably long and Alec could pay hardly any attention to what Lou and John were saying.

Upstairs later, lying fully dressed on his bed, Alec tried to be patient and wait for the complete settling down of the household. He heard Professor March come in from his day's outing and go to bed. He heard the big grandfather clock in the downstairs hall boom out ten o'clock. The faint sound of Lou and John's television finally ceased, their light went off and the house became still except for the creaks and groans of aged timbers and warped shingles. Outside his open window, the night was still and windless, only a few crickets breaking the silence with their chirps. Then the big clock struck the half hour. It was ten thirty, time to begin!

"Worthless! Whisperfoot!" his silent call went out.

"Here, Watcher," answered the mouse from the hole in the wall. "All ready?"

"I'm in the hall, waiting," came the big cat's voice. "Any time you want to move is fine."

The deermouse leapt to the headboard of the big sleigh bed and then to Alec's shoulder. As quietly as he had on the previous night, he let himself out into the hall. A touch of Worthless' tail on his bare ankle told him the cat was with them.

The three stole down the stairs through the library and out the French window in silence. Outside, under a mass of stars and the moon, Alec moved for the driveway.

"I'm going to follow the road to town," he told the other two. "There's almost no traffic at night, cause this road is a dead end four miles beyond our place. If I see car lights, we can get under cover." Then a thought occurred to him. "What about your cousin Wandertail?" he asked the mouse. "Will he know where to meet us?"

"I told him to meet us about half-way from the house to the dump," she said. "I can call to him, I think, if you'll tell me when we get about that far on the road. I've never been so far from The Lot myself, so I don't know the distances. But I'll have to tell him not to be scared of Worthless here, or else he'll run away as soon as he smells him."

"I'll leave him alone," said the cat, pacing along the drive. "I gave my word. Only the dump rats are prey from now on."

At the driveway's entrance, two paused and all three listened. The night was still quiet. Alec looked back at the shadowy bulk of the house far up the drive and wished for a moment that he was back in bed. Then he suppressed the thought and moved briskly off down the dark macadam road, easy to see in the moonlight. Worthless marched in front. Aside from the muted scuff of his sneakers and a few insect noises, Alec could hear nothing. The deermouse rode quietly on his shoulder.

For a mile or so this uneventful progress continued. Once or twice the sound of a car engine could be heard a long way off on some other road, but that was the only break in the quiet.

They had passed Musquash Pond on their left sometime after leaving the drive, and the croaking of a few frogs died slowly away as they went on.

Then Whisperfoot spoke suddenly. "Hadn't we better slow down, Watcher? This is quite a way from home. I ought to try to reach Wandertail."

Alec obediently stopped, and he and Worthless stepped off the road and crouched under a large oak tree.

He was conscious now that the little mouse was sending out a message. But it was not for him, or Worthless either, and thus he could hear nothing, being only aware that a sort of static was loose in the air, something like code on a radio. This was his first experience with how an animal can send a message "directionally" to only one other animal. He found it very interesting to think about and filed the knowledge away for future use.

"He's coming," the deermouse said suddenly. "I managed to reach him. He's not very far away. If we stay here, he'll come quite quickly. Then he can ride with me and we can move faster."

The three waited patiently in the shadow of the tree. A train wailed far off in the night and a whippoorwill cried deep in the wood behind them.

"Here I am," said a new voice in Alec's mind and with that, Wandertail sat in front of them.

Even in the moonlight he was very handsome. He was almost as big as a small cat, and his glossy buff coat shone from countless brushings. He looked, in fact, rather like a version of Whisperfoot suddenly grown huge, even to the great translucent ears, very long whiskers and long tail covered with sleek fur. His voice was not unlike his appearance, being trim, neat and rather shy.

Now he sat, looking at Alec and the cat with no evidence of fear, obviously waiting to be told what came next.

"Hello," said the boy. "I'm glad you could come to meet us. This is my cat, Worthless, who'll help us. He won't harm anyone from the woods."

"I know," said the woodrat. "How do you do," he added formally. "The mouse and the woodchuck said you wanted my help. I hate to leave my territory or my family, but I guess we all have to help if we can. What am I supposed to do?"

Alec felt very nervous, but he could think of no way of softening his request, so he blurted it out.

"We want you to try to go into the rat's nest down at the dump. We thought you might be able to disguise yourself as one of them, since you're about the same size and shape."

There was a pause. "I don't believe any animal thought that scheme up," said Wandertail shrewdly. He cleaned his whiskers for a moment, obviously thinking. "This won't be easy, you know. Frankly, the idea appalls me. I am related to those dreadful creatures and I know what they're like. They're very clever and they don't like meddling from anyone. They also have smell and hearing just as good as mine, and that's pretty good, I can tell you. I don't see how it would be possible to pretend I'm one of them at all."

Alec slumped back against the tree. "I guess I just hoped too much. It's a lot to ask anyway, and I forgot how easy it is for any animal to smell a stranger. We'll have to think of something else."

"Wait a minute," said the big woodrat calmly. "I said I couldn't get into their place disguised as one of them. I didn't say I couldn't get in at all. I think I can, as a matter of fact, although I loathe the idea."

"How?" asked Worthless, sitting upright to see the rat better. "You just said "

"Why, I'll go as myself," said Wandertail. He paused and Alec realized he was actually embarrassed. "I haven't told anyone this, but those dump rats know where I live, or used to. Two of them appeared one night not too long ago and asked me well asked me to more or less join them! I told them to get out and I haven't seen them since. I changed my house right away. Built a brand new one in case a gang of them ever came back. They wanted me to be a kind of spy for them and promised me I'd be a very important rat if I'd help them find out what they wanted to know."

"What was that?" said Alec, who was getting excited.

"I don't know," admitted Wandertail. "I got mad and chased them off before I could find out. They left, snarling threats, incidentally, which is why I moved my house."

The boy and the three animals were now sitting close together in the tree's dark shadow. It was the cat who asked the next question, and he was practically nose to nose with the woodrat. "What did you have in mind?"

"Why, accepting their offer," said Wandertail. "If I just appeared at the dump and said I'd reconsidered and changed my mind, and then demanded that I be let in, I feel pretty sure they'd make the same offer as before."

"That's all well and good," said Whisperfoot, "but suppose they don't trust you? Suppose they don't believe you at all? What then?"

"Then I'll just have to think of something else," said the woodrat. His manner was controlled, even jaunty, but he fooled no one. Even the cat had to respect his courage after hearing him talk. A horrible death might very well be his fate if the suspicious dump rats refused to believe his story.

"I think they'll let me in" Wandertail went on. "But in case they don't let me out, I'll keep sending messages to Whisperfoot here. The dump rats won't be able to understand them. If they notice anything, I'll just say I'm reassuring my family."

"You've thought of everything," said Alec in an admiring voice.

"No, you thought of my going in at all," rejoined the woodrat, "and after that, the rest was logical."

"Where should we stay?" said Alec. "I mean, while you're inside?"

Wandertail reflected. After a pause he said, "As close as you can get to the dump. I can talk just so far, you know. We can only do our best."

"Weren't we going to grab a dump rat as a prisoner?" said Worthless. "What about that idea now?"

But Alec was absorbed in Wandertail's plan. "We'll stay outside their sentry line or whatever it is," said the boy. "We'll try to get as close as we can without alerting any of them. Do you think you can get back to us fairly quickly?"

"I think so," said Wandertail. "That is," he added, "if they let me out at all, once I'm in!"

"Jump up on my other shoulder," said Alec, "and we'll head for the dump. Be sure to let me know when to slow down, so I don't come close to a rat sentry or get them stirred up."

With one neat pounce, the woodrat reached the boy's sleeve and ran up it. Alec rose to his feet and, once more preceded by Worthless, moved off along the edge of the road toward town. No one spoke any further. The plans had been made and there was nothing to say.

For some two miles along the winding road, Alec, his two passengers, and the orange cat walked in silence. Twice, dirt roads opened to the side, leading to distant farms, but this was the only sign of any other human dwelling.

"Stop," said Worthless suddenly. "Can you smell anything?"

"Yes," said Whisperfoot and her cousin together. "That's it!"

Alec could detect nothing, but stood in the road, hands clenched, trying to use his nose as the other three used theirs. Then, a gentle current of night air brought a faint whiff of corruption to his nostrils, and he knew what it meant. The dump! He was smelling the garbage and filth amidst which the rats lived and schemed.

"Let us off here," said the woodrat. He and the deermouse jumped down as the boy crouched, and then darted away into the shadows ahead and to the right.

"What about you, Worthless?" said Alec.

"I hate to admit it," said the cat, "but those two are better at this sort of thing than I am. They know how to take cover out here. You know, get behind things quickly. And then they're far smaller, too. I'll stay here until they come back and tell us what's ahead. Let's get over behind this stone wall."

In a very short time, the tiny deermouse had reappeared and she perched on a jutting stone of the old wall by the road and gave them the news.

"We found their sentries, all right. But they didn't see us. The rats have the place well guarded, though, and I don't think either of you should get much nearer."

"So we might as well stay here, is that it?" said Alec.

"I think so," said Whisperfoot. "Look, here's what we planned. Wandertail will go up and try to get them to take him in, just as we planned. He'll keep sending me messages and I'll pass them on to you. I can get very close to the dump without being found out, and this way the message-sending will be easy. In fact, we think we can fix it so you'll be practically looking out of Wandertail's eyes."

"Go ahead," said Alec, as calmly as he could. "And remember, call if you need us."

"Right," said the mouse, and was gone.

The cat curled up next to Alec and lay quietly. He knew the message would not affect him and he had the patience of his race. He would wait until needed.

Alec leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. He was unsure about this new method of talking and worried about the safety of both Whisperfoot and the brave woodrat. He felt responsible for the whole plan, which now seemed reckless and crazy, and if the two were hurt, he felt he would be responsible.

The picture which came unannounced into his mind dispelled all other thoughts for the moment. He was looking at two large, brown rats, looking into their evil, black eyes! The link was working and Wandertail had approached the dump guards! What followed then came directly from the mind of the gallant woodrat, who was risking his life to get the information the animals of The Lot so desperately needed.

Alec saw the two guards approach and then Wandertail spoke to them.

"I had a visit from some of your people down in the woods the other day. I was a bit hasty and chased them away. I've changed my mind, and I came over to make a deal. Better get one of your leaders over fast to talk to me."

"You look too pretty and clean to chase any of us very far!" This from one of the guards, a dirty-looking rat with one eye gouged out.

"Shut up, you," said the other, an older, grizzled individual. "I'll watch him and see he stays here. You go get Notch-Ear and hurry up with it, too. I've heard about this fellow and maybe he's going to be useful."

The one-eyed rat looked resentful, but Alec could see that rats all obeyed orders, for he darted off toward the looming central heap of the dump.

"Don't mind him,'' said the older rat who had stayed with Wandertail. "He'll never get very far, he won't. He doesn't have sense enough to realize that a friend is always useful. But I do." The rat winked and nudged Wandertail. "Get me? Maybe you and me can do each other some good sometime, see. My name's Chip-Tooth, so keep it in mind for future reference."

As he finished speaking, the one-eyed guard returned. With him were several other dump rats, but only one of them attracted Alec's attention.

It was the very same rat he had seen in the vision, the one showed him by Manibozo. There was the large size, the wedge-shaped piece cut out of one ear, and the air of confident and brutal command. Surely there could be no mistake, he thought; only one rat looked like this.

The new rat wasted no time. "I'm Notch-Ear," he said. "I run things around here right now. What do you want? You gave our scouts a pretty rough reception when we sent them to see you. And now you've moved your place, too."

Alec could feel the disquiet in Wandertail's mind as this last message sank in. The dump rats were so well-informed that they knew he had just moved his home!

"Come on, come on," said Notch-Ear. "I haven't got all day. What brought you over here?"

"I want to come in with you people," said Wandertail. "I thought it over down in the woods and I decided I felt closer to you rats up here than I do to anyone over in The Lot. It seemed to me that if I got your help we could chase the foxes and weasels out of the area or at least I could get more protection. So I came to see what was wanted from me. Your scouts spoke of a deal we could make. But I don't know why you want me. Are you the big boss here?"

Notch-Ear stared hard into the woodrat's eyes for a moment, then grunted, "I'm boss enough for you, my friend. Let's leave it at that. Changed your mind, have you? Maybe and maybe not. Well, I'll think about it. You tell these two where you live now and perhaps someone will be by to see you one night soon. It may be that it isn't too late for you to join up and be smart. But that's also for the future." He turned on his heel to go and his guards turned also.

Alec felt Wandertail's sense of disaster as keenly as the woodrat did. Being simply dismissed to go home like this was no help at all. They had learned nothing and the trip was wasted time.

Suddenly though, as Alec stared at Notch-Ear's back through the woodrat's eyes, he saw the rat leader stiffen. For a full minute the big brown rat sat still, rigid and unmoving, as if struck by lightning. Then he turned and hopped back to where Wandertail and his two guardian sentries were still sitting.

"Things have changed, woodrat. It appears better after all for you to have a visit with us and get to know us better. Who knows? You may even get to leave. Now follow me and stay close.'' On this sinister note he turned again and led the way toward the central mound of the dump. His bodyguard closed in behind Wandertail, and the other two returned to their sentry posts.

As they scurried along, weaving between old car bodies, piles of smouldering rubbish, and mounds of tin cans, Notch-Ear began to address his guest over his shoulder.

"You may be trustworthy, I suppose, in your own way. But you have a lot to learn quickly about us brown rats. We operate by orders around here, and on the hop none of your argle-bargle, let's-think-about-it-for-three-days stuff, like you woods people. We have discipline and that's why we're going to end up on top, my friend. If you really are one of the right sort, why perhaps you'll be included."

"On top of what?" said Wandertail, giving a good impression of dull-wittedness.

"Everything," snarled Notch-Ear. "Some fine day, even the humans will learn a lesson from us rats; but until then, your bit of woods will do us for a start. We're going to begin with that, see?"

"There are humans up in the big house on the hill," said the woodrat as he ran along by Notch-Ear's side. "What about them? Can't they interfere?"

"We can make humans mighty unhappy, even if we can't kill em," grinned the big rat leader, displaying yellow teeth. "We have plans for them, too, I can assure you." He dodged around a last pile of filthy rubbish and there before them was the entrance to the central hill.

Two guardian rats crouched by the door, but made no move as Notch-Ear and the others behind him passed them and entered the hole. Inside, Alec was surprised to find that he could see perfectly. Of course he was using the woodrat's wonderful nighteyes and even through Whisperfoot's relay, the picture was perfect.

Dropping rapidly downward, the passage narrowed only slightly. All the rats, Wandertail in the middle, ran along single file, following Notch-Ear as he led straight down a long slope. Other holes and passages intersected at right angles from both sides and sometimes brown rats could be seen crouched in their entrances or scuttling away on errands. Notch-Ear's party paid no attention to any of them, and every rat who saw them hastened to get out of their way.

Down, down, down went the main tunnel. Alec was seeing something no human had ever seen before the living, breathing entity of a brown rat swarm, one of the strangest and most awful of animal societies. The boy was actually holding his breath as he lay, his own eyes shut, using those of the woodrat to pursue the incredible trip.

At last, at what must have been a point many feet underground, Notch-Ear stopped. Here was another opening, and in front of it were three more rats as big as Notch-Ear or bigger. Unlike any others seen up to now, they showed no special respect for the scarred rat chieftain and plainly were themselves of at least equal rank.

"You go in, Notch-Ear," said the middle one. "I'll come with you and the prisoner. The others stay outside."

Prisoner! Alec felt terror and knew that poor, gallant Wandertail was no better. Had he been led into a dreadful trap? But there was no time for worry.

The three rats, the new one in the lead and Notch-Ear trailing, passed through the hole. Wandertail jerked to a halt just inside and was prodded forward again by Notch-Ear shoving from behind.

Before them lay a fantastic scene. They had come to the lip of a great underground chamber. Deep as it was in the bowels of the earth below the dump, it was still large enough to hold many humans. The ceiling Alec guessed to be at least fifteen feet above the floor. And there was actual light, although of a dim, eerie, and unpleasant kind. A small oily stream of water ran across the floor of the place and some luminous insects, glowworms perhaps, were clustered thickly upon its banks and on slimy rocks rising from its surface. The result was a spectral, unclean glow.

On a low mound in the center of the chamber, not far from the stream's bank, lay five great rats. No scars marked their sleek, fat sides and their pale gray-brown fur was spotlessly clean, their naked tails white and shiny. Around them lay several heaps of white bones, remnants of past meals, gleaming in the shifting light cast by the insects. The round entrance hole through which the three had just come looked far too small for the great bulks of the five to pass through and it was the only exit from the chamber. Even as Alec thought of this fact, a thrill of horror coursed through him. None of the five could ever leave, either by this door or any other!

For their great naked tails were knotted and tied together in an inextricable tangle, looking in some places as if the flesh had actually grown together. So fused and entwined were the five tails that it was impossible for any one of their owners to move so much as six inches before being brought to a halt by the weight of the others.

Nor was this all. As he stared at the strange group, one of them, a huge female, lifted her head and sniffed the air, squealing as she did so. But no vicious black eyes were focused on the entrance hole toward which her head was pointed. Only white, empty sockets met Alec's gaze. Aghast, the boy scanned the others, only to find a similar emptiness throughout. They were all blind! And more than blind—blinded. For it was plain that they had not been born this way.

Their eyes were not simply the unseeing orbs which come from blindness at birth, but scarred, empty pits, still showing the marks of the ancient wounds which had deprived them of sight in their helpless youth. Hideous as they were, Alec felt pity for their maimed and earthbound state. He realized that this was all they had ever known or would ever know: the dim, great chamber buried under tons of garbage and earth and stone, black and hopeless, an eternal night, forever without real movement or air. And so he pitied the Rat Kings in their awful home, a home which was a tomb.

But not for long. They were all moving now, clumsily straining against each other, stretching toward the small hole that was their only link with the world outside. Alec felt a blast of concentrated evil from their minds, which struck him like a physical blow in the face. They were not helpless from their own point of view, he realized then. Instead, they actually gloried in their horrible state, felt great pride and strength in being pinioned and blinded and yet still acknowledged as rulers of their whole race. His pity vanished as he realized this.

Alec had no more time to puzzle over the sightless monsters. They were speaking. Notch-Ear and the guard captain crouched subserviently in front of them and held Wandertail helpless.

"So this is the creature from the wood?" It was the great blind female's mind-voice, Alec sensed.

"We have sent for you to see us and learn from us, creature," she went on, her snout waving in the gloom. "And perhaps we can learn from you. Perhaps we can even learn enough so that we will let you go. Or perhaps we will feast instead!"

There was a note of cruel gloating in her tone which chilled Alec's blood. He knew Wandertail was shaking too, but his two guardians held him immovable. The heaped white bones lent horrid meaning to the speech.

"Listen well, rat of the wood," she went on. "You see the Rat Kings who will someday rule all the world. Even now we plan a move never mind why upon the land of trees where you lurk. Our armies are unconquerable and our race will rule the forest whatever happens.

"But our way can be made easier. We will allow you to aid us, woodrat, and promise you and yours safety and a place in our armies as a reward. Is this not why you have come here?"

"Yes," said Wandertail. A nudge from Notch-Ear made him think. "Yes, O Great Ones, I meant," he went on. "Tell me what I must do and how I can help the glorious plans of the great Rat Kings."

"You show sense, woodrat," said the female. She apparently was the only spokesman, for the other four crouched silent and motionless.

"Go then, with our servant, Notch-Ear, and obey his orders. He will tell you what to do and how best to win our regard. Now leave us, for it is time to feast."

Then a horrible thing happened. As the three rats turned to leave by the same hole they had entered, Alec saw another large rat go past them, having entered behind them. He dragged a burden in his jaws. The rat spun around and flipped his load neatly through the air as he did so, causing it to fall directly in front of the heads of the five Kings, who waited with jaws agape and watering. It was a young cottontail rabbit, paralyzed with fright and with a broken front leg.

As the full meaning of this awful scene broke upon Alec's mind, he tried to squeeze his eyes shut even tighter and to cry out in protest at the same time. The darkness before his eyelids was some help, but he still shook with horror at the grisly vision he had been forced to watch. He knew that many animals killed for food, but the thought of helpless prey, dragged alive from the surface to the far reaches of the hideous underground chamber was almost too much for his mind to bear.

Fortunately, the woodrat's vision altered quickly, and once again Alec saw only the blackness of tunnel outside.

The return trip to the surface was swift and uninterrupted. Soon the boy saw the dump again in the moonlight and watched as Wandertail received his orders.

"You bring me news no later than tomorrow night,'' said Notch-Ear. "I want you to be able to tell me every path going around that pond, do you hear? And no delays either. You're working for the brown rats now, my friend, and you've just had a sample of what happens to anyone who gets in our way."

He turned to one of his attendants and said, "See he leaves at once and give orders he's to be admitted to see me at any time so that no one delays his news." He turned back to Wandertail, "You can stop signaling your wife or whoever it was. We knew you were talking all the time, but we don't care. Just be sure they keep their mouths shut. Now get moving!"

Alec almost gasped aloud at this last, for he had not realized the rats could detect a message. Thank goodness, they couldn't read it!

Now Wandertail was ushered out through the rat sentry lines, and at last the sight of the dump vanished from Alec's eyes. He opened his own and stretched, for his legs had gone to sleep as he sat crouched, following Wandertail's progress.

Beside him, Worthless stirred. "All over?" said the cat. "What happened anyway?"

Before the boy could answer, two small figures appeared as if by magic on the stone wall before them.

"All done and satisfactory, I hope," said the woodrat. He sat, neat and trying outwardly at least to be calm, nervously combing his long whiskers in the moonlight. Beside him, Whisperfoot danced with excitement.

"Wasn't he marvelous. Watcher? Did you ever see anything so brave? Or so awful as those dreadful, filthy creatures and those awful monsters that rule them?" She was bubbling with pent-up emotion and skipped back and forth, talking so fast Alec could hardly understand her.

Luckily for the future course of events, not everyone was as excited as the two rodents and the boy. Worthless had stolen away a little apart from the three, back toward the dump, and had taken a watching position in the shadow of a bush. Now he pounced suddenly and there was a shrill squeal. He stood up shaking a limp brown form before their horrified eyes.

"Looks like you brought company," he observed in sardonic tones to Wandertail. "Just as well that not everyone was so trusting, eh? A spy would have had a nice report to make, back at the dump. Let's go home before they decide to send more. Fortunately, this one was alone." j '

He threw the dead brown rat off into the brush and led the way back up the road, satisfaction radiating from his erect plumed tail.

9

Alec, Worthless, and the deermouse let themselves into the house after dropping Wandertail off on the way. The woodrat was already planning to brave the fortress of the dump again as he left them, but the boy told him to stay home and rest until he was sent for.

"You've done more than enough, if you don't do anything else at all," Alec told him. "I don't think you should go back there. It's far too dangerous now. We've learned pretty well what we wanted to know, and if they should get suspicious about that rat they sent after us, then it would be all over for you!"

As the boy said to Whisperfoot the following morning up in his room, "It's true, you know. We really have learned a lot."

"Like what?" she said in dubious tones. "That they were going to attack? We knew that already."

"No," he said, "the time and the place. Notch-Ear wanted to know about all the trails past Musquash Pond. That means they plan to come straight at us, not go around by some tricky method. And he wanted the news at once. He said so twice. They must be planning a move right away. We have very little time, which is bad, but we know it, which is good."

"What now?" she said. "Even if we have the information, what can we do with it?"

"I have some ideas," said Alec. "I always thought, or rather I hoped, that the dump rats would come near the pond. The pond could do a lot to even the odds against us if I'm figuring right, that is. But I don't want to say any more right now, until I've thought about it. Right now we have two other jobs to think about. One isn't too important and we can leave it to Soft Wing, Scratch and the others. Maybe Wandertail can help them when he's had a rest. That's to catch a rat scout and find out what orders he's been given, where he's supposed to explore to, and what he's supposed to look for around here."

"But it's not as important any longer because of what we learned last night," Whisperfoot said. "What's the other job?"

"The bear," said Alec softly. "What do we do about the bear?"

Whisperfoot had no answer and the two sat silently staring out of the bedroom window.

The day dragged on. No new reports came in from the woods, but Creeper appeared in the afternoon to say that the house mice from in town were still on the job and that any news of the rats moving would be transmitted to The Lot as fast as it became known.

In the late afternoon, when the sun had sunk low in the west, Alec and Worthless lay under their favorite apple tree, up on the rise behind the back of the house. They had both spent a lazy day Alec because he was genuinely tired, Worthless because as a cat, he never exerted himself unless pushed to it.

"It's this waiting that's the worst," said Alec. "If only something would be sure to happen at a certain time, things would be easier to take."

"That's the trouble with humans," said the cat. He was patting a leaf and pretending to himself it was a captured mouse. "Time means nothing, really, but you don't understand that. If something doesn't happen today, it will happen tomorrow. Why worry about it? Even your mice friends know that much. Speaking of which," he added, sitting up, "I thought your little deermouse was up in the room. But here she comes through the grass looking for you."

As he spoke, Whisperfoot's voice came into Alec's mind.

"Here I am," she said, popping out of a clump of grass a yard away. "I had to find you right away. Some news has arrived."

"Now what?" inquired the cat. "More trips to the dump?"

"Not for the two of us," said the deermouse. "What you do is your own business. Watcher and I have a trip to make tonight."

With the return of all his old fears and a feeling of giving way at the knees, Alec read the picture in her mind a picture of a great, black animal lurching through the forest.

Whisperfoot went on. "One of the gray squirrels went over the hills to get some acorns from the pin oak wood. He found the bear asleep in the middle of a thicket. Says he looked dead to the world and probably wouldn't move for a while. Oh, yes, and he was bleeding a little from one foot. It had flies all over it. The squirrel sent a message to Scratch and he sent one to me through the other mice." She finished her message and no one's thoughts were broadcast.

Alec felt worse and worse. Not only was Mowheen probably in his usual state of rage, but he also had been hurt was, in fact, a wounded bear!

"Who was going besides you two to see this beast?" asked Worthless after a long pause.

"Us two and Stamper, the skunk from down in the woods," said the boy gloomily. "We thought his gas cloud might keep the bear off if he got angry at us.

"Hmm," said the cat. "Not a very pleasant prospect, is it? However, I will go along as well. Faced with the inescapable logic and common sense of a cat, the brute will certainly see reason and behave in a calm manner." He began to wash his tail.

"More likely decide he wants to eat the fattest thing he's seen all season," said the deermouse in acid tones. "Who asked you along anyway? You'd probably get tired half way there and want to lie down."

"If you want to come, I'd like to have you, Worthless," said Alec. "That'll make four of us and maybe impress him more."

"Good," said the cat. "That's settled then. For the benefit of anyone else," he added pointedly, "I can move faster than most people think. Now, since we have a trip of some length, I shall go and rest. You will find me at the foot of the front stairs when you come down later tonight." He jumped up and marched proudly away down the hill.

Alec turned to Whisperfoot, smiling. "Well, you may think he's fat and lazy, but at least he's brave."

"I'll wait and see," said the deermouse significantly. "He's never seen a live bear yet. We'll just see what happens later on. Hadn't you better go lie down yourself?" she continued. "It will be a fairly long trip, and at night, too, when you don't see very well."

"Supper ought to be ready soon," said Alec. "Have you had anything to eat?" The deermouse, unlike Creeper, had never asked him for any food, and when he remembered to think of asking her, he felt guilty.

"I have a steady supply,'' she said. "Whenever I go out, I eat."

"Okay," said Alec. "By the way, does Stamper know about this yet?"

"I guess everyone in the whole wood must know. Stamper was sent a message to meet us under the fruit trees after all the light goes. He'll be there."

At this point, they heard Lou's brass cowbell from the kitchen and the boy got up and walked down the hill, leaving the mouse to wait for him in a woodpecker hole high on the trunk of the tree.

Supper seemed to Alec to drag interminably. His fear had somewhat quieted, but he now felt it intolerable to wait any longer. He chattered away at intervals to Lou and John, for his grandfather was out, having telephoned that he would stay to dinner with friends. Mostly, Alec let the two adults do the talking. His mind was on other matters. How does one approach or speak to a strange bear? Would the animal run away if he heard them coming? Alec had no illusions about his own ability to walk quietly in the woods at night.

These and similar questions kept him busy long after supper was over. He sat on the back steps in a thoughtful mood, holding his box turtle in his lap, while the placid beast lay uncomplaining and did not even withdraw into its shell. Eventually his normal bedtime arrived and he stopped staring at the glowing sky and went upstairs to take a bath at Lou's suggestion.

Once in bed with the door shut, he called to Creeper and the fat little house mouse promptly emerged from the knothole.

"Any more news come in while I was downstairs?"

"No," was the answer. "Except that skunk has sent back word that he'll be outside at full dark. That's all."

At this point, Whisperfoot appeared on the window sill, having come from the orchard by herself. She guessed how Alec must be feeling and had not wanted him to be alone.

She waited a moment and then spoke to him. "This whole thing is so scary, it hurts my head to even think about it; so I try not to. The only way to go through with something difficult, Watcher, is not to think about it. Then before you know it, it will be over. Of course, that fat cat may change his mind!"

It was her last thought which helped the most. The very idea of Worthless had made her picture him clinging in terror to the top of a small sapling, which bent under his very considerable weight. In the picture his orange fur was fluffed out in terror and he was emitting yowls for help.

Alec laughed aloud and the laughter helped to steady his nerves. "You'd better not let Worthless hear you talk like that," he said. "He may be fat, but he was pretty brave last night in the dump.

Anyway, I guess it's too late to back out now. As you said, it may not be fun, but it will seem better when it's over."

"That's my Watcher," she said. "Now listen, you're young still by the way your own people count you. Get some rest and try to sleep. I'll show you how mice put their young ones to sleep, and that's something I don't think many humans have heard before."

Although few people know it, some kinds of mice can sing make a musical sound quite unlike squeaking. Whisperfoot's song was a strange little tremolo sound, high and yet not shrill, that wavered up and down and seemed to go on and on. To anyone else, it would have sounded perhaps like a tiny bird whistling softly to itself; but Alec could see the thoughts that went with the song, and they were the most important part.

Alec caught glimpses of Whisperfoot's home nest and her parents and her brothers and sisters at play in the cozy little den. At times he saw the moon at night through the forest leaves from a mouse's point of view and got a feeling of well-being from the winter scenes of play in the bright snow under cold skies. That is what the song was all about, the things that make a small animal happy, and he found them comforting.

As he listened, it grew steadily less light outside his window. Without realizing it, he heard Lou and John come upstairs. Later still, his grandfather returned, driven by friends, and ascended to bed; but Alec did not hear him, for he was now asleep. The song had gone on a long time and had become a lullaby, sending him to sleep just as it had countless generations of baby mice.

He awoke at full dark, alert and ready for anything. Moonlight had replaced the sun, and came in a pale glow through the window. The full moon of several nights before had shrunk and was now a gibbous moon still throwing a powerful gleam across the land, aided by the stars. No breath of wind stirred the June night and all was still except for the far-off call of a mourning dove, which repeated its sad plaint over and over to the moon, whup poo-poo-poo. Aside from that, the night was silent, not even a cricket singing.

"Ready to go?" came Whisperfoot's voice. "It's just time now. Are you wearing the things you should to keep warm with no fur?"

Alec was dressing even as she spoke from her perch on the window ledge. He had gone to bed dressed in pajamas, and was now shedding these for his usual daytime clothes. Over the shirt he pulled a dark sweater, and he put a blue baseball cap on his head. He had no idea whether he was going one mile or five this time. The animals had tried to explain various distances to him, but their measurements are taken from one landmark to another from this tree to that brook and it was almost impossible for a human to figure out how much actual distance really lay in between.

He went to the window to pick the deermouse up. She ran to her place on his shoulder and the two of them looked out over the shadowed and dappled view. The apple trees were silver under the moonlight and masses of dark shadow crouched at their feet. Beyond, higher on the hill, the cedars stood like dark sentries on the slope.

"Well, I guess there's no point in hanging around," said Alec. "Looks spooky, doesn't it?"

"I think it looks nice," answered the deermouse. "But then, this is when most of us who are small get up. If we ran around in daylight all the time like you humans, the hunters would have mouse dinners. No night is the best time of all, especially a summer night. Why, before we're through with you, you'll be up every night at the crack of dusk and then do nothing all day but sleep." She didn't believe this, of course, but simply talked to make Alec feel better.

Alec went down the front stairs and headed toward the library. The old house was as still as on the previous night, no light showing anywhere.

"Not going without me, I hope?" came Worthless' thought. As Alec opened the library door without bothering to answer, the big cat slipped past him and moved into the room first.

"I just thought of something," Alec said to Whisperfoot. "Does Stamper know about the cat coming?"

"I passed it on," said the mouse drily. "Cats mean nothing to him. You better tell your fat friend, though."

"I heard you," said Worthless. "First a mouse and then a skunk! However, I suppose it's all in a good cause." His manner conveyed tremendous disdain for the whole business.

Alec went out on the moonlit grass, the scents of night fresh in his nose. Worthless padded ahead of him and they went around the corner of the house and up past the vegetable garden to the first trees of the orchard.

"Fine night," came a pleasant voice from under the nearest of them. The handsome skunk moved out from the shadow, his black-and-white plume of a tail clearly visible, putting the cat's to shame. "I see we have a new ally. Good evening, friend."

Worthless was actually pretty nervous, for all his previous talk. He had never before spoken to any animal his own size, and being so close to one, and such a dangerous one at that, put him off. He did his best to be polite.

"Good evening to you. Seems a pretty small group to go visit a bear, doesn't it?"

"It won't get any bigger if we stand here all night," said Whisperfoot. "You lead the way, Stamper, since you know where it is. Why don't you bring up the rear, cat?" Her implication was clear, it being that Worthless would be afraid to go in front. Alec hastily interrupted before trouble started.

"That's the best way, I think, since Worthless doesn't know where we're going and I can't see or hear as well as he can. In case someone comes up behind us, Worthless can give warning."

This made such good sense that even Worthless could hardly quarrel with the idea. So the four set off westward skunk, boy with mouse, and cat, in that order moving silently through the foot-high grass of the upper orchard and out on to the bare slope of the hill beyond. Had anyone been watching from the back upper windows of the house, they would have been quite visible in the moonlight; but Alec had the only occupied bedroom on that side and they were unseen.

Stamper led steadily through the grass at a rate Alec could follow quite easily. Skunks are not built for high speed, being rather short in the leg, but Stamper was setting a good pace for one of his kind. Worthless padded along in their tracks, keeping up without trouble. Few thoughts were exchanged; but by this time, Alec had learned this was normal. Animals don't like to talk while moving or traveling, since they concentrate on going somewhere and on watching for danger. Talking on a journey is for emergencies.

At the crest of the hill, the boy looked back once at the rooftops of the old house down the slope. If he felt lonesome and afraid, he managed to keep it from the others.

Soon they came to another stone wall, in much better shape than the one further down. Strands of barbed wire were strongly staked through it at intervals and a tattered notice on one nearby pole proclaimed that hunting, fishing and trapping were forbidden. They had come to the western boundary of The Lot, and John kept the outer fence in fairly good repair.

The fence was a formidable obstacle to an adult human, but the animals and the boy slipped through a narrow gap with no trouble at all. On the far side, the pasture with its tall grass and weeds stopped abruptly. In front of them rose another gentle slope, going up to a level plateau, perhaps the debris of some ancient glacial icecap. This was covered by a heavy growth of low scrub oak trees, none higher than fifteen feet, with occasional blueberry, laurel, and juniper bushes thrusting up below. A dense and level carpet of old brown oak leaves lay underfoot, pierced by an occasional low outcropping of white quartz or iron-gray granite. No bird or insect voice broke the night stillness, only the crackle of the dry leaves underfoot as the little party entered the shadowed oak domain. The way ahead was clearly lit by the moon, for the trees kept out only a small amount of light.

The skunk paused for a second here and seemed to look about to get his bearings, sniffing loudly as he did so. Skunks don't see very well, anyway, even in good light, and Stamper was using his nose to establish his direction. Apparently satisfied, he lowered his head and led on through the leaves in his curious, humping gait.

"Have we a long way to go?" asked Alec after they had marched for some minutes. The noise they were making seemed tremendous to him, and the loud rattle of the oak leaves made him feel exposed and defenseless.

"Quite a bit," said the skunk, not halting his pace. "I wouldn't talk if I were you. I'll let you know when we're getting close. I'm heading for where he was last seen. He may have moved, but it's the best I can do."

They were heading northwest, away from The Lot, and the boy fell silent at the rebuke. His old fears had returned in full strength. He clenched his teeth hard and trudged on, trying to make as little noise as possible.

They must have gone at least two miles, weaving around the trees and large boulders and shelves of stone, before the skunk called a halt. Once, as they had crossed a little clearing near a great rounded rock, the skunk had checked and turned a sharp left. Alec had followed without thinking, unaware that the wise animal had caught a sudden harsh odor, something like cucumbers, from just ahead. Recognizing the scent of a hunting timber rattlesnake, he had detoured around the place and gone back to his original path just beyond. But of this the boy knew nothing.

When Stamper finally did come to a full stop, Alec found himself on the lip of a little hollow. At the bottom, the trees were somewhat taller and there were a few ancient, stunted willows and alders mixed with the oaks. A gleam of still water came from the middle of the depression, where an old dew pond had formed over the centuries, always renewed by the rains and staying unchanged even in dry years, preserved perhaps by the remains of some ancient peat bog at its center.

"You wait here," said the skunk. "He comes to drink here sometimes, and he was reported sleeping not too far away. I'll go look and see if I can locate him. If I do, I'll come back and get you."

Alec was glad enough to sit down as the skunk waddled away through the trees. He noticed that even in the carpet of dead leaves Stamper made almost no noise, and he marveled once again at how quiet animals can be.

Worthless came and sat down at his feet, looking around continually, with his tail fluffed up and ears cocked.

"I don't like this place," he said to the boy. "No really big trees or anything to climb on if we should be attacked. Do you hear anything?"

"The only thing anyone can hear is you breathing,'' said Whisperfoot from Alec's shoulder. "Maybe if you weren't so fat you'd be able to relax a little and stop frightening yourself with the noise you make!"

Alec smiled, but only to himself. He was sitting on one slope of the little hollow with his back to an old stump, looking down and across to the other side. The moon shone brightly on the ancient trees ringing the tiny pond and the water reflected silver light through gaps in the foliage. No breeze ruffled the still leaves.

Faintly and from miles away a bell began to toll in single strokes. Aside from this sound, they might have been out at sea for all the evidence of human life or habitation that existed. Alec leaned back, his dark clothes blending with the stump and his white face in shadow, as invisible as any woods creature to the eye. Even Worthless relaxed and lay down, and the three were silent, awaiting the return of their scout.

Just when Alec was beginning to feel a bit drowsy, a sound broke the stillness of the night. He sat up and so did the mouse on his shoulder and the cat at his feet, all listening hard.

There it was again, louder now. Could it be Stamper returning? All three dismissed the thought as fast as it occurred. This noise was coming from the north, not the west, and it was both heavy and regular, the sound of some great body ponderously moving through the brush and leaves with a muffled but weighty tread, careless of noise and the listening ears of the wild. Their three brains were almost paralyzed with fear. Mowheen was coming!

With each passing second, the sound grew louder and clearer as the monster approached, heralding his progress with a series of explosive snorts as he drew closer to the hollow.

The boy shrank back against the weathered stump, hardly daring to breathe. The great brute was now almost upon them and the one weapon which they possessed, the gas cloud of the skunk, was gone! Worthless drew his legs and tail in upon himself until he looked like a round ball of fur, his pupils wide with fright and his ears flattened against his skull. Every orange hair on his body stood out in alarm. Whisperfoot crouched immobile on Alec's shoulder.

Across the hollow, on the opposite rim and to the right, there was a screen of low bushes. Suddenly, out of these there emerged an awesome shape, towering up against the stars. The great bear had risen on his hind legs to see if any enemy had come to his drinking place. He stood sniffing in great gulps of air as his weak, rheumy eyes peered about in suspicion.

The utterly still and windless night did not betray the three either by scent or sound. The bear dropped to all fours and broke through the screen of bushes, lumbering down into the hollow on the way to the dew pond. They could see him clearly under the white moonlight, a great black creature with a lighter-colored muzzle, heavy in the rear quarters. He was now rumbling to himself as he approached the water, making a sound like far-off thunder.

Alec had had a lot of time to think about the meeting and this was part of what saved him, finally unlocking his frozen body from the fear that held it squeezed into silence. His brain ordered his body to move, and slowly the boy responded in spite of instincts that shrieked, "Stay quiet."

Mowheen had almost reached the water and was only half visible under the alder's leaves when the faint sound of movement upslope caught his sensitive ears. Moving at an astonishing speed for an animal his size, he spun around and faced the sound he had caught, his lips wrinkled back in a snarl and the great yellow teeth showing clearly.

Alec just barely managed to force himself to stand up. His small erect body was plain to see, even for the bear's bad eyes, and for a split-second the two faced each other under the moon, frozen in stillness.

The boy reached out for the bear with his mind and felt amazingly a wave of stark terror, a terrible panic bordering on madness. The great beast felt trapped and helpless, caught at close range in clear view by a human. And worse, he had been hurt recently. He was readying himself now to charge, to fight his way out or die in the attempt. Already his huge hind legs were gathering under him.

Yet, at the same instant, Alec's fear was gone! He suddenly felt immensely tall and strong, filled with power and force. It was as if somehow the bear had become no bigger than Worthless, crouching in a ball at the boy's feet, and he, Alec March, had grown into a giant, his head higher than the trees around the woodland hollow.

"Mowheen!" he called with his mind. "Mowheen, I am Watcher, and I have been sent to find you by Manibozo." Here he sent a mind picture of the great Spirit of the Wood.

"Mowheen," he went on, "you are to help me. I am not an enemy. Manibozo chose me to be the leader of the animals. I have been sent and you are called. I am not an enemy."

Over and over the boy repeated this simple message, standing still, his arms now easy at his sides, as confident as if he were reciting in class. To a human observer, the scene would have been incredible, for it looked as though Alec were defying the great brute, daring it to move against his orders. But he was soothing the grim and fearful mind opposed to his, calming the bear by mind-touch, until he could actually see the huge body begin to relax, the muscles lose their tension, the great gape of the jaws start to shut. Suspicious still, but no longer crazed with panic, the old bear settled back on his haunches, still glaring up at the small figure before him.

Finally, Alec sensed that Mowheen would never be more at ease and slowly, ever so slowly, he sat down himself. He even remembered to raise one hand and gently pat the tiny form on his shoulder, which had never left him. As he sat, the bear relaxed a little more, though still alert for danger, the big, pointed head weaving back and forth as he searched for more news by ear, nose, and eye.

"Speak to me, Mowheen," said Alec. "There's nothing to be afraid of. All the forest needs your help." He waited then for an answering thought.

When it came it was massive, slow and almost rusty, as if the bear had not used his mind to speak for a long, long time.

"My help? Who needs my help? What help? Why should a bear help a human? Who are you and why am I to help anyone? Humans have those shiny, noisy things that kill. One hit me yesterday in the foot. Who needs an old bear, except to kill him or drive him away? Go away, human, and I will go away and never come here again. Humans don't speak to bears. They hunt them with things that kill. This is all wrong, this should not be."

Alec was quick to take advantage of the old beast's bafflement. He saw that the bear was now no longer in a panic but simply worried, in pain, and ill at ease. So he spoke soothingly.

"No one will hurt you no human around my place, I mean." He outlined the area of The Lot as well as he could with thought pictures. "In this place you would be safe at any time. You can always come there, summer or winter, to hide or rest. But in return, I need your help. And Manibozo sent me to you, remember that."

Again he sent the best picture he could of the Wood Spirit to the bear's mind. This time there was a long silence and the silvered muzzle of the bear swayed back and forth as his old, tired brain thought on and tried to make sense out of all the new facts he had learned. Finally he seemed to reach a decision.

"The Master of the Forest has sent you. I can see this, but I don't understand. I am only an old bear. Since my mother died, many seasons gone, I have never seen another of my kind. Maybe I am the last bear in the world. I am old. The cold hurts me more every fall and the wet of the rains goes into my bones and makes them ache. Now my foot is bleeding. But you have been sent by the Master, the great one whom we bears thought went away long ago. I don't understand, but I will think. What an old bear, the last bear, can do, I don't know. Why should I do anything?" He fell silent, and then slowly lay down, looking like some great deformed dog, his heavy head lying on his front paws and pointing at Alec as he waited.

Alec relaxed just a little more himself. He put one hand down to pat the cat which crouched at his feet; and at the touch, Worthless relaxed a little and his rough tongue touched the boy's fingers in a fleeting caress. Then Alec began.

Mowheen listened in utter silence as Alec told of the forest truce among the animals and the appeal to the great Wood Spirit. He told of his own coming to The Lot and of his meeting with the animals and his learning to speak with them. He spoke of his vision at the Council Glade, and of the rats and their dreadful kings, their menace and what it meant. He told of the plans that were being made and how the bear was needed. No one even noticed, beyond the barest acknowledgment of the fact, that at some point the skunk had returned and sat down silently next to the cat in front of Alec.

The story went on to its end as the boy explained how all of the animals had been told to look for the bear so that he, Alec, could talk to him and ask him for help. When the boy was finished, he simply came to the end and stopped, waiting to hear what Mowheen would say.

Again the old beast ruminated, his head swaying.

"So all your forest is at truce. There has been no such thing in my lifetime. All of this is new and I am old, very old. Running and hiding is all I have ever done. And now a fight with those crawling, squeaking, dirty vermin. I haven't seen one for years, but I used to kill them now and again. Not to eat, though. And so the Master sent you, Watcher, to ask for the old, wounded bear's help! The seasons turn and come again and nothing is ever new, but now this is new. He muttered on to himself and then fell silent, much as an old man will sometimes talk something over with himself, even if another person is there.

Alec waited. He was no longer even slightly afraid, just desperately sorry for the big bear. He knew now that the terrible monster he had imagined was actually a frightened, lonely, crotchety old being, who had spent so much time by himself that he had almost forgotten how to communicate.

Now that the bear was exposed to view in the strong moonlight, Alec could see that Mowheen's snout was snow-white with age; his teeth were worn and rounded with use and one of the great eye-teeth was broken. The wounded foot, the left front one, showed a scab of dried blood. Alec was wondering just how badly Mowheen was hurt, and how old he really was when the bear spoke again.

"I must think about it. Send a message to tell me when the rats come and when I am wanted. But I don't say I'll help. Tell whoever you send to wait if I'm gone." He stopped talking a minute and then slowly went on, as if a new thought had occurred to him.

"What difference will it make? Why should I help, the last of the three wolf, panther, and bear? I may be dying. I am so old. Why should I care?"

Mowheen turned and limped off down to the dew pond. He drank slowly and then walked off into the west without speaking again. Alec stood up and shuddered. He no longer felt strong. Now he was terribly tired, as if he had been running hard for an hour.

Stamper led the way home, as before, and Alec fell in behind him with the cat bringing up the rear. On the boy's shoulder, the deermouse rode proudly. All of the animals felt proud. None of them had flinched. In the face of terror they had stood firm.

But Alec now felt exhausted and disappointed as well. Mowheen was far older than the boy had realized. His old brain seemed incapable of retaining thoughts for long and he appeared to feel that the struggle to save The Lot was none of his business. Would he really help when the time came?

Weary and disillusioned, Alec plodded back along the track through the oak forest and over the hills, until at last the final rise was cleared and the peaceful expanse of The Lot lay spread out below.

10

It was an extremely hot afternoon, one of those summer days which seem to be always just on the verge of a storm. The blazing blue sky was full of huge white thunderheads, but little rain fell, although the noise of thunder could be heard continually muttering in the distance. A few scattered showers earlier had sprayed a little water on the grass and trees; but the roof of the house was dry again five minutes after each cloudburst had passed. A scorching wind blew in fitful gusts, each blast making the skin tingle and prickle as if electricity were somehow in the wind.

Alec sat under what had come to be his favorite apple tree, above and behind the house. It was under these branches that he had learned Worthless could talk, and the orange cat was now lying beside him.

Six days had gone by since the midnight meeting with the old bear. The intervening days had been useful to Alec, although the strain of waiting had become no easier. The courage he had shown in facing the bear alone in the night had made him more confident but also more worried. He had seen Scratch and Stuffer the following day, down in the woods, and the obvious respect shown by the big raccoon and the old woodchuck made him secretly thrill with pride. But he knew that all was not going as well as they thought. No more news of Mowheen had come in and he seemed to have vanished again. Who could say whether the ancient animal planned to help or was even capable of doing so? And ominous information had trickled in from the dump. The brown rats were very actively gathering food. And more rats were beginning to come to the dump from other parts of town as well! It didn't take Alec long to realize what this meant.

"This is it," he said to Whisperfoot when he heard the news. "They're calling in all the little groups that normally don't live in the dump itself. Then, when they do march, they'll have that many more along with them. They don't plan to leave even one rat behind. They want every single one to join their army."

Alec had asked that the mice try even harder to get more news, and they were doing their best. Beyond this, there were only a few things the boy could do, for other developments had taken place.

There had been several attempts by the woods folk to capture a live rat scout who might reveal information about the plans of the dump's rulers. But every rat captured fought to the death. There were no live prisoners. Alec wondered whether the awful Rat Kings might not have the power to compel their subjects not to be taken prisoner. It seemed possible, but the boy simply gave orders that the scouts were to be driven back and not attacked in the future. He had developed such a loathing and fear of the awful rat rulers that he was afraid continual attacks might alert them to the fact that The Lot itself was organized. Only if this fact came as a last-minute surprise could he hope to defeat the swarming rat hordes of the dump.

"Aren't you supposed to go down into the lower wood for a meeting today?" asked the cat, stretching and arching his broad back.

"I'm about to go right now," answered Alec. "Want to come along? You ought to meet the others, you know."

"I don't see why," was the answer. "I met the skunk decent enough sort, I suppose and the woodrat and your pet mouse. They're doing their best, I guess; but I see no need to mix further. Anyway," he added, with a flash of honesty, "I don't like it down there in the trees. The whole place is sort of watching me all the time. At least I get that feeling. I'll stay up here until you need me to go on a dangerous trip or protect you or something."

Alec tickled Worthless until the cat rolled over with his feet in the air, purring loudly.

Alec spoke to him. "It seems to me you were going to talk to old Mowheen the other night, and argue him into being a friend. What happened?"

"I hadn't a chance!" said the cat, sitting up at once and glaring indignantly at Alec. "You took over too quickly. I was preparing a whole lot of clever things to say, in case you didn't get along too well; but then, 'Why bother,' I said to myself, 'when it's all going so smoothly?' I was ready to step in at any time. No point in shaking the tree when the birds are on the ground, as my mother used to say."

Alec laughed. "I was only teasing," he said, seizing Worthless and hugging him. "You were very brave. Even Whisperfoot said so, and she doesn't like cats too much. You know you were brave, don't you, old cat?"

"Of course I was," said Worthless, wiggling loose and starting to wash himself. "All cats are brave. Some, of course," he added, "are braver than others. I must be one of those."

"Stay here and guard the place. I'll be back by suppertime or before." Alec strode off across the orchard and fields, down into the woods, heading for what had become the accustomed meeting place, the tree where Soft Wing had his roost. As he went, he reviewed in his mind what he wanted to say. It was so important that it be said just right!

He arrived at the fir tree still brooding and the mass greeting of his friends gave him a start.

"Hello, Slider, Scratch, Wandertail," he said in reply. "Hi, Stuffer. Hi, Soft Wing. Where's Stamper?"

"Just coming upstream," the skunk's thought came to him. "I was scouting down at the south boundary. There were supposed to be some rats seen there, but it turned out to be nothing." Stamper himself emerged from a bush and trotted over to join the others.

"I left Whisperfoot up at the house, in case the mice reported anything new from town," said Alec. "Now look. I got you here because I think I finally have a plan to deal with the rats. It's the only thing I can think of, and it's taken a lot of thought, believe me! When I'm through, you have to tell me if you feel it will work, and tell me what's wrong with it. All right?"

He looked around for questions, but none of the animals said anything; so he began.

"Here's the way I've thought it out. The rats are coming straight for us, right from the dump to The Lot with no ranging out to the sides. That should put the pond pretty well in the middle of their path. My whole plan is based on that. And, of course, on the fact that they'll come at night. Now! Suppose the rats get pretty close to the woods before they meet any of us. Then suppose we start attacking them on both sides, but not in front. What would they do?"

"Probably send their best fighters out to the sides and keep the others moving on through," said Scratch. "That's what I'd do."

"What else could they do?" said Slider. "Unless they were sure they were licked, which they wouldn't be. They'd have to do what Scratch said go and fight on both sides where the attack came."

"Good," said Alec. "That's what I thought. My grandfather knows a lot about fighting and he told me how some of it works. The whole trick with a lot of people, in a war, is to make them go wherever you want, not where they want to go themselves. Now, suppose it happened like that, with some of us on the sides, and with the dump rats going on and fighting us. It would be dark, and even with all the scouting they've done, they probably don't know the land and the woods too well, right?" He was becoming really excited now and the others caught the feeling and their ears cocked as they listened to his plan. Finally, Alec was finished.

There was a long silence. The bird and the six mammals turned Alec's tactics in their minds. It was Scratch who spoke first.

"This is why we had to have a human," he said in grave tones. "None of us could have thought of this. It's going to be a lot of trouble and hard fighting, but it could just work, I think."

At this point there was an interruption. "Look what's here," said Slider, peering at the ground. "What are you doing, little one?"

Everyone stared at a fern clump beside the tree.

Out of it there poked a small, round, brown head with shiny black eyes and long whiskers. The little ears were almost hidden in dark fur. It was a meadow mouse.

"Good day," said the mouse nervously. He came out further and eyed the otter, the skunk, and the raccoon with suspicion.

"Hello," said Alec. "Were you looking for me?"

"Yes, I was. Whisperfoot sent a lot of us out to find you. Fresh news has come in, you see, and you're wanted back up there in your hole, wanted right away."

"Thanks," said the boy. "I'll see the rest of you later. So long." He ran off through the wood, leaving the animals staring after him.

Lou, looking out of the kitchen window, saw him coming out of the woods far down in the meadow and smiled at the sight of the racing boy. Alec rushed up on the porch, in the back door, and tore up the back stairs past Lou without speaking.

"Now what's got into him?" she murmured aloud. "Hard to realize how kids is either asleep or moving faster than them jet planes!"

Once in his room, Alec shut the door and sent a call. In a second, the pretty deermouse had popped out of her hole and was sitting on the pillow facing the boy. At the same time, Worthless emerged from under the bed, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"They're coming tonight!" said Whisperfoot, wasting no words. "Come out here, Creeper, and tell them what happened."

"Well," said the fat house mouse, emerging from the hole and jumping to the top of the bed, "it's like this. One of us, a house mouse as lives near the dump, he got pretty fresh early this morning and started poking fun at some rats who were all running around. 'Going some place?' he said. 'Lost something, like your head?' He kept it up, you know, asking if they weren't getting tired what with running around in circles, stuff like that.

"Well, he got them pretty mad and stirred up. A young one started for him, said he'd teach him to laugh at the brown rats. The mouse got ready to duck into a hole, see, when a big, old rat popped up from somewhere and told the young one to leave him be.

" 'After tonight, we won't have to bother about such little scum as him,' that's what the big one said. They must think we're pretty stupid. That mouse, he shot into his hole and passed the word right along. You won't ever get more warning than that, I don't think."

A silence fell. Here it was at long last, the news for which they had been waiting so anxiously. There was no doubt in anyone's mind what was meant by the rat's remark. Even Creeper, who was not too bright, had figured it out the minute he heard it. "After tonight." Those were the important words.

"Thanks," said Alec finally. "Thanks a lot, Creeper. Will you pass along the word that all of you have done a wonderful job, especially that mouse in the dump? We never could have made a plan without all of you helping. Honest, I really mean it."

"Think nothing of it," said Creeper, although he had assumed his proud balloon shape and looked as though he were going to burst. "Always ready to help. When in doubt, call a house mouse, that's our saying."

"We'll remember that the next time we have any doubts about anything," replied Worthless in acid tones. "Well, what now, Watcher? We talked this over and over until it's coming out of our ears. Nothing to do now but pass it on to the others and hope they'll be there when the time comes."

"What do you mean, 'hope they'll be there,' you fat good-for-nothing?" said Whisperfoot. "Let's hope you'll be there, and not hiding under the bed."

Before Alec could stop the row, the cat was speaking again. He actually apologized.

"Sorry, slipped my tongue, you know. I really didn't mean to cast doubts on anyone. I'm sure the whole crew will be on hand. But we'd better get moving. It will take some time to get the news around. Too bad about the bear not being here just now."

The deermouse said, "I sent out a message to him. We found a reliable bird well, more or less reliable an old ruffed grouse. He said he'd fly out to the bear's drinking place."

"I've never talked to any birds but Soft Wing," said Alec. "Will Mowheen be able to understand this grouse?"

"Oh, birds can talk all right," said the deermouse. "They sing and yell and chatter so much that they seldom bother to, though. When they want to, the bigger ones can get a message across."

"I guess there's not much more we can do now," said the boy. "Worthless, you and I will sneak out tonight and head for the pond. You can stay here with the house mice," he thoughtlessly added to Whisperfoot, "and we "

"Stay here, nothing!" blazed out her answer. "I'm coming with you. After all this worry, to stay here and not know what's happening? What do you think I am, anyway?" Her long whiskers bristled and she was in a fine female temper.

"But you can't fight," said Alec in worried tones. "You're too small and it will be very dangerous."

"You can look after me. I'll be quite safe on your shoulder, I'm sure. I can duck into a pocket, if necessary." A flash of humor came from her quick mind. "If it gets really bad, the cat can save me can't you, you fat creature?"

Worthless took her jibing in a good humor. "Certainly, my dear. I will defend you to my last claw. Not a rat will lay so much as a whisker on your tail-tip. Of course, should I become hungry during the battle and feel like a small snack—" His mind picture grinned amiably.

With a squeak of alarm, Creeper fled into the knothole. But the deermouse was unperturbed.

"That settles it then. I'm coming," Whisperfoot said. "I may even be useful. You never know. Now," she went on, "it will be a long pull until we see the end of this. We all ought to rest. I'll go visit Creeper's people and have something to eat. See you at dark." She popped into the knothole. Alec suspected she wanted no more argument about going out with him and had chosen this method to get away.

"She had a good thought there about rest," said the orange tomcat. "Why don't we have a snooze until your dinner time? I've eaten already."

Alec kicked off his sneakers and climbed onto the bed and lay down. Worthless came and curled up next to him and the two were soon asleep, the long worry about the rats temporarily absent from the boy's mind. As for Worthless, no one has ever noticed a cat worry for long about anything.

11

That evening, after supper, Alec sat on the back porch and watched the heavy thunderclouds against the darkening sky. He tingled all over and felt apprehensive. This waiting was the worst part! How much longer could those rats delay? His mind roved back and forth, reviewing everything he had done or thought of doing to help his friends. The map of The Lot was propped on his drawn-up knees and he once again reviewed all the symbols and tactics.

Whisperfoot had come stealthily to him shortly after he had eaten supper. The alert had been given and all of the animals of The Lot even those who had previously refused to help had been notified of the coming onslaught from the dump. The scouts reported no sign of rats yet.

Now heat still radiated from the earth to the sky. The vanished sun illumined banks of cloud, towering cliffs built high into the upper air, turning them pink, orange, and gold. The faint growl and rumble of thunder echoed along the horizon.

"Sounds like Mowheen,'' thought Alec to himself. Just like an older general, he was growing increasingly nervous, watching the storm building and wondering what effect it would have on the movements of his forces and on those of the enemy. The boy had not previously thought of weather as a factor in a campaign, but now he sat brooding over the stormy sunset with his mind in the grip of growing nervous strain. He felt quite unsatisfied that he had done all he could.

Presently, he rose at Lou's call and went inside, where he said good night to his grandfather and then retired to his bedroom for the night, sure that he would not be able to sleep.

"Watcher! Wake up!" Whisperfoot's mind-voice came to Alec.

He snapped awake at once and leapt out of bed, reaching for his sneakers, windbreaker and cap. Outside, all light was gone. It was oppressive and still very hot. As he pulled on his shoes, Alec saw a brief flickering glow of distant heat lightning against the night sky, then the dark closed down again.

"The rain's going to come hard when it comes," said Whisperfoot. "I hope we can all get where we belong before it soaks everything. It will be hard to hear noises too, if it's raining hard. Do you think they might decide not to come?"

Alec snapped, "How do I know?"

Whisperfoot saw he was upset and worried and decided to say no more.

Alec finished putting on his shoes and at the same time kicked himself mentally at the mouse's last words. Rain and a storm might be advantageous to the defenders of The Lot, but he really ought to have thought more about its effect on the rats. Would they put off their move? He got up, still feeling irritable.

"Come on," he said to Whisperfoot, "let's go."

She scrambled up his arm to his shoulder and he opened the door. All was dark and quiet in the house. He carefully closed the door and headed for the front stairs.

"Use the back," came the cat's voice in his head. "The old man is in the downstairs room with all those flat things that open up." He meant the library.

Alec reversed course and went down the back stairs instead, finding Worthless waiting for him in the kitchen. They went out the back door, which was unlocked, and the three stood on the back porch looking at the dark and angry night. The hot wind moaned around the house, puffing the boy's jacket. It felt like a breath from a muggy swamp. Overhead, black clouds raced across the sky, driven before the coming storm. The on-and-off glow of lightning played around the rim of Alec's vision. The mutter of the distant thunder had now grown much louder. A first-class storm was on its way and fast.

"This is going to be terrible," said the cat. "We'll be soaked through. Who can fight when they're dripping wet?"

"We can," said Alec grimly. "If the brown rats are coming at all, they must have started by now. I don't think they'll go back, either. Come on. Let's get moving." He went around to the side of the porch and picked up his spade, left there earlier on purpose. The thought had suddenly occurred to him that afternoon that he had nothing to fight with himself. And he then had remembered John's present. Its handle was solid oak and the blade was steel. He felt that it might turn out to be a very useful tool before the end.

Bending his head against the wind, he led the way out past the vegetable garden to the lower pasture and the break in the wall. Worthless, his fur fluffed by the electricity and excitement, came behind him, his yellow eyes gleaming in the reflected lightning flashes. Whisperfoot clung with all four feet to Alec's shoulder so she would not be blown off.

Alec had no trouble finding the corner of the wall once his night sight grew better. He climbed over, followed by the cat, and headed down the narrow deer slot which led to the Council Glade, moving as fast as he could without bumping into things. In his right hand, he clutched the spade.

The wood was very dark and filled with the sounds of the rising gale. Dead leaves blew about and tree trunks creaked and groaned as they bent to the wind. The thunder was now much louder and the lightning brightened so that the tree trunks were lit with a brief orange glow. Leaves blew into his face, but Alec kept his head down and his eyes fixed on the narrow track. Once, a great crash off to the left told that some forest giant had given up the struggle and fallen to the earth, but he paid no attention and pressed on. The big cat followed steadily and uncomplainingly in the rear.

Sooner than he thought possible the lightning showed the Council Glade ahead. The tall grass at the edge of the clearing was bent flat by the wind and myriad small objects leaves, bark and bits of soil were blowing around and around in the air.

Alec put one hand over his eyes and plunged straight through the open area and headed for the trail on the far side. Once out of the flying dirt and leaves, it was easier to see, although darker. Still, the lightning was very bright now and the path was clearly visible in its brief flashes. The ground underfoot felt damp and oozy and the boy knew that he must be approaching the pond. He sent out a thought ahead.

"Scratch, Slider, Stuffer, where are you?"

The answering confusion of mind-voices almost gave him a headache.

"Watcher! Come straight ahead. We were afraid you wouldn't come. We're here! We're all ready!"

Everyone was talking at once.

He finally broke out through the brush at the little point between the two arms of the pond. He could see by the lightning flashes that it was crowded with a host of different animals skunks, raccoons, foxes, and many others.

"What's the news? Where are the rats?" he asked. "Are they coming? Are they close? Don't all speak at once, it hurts my head. Scratch, you answer."

The big raccoon came near Alec's feet and sat up. "They're not too far away, over on the other side of the human road. Soft Wing and his cousin Death Grip are watching them. But they seem to be moving to our right, away from here. If they keep on, they'll hit our woods between the pond and the place where the little road from your house comes down and joins this big one."

"What are we sitting around here for, then?" groaned Alec. "We have to make them come this way or it's no good at all! Where's Slider?"

"Right here." In the next ruddy flash of lightning, Alec saw the big otter, wet and gleaming, a few feet away at the edge of the pond.

"Will the muskrats listen to you and take your orders now?"

"Yes," answered the otter. "At least they'll take what I pass on to Clam-Eater, their boss. He's out on the pond now looking around."

"All right," said Alec. "Get them all into the water, all the otters and muskrats. Keep them hidden the best you can on this side of the pond, the side nearest the road. And don't let them move until Scratch or I say so. Even if they see the rats swimming, they still have to wait, the way we planned. Got it?"

"Right," said Slider. "Not a move until you signal. It's been explained once already to them, but I'll do it again. Good luck!" Without a splash, hardly with even a ripple, he turned and vanished into the black water.

Alec blinked at the next lightning flash and tried to see how many animals were milling around his feet. The muffled roaring of the wind and all the other storm noises served to cover the mutterings, growls, and squeaks of the animals. This was all to their advantage. But the storm-laden air with its electric effect was driving the creatures wild with excitement. Despite themselves, their mind-speech was all over Alec's brain, making it even harder to think straight.

"Has anyone seen Mowheen the old bear, I mean?" said Alec to Scratch. An instant hush was the answer. All the animals stopped moving and it was only the roaring wind overhead which answered the boy. He stood waiting.

"No," said Wandertail. He sat at the head of a small group of fellow woodrats near the water. "No news has come in about him at all. And the squirrels never showed up, either."

Alec sighed and tried not to show his concern, but it was hard. He had counted on Mowheen.

"Well, come on, the rest of you," the boy said. "We've got to turn the rats and make them come this way. We'll have to cross the road and fight in the woods on the other side. Scratch, you lead the way. Worthless, you stay with me. Let's go."

Led by the boy, the raccoon, and the big cat, the massed defenders of The Lot plunged off the point of land and headed through the brush and trees around the eastern arm of the U-shaped pond, angling toward the road to Mill Run. It was hard going for Alec, because a thicket of thorny bushes and tall reeds grew amid the trees at the edge of the wood. The boy scraped his knees and tore his jacket in several places as he pressed through the mud and tangled roots, pushing the bushes aside with his shovel. Through the darkness and wind-tossed branches he battered his way, all the beasts following behind as closely as they could.

Just when Alec felt the bushes were never going to stop, he broke out of them and realized from the rise in ground that he was at the foot of the sloping shoulder leading up to the road.

"Come on!" he shouted, not realizing he was speaking aloud, and started climbing the slope. Over to the left, Scratch humped along, his striped tail a banner for Alec in the lightning's glow.

Just as they reached the top of the rise, a terrific crack of thunder almost deafened the boy. The rain, he guessed could only be minutes, or even seconds, away now. The lightning was almost blinding.

He stopped and took a deep breath, shaking his ringing head to clear it. There, right before them, lay the black asphalt road. Somewhere across it and to the right were the oncoming rats, and they had to be turned and headed back this way at once! Alec almost ran off down the road by himself, but realized that if he did he would get too involved to be able to give any sensible orders. By a great effort, he quieted his breathing and tried to think.

The animals had spread out all along the edge of the road and there they crouched waiting, their eyes gleaming when the lightning revealed them, their thoughts now stilled, except for formless waves of excitement. It was Whisperfoot, whom he had totally forgotten, but who still clung to his shoulder, who rescued him from his confusion.

"You were to send Scratch and his raccoons and the red foxes down the road beyond the rat army. They can run the fastest of all of us. They must go into the woods and attack the rats on the far side, the side away from us."

It was Alec's own plan and he had forgotten it himself! He gave the order, and then added, "The rest of us will stay here, right across the road in the woods. Stuffer and the woodchucks and Stamper and his gang of skunks stay in front. When the rats get opposite the pond, we'll jump them from our side, and leave the middle part open."

A mixed pack of raccoons and red foxes scurried off down the road, the speedier foxes quickly pulling away in a group. All of them, including Scratch, vanished from sight in an instant.

"Stamper, Stuffer, where are you?" Alec sent out. "Follow me into the woods across the road with the other skunks and woodchucks, then spread out in a line, not too far apart, and wait till I signal. The woodrats stay with me, too!"

The woodchucks, skunks and woodrats, all in one body, instantly flowed over the road. But looking down, Alec saw that one skunk was still waiting at his feet. It was Stamper, plucking at the boy's leg with his paw.

"Look what I have here," came the quiet voice in his mind, a hint of laughter in it. "What do I do with them?"

Out of the bushes had emerged a dozen low, waddling, light-gray forms, their eyes gleaming, their long, naked tails curling like pink snakes. It was the opossums, who had come after all!

"Take them with you and put them with the others," said Alec. "Can they talk to me?"

"We can talk," came a slow, grating voice in his mind. "What can we do? We hate the brown rats. They eat our food."

"Do what this skunk says," said Alec. "Come on, we have to cross the road right now!"

"Do what this skunk says," repeated the slow voice. "Do you hear, you others? Do what this skunk says. What do you say, skunk?" Opossums are literal-minded to a fault.

"I say, cross the road," said Stamper. "Follow me, all of you. I'll tell you more about what to do later."

Alec and Worthless were the last to run across the highway and enter the noise and murmur of the black wood ahead. They soon caught up with the others and saw Stamper put the opossums in a group at the center of the line they were building. On the left flank, furthest away from the road, were the skunks, strung out and waiting. On the right of this line, with the end animal almost at the road's edge, were Stuffer and his clan of woodchucks. Now Alec put himself in the center, with the opossums and woodrats. Stamper stayed with him and Worthless crouched at his feet, opening and shutting his claws in convulsive movements. All of them faced south and waited. Overhead, thunder roared and cracked out steadily and the lightning flickered and flashed. A gale-driven mass of forest litter was blown through the air by the gusting wind, now growing colder. Leaves, twigs, and occasionally even heavy sticks whirled through the tree trunks.

Alec crouched down beside Worthless. There was nothing more they could do now except wait. In the midst of all this noise and turbulence, he wondered how anyone could hear the rats coming, or give warning if he did hear them.

"Look up, look up!" came a voice in his mind. He did so and saw Soft Wing battling the wind just a few feet over his head, wings beating frantically as the owl fought to maintain himself in one place.

"They're coming! They're coming!" came the bird's voice. "We've managed to turn them this way! Cousin Death Grip and the foxes and raccoons are driving them. It looks like there's a million of them, though! Look sharp, I'm heading back!" His wings beat harder and he flew off to the south, back the way he had come.

"A million?" thought Alec. Soft Wing had to be exaggerating!

Stamper's voice exclaimed, "They're coming! All of you in line! Get ready!"

Now, even above the voice of the gale, the boy thought he could hear another sound, high-pitched and shrill, rising and falling. In another second he was sure the sound of a thousand squeaking, angry voices was coming down the wind, the enraged squealing and chattering of a host of angry rats!

He rose to his feet, gripping his shovel tightly. Worthless, his teeth bared and ears flattened, stood up as they both peered through the trees.

And then they saw the enemy.

A flood of close-packed gray-brown bodies, looking almost like water in the uncertain light, was pouring over the ground not fifty feet away and coming straight toward them. Hundreds of eyes gleamed red in the lightning's glow.

"Here they come!" screamed the boy and swung his shovel back over his shoulder. He saw Worthless gather himself and then the rats were upon them.

The line of skunks and woodchucks charged, growling and biting ferociously. The squat group of opossums scuttled at the nearest enemies, snapping with their long, sharp fangs. The little group of woodrats fought alone, giving no ground to their hated cousins from the dump. Alec glimpsed Wandertail in one lightning flash, his teeth in a brown rat's throat.

Alec swung his shovel hard, the flat side down, smashing a big leader rat with the first blow. Worthless pounced, dropped a limp body and pounced again. Red war raged along the line. And still the mass of rats came on.

Into Alec's brain now came a wave of terrified mind pictures from the rats in front of him, as they realized that new enemies were squarely in their path.

"Stop! Look out! A human is killing us! Turn back! A terrible cat is fighting here! Skunks are killing us! A thousand strange animals are attacking here in front! A giant human is crushing us flat! Help! Send more fighters this way! We're being killed! We're being surrounded! Go back!"

Those rats who were in the front ranks were now trying to draw back and get away from this fresh group of attackers who had suddenly appeared. But the pressure of the others behind was too strong. Those to the fore were pushed further forward still in spite of themselves, and realizing that they had to fight, they came ahead again. And brown rats are good fighters, especially when afraid. "Fighting like a cornered rat" is not just an idle phrase.

A huge rat leaped straight at Alec's face, screaming shrilly with rage and fear. Coldly, as if on a batter's plate, Alec slashed with his shovel, chopping at the rat and catching the dirty brown body in midair, hurling it back into the seething horde behind. At his feet the big cat was now snapping and clawing in a frenzy of rage. Stamper was not a yard away, his tough black-and-white form almost invisible. He was crunching grimly, ignoring his own wounds, tearing at rat throats and crushing rat limbs with each bite. The opossums, now far from sluggish, hissed as they clamped their long, punishing jaws on rat bodies.

Out on the flanks, the skunks, woodchucks, and other animals fought desperately, each defender faced with at least a dozen seasoned rat warriors. Some of the defenders were badly wounded and fell back, while those remaining fought harder than ever.

But the enemy still came on, their fear and determination making a silent mind-shout that assaulted the brains of the defenders. All of Alec's army had by now sustained wounds, including the boy himself, whose legs were now bleeding freely from several bites.

Down the wind from the south came a long hooting cry, echoing even over the noises of wind and storm. At the sound, the rats seemed to redouble their efforts to get forward and away from what lay behind.

"That's Death Grip, the horned owl," came Whisperfoot's voice in Alec's brain. "They're more afraid of him than anything in the world!"

And then the long-built-up storm finally broke. Thunder exploded overhead with the noise of a hundred cannons. The skies opened and a crushing downpour of rain fell onto the woodland below. The next lightning flash showed Alec only those animals less than a yard away. The rain was so intense that it blotted everything else from sight behind a silvery-gray wall of water.

The animals, both brown rats and defenders, ceased battling for a moment in response to this new shock of the elements. And that brief time was exactly what Alec needed. Raising his shovel and screaming wordlessly, he charged the cringing enemy line. All the skunks, opossums and woodchucks, soaked and drenched as they were, followed the boy. Worthless, infected by the madness of battle and needing only the example of a leader, came first in Alec's wake.

"Turn to the left, turn away from them! Go to the open side! Make for the human road, there are no enemies there!" came a clear, brutal voice. The leaders at once began streaming west across the road as they saw no signs of any other foe before them.

Before Alec's eyes the rats vanished from in front of him, so that he stood with uplifted spade and nothing left at which to strike. He was dazed for an instant and again completely forgot that everything going according to his plan and that the next step was now in order. But one small, cool mind did not forget, and once more the tiny deermouse, clinging to his jacket, helped direct the battle.

"Follow them, follow them," came Whisperfoot's voice in the hoy s brain. "It's going to work! Close in behind them. Quick, or they'll turn back! They're half of them across the road already!"

The instructions cleared the muddle from Alec's head. He wheeled and shouted aloud for Stamper, but could hardly hear his own voice through the mingled noise of thunder and rain. He remembered then that only mental speech made sense to animals anyway, and called out with his mind.

"Stamper, Stuffer! Get all your people together! Follow the rats to the road and over it! They're running! We beat them down! They're heading for the pond now, so drive them on!"

Ignoring the pain of the bites on his legs, and followed by Worthless, who was now limping, he ran through the woods in the drenching rain, over leaf-mold and sodden plants toward the road. He could hear no response to his calls but he pressed on, sure that the others would follow.

As he neared the road, he saw in a lightning flash the shapes of a raccoon and a big red fox, their tails dragging and wet, but their bodies dancing and leaping as they snapped and bit at the hindmost rats. The other, southern side of his two-pronged attack had finally caught up to him and was now fighting alongside him in the rear of the enemy. At the same time, in front of the two he could see a mass of brown-and-gray rat bodies closely bunched, some of them turning to fight, but most of them with their backs and naked tails to him, trying to get away.

On either side of Alec, more animals were coming into position. He caught a glimpse of two more foxes to his left, and a skunk ran past him almost underfoot to join in the fighting. He moved forward himself, shovel at the ready, to add his weight to the battle line. At the same time, he sent out a desperate message to the most powerful ally, and the only one not there.

"Mowheen! Mowheen! Come quick! I'm just above the road! Come and help now!"

He heard no answer and grimly attacked the nearest rats with his spade, pounding away at the scurrying bodies, yelling with the excitement of physical combat. A few of the bigger rats snapped back half-heartedly but there was no real resistance for a moment. Then out of the rain, in a particularly brilliant flash of lightning, there appeared a huge rat, one nearly as big as Worthless, with many more behind him almost the same size. The wedge of dreadful brutes came charging right toward him, actually scampering over the backs of the smaller rats who were facing the other way. It was Notch-Ear coming back to do battle with his picked troops, hardened warriors trying even now to save the rat army from destruction.

And behind Notch-Ear was something even worse! Lightning briefly showed a tangled mass of rat bodies, dozens at least, pulling and hauling something in their midst. Here was the reason for the sudden rat counterattack! The Rat Kings! Helpless now that battle was joined, blind and still hideously twined together, the loathsome rulers of the rat empire were being carried to their expected new conquest, borne on the very backs of their swarming subjects!

"There's only one human, a small one!" came the voice of the female leader in Alec's brain. "Kill him, and the others will run! Kill the human!

The huge Notch-Ear, red eyes alight and dirty teeth glistening, rushed at the boy, who braced himself for the impact.

Squealing with fury, Notch-Ear hurled himself through the air at Alec's throat. Then the boy fell, brushed aside by a vast, black shape rushing from behind him. So great was its power that Alec was spun away several feet, where he landed in a pile of wet leaves.

A gigantic paw, armed with four-inch claws, caught the big rat general in midair and smashed him into a tree trunk. Every bone in the tough, wiry body was shattered by the frightful blow. Simultaneously, the terrible, bawling roar which means killing to a bear rang out through the wood, carrying even over the noise of the rain and storm. Mowheen, last of the mighty three, had come!

Moving more like a giant cat, the great creature rushed into the brown rat army, battering them to earth with his front paws in movements so quick the eye could hardly follow them.

A combined squeal of despair and terror rose from the rats.

"Fly, run! A demon has come! A black monster is killing us all! Fly! Run for your lives! Cross the road and hide! Run, fly, escape!" The rats now fled in disorder, scuttling, scrambling and scurrying over the ground, biting and clawing those of their own kind who got in the way.

"After them, Mowheen! Go after em!" shouted Alec aloud over the hissing, rattling noise of the rain. He was on his feet again and charging behind the vast bulk of the raging bear.

"Come on, you foxes! Come on, raccoons and skunks! Let's chase 'em into the pond!"

Led by the great bear and Alec, the defenders of The Lot; woodchucks, raccoons, foxes, skunks, opossums, and woodrats, poured out of the forest and onto the road, snapping and harrying the fringes of the rat host. Behind them, a grim windrow of silent brown rat bodies, large and small, testified to the fury of the battle.

Across the Mill Run road, black and shiny with rain, and into the trees of the lower slope the woods animals and the boy pursued the fleeing brown rats. There was no thought of mercy in any defender's mind. The rats had come to conquer The Lot and all in it. Mindless with fear, instinctively following their fellows in front, the demoralized rat army tumbled down the slope, heading straight for the pond. There were still many thousands of them, a vast and formidable enemy.

Alec had not noticed in the press of the battle that the rain was slackening and the wind dying down. The great storm was fast passing on. Thunder was now rolling far ahead to the west and starshine was already coming through gaps torn in the thinning cloud wrack.

The boy emerged from the trees at the top of the bank overlooking the pond just in time to see the vanguard of the dump invaders reach the water's edge. Just as he had hoped, the rats, faced with a short stretch of water in front and stark terror behind, elected to swim. The leaders leaped in and began paddling across the deeper arm of the pond, their V-shaped wakes spreading out from side to side. With each second, more and more of the panic-stricken rats launched themselves into the water and struck out for the other side, swimming strongly, heads held high.

Alec waited tensely. Rats were still leaving the bank. Many were still on land, and none were really close as yet to the far side. It was not yet time. Breathing hard and leaning on his spade, he waited, while around and below him the slaughter never ceased as his four-footed allies tore into the rear ranks of the rat horde. With the simultaneous death of Notch-Ear, their war leader, and the arrival of the great bear, all discipline and controlled power in the rat host had vanished. And so they died by scores, even as they still struggled to move forward and gain the imagined safety of the water.

The starry sky was quickly shedding its clouds and the rain was completely gone. Only faint lightning on the horizon showed where the storm had passed on, that and the sodden, dripping leaves and the squelch of water underfoot. Now the main host of swimming rats was a vast oval out on the shimmering pond. The leaders were within thirty feet of the far bank.

The time had come. "Slider, Slider!" Alec's mind-message was clear. "Go get 'em! They're all in the water!"

The surface of the pond boiled in answer. The big dog otter had been as crafty a tactician as the boy himself. He had led his own family, and the muskrats as well, in a loose circle underwater until they ringed the front half of the brown rat host, cutting them off from the far bank and on both sides but remaining completely undetected in the process.

Now, at Alec's signal, the otters and muskrats struck. Coming from underneath, like sharks after helpless swimmers, they bit hard once and then went down, appearing seconds later under a new rat target.

Brown rats can swim well and even dive, but compared to otters and muskrats, they were as unevenly matched as a human skindiver would be against a sea lion. The mind-voices of the dump rats were now without any sense or sanity at all. Alec could hear a wild and confused screaming in his brain. It made no sense, being only the expression of the frenzied terror of hundreds of once-cunning minds, completely given over to the madness of fear.

The swimming rats were now milling about in circles, many trying to climb onto the floating bodies of their own comrades. It was a terrible sight and might have caused the boy to pity them. But Alec, remembering the implacable menace of the Rat Kings, simply felt a grim satisfaction as he watched the fury out on the star-shot water.

All of the brown rats on the near bank had now succumbed. Some of the raccoons had entered the water and were snapping and diving at the tails of the last rat swimmers, still struggling to reach the distant, unattainable shore.

As the boy somberly watched the end of the battle, a great shape loomed in front of him. Alec saw the old bear standing against the bank before him looking up with faintly gleaming eyes.

"Was I in time?" came the message from the old, tired mind.

Alec reached one hand down to pat the silvery muzzle. "You were in time, Mowheen," he said. "We finished the whole crowd of them. And we couldn't have done it without you."

"Good, good," said the big beast. "The old bear was some use after all. The Rat Kings are dead, you know. I saw to it. Never even got a bite from the filthy vermin. You did, though," he said, eyeing the boy's legs, which were covered with blood, now mostly dried. "Better go rest and lick your wounds, little human."

His long tongue shot out and touched Alec's knee. "We will not meet again, Watcher, not again. I am going for a long walk. The old bear will go far up into the hills of the west and north. I don't think he'll come down again. Too many aches, too many seasons. This is the last. Good-bye, Watcher. Remember the old bear who came when he was needed."

The great black shape swung off down the shore and vanished into the darkness of an alder thicket. Alec felt tears come to his eyes. He suddenly felt more tired than ever before in his life.

Then a thought touched his mind and he realized that Whisperfoot was still on his shoulder. Through all the battle and the chase, the storm and the rain, the deermouse had been steadfast. Now she was sitting up, dressing her wet fur and cleaning her whiskers with her tiny front paws.

"Well, that was a thoroughly messy business," her thought came briskly. "Look out at the pond, Watcher. Nothing left!"

The deermouse was right. As Alec looked, he could see the war was indeed over. The first light of midsummer dawn showed the ripples of swimming muskrats and otters, but of the brown rats there was not a living one. All had died, many by tooth and claw, many by drowning, and some from fear alone. Of the great army which had set out from the Mill Run dump, not one remained. The menace to The Lot and its creatures was ended.

12

The boy sat clown where he was, on the wet, cold slope overlooking the pond. Unconsciously, his hand went out to the head of the big cat, still engaged in cleaning his wounds, and patted it gently. Worthless looked up, his yellow eyes glowing.

"What do we do now?" came his voice. "This seems to be settled once and for all."

"I don't know," said Alec. "I feel so tired I don't think I can stand up. It seems hard to believe it's all over."

"Look at the pond shallows if you don't believe it," came another voice. Scratch appeared and sat up a few feet away looking at Alec calmly. The raccoon was covered with bleeding cuts and pieces of fur seemed to have been pulled out of his bedraggled ringtail in clumps. Nevertheless, he seemed pleased with himself.

The boy peered at the water's edge and saw brown shapes, motionless as floating leaves. But they were not leaves.

A branch overhead shook suddenly as a weight, or rather two weights, descended on it. Water fell on Alec's head and neck as he looked up.

"Here we are, wet but content," said Soft Wing cheerfully. "Look who I brought with me! We had to go hide in a thick spruce when the rain started, but we had fun before that, didn't we, cousin?"

Next to him sat Death Grip, and looking for the first time at the great horned owl, Alec could see why the forest animals were terrified of him. Even with sodden feathers, he was twice Soft Wing's size, with huge, pointed feather ears and great, unblinking, golden eyes. These were now fixed on the boy.

"So this is the one who thought up the whole idea? Hardly more than an owlet, too! Well done, Watcher. A good plan and good sport, the best I have ever had, and I was hatched many seasons ago."

His mind voice was velvety like Soft Wing's but even deeper and with a note of menace running through it.

Alec roused himself and tried to thank the two big birds. They really had done invaluable work, and he now told them so.

"No thanks needed," said the horned owl. "There was a command, wasn't there? All did what they could, not so? Now it is over, and we can go back to our own lives again. Come, cousin, I want to fly and dry my feathers. Farewell, Watcher."

Soundlessly, the two lifted from the branch and flew off across the pond. As they entered the darkness of the far woods, Alec heard one long "who-who-o-o-o!"

Looking down again, the boy saw that Scratch had been joined by the black-and-white shape of Stamper. With a slither and a flop, the shining wet form of Slider, the big otter, came up the bank and plumped down beside the two. All three stared up at Alec, as if waiting for more orders.

"You all did very well," he said slowly. It seemed such an effort to get his thoughts organized!

"Slider," he said to the big dog otter, "You were marvelous. It looks like not a single rat got away. But the pond is a mess."

"Leave that to us," said Slider. "Us and the muskrats. We'll stuff 'em all into the marsh over at the far end. There's a patch of quick-mud there you could shove a young mountain into. Look out on the pond. They've started already."

Alec could see dim activity in the weed-grown shallows. Rat bodies, sometimes two at a time, were being towed away up the pond in a steady stream. The cleaning-up process was regular and orderly, otters and muskrats pulling and hauling the floating brown rats out of the reeds and moving them off to the north end of the water.

"Then I guess that's the end of it," the boy said. "I suppose I'd better get back before I'm missed. I've got to get these cuts fixed up, too." He slowly stood up, feeling stiff and sore all over.

The animals looked at each other, each one reluctant to speak. Old Stuffer now came waddling up.

"All done and not a one left," he said. "Now we can all go back to the Council Glade and settle this business once and for all." The old woodchuck's normally slow speech was almost lively for once, and although he had as many wounds as any other animal, he actually looked chipper.

"What do you mean?" said the boy. "I thought everything was already settled. What else is left?

"The glade, the clearing in the woods where you talked to whoever you talked to," Stamper explained. "We all have to go there now. Don't you want to? We do."

"I don't know what you mean," said Alec. His senses were so dull by now that he scarcely knew what was happening. "I just want to go home and to bed. Why do we have to go somewhere?"

"Well, we do have to," said Scratch. The raccoon paused and then went on. "We just know we have to, that's all. I think you should come, too."

"I don't want to go," said Worthless, sitting up, his fur erect and bristling.

"We can't make you go," came from Slider. The big otter came closer to Alec and looked up at him almost imploringly.

"Watcher, we just know we have to go to the Council Glade right now. Everybody. Even the muskrats are coming and my people. And everyone thinks you should come, too. It won't take long. Everyone who fought the rats should go. We know this. Won't you come and bring the cat?''

Alec stood leaning on his trusty spade, his head bowed from utter weariness. The light of the approaching dawn shone in his eyes and a gentle breeze, coming from the forest across the water, chilled through his wet clothes.

"Watcher, you should come," came Whisperfoot's dainty voice in his mind. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

"All right," said Alec. "I don't know why, but if you all say so, I'll come. So will Worthless. Come on, old cat. If I'm going, you have to."

"I don't like this at all," grumbled Worthless. "I can feel something coming from there I don't like, something strange. It makes me nervous to think about it."

Now that Alec had made up his mind, he wanted no argument. "I said we're going. Now come on, before we're too stiff to even move at all."

He started off slowly around the edge of the pond and Worthless, still muttering to himself, got up and limped along behind. After him came the others and as they moved, a steady procession of animals joined them.

Otters emerged from the water, and squat muskrats left their task of towing to follow them. The foxes added themselves to the group, and the woodchucks and skunks trotted along. The clump of hissing, waddling opossums joined in, and Wandertail led his little band of woodrats proudly at one side.

They soon saw the little clearing before them. Alec walked out into the middle of the glade. He no longer had that strange compulsion to do something, but he did feel the old sense of calm and restfulness. Without even consciously thinking, he walked to the circle of flat stones and sat down in its center on the damp, cropped turf. Worthless followed and despite his earlier fears and his dislike of wet grass, lay down next to Alec.

Hardly making a sound, all of the woods people came into the clearing and made a circle around the boy, but remaining outside the stones. Scratch, Staffer, Stamper, Slider, and Wandertail arranged themselves in a row before him. He felt the wave of affection from their minds touch his.

"Good-bye, Watcher," came Whisperfoot's voice from his shoulder. He watched, detached, almost without thought, as the deermouse ran down his arm and pattered over to join the five in front of him.

"Good-bye, Watcher!" the other animals said. And there came another Voice, too: Good-bye.

A deep sense of contentment filled Alec's mind, and suddenly his wounds ceased to hurt.

Epilogue

Alec blinked down at Worthless. He was sitting in the clearing and the dawn sunlight was shining on the close-clipped grass.

"I must have dozed a bit," he thought. A muffled purr from next to his knee told him that Worthless also was asleep. He stared down at the big cat, noting that his fur was both bedraggled and torn. "You've been fighting, cat," he said aloud. "I wonder where?"

It seemed to be getting brighter fast, the morning light pouring down through the trees. Alec scratched his head and then poked Worthless, who woke up and meowed indignantly.

"We must have really stayed out late, Worthless," said the boy. "Let's get home fast!"

He stood up and felt the memory of pain in his legs as he did so. His mind tried desperately to summon up a recollection. Rats, was it ... or was it raccoons? He almost had it for a second.

But He whose gate lay still under the glow of dawn was yet the master. A mighty will, gentle but inexorable, beat down the boy's defenses, smoothing his memory, wiping it clean of all save a desire to be gone. The strange thoughts vanished.

"Come on, cat," he said. "It must be around five-thirty. If we hurry, we can get back before Lou finds I've been out all night. Let's go."

Stealing in through the library and racing silently up the stair, Alec was in his room with the door shut only minutes before Lou and John passed by on their way to the kitchen. The narrowness of the escape drove the last vestige of his adventures from his mind.

As he undressed and lay down on his bed, he heard the call of a mourning dove, echoing from the distant recesses of the wood. For just an instant, he felt as if the bird's soft call were saying, "Well done." Then sleep came and his return to his own life was complete. The strife was ended, the war was truly won, and the magic of the forest was gone as if it had never been.

Again the distant bird called and the trees and their branches, sighing in a soft breeze, spoke gently together under the morning sun.

The End

Never Cry Human

Worlds of IF – January-February 1971

Always know your enemy—but know yourself even better!

I

THE great blue sun was a long way from the planet called after it, Origen VII. As he ran heavily over the hot sand under its glare, William Powers, Field Agent of Survey and Contact Bureau, Syrian Combine, thanked the One God that its heat was no worse. It barely approximated 105° F on Terra. Even so, only Powers' superb condition enabled him still to keep moving at the steady trot he was forcing himself to maintain.

Beside him the lean, seven-foot form of his Lyran partner sped on with no visible effort, flexible tail streaming behind him, slender five-clawed toes making only a faint rustle in the black sand of the canyon's floor, a noise imperceptible to anyone but the man running beside him. Powers could barely hear the thud of his heart but he had no trouble with the crunch of his feet as the plastic sandals bit into the ground and occasional patches, of naked rock over which the two ran. Sweat poured from his nearly naked body. It was kept from his eyes by a crude headband, hastily made of cloth torn from the coat of his vanished uniform. Other than this, sandals and his calf-length service pants, he wore nothing at all.

In the waste all was still save for the two running figures. Above them, on both sides, the towering walls of the mighty gorge rose sheer and stark, black and red rock making a pattern of ferocious beauty. Except for an occasional gray cactus—like shrub clinging to the rock or rooted in some crevice, no vegetation was visible. Down the almost straight hundred-foot width of the canyon floor the two ran, as if competing in some strange contest.

In another quarter of a mile

Powers stole a glance at his wristchron.

"Break," he croaked and came to an abrupt stop.

The Lyran checked at once and whirled in one easy motion to look back up the canyon, his long tail curling gracefully as he did so. Seeing nothing, he turned his great red goggle eyes on his human companion, his immobile, snouted face looking like nothing as much as a magnified head of a Terran chameleon. But there was both intelligence and concern in the huge, lambent orbs as he saw how Powers panted while he crouched on one knee.

"Bill," he said in Universal, making it sound more like Hipeel, "you don't look so good. Can you last much longer?"

"Why in hell, you overgrown skink, you don't get out of here, is beyond me," gasped Powers. "How much water you got left?"

The Lyran examined the skin water bag slung over one bony shoulder.

"Maybe a quart. Maybe a touch more. Want some?"

"Yeah," said the man, holding up one hand for the water. He drank rapid gulps of the muddy, lukewarm fluid and handed the skin back in silence. The olive-scaled Lyran stood above him, lean double-ankled legs locked as he braced himself on his long stiffened tail, the whole forming a rigid triangle on which to rest. In this portion he also shaded Powers from the sun but neither one mentioned it, any more than he did the fact that only Powers had used the water.

SAHK MAZZECHAZZ was a native of Beta Lyrae IV or Zzorm, an ancient, arid planet, a world not unlike the Karoo desert of Southern Africa over much of its expanse. He needed little water at any time and the hot blue glare of giant Origen bothered him hardly at all. It was the man who was in really bad trouble and they both knew it. There was no need to make any comment. The help was an automatic reflex and on a different, perhaps wetter, world, would have been as freely given in reverse.

Powers' breath had subsided to normal and he checked his chron again.

"Let's go," he said, coming to his feet. "I've had five minutes and we haven't got time to hang around. We don't know what those hellions turned loose after us. We only have the one chance and we need cover."

"Quiet a moment, please," said the Lyran. He was now standing fully erect and his broad, plate-like tympanum surfaces, far more sensitive than human ears to vibration, were quivering as he strained to catch a sound. Powers waited, also staring up canyon. He could see and hear nothing. The shimmering haze, caused by heat reflected off the rocks arid sand, made visibility almost nil more than two hundred yards away.

"Yes," said Mazzechazz after a moment. "Something comes, something large and with many limbs, my friend. We had best resume our journey. We can do nothing here."

The two began to run down canyon again, their eyes ceaselessly scanning the terrain ahead and on either side. They needed an ambush spot, anything at all that would give them a chance against whatever horror had been loosed on their trail. A chance to use their one weapon.

As he ran Powers cursed the grim humor of the Arghor war chiefs to himself, not for the first time. They had carefully deprived the two agents of all their weapons, even down to knives, leaving them only a food pack, water and a limited amount of clothing. Two items of Powers' personal jewelry had been overlooked or considered unimportant. One was his wristchron, the other the large Space Academy ring he wore, set with a green stone. Next, the Arghor had left them at the head of the great gorge and told them to run.

"One comes perhaps, whom it would not be well to meet," the oldest chief had growled jovially and all the surrounding warriors had yelped in what passed for delighted laughter, some even slapping their black-furred thighs in a fair approximation of mirth.

For the tenth time since their capture at the end of the previous night, Powers had, with dignity, pointed out that he and the Lyran had the status of ambassadors and that the sky gods would curse any who harmed such.

"We have harmed no one, Sky-dweller," snarled the old chief venomously. "You came unasked, out of nowhere, on behalf of other irreligious, muck-eating monsters like yourselves down on the plain yonder. Whom we will kill in due course. You claim to be heralds, ambassadors? We asked for none, nor were we asked by your people to receive any. We found you at night lurking on our land near your sky machine, doubtless engaged in some vile sky-people plot. We could kill you at once without losing honor. This one with you looks like an evil spirit.

"But you are heralds, you say? Perhaps. We will release you then. If you are true warriors you need no cowardly death beams," and he pointed a massive, pelted hand at the two Ferraby handlasers lying on the ground.

"Let us have our knives then, Eldest," rejoined Powers, staring impassively into the angry yellow eyes. "If you leave us defenseless entirely, then who will be the coward?"

"No!" roared the angry old chief. Standing so close to Powers that his sharp-snouted, hairy face was only inches away. "No—we give you a chance for life, no more. You deserve no more, like all the dirty leaf and root eaters in your tribe. If you are true people, true hunters, make the most of it and save yourselves. Otherwise, die here and now."

"We are ready," interrupted the Lyran. He had been standing, arms folded, not speaking, while Powers argued. Now he took Powers by the arm and gently pulled him back.

The Unitrans machine which had taught them both to speak the Arghor dialect could not help to make the barks, growls and grunts as fluent for the reptilian mouth of the Lyran, but the tribemen nevertheless fell silent when he spoke. Humans they were used to seeing, but Mazzechazz was uncanny, and the fact that he could speak to them in their own tongue made them even more nervous. They were not afraid, exactly, but there was a grudging respect in their attitude toward the towering lizard shape that was absent in their attitude toward Powers.

"Go then," grunted the old chief, "You have been given food and a skin of water. If you escape from the Hunter of the Sands we will kill you later—but in fair fight. Now go."

Powers turned and followed his partner down the crude vine ladder to the canyon floor far below. At the bottom he looked up, expecting to see the assembled tribe gazing down, prick-eared in the clear light of the coming dawn. But the ladder was hauled up by invisible hands and then there was nothing. The Arghors had vanished, apparently uninterested.

"I think we had better run, friend," said Mazzechazz gently, taking the unspoken thought from his mind. "They surely would like to see us die—and that means they are probably extremely scared of what's coming. They are not hanging around to see how we'll make out."

NOW, three hours later, they had been running, running and running, thought Powers. And still they had found no position for making a stand. The level bottom of the canyon had stayed smooth, large, flat rocks alternating with fine gravel and sand, but with no break or usable crevice in the towering walls. The gentle downward slope never varied or ceased. Only the timed rests and his iron will had kept Powers from collapsing, but Sakh Mazzechazz could still go a long way. Powers knew that the big Lyran ought to have left him but he had given up arguing. The other had made it plain that he was not going to desert his partner for any reason whatsoever, mission or no mission.

As he pounded grimly and undeviatingly along, Powers tried to keep his mind off his straining muscles and laboring breath by recasting the events of the past few cycles in his mind. Everything had happened quickly—too quickly.

While returning from a pirate scan near the outer Magellanics he and his teammate, Mazzechazz, had been beeped by a subdimensional probe, matching velocities with their two-man, deep-space Farover. The powered message capsule, actually a tiny ship keyed to a molecular frequency in their own vessel's construction, had been taken aboard, stored for return to base, its coded contents read.

The message had come through the subspace dimension from H.Q. on Sirius Prime. It seemed that no Word had been received for three weeks, Universal time, from a new human colony on a Terra-type world called Origen VII.

The colony was one of the products of an influential religious body, the Methodist Revival Templars, a group originating on old Terra in the distant past, still with Terran headquarters, but powerful on other worlds also. The Templars were ancient Christian in their remote antecedents and gave their clergy a lot of authority. A strongly pacific—even pacifist—sect, they had a previous record of planting useful and healthy colonies on a number of worlds suitable for agriculture. They did not despise scientific technology but favored the simple life.

Although the colony was human, the-native inhabitants of Origen VII were not, although they were classified as clearly mammalian. Pictures and data on the planet, its ecology, resources and all other pertinent matters were included in the message. The Templar colony had been supposed to report twice a (Universal) week, but via subspace radio, not capsule. Mission for Powers and Mazzechazz: Go find out what was wrong and either report or -take appropriate action. Coordinates were given. That was all.

THE silent colony on Origen VII proved easy enough to locate. Set in a valley at the base of a mountainous and rugged peninsula on the larger of the two northern continents, it could be picked up easily on a clear night by its blaze of light. No natural satellite circled the planet to give light and the glow of the settlement was very plain. Farover landed easily, flickering out of the black sky into a glare of flood lights at the edge of what quickly revealed itself as a brand-new, defensive perimeter.

Heavily armed men, their faces haggard with strain, had swarmed around the ship as soon as it touched down. On emergence, the two Survey agents were caught up in a babbling crowd of excited people, all talking at once and were rushed almost off their feet to the office of the colony's governor, who was also its chief priest. Behind them as they went, Powers noticed guards digging still more trenches and laying wire around the S. and C. ship, enclosing it in the zone of defense.

When all others but the six members of the governor's council had been excluded and a guard had been posted outside, the two agents were finally able to ask questions. At least, so they thought.

Governor Halk Tahira, -Presbyter of the Faith, was a man of late middle age and, if Powers were any judge, late middling experience and intelligence as well. He had been ready to explode for days and waited no longer.

"Do you know what's been going on here?" he had shouted rhetorically. "This place was cleared, pronounced safe by all official sources. Safe and harmless! The natives were listed as 'primitive, semi-nomadic indigenes, mammalian type, humanoid in structure and intelligence and friendly to outside contacts!' Friendly! Humanoid! That's what the official report said. "Do you know what we call this place? Wolf World!"

He had raved on. And since Powers and Mazzechazz were learning something from his attitude they made no move to interrupt. Finally he ran down, more from lack of wind than emotion and the real questions started. Allowing for hysteria and shock, what had been allowed to happen seemed bad enough, in all truth. Someone, and it looked like Survey and Contact, which bore the responsibility for the first reports, had goofed, but good.

The natives of Origen VII were semi-nomadic all right—carnivores at various levels of Stone Age culture, who ate nothing but meat unless literally starving. Cannibalism was usually a matter of ritual but perfectly acceptable if the meat were an enemy warrior of one's one tribal group. The planet provided a variety of environments, all of them swarming with large and small game. Most of the big game animals and their attendant predators were highly dangerous themselves. You worked for your dinner.

At first friendly enough, the natives had swiftly become contemptuous on discovering that the humans were omnivores whose basic diet was vegetable, who did not eat each other and failed to see hand-to-hand combat as the only hobby for an idle moment.

The natives were erect, bipedal and possessed five digits on what a zoologist would style manus and pes or hand and foot. Opposable thumbs were present.

In general appearance and at a fast look the natives resembled nothing so much as human-sized, black dogs walking upright, although they wore harnesses of leather and made sophisticated bone and stone tools. They lived in palisaded villages, used fire and were quite as intelligent as any member race of the Syrian Combine.

Their economy was strictly primitive, however, and since they actually occupied a very small share of the planet's total surface, the Combine Xenological Bureau had given permission for a colony, subject to the usual safeguards. These, were designed to protect the natives, be it stated, and not the colony.

The Grawm, as the race styled itself, was anything but united. Primitives almost never are and the natives of Origen VII were no exception.

THE particular body of Grawm who called themselves Arghor, was a widespread confederacy of ten tribes, numbering perhaps a bit less than ten thousand warriors. As part of their hunting grounds they owned the peninsula on which the human settlement had been placed. Sparked by anti-vegetarian disgust and apparently urged on by a powerful (and hitherto unsuspected) shamanic priesthood, they had attacked the colony in broad daylight a month earlier. Despising humans and unaware of what advanced technology possessed in the way of weapons, the Arghor warriors had relied on head-on charges.

At tremendous cost to themselves, the "Wolves" had penetrated to the governor's quarters, destroying the subspace radio shack en route and by mere chance. When they were finally driven out, ninety-two men, twenty-two women and eleven children were dead or missing. Merely wounded in one degree or another were two hundred and ten more. An estimated, thousand Arghor, all fighting males, had been killed, mostly by close-range laser fire.

Now the colony had been placed under a loose but effective siege. At first individual Arghor warriors tried to kill Templar sentries at night, for both weapons and prestige. A jury-rigged radar network had quickly put a stop to this practice. It was now safe to move around the colony perimeter, but that was all. No hunting was possible except by airboat and the boats had to land and retrieve anything killed at once. The seven existing airboats could hardly feed the eight hundred people who remained in any case, and the emergency food stocks were already half gone. The speed-growth crops on which the colony had relied for the coming season were totally destroyed, the fields stamped flat by the enraged Arghor. All in all, Powers had reflected, a fairly messy situation.

He was not unaware of the psychic damage either. Peaceful people, who hated violence, had been forced to kill and had seen loved ones killed as well. This was as much a tragedy as the purely physical aspects of what had happened.

He had interrupted the fuming governor at this point in the story and inquired what that ecclesiastic official thought ought to be done.

"Ought to be done?" spluttered Presbyter Tahira angrily. Powers decided Tahira was a standard Mark I bureaucrat—overweight, confused and helpless in an emergency.

"We should get a battleship, Marines, heavy lasers, clear this end of the peninsula," the governor had suggested, his voice rising. Other members of the council had joined in. "Paralysis beams—null rays—grabbers—rover bombs—"

The babble had slowly died away as it became apparent that Powers and Mazzechazz were simply sitting, saying nothing, waiting. Finally the room was silent again.

"NOW Reverend Presbyter," Powers had said. "I'll tell you what we're actually going to do. You Templars, despite your religion and its training, all seem to have forgotten the Combine Charter. This is not your world, unless the intelligent inhabitants want you. This they no longer do. Whose fault your coming here was originally means nothing, understand me, nothing." He had stared coldly at the council and no eyes had met his. The Lyran had waited quietly. This was human business.

Powers then continued. "My partner "and I will try to fix up this mess. Peaceably. You people can defend yourselves if attacked and that is absolutely all. I am assuming military command of this post. Does anyone oppose my authority for so doing?" Again there was silence. No one had wished to go on record as opposing Survey and Contact Field Agents. The reputation of the Corps insured that. In addition, the reminder of their religion and its teachings was not making them deeply ashamed.

Reinstalling the governor as commandant, but this time as his deputy, Powers had filed a subspace report of the situation to Prime base from the ship's radio. After ordering an emergency supply ship to leave at once and outlining his procedures and ideas as part of the report, Powers had not waited for an answer. The two S. and C. specialists had decided to head for the main Arghor encampment that very night and start the ball rolling. He and Mazzechazz had taken one of the colony's airboats and landed on the rim of the plateau about a mile from the blaze of fires marking the main Arghor camp.

Several canyons and gorges ran up from the end of the peninsula and the human settlement's location to the top of the massif. The Arghor apparently were based in a whole series of camps, in the mountains and sent their warriors down to attack the off-worlders in rotation.

At any rate, with less than one more Universal period left of the local, or four-day, night, Powers and Mazzechazz decided to try a sneak survey of the main enemy position. They landed, seemingly undetected. Only the cry of some distant bird thing and the hum of insects had broken the velvet darkness.

As the airboat touched down gently on the grass of the plateau a local mammoth-sized herbivore had burst, trumpeting loudly, out of an adjacent clump of brush and trampled heavily on and over the rear or engine part of the machine before galloping ponderously into the surrounding gloom. In no more than five seconds, before they had even left the airboat, the two agents had been robbed of ninety percent their mobility.

Badly shaken around and battered though they were, yet no real bodily injury had occurred. Feeling more or less safe, both from the distance to the enemy camp and the presence of the hulking brute which had smashed their aircraft, Powers and the Lyran had started to examine the damage to the little vessel. They later agreed that one of them should have manned the combat radar, but by the time the hide lassos had dropped neatly out of the black night and over their shoulders it had been a bit late to worry about it.

Caught by an alert Arghor hunting party, which had chanced to be downwind of their landing, Terran and Lyran had been dragged before the hastily summoned Assembly of Chiefs, stripped and sentenced, all in one operation. As dawn came up they had gone down into the canyon.

II

THE two runners rounded a sharp bend in the gorge—and both abruptly halted, looking at each other as the topography sank in. This was the first sharp corner they had found since starting.

"Do you think we can do better?" hissed Mazzechazz. "We have perhaps five minutes before it comes."

"This looks quite possible," said Powers absently. In front of him were two hugh, steep-sided rocks, giant boulders over twenty feet high, which almost blocked the whole canyon. The last flash flood must have failed to move them farther down the canyon floor. A narrow gap between the rocks—only about six feet wide—constituted the sole pathway to whatever lay beyond.

Walking through this opening and pacing it, Powers estimated its depth at about ten feet and the distance to the corner they had just rounded at double that.

"This is okay," he said. "We can relax, I think, unless what's coming is a lot tougher than it has any right to be. Should be quite killable on a Terranorm planet though."

"It comes now," said the Lyran and proceeded to crouch low at the downcanyon base of one of the great stones, the one to the right. His tail was coiled neatly about his ankles and his great eyes were covered by his long-fingered hands.

The man stepped out into the middle of the gap and waited. He finished very carefully removing the large stone, an oval green Cad-mean fire eye, from the ring on his right third finger. As he looked upcanyon he hefted the stone in his right hand, keeping his thumb and index finger pressed on it. He could hear the rustling himself now—it was rapidly becoming louder and louder.

Powers poised for action.

Around the corner of the cliff appeared two immense whiplike antenna, a sickly blue in color. They were followed by a great, flat head surmounted by two monstrous pupilless eyes, also blue. From mighty mandibles at the front of the head drooled a foul-scented ichor as the creature paused to examine the puny-looking prey, which seemed to await it with such confidence. Six great, jointed legs, tipped with spiked claws, and then an armored, ten-foot body slowly followed the, awful head around the corner. Powers and the beast were now no more than fifteen feet apart.

"Down!" shouted the Terran and hurled the three-quarter inch stone square, flat and low, at the nightmare head. Even as he released the tiny trigger pressed down underneath the stone, he was diving to the left for the shelter of the other great rock. He fell prone—face ground into the sand—behind it as the tiny Osmium wrecker bomb went into its nuclear cycle, exactly on target. The huge boulder actually shifted in its bed next to him and a blast of superheated air came over its top and around the sides. Powers, his eyes tightly shut, hugged the sand as the terrific heat of the almost soundless explosion eddied around his body and the sand swirled over his naked back and shoulders. His eardrums ached from the pressure of the blast.

"Get up, Bill," said Mazzechazz. "It worked."

POWERS scrambled to his feet, somewhat embarrassed by the fact that he had not yet realized it was safe to do so. He found the big Lyran standing in the gap between the two mammoth stones. The sand on which his clawed feet rested was now covered by a thin film of fused, black glass, a mute tribute to the tiny bomb's intense heat.

The two looked back up canyon but except for a scorched area,, fifty feet across, where sand and rock had flowed together, there was nothing to be seen.

"Superscorp seems to have bought it," acknowledged Powers. There was not a speck of matter to show that the giant arthropod had ever existed, so savage had been the instant furnace created by the nuclear Osmium.

"That's the second time that ring has saved my life," said Powers, turning away. "Give me a swallow of the water and let's go. If my bearings are right, we should make the base camp in three more hours, provided the Wolves don't pick us off first."

"They probably have the camp ringed by scouts," said Mazzechazz, passing over the canteen. "We know how good they are. Why not signal, use smoke or something and call down one of the three big airboats they have left?"

"The Arghor could reach us a lot quicker, I suspect."

They both glanced up at the rims of the gorge, far above against the white sky, but no sign of life or movement could be seen there. Some winged creatures circled higher still, probably the local analog of vultures. The oppressive heat of Origen, the great, blue sun, still lay all around them.

The man drank some lukewarm water and considered, while the Lyran waited. Of the two, Mazzechazz was the profounder thinker, the philosopher-logician, the chess player. He was also the memory bank, a living library of history and technology, spanning many races and worlds besides his own. But in a situation calling for lightning action, reflex moves and brutal cunning Homo sapiens had still not met a peer in the galaxy. Powers was the decision maker here by mutual consent. Just as he had cold-bloodedly risked annihilation for years by wearing a long-outlawed nuke ringstone, so he now ran the combat situation on a moment-to-moment basis.

In this case his decision stayed fixed. "We have a better chance trying it on foot," he decided aloud. "They won't be expecting us and I'm pretty sure the whole tribe back at the main camp thinks we're dead. We got caught good when the airboat was stomped— but I'm damned if I think any primitive can beat us at scouting when we really work at it."

Without another word they set off down the canyon again. They now possessed no weapon at all, save for their wits, but the prospect of meeting another ravening life form daunted neither of them. They were trained to do all they could and not worry about what could not be helped. Worrying, as opposed to forethought, clouded the mind. A clouded mind could mean bad reaction time and that got you killed. So, at a trot calculated to save energy, the two agents loped along, looking for the next obstacle.

TEN Universal hours later Powers was as tired as he had ever been in his sometimes very active life. He and his partner were uncomfortably ensconced in a giant tree, about a half-mile from the fortified outer zone of the Templar settlement. To all appearances, as far as their getting to home base safely went, they might as well have been on the other side of the planet.

They had emerged earlier from the mouth of the canyon to find themselves in more or less dense forest, although moving in the right direction for ultimate safety. Realizing that they probably stood a good chance of being slaughtered on the ground by native predators, if not by the Arghor, they had taken to the towering trees and moved more or less easily along through them toward the base. Their alien order pro ably helped keep what animals they saw at a distance.

But now, out of water and hungry, they seemed stuck and could see no way to go farther. Arghor sentries, easily spotted from high above, were spread all around the section of base perimeter the two could observe. The offworld agents had managed to count nine of them, in a layer three deep, crouched in immobile watchfulness. The warriors were not too close to one another laterally; that is, each file of three formed a rather isolated line extending out from the base to the forest's edge, each of the enemy being about one hundred and fifty feet apart. With the wolf people's keen scent and hearing the formation appeared an effective one. It was hard to see how man and Lyran could get by without detection.

"Suppose we went between two of the files?" said Powers in a whisper.

"Then both sets would hear or smell us," said Mazzechazz. "But I have an idea. These are very proud, independent creatures, William. They dislike calling for help unless desperate. Many savages act so. Now suppose we come down, you in front and then—"

Powers' answering whisper grew excited.

An hour later they were hailing the Templar sentries manning the perimeter. And then minutes after that they were relaxing in air-conditioned privacy on their own ship.

"I'm amazed that anything that obvious worked," mumbled Powers as he chewed away at the second large steak he had cooked. Across the dining table, Mazzechazz was eating spiced, processed fruit. His people had never been carnivores, or at least not since a stage analogous to a shrew in human evolution.

He finished a portion of something purple and juicy and flicked a handful of seeds out of his mouth with his slender tongue before answering.

"Psychology, William, psychology. Action is not everything. What could be simpler? You walk up to a sentry, naked, unarmed and hands in the air. By the way, there is food for thought in this area of defenselessness. I must consider it.

"To resume, can he kill you? No, - you are helpless, he has-to talk, figure things out, try to understand why you are out there coming from the wrong direction. This is too much of a puzzle. In the half-minute it takes to think of asking for advice, not help, mind you, advice, I, the quieter moving of the two, have eased up behind him and throttled him into insensibility. The sentries in the files to left and right have heard nothing and the two remaining in his own line but nearer to camp have not been called. He gets tied up, I take his knife for insurance and we repeat the performance twice more, all the way into camp. Psychology!" He selected a package of Terran figs and carefully opened it, transparent nictitating membranes snapping over his eyes in anticipation. For a while the two ate in silence.

At last, his belt groaning, Powers leaned back and reached for a pipe.

"So now what? We managed to get out safe and sound, but that's all. Got any ideas?

"It seems to me," he went on, without waiting for the other to speak, "that we have to recommend evacuation. The Arghor are intelligent, quite highly intelligent, even if they've only arrived at the Neolithic. They now detest humans and want to kill them all. It's their planet and they have the right to do so if the humans remain. The humans, under Syrian Combine law, do not have the right to kill the Arghor, even in self defense, once they, the humans that is, have been officially told to leave and the Combine has evaluated the situation and agreed. Which would seem to make evacuation the only possibility. Someone is going to get a very noisy kick in the pants over this," he added. "I mean the S. and C. team that recommended this hell hole for colonization. And that's our service responsibility. The whole of Survey and Contact is going to look awfully incompetent when this news gets out. Even the Bureau can't keep this one quiet. There are too many people and departments involved, Xenological, Colonization—all those, et-cetra." He subsided, stoking his pipe with black Cannicotea antarea, lighting it and emitting clouds of lavender smoke.

THE Lyran ran his tongue around his wide, lipless mouth, pushed the empty food containers away and leaned back in his hammock, supple tail curling neatly around the stanchion which supported one end of it.

"Don't be so gloomy, William," he said gently. "We have only been here a little over one cycle. Besides, if my ideas are correct, there should be no real trouble about this colony. A little thought is what is needed, a little philosophy, a little history, and a little psychology. Something workable exists in our common store of experience for every eventuality. We have only to tap the proper circuit."

"Have you got something to use all that quickly?" said Powers. "Short of driving the Arghor out of an area and erecting a large force field, I can't think of anything."

"There are several possibilities," said the Lyran. "They are perhaps eighty percent carnivorous, or even more, from the recorded data. We could quite easily remove most of the game animals from any given area, perhaps drive the animals out with contact sonics. The Arghor would also have to move or starve."

"That's interference with a native intelligent life form. Destroying or moving their food supply is hardly noninterference, is it?"

"All right," rejoined Mazzechazz. "But it's not lethal and surely allowable."

"Not, and I stress this point," said Powers smugly, "unless the people or civilization or culture or what have you constitute a menace to the peace of the civilized universum. From "constitute" on, that's a quote from our own manual, which you know better than I do." He leaned back and .exhaled more of the pungent smoke. Since Lyrans have no powers of scent worth mentioning, Mazzechazz had never noticed the aroma of Powers' pipe, which made many other beings as well as humans ill.

"Mmm, quite so, William. But I never really intended this proposal seriously. I simply wished to indicate that there are any number of solutions to any given problem and that we should be exploring them and not trying to evade our duty. We need to reason matters through, not simply report that matters are hopeless."

Powers tried to look thoughtful.

All that came to his mind was a desire to rest, which was not very helpful. The Lyran, however, had a modest share of the strange telepathic talent of his race.

"Go lie down," he said. "I don't feel tired. When you wake up I'll give you a dozen solutions, all good. Then you can explain why none of them will work. Yet one of them will be correct. The clue I will leave you to dream over is this: the answer lies in ancient Terra, in your own past."

THE following day, local time*(* Four Universal 28-hour (Terran) periods equal one Origen VII day or night. In the human colony Universal Time based on this cycle was maintained artificially, since the days and nights were simply too long for human activities. The Grawm were largely diurnal but not entirely so.), was busy indeed. Once persuaded that the weird proposal made by Mazzechazz was quite legitimate and even practical, Powers had to sell it to the governor and council of the Templars. He knew that if these men, particularly the Presbyter-governor, could be convinced, the rest of the colony would follow. The debate was long.

"Presbyter, I am not a member of your splendid religion," he said, trying a new argument, "but isn't there a saying 'Oh, Ye of little faith—' in your holy book?"

"Yes, there is," said Tahira sourly. "However, you are offering an explanation based on science not religion. And if you are wrong we will all perish miserably, women and children as well."

"All the Research and Biological authorities we have messaged on Prime Base bear my partner out," countered Powers. "They also say that if the plan is not tried the only alternative is to recommend immediate evacuation. The colony will be completely written off and the planet will become an educatable ward of the Syrian Combine. Perhaps it will be opened to colonization again by some more reasonable, adaptable group." Always save the sting for the tail, the psych books said.

"Further," he continued, "your remark about all perishing is silly. There is some danger to a few of us—those out in front—I agree. I will be out there in front, you know, with whoever volunteers from your colony. The extrapolation based on BuPsych readings says about twenty men should be enough. No women or kids need be involved at all."

"Suppose they use missile weapons, spears maybe, from a distance?" said a younger council member; one of the smarter ones, Powers recalled.

"They'll be barred from doing so for two reasons," said Powers. "One, we'll be away out in a part of your fields near no cover when they spot us. Two, they kill hand-to-hand from preference. We'll be isolated, almost naked and empty-handed when they first see us working. The results will surprise you, I guarantee.

"Look," he went on, "Sakh and I dug up one of the dead Arghor you buried and dissected him right down to his capillaries. These are pure and simple pack carnivores, only a lot more intelligent than the four-footed variety you and I are used to. In fact, let's face it, in lots of ways, as intelligent as you or I. No species precisely like them has been encountered up to this point, but they obviously had to appear at some point just because of the law of averages. And as Sakh points out, they're a picture-book example of what had been predicted they would be like if they ever did appear. "They live in tribes, which are little more than extended families or clans, rather like Terran primitives.

"The Amerindians of old Noramerica," said a hitherto silent councilor.

"Exactly," said Powers, glad of any support, however vague and qualified. "To go on, they possess a high degree of what used to be called chivalry. They never harm the females, the aged and the young in their battles with each other. War is a sport for healthy males only. Again, there are numerous Terran parallels."

"AGENT POWERS, assuming that what you have said earlier is correct, this last obviously is totally wrong," sneered the Presbyter. 'They killed every child and woman they could reach in the battle. A number are just plain missing and you have admitted that they were probably carried off to be eaten. Is this an example of your so-called chivalry?"

Patiently Powers returned to the scientific explanation he had presented earlier in the day.

"There again are two points to take note of, Presbyter, One, what were women and children doing during the attack? Two, what is the Arghor view of human beings, inculcated by both your food habits and by the arguments of their priests, wizards or whatever you want to call them?

"Don't answer," he went on. "I know what happened and so do you. When attacked by hairy, savage monsters the women and kids fought. Who wouldn't?" I agree entirely. But if they had known more, if they had been trained, they would not have fought at all. All they had to do was what I've told you. "Sakh and I took an Arghor prisoner some twelve standard hours ago and we went through his mind up, down and sideways. We know the Arghor, I tell you, and Sakh's idea is pure genius—which is nothing more than intuition, memory and scientific knowledge all coalesced. You have to try this or go home with your tails between your legs, beaten by a bunch of primitives and savages."

The Templar councilors stared at one another for a few seconds without speaking. Powers leaned back in his chair, projecting a good imitation of casualness and tried not to look at the silent Lyran across the table. He, in turn, had no trouble appearing calm. A reptilian face seldom displays emotion in any way a human can read.

Powers was aware that his last shot had been fired. And he had managed to conceal a major source of his concern from the council—the fact that Survey and Contact would get a public black eye if the colony were forced to leave. This was something to avoid at all costs. Now he could do nothing but wait. But in truth, the decision had already been made. The Presbyter-governor broke the silence.

"It means only risking twenty men, I suppose, and we have lost many more. We need eighteen volunteers, gentlemen."

"You mean twenty, don't you, Reverend, sir?" said a council member.

"Agent Powers and I make two," said the governor drily. He met Powers' eyes squarely for the first time and even managed the ghost of a smile.

Powers said, "I'm honored."

The details were easily settled. The long local night was coming to an end. The idea would be tested at dawn by Powers and the others. Mazzechazz would remain in command of the perimeter, most of which would be unguarded. Save for the party of exposed men who had volunteered; there should be no real danger to the rest of the humans on the planet. And in last analysis, the Farover possessed enough armament to stand off with ease anything the whole Arghor confederacy could summon up. But it was not supposed to come to that. There was going to be no violence at all, Powers told himself silently as the meeting broke up—not the slightest bit of violence.

III

PRETENDING to hoe a chewed-up, rock-strewn piece of what had once been a Templar grain field in the pitch dark just before dawn, Powers was not quite so sure.

He and Governor Tahira, plus eighteen other nervous men had shipped out in the colony's airboats a half-hour earlier. They had been dumped, almost naked and armed only with wooden sticks, in the middle of what had been the Templar's agricultural area, over a mile from the nearest woods. They were all pretending to hoe.

Powers concentrated on mental calisthenics and recited twelve Vegan verse palindromes backward, chopping savagely at the ground as he did so. He could hear nothing and see very little but he felt sure that he and the others had been accurately pinpointed by the Wolves.

Quit calling them that, he thought, You're getting to believe Mazzechazz too much and too hard

And where was that reptilian conman? Why, back on the ship, since he would be useless in this human problem and would merely confuse the issue for the Arghor minds.

Artificially preoccupied with such reflections, Powers was taken by surprise by the coming of the dawn. Almost without warning visibility became unlimited. As the rim of the giant sun poked above the horizon he lowered his gaze and squinted. Unconsciously, he and the other men began to draw slowly together, their eyes shuttling to the dark forest.

"There they come—" A young settler, pale but determined, stopped pretending to hoe and pointed. Shading his eyes, Powers saw the line of black dots break out of the forest and move rapidly toward them.

"Remember," he shouted, "they can kill us in seconds if you don't obey orders and do what you've been taught. Have faith!"

"As a priest myself, Agent, in a case like this, perhaps I should be above fear." Presbyter Tahira had moved close to Powers and-spoken in a low tone of voice but his eyes twinkled and he seemed quite calm.

The Arghor were now only a hundred yards away, and suddenly the blazing dawn's quiet was shattered by a concerted howl.

The warrior nearest to Powers was now charging, heavy, stone-tipped spear drawn back in one hairy arm. Others who had outstripped their fellows were about to fall upon Tahira and his eighteen Templars.

"Now!" shouted Powers.

INSTANTLY everyone, including Powers himself, dropped to the ground. The men lay flat on their backs, knees drawn up to protect their stomachs, backs arched and arms extended at full length on the ground. All bent their heads back, so that their straining throats were exposed to the sky above. In this posture, eyes wide open, they waited for the enemy.

By rolling his eyes, Powers could see the six-foot, black-furred warrior who had been about to skewer him stop a few yards away, dumbfounded, fanged jaws agape. Un-moving, Powers watched the Arghor approach, spear drooping, until he stood over Powers' body, his rank odor a pungent reminder of alienness.

"What is this skyfolk madness?" the Arghor growled. "Get up and fight, die like a warrior, skyman?"

Powers remained frozen in his strange posture. The Arghor raised his spear as if to strike and suddenly shrieked horribly. Somehow Powers managed not to flinch. The Arghor stopped screaming. Staring at Powers, he yelped with frustration, shaking his hairy head from side to side and doing a little dance of sheer rage.

"Get up and die," he howled again, dancing in a circle. Powers could hear a similar and deafening chorus all around him. It was music to his numbed ears. He allowed himself a small smile. His neck muscles ached from the upward jut of his throat and chin but he could hold the cramped posture a long time if he had to do so. So, he was sure, could the others. Now that they realized it was actually working, they could hold it all day, spurred on by success.

His own screaming Arghor suddenly stood squarely over his body, furry legs straddling Powers. Growling horribly and wordlessly, the savage fumbled with his leather breechclout.

By God, Sakh even predicted this ...

Powers then closed his eyes tightly. The ultimate insult and also the ultimate award for success. The prize for cunning was hardly pleasant but it was a far cry from death or defeat. He waited, honest laughter exploding deep in his body, but outwardly as rigid as ever, for the final and irrevocable gesture of contempt.

AS THE Farover bored through its first subspace jump on its return trip to Sirius Prime the two agents relaxed, each in his own way. The ship was on automatic and its computer could take care of almost any emergency imaginable.

Stripped of his harness, Sakh Mazzechazz was going over his body inch by inch with a tiny battery-operated buffer, polishing his minute scales until his whole yellowish green body gleamed and shimmered in the light.

"You must have a date," said Powers.

Equally relaxed, he had been transcribing notes for his own private records. Now he put down his recorder and turned his gaze on the Lyran.

"I said, you must have a date. Am I right?"

"A young female from my delegation's staff on Prime Base has brought me messages from the nearer members of my clan. It is only natural that I hear them in the proper atmosphere of privacy. Otherwise proper reverence would not be displayed."

"Yes," agreed Powers. "You mean you have a date."

"That's right," said the Lyran.

His red goggle eyes met Powers' and the transparent membrane flickered up and down rapidly in an uproarious laugh.

Powers smiled. "You deserve a date," he said quietly. "As a matter of fact, you deserve a medal. Not that you'll ever get one, pal. Mind telling me the background of your wizardry back there on Wolf World? You said the clues that gave you the idea were from my own racial history, I know, but we had no time to go into it in any detail."

"A small matter, Williams, hardly worth discussion. It will be in the report and you can read it later back at H.Q."

"Ah, ah," said Powers. "Play fair, Lizard face, I know how modest you pretend to be but this time don't bother. I want a story. Let the backroom boys read it at H.Q. You just tell Daddy in simple language."

The Lyran's gular pouch suddenly swelled out into a great, bluish fan under the long, thin jaws. The sight was a frightening one to someone unaccustomed to his race. The gesture meant absolutely nothing, as a matter of fact, being purely vestigial and used perhaps as a yawn or stretch in a human.

"Very well," said Mazzechazz, "since you are so insistent. But it hardly bears telling. When the human governor, the priest Tahira, spoke of the Arghor as 'wolves', something clicked in my mind. Somewhere, long ago, I had seen a reference, perhaps far back in time, as a young student. It was to the Terran carnivorous animals called by this name. The reference, too, must have lain in some sphere of my own interest, which, as you know, mainly comprises alien psychology and things related to it.

"The Lyran mind, organized as it is, must reject useless information and store usable data only. This reference then must lie in the latter category. I therefore put myself in a trance state while you listened to the history and the hysterics of the governor and his council, and isolated the reference, as well as several related to it—and others still more remote but bearing on the general subject. The matter of recall under such conditions requires training, of course. But it was not so hard as the time I—"

"Never mind past triumphs," growled Powers. "Stick to Wolf World."

"If you insist, Softskin. Your own education may even be raised an infinitesimal notch. Unliklier things have happened." He neatly ducked a seat cushion and went on talking. "Long, long ago on Terra, before your first Global Interregnum, the science of behavioral psychology, which even I must admit, you excel in, was still in its infancy. Certain of your early scientists, led by a man named Lorenz, postulated that rules of behavior which rigidly governed the lower animals also might affect human beings. The fact that Lorenz and the others had barely begun even to discover the basic rules which governed the lower animals made their work very difficult.

"But they persevered. One of them, whose name I never memorized, having no reason to, was working with Canis lupus, the wolf, the ancestor of all the dogs and doglike things you humans carry about with you to this day as pets and guardians. This person discovered that a pack-living carnivore such as the wolf is the most rule-bound, other-structured animal in creation. It has to be. If it were not, the race it represents would perish. The rules are simple but unbreakable and they go as follows:

1) Females and young of its race may not be attacked unless the young are approaching maturity. Then the adult pack leaders may expel them.

2) Territories are inviolate and may not be entered without elaborate ceremonial and ritual between packs.

3) Any members of the same species, that is, a wolf which exposes its vital organs, such as the throat and belly, and refuses to fight may not be harmed.

"The last rule is perhaps the strongest of all. Note, William, that these rules are common sense for a carnivorous animal. Omnivores and herbivores, such as you and I, can kill our own species with ease. In the case of my planet, a world government came mercifully early, you know the unhappy and bloody history of your own before the Syrian Combine discovered Terra and compelled you to seek membership.

"But a true carnivore can only kill on a very small scale. Any male Grawm would have to have a civilization a billion Standard revolutions old to overcome the inbred inhibitions against total war upon his own species. Fighting other males for sexual reasons, small-scale raids for prestige, Tor sport really, all these things, yes. But killing the young, the aged, the females and above all those who will not fight back, never! He can't do it. The pack leader can kill any pack member. This is because he is the strongest and the wisest, the most cunning in battle. Those below him do not fight back when he punishes. It would be interesting to know what happens to old leaders! I think I can guess, however.

"Once I had recalled all; this I examined, mentally and physically, a Grawm male. It then became a simple matter to set up a construct and a field problem. And of course it worked, because my examination proved my theoretical postulate to be more than approximate. It was more exact than I could believe."

"Irritating though it is to' agree with you, I'm afraid you're right," said Powers.

"You were so right," he went on, "that when that hairy buck standing over me relieved himself I almost wanted to yell, 'Not me, Mazzechazz did it!' You told me that this was a probable gesture of utter contempt among such a species and it certainly was."

"The extrapolation for such an action was only sixty-five percent, allowing for the differences in intelligence and culture between Grawm as a higher species, and wolves," said the Lyran. "I was lucky."

"I wasn't." Powers grinned. "But even that kind of bath wasn't. much of a price, I agree, not for what we got. Once they realized that the twenty males they had pinned down wouldn't move, wouldn't fight, they sent for the big chiefs. It took .quite a while but there was no real problem. I simply made it plain that we were non-fighters. That all the fighters had been killed in the big raid and that we would never send any more. That we were cowering behind the colony walls trying to think of a way to tell them this.

"They were almost physically ill when I finished. In a generation, maybe, the Propaganda boys can start a little work of an underhand kind and begin to civilize them. Meanwhile, they want no part of any human.

"Now," he went on, stretching lazily, "we can forget about the Arghor Confederacy—or any Grawm as a problem. Every colonist will be taught as an infant to flop on his or her back, throat exposed, the minute a male Grawm appears. I strongly suspect that all the Arghor villages will change location to miles away from the settlement—and very quickly at that. The sense of disgust, the sheer revulsion, at being located near a colony of non-fighting males must be hideously strong.

"I am incapable of truly appreciating—or should I say feeling mammalian emotion, as you know," said Mazzechazz. "I would not have risked this operation without your approval despite all my theory."

"The minute you suggested it I knew it would work," said Powers. "These Arghor aren't so very far from my own ancestors in a lot of ways. The main problem, of course, the real risk, was a rather subtle one. Did the Grawm species, specifically the Arghor, despite their hatred and contempt for us, feel we were their spiritual equals? If they didn't, if they saw us a weird but lower form of animal, then all bets were off. Things could have been different. The wolf inhibition against killing only applies to one's own kind, not to rabbits or deer. That was the only real chance we had to take. Your figures said it was an extremely good chance, so I took it and persuaded the others to take it as well."

"Actually," the Lyran began, "actually you took no chance at all." He appeared in some impossible way, embarrassed at what he was saying. Finally, after looking at a bulkhead, he stared his partner in the eye, using one-of his own periscope orbs, head turned sideways.

"I had a needle-beam laser on electronic reflex aimed at your particular assailant, William. Had he moved one wrong muscle and I know to a millimeter which they are—the telltales, I mean—he would have died at once. So would the others."

Powers was horrified. "My god, that would have violated the major Prime Directive! Are you crazy? How would you have explained it later?"

The Lyran's membranes flickered up and down over the great red eyes.

"Oh," he said. "I would have thought of something. I am too lazy and too conservative to become accustomed to a new partner, you see. It has nothing, of course, to do with sentiment."

Powers looked hard at the Lyran and then himself glanced away at a sealed port.

"Yes," he said. "I see."

The End

The Peculiar Exploits of Brigadier Ffellowes

Ffellowes 01

(1972)*

HIS ONLY SAFARI

Mason Williams was in great form that evening. Or so an admirer would have described him, if he'd had any admirers. A lot of us in the club were still trying to find out how he'd ever been elected in the first place. The election committee, of course, will never say anything, but we were pretty sure they had blundered and were now pretending not to notice it.

Anyhow, Williams had just come back from Africa. He had bought himself a complete safari while there, the iced champagne and hot bath kind, and gotten himself a lot of stuffed animal heads, also purchased, if our suspicions were correct.

"Yes, I went alone," he brayed, so loudly that you could hear him across the library. "Real hunting, just me and the white hunter, two 'pros,' if I do say so."

"Since the hunter was being paid, he couldn't refuse to go along, now could he?" said someone in a perfectly audible aside. Williams got red, but refused to take notice. He was going to tell us all about it if it killed him.

It was pretty bad. I'm no hunter but I knew enough to know Williams knew absolutely nothing. Bits of his tale filtered through despite my attempts to read a paper.

"Used a Bland .470 express at three hundred yards on that baby!—Have to watch your step with Kudu—The hunter told me that Grant's would be a near record—Slept with loaded guns because lions were prowling around—Et cetera, et cetera."

On and on it went. No one was really listening but we were all damned if we'd allow Williams to drive us out of the library. Besides being warm and cosy there, it was a foggy, November night and the city streets outside were dim and dirty.

Brigadier Ffellowes' even voice cut in neatly during one of Williams' infrequent pauses for breath, and we all sat up and felt considerably more cheerful. Our retired English artilleryman had made one of his usual unobtrusive entrances and was toasting himself, back to the big fireplace, a gentle smile on his ruddy face.

"I wonder if you glimpsed a place I visited once, Williams?" he said in a musing tone. "A tribe of dark, hawk-faced men lived there in an ancient, ruined city. They were ruled by a white, veiled priestess who made claim to some incredible age. Why, it must have been in the very area you were hunting over."

Williams had never read She, or much else except market sheets, but this was too raw even for him.

"I suppose you know all about Africa," he said furiously. "After all, you British used to practically run the place until the natives got wise and ran you out. Probably you got some great sun and sand African hunting stories, too, General." (He knew Ffellowes hated being called 'General.')

"Why not give us one, Pal?" he went on. "A lousy American businessman can't hardly compete with a real pucker say-hib, eh wot?" Williams is a horrible man, honestly.

Ffellowes never batted an eye. Nothing infuriated Williams more than the realization that nothing he could say seemed to bother the Englishman. Now the Brigadier kept his serene smile as he drew himself an armchair and sat down near us. Very tangentially, he somehow managed to make a circle of chairs, so that Williams was left standing outside it and had to wedge himself half under the mantlepiece so as to even hear.

"I only once ever went on what might be called a safari," he said, "And my chief memory is not of heat, oddly enough. It's of cold, cold and mist, weather not unlike tonight, don't you know. But the mist was both thicker and wetter, as well as cleaner, of course. And the quiet was nothing like the city. Oh, that quiet!"

He was silent for a moment. The faint hooting of traffic was the only sound in the room. Suddenly, Ffellowes' gift for dominating a group had started operating again. His precise, level speech resumed abruptly.

"I was up in the Aberdares in December of '39, more because no one else was handy than for any special skill of my own, as will become apparent.

"Any of you know them? Well, they are a range of forested hills in Kenya that go quite high in some places and lie about fifty miles west of Mount Kenya itself. There is heavy forest up to eleven thousand feet in many places, and surprising amounts of big game, bongo, some Cape buffalo and even elephant. Leopard, of course, but no lions, unless poor Gandar Dowar was right and an unknown, small, spotted species used to live there.

"Into this area I had been sent by His Majesty's Government to look for a missing man. His name was Guido Bruckheller and he had an Austrian name but was an Italian zoologist, a Ph.D. from Bolzano originally, I believe. He apparently had done some excellent work on tropical rodents as disease vectors. Out of my line by miles. But he was in the books as a most dangerous Axis agent. The fellow spoke a dozen African languages and was a real bushman to boot. He had been staying in Nairobi, watched carefully, but as a nominal Italian citizen, no more than that, since Mussolini was technically neutral at this time.

"Well, it was the period of the so-called 'phoney war' in France. Poland was dished and we were simply waiting for the onslaught. I was on my way back from a certain job in India when I got orders to side-track to Nairobi and at once. Bruckheller had vanished and supposedly a trained Intelligence man was wanted to follow up and find him.

"I found the local security people dithering all over the map. They had the wind up badly and seemed to feel this chap could start a second Senussi uprising or something unless he was caught up with promptly. Personally, mind you, I thought it all a lot of rubbish. One man is just that, one man, and there had been no reports of any trouble among the tribes in western Kenya. Still, the fellow had vanished and he was supposed to be hot stuff. The locals could have handled it better, I thought.

"There was only one clue as to where he had gone. Two white farmers, out hunting about their farms on the Chania River, thought they'd seen a white man and some natives cross a clearing much higher up the slope at dawn three days earlier. Since the colony was now at war and most of the able-bodied whites were gone, they'd reported it to the local police post at Nyeri, whence it had come in to Headquarters Nairobi. This was absolutely the only report from the whole of Kenya of anyone or anything out of place and so we had to assume it was our lead.

"Since I didn't know the territory, some local talent was needed. What I got was an elderly major of the local volunteer defense force who'd been with Meinertzhagen in Tanganyika during World War I and a middle-aged, one-armed Boer farmer from up north somewhere who said he'd come for the fun of it. Their names were Sizenby and Krock. Krock, the Boer, made very bad jokes, starting with 'I am a young Krock not an English 'old crock,' neen?' We also got six King's African Rifles under a sixty-year-old Kikuyu sergeant named Asoto, who stood five foot six and weighed two hundred pounds, all of it muscle.

"The whole place, I mean Nairobi, was such a hotbed of gossip that half the town must have been in on our mission. One chap buttonholed Sizenby in the Mithaiga Club the night before we left and said, rather incoherently, 'Now do look out, Size. The Kerit is out in the Aberdares. My boys tell me it took four cattle and a grown man last week."

" 'What on earth was that, Major?' I asked Sizenby when we were outside in the street.

" 'Oh, nothing,' he mumbled. 'Lot of fiddle. Supposed to be some animal, quite dangerous up that way, but no one's ever really seen it. Chap was drunk.'

"I stopped still for a moment. You know, I'd never thought of animals at all. We were after a man, who might or might not be dangerous, but there was a largish war on and that was normal. But animals now! 'Look here,' I said, 'what animal is this? Surely not a lion? a leopard? What did that chap say?'

"Sizenby chewed a ratty grey mustache for a bit. He was an undersized creature in an ill-fitting uniform with a vague blue eye. Frankly, he looked pretty hopeless but he and the Boer were all I could get and he was supposed to know the country.

" 'It had several native names,' he said slowly. 'Chimiset is one, Kerit another. Now and again it makes the papers. Then it usually gets called the Nandi Bear.

"The Nandi Bear! Well, you know, even I had heard of that. It was supposed to be the mystery beast of East Africa and made the Sunday supplements regularly along with the Lost Valley of the Nahanni, the Loch Ness monster and supposed living dinosaurs.

" 'That's a lot of hooh-hah, isn't it?' I said. 'I mean really, I thought it was all rot and old settlers' tales. Do you think there is such a creature? I mean actually?'

"He looked at the ground and mumbled again. It was quite obvious he did think there was something to the story, and that he didn't like it at all. I was both intrigued and annoyed. Just then, however, along came the General commanding the Colony forces and I found out he knew all about my mission and had some ideas of his own. In the ensuing, and I may add, pointless, discussion, I quite forgot the Kerit, sometimes called Nandi Bear.

"We all left at dawn the next day in an Army truck for Nyeri, our jumping-off point. I was formally introduced to the other ranks, that is the K.A.R. boys and forgot all their names except Sergeant Asoto's at once. Two were Somalis, the rest Kikuyu; that's all I remember, except that they were all good, brave men.

"Now a road of sorts, really a baddish dirt track, barely usable for sturdy vehicles, ran west across the south end of the Aberdare range, going from Nyeri to Naivasha. This we took at once after checking for more news in Nyeri, where there was none. We went up and up in our truck, crashing into pot holes and large rocks until the air actually began to get quite chilly.

" 'Now,' said Krock, reaching me a heavy sweater, 'you see why we bring all this stuff. It gets colder yet, I tell you.' Everyone, including the troops, bundled up, and we all needed it.

"Toward evening, we broke out on to the open plateau, first from the dense rain forest which covered the slopes to about ten thousand feet, and then from a belt of bamboo. Up here, in the light of the setting sun, it looked most unlike my idea of Africa. If I'd had a chance later I'd have traded even for the bamboo.

"Before us stretched a cheerless-looking moor, with here and there an outcropping of rock or a plant like a monstrous cabbage on a stalk, or simply a great vegetable spike, raising its head above the tussocky grass. It was absolutely weird looking and the setting sun made it resemble a patch of Dartmoor crossed with a bad dream. A cold wind blew fitfully across it from the heights above and I shivered.

"The truck ground to a halt. Sizenby and Krock hopped out and began chatting up the local gossip and the Sergeant and his six whirled into galvanized activity. In ten minutes two tents were up, a small one for us three and a large one for them; two fires were crackling and the smell of food and woodsmoke was in the air. I had nothing to do at all, so wandered over to listen absently to Krock and Sizenby, speculating to myself meanwhile on what Bruckheller was doing and why. During a pause in the conversation I interrupted to pose the same question aloud. Perhaps these two might have some fresh ideas, since I had none.

" 'Oh, I know why he's here,' said Sizenby, quite matter-of-fact. 'I knew him, you know; not a bad chap but a bit daft. He's up here because of Egypt.' Just like that! And after I'd been racking my brains for two days!

" 'Now look, Major,' I said, 'what on earth are you talking about?' We had moved to our fire and were standing grouped about it. It was quite dark now, and a white ground mist had formed and lay thick about the camp. There was no moon.

" 'What is this?' I repeated. 'Why haven't you mentioned knowing this man before? No one else in Nairobi seems to have even talked with him.'

" 'Well, you never asked me and it didn't seem important,' he said quietly. 'I rather liked the man. We're both curious chaps and we found some of the same things interesting. At any rate, Bruckheller's quite dotty on the subject of Egyptology. I know he's a zoologist not an archeologist, but like most of us he has a hobby horse. His happens to be ancient Egypt. He was always at me about it. Had I ever seen any Egyptian ruins in these parts, heard of any rock paintings that might be Egyptian looking and so on? For some reason he's convinced that the early Pharaohs went north from around here. He was following his theory down from Ethiopia.'

"I thought for a moment. It all sounded completely mad, but then people's interests frequently are mad. Still it wouldn't wash.

" 'I gather you think that in the middle of a war, knowing that aliens, even neutrals, are subject to arrest for moving in unauthorized areas, this fellow, who is supposed, mind you, to be a trained secret agent, wandered up here to look for Egyptian ruins?'

" 'Yes,' said Sizenby, 'I rather think he did. He was that sort of chap. And I think he'd heard something, d'you see, something that set him off, some recent news from this part of the colony. And perhaps he felt he wouldn't get another chance to see whatever it was.'

"I mulled this over, holding my hands to the fire. The next question was obvious.

" 'Neen,' said Krock, who had simply been listening up to now. 'Nothing new comes from here in the last year, I tell you. I hear all the news, Man, you bet. Only the—,' his voice lowered and he looked over his shoulder at the group of K.A.R. around the other fire, 'the Gadet, the Kerit being out up here, that's new.'

"Sizenby looked at me attentively, but I remembered the conversation outside the Mithaiga Club with no trouble.

" 'I doubt the Nandi Bear, or ancient Egypt either, has much to do with this,' I said sourly. 'Obviously the man received certain orders and followed them. All this bumph and Egypt and—'

" 'Better lower your voice, Captain,' Sizenby cut in, speaking softly. 'The men don't like to hear about the Kerit, and there's no point in upsetting them needlessly.'

" 'Yah, that's so,' chimed in the Boer. 'We don't talk about it around them.'

"The one-armed South African and the little settler were oddly impressive up here in the cold mountain air. Sizenby had lost the vagueness I'd noted earlier and seemed both tougher and more self-assured. He was telling me to shut up in a very firm way and I got quite irritated.

" 'What on earth is all this?' I said heatedly. 'You two can't really expect me to believe in all this hogwash—mystery animals and Egyptian ruins? Suppose you simply tell me how to find the chap and leave the abstruse speculation to me, eh?"

"Sizenby stared at me a minute and then called over to the other fire. 'Sergeant Asoto, come over here a moment, will you?'

"In a second, Asoto's squat, immaculately-uniformed bulk stood immobile before us, hand at the rigid salute. Sizenby and I returned it, Krock being a 'civvie.'

" 'Sergeant,' said Sizenby slowly, 'the Ingrezi captain thinks we're having a bit of fun with him. I want you to tell him about the Kerit. I know you and your men all know it's out again. Say nothing to the men about my asking this, but simply tell everything you know.'

"The broad dark face which turned to me was certainly not that of any frightened child: the brown eyes were calm, and the deep voice controlled.

" 'The Kerit is very bad, Captain,' he said, in quite fair English. 'No one sees it until it kills. In certain places no one ever lives, because sooner or later it comes there. It takes strong men as easily as children, cattle as easily as goats. Nothing can stand against it. Now, we hear, all of us, that one or two are out and walking around in these mountains somewhere. It is nothing to laugh about. It is too serious a matter. Only those who live very far off joke about it. We must be careful, I do say so.' He stopped, apparently feeling he had said enough on the subject.

"I must say, I was impressed in spite of myself. One had to be, you know.

" 'Is it a real animal, Sergeant,' I said, after a moment's thought, 'or could it be human, an evil man or men?'

" 'I have seen its tracks many years ago,' was the deep-throated answer. 'They are a little bit like an old lion with his claws out, but much more long and more big too. No man could make such a track. But in its cunning it is like no animal. No one sees it and lives.'

"Well, that seemed to be that. I thanked him and he saluted and went back to his other ranks' fire. Then I apologized to Sizenby and Krock. To tell the truth, I didn't know what to think. I had either encountered a case of mass hallucination or something even stranger.

"We turned in shortly thereafter and I got very little sleep, being cold, damp and nervous. The next morning I awoke to more dense fog and a cold breakfast of biltong, or dried antelope meat. Since the others didn't complain, I could hardly do so, but I was getting a bit fed up with the Dark Continent, I may say. Not at all like the moving pictures.

"We all piled into our truck and drove off into the moorlands before the sun had burnt the mist off and the ride was miserable indeed on that rotten excuse for a road. By noon, we had crossed the spine of one hilly range and were going down again, to the west. And by the middle of the afternoon we were in a giant bamboo belt again. Here, for no reason that I could discern, we all piled off. I was damned if I'd ask questions and I was so stiff from that infernal truck ride that I went for a quick run in a circle around the truck, just to limber up.

"The second time I circled the truck I saw to my amazement that our party had been augmented. Three tall, lean Negroes, with fringes of ringlets over aquiline faces, long spears and almost no clothes had appeared out of nowhere, and were talking in low tones to Sizenby and the Boer. Occasionally they would gesture and several times the chief spokesman shook his head violently. Sizenby pointed to the K.A.R. lads who were standing watching and said something emphatic. The three looked gloomily at each other but finally they nodded. Krock slapped one on the back and walked them over to Asoto and the others, while Sizenby came over to me.

" 'We're in luck,' he said. 'These chaps are local hunters, Wanderobos, and they've agreed to give us some help. Seems that the two lads seen with Bruckheller may be relatives of theirs, and they're a bit worried about them.'

" 'They didn't seem all that enthusiastic to me,' I said looking over at them.

" 'No, well, you saw that, hum? Fact is, the Kerit tends to cool one off a bit, Old man. I had to point out how many rifles we had before they decided to chance it. Frankly, the odds were a thousand-to-one on our finding nothing until they popped up. Bruckheller is a real bushie and if he doesn't want to be found, we could have a real job on our hands. These lads make the odds a little evener though.' Sizenby paused, pulled out a battered pipe and lit it, then went on through the smoke cloud, looking diffidently at me.

" 'Something occurs to me, but it's a bit mad, I dare say. We were talking a while back about Bruckheller perhaps having got some news that sent him off. Well, as Krock told you, the Kerit is the only news that's come in. Could he have wanted to hunt it, d'you think?'

" 'I thought you were convinced he was looking for Egyptian ruins,' I said. My tone must have been sub-acid, because he just turned away, murmuring something I couldn't catch.

"It developed that we were at present only a thousand feet or so in altitude above the place where Bruckheller, if it actually were he, had been seen. We now were going to split into three small groups and look for tracks. Since I had no other suggestion, we set off.

"Each party drew one Wanderobo hunter and one white. I had Sergeant Asoto as well as two of his men, since I couldn't speak 'derobo or Swahili either for that matter, to say nothing of being a new chum. We all took compass bearings, checked out local maps, arranged meeting places and set off. I wondered again what I was doing there.

"Really, the bamboo forest was most unpleasant. The sun didn't get in at all and the forty-foot hollow stems made a strange, clacking noise, as well as a dismal moaning up in the tops from the wind. It was both dank and gloomy. My mood did not improve when Asoto, who was number two in line, the hunter being first, pointed out a large pile of steaming dung in a small clearing. It was enough like ordinary cow dung to mean Cape buffalo and the thought of meeting a herd in the close-packed bamboo was most unsettling. One could neither run nor climb.

"We moved along narrow trails, made by game I expect. When I later heard that the Mau-mau leaders were holed up in this area after World War II, I assumed they'd never be caught. My memories of it are chiefly of an incomprehensible, damp maze, with no more organized pattern than a child's scribble on a blackboard.

"But the men leading me were not disconcerted. We eventually struck another small path, this time crossing ours at a right angle, and going uphill again on a slant. Here the Wanderobo called Asoto and the two soldiers into consultation, pointing at the ground. I was evidently recognized as being utterly useless in such a discussion. Out of politeness however, Asoto called me over and saluted.

" 'See here, Captain,' he said pointing at some smudge or other on the track. 'This stupid shenzi (wild man) says three men, one a white man, passed along here two days ago. He may be lying but I think he knows how to follow animals.' The hunter glared at the insult, which he apparently understood, and waved his great spear while croaking out some threat or other. Asoto ignored him, except to wave him on up the new trace.

"I was in fairly good shape but I may say that I was completely dished at the end of the day. Just as planned, and accomplished through no effort of mine, we emerged from a bamboo clump into a soggy sort of large clearing and found the other two groups already there. I simply collapsed on the long grass and waved Sizenby and Krock over. I could hardly talk. My superior attitude was further weakened by the fact that neither of them, and mind you, Sizenby was in his sixties at least, looked even a bit tired. However, they were decent enough not to say anything.

" 'Asoto tells me you found some sign,' said Sizenby. 'Well, so did we. They seem to have been wandering all about this area for a number of days. My group found where they'd killed a bongo, a large, rather rare antelope you get around here, and cut it up for food. Krock, tell him what you found.'

" 'Yah,' said the Boer. His rifle hung in the hollow of his one arm, the right, and Sizenby had told me he was a dead shot with it. 'Well, old Size here, he finds a bongo cut up for to make biltong and I find a Wanderobo cut up for biltong. At least that's what it looks like!'

" 'You don't mean there are cannibals around here?' I said. 'Are you sure?'

" 'Not cannibals, Old man,' said Sizenby gently. 'The Kerit. Maybe two. There were what appeared to be several sizes of tracks. One of its tricks is butchering its prey.'

"I sat in exhausted silence, watching the night mist begin to form and listening to the giant bamboos clattering and moaning to themselves. I could think of nothing to say.

" 'What do we do now?' I asked. 'What do you think has happened?'

" 'Looks to us as if the Kerit follows Bruckheller's party and picks them off one by one. If you want to see him at all, you got to get to him first, and quick.' The Boer's eyes were steady on mine and so were Sizenby's when I looked at him.

" 'I suggest camping here,' said Sizenby. He was delicate enough to make it a suggestion since I was technically in command. I nodded agreement. 'We have enough gear,' he went on, 'and food for one night. We shall post watches and fire a few rounds every so often. I have a feeling that Bruckheller may be glad to be found. The men all know what we came across and if we try to split up, they may get a bit jouncy.'

" 'Yah,' added Krock. 'And maybe they scoot, run off and leave us. I don't blame them much, I tell you.'

"Well, we ate cold grub, iron rations, and set watches. There were no tents but we had some small bits of canvas the K.A.R. had been carrying and it was set up so that everyone, regardless of rank, got some dryness along with some of the wet. For most of the early night we simply sat and felt miserable: at least I did, and the expressions I saw on the others were no more cheerful. We had one small fire that sputtered feebly in the middle of the clearing, but it barely kept the fog off us, let alone gave any heat. Every hour, Krock would lever off a couple of shots in the air, but we never heard an answer.

"At least until around two in the morning. Then we heard something and everyone in camp sat up and reached for a weapon, either spear or rifle.

"Far off in the fog and night came a rhythmic, regular sound. It was easy to hear because the wind had finally dropped and the bamboos had ceased their ungodly racket. We all strained our ears in the cold mountain air and listened as hard as we could. There, it came again. All thirteen of us were on our feet now, listening and staring one at the other.

"It was the sound of running feet. But more than that, it was the sound of a man running—and running, moreover, on his last legs. As the sound grew louder, we were able to focus on it and we could all face uphill, the direction from which it was coming. On and on it came, the labored, staggering run of a man who is running his heart out, pounding and lurching on in the process of burning the very last stores of vital energy. Finally we could hear the panting, gasping breath of the runner himself. We stared, transfixed, at the place in the encircling mist where the man had to emerge.

"Suddenly, the sound just stopped. There was nothing, nothing but the drip, drip of water from the leaves, the hiss of the fire and the faint movements of all of us shifting our weight. All rifles were in the ready position and the Wanderobo hunters held their great spears poised.

"Now at this time we were standing in a loose group, staring uphill, as I have said, no one speaking. I was in the center, Sergeant Asoto next to me, Krock and Sizenby in front of me. The three Wanderobo were near me on the left and behind me were two K.A.R., with the other four on the right.

"As the silence persisted, the chill, uncanny silence, we slowly lowered our rifles and looked at one another. In the light of the small fire we were all clearly visible. All twelve of us!

"As we had stood, waiting for the supposed runner to break from the mist-shrouded bamboos above us, a trap, cleverly baited to appeal to human reflexes, had swung shut. Silently, swiftly, a man, the K.A.R. private who stood lowest down on the slope and thus a little behind the rest of us, had been made to disappear. And twelve heavily armed, alert men had been powerless to prevent the incredibly stealthy capture. It was a numbing realization as we stood, black and white, staring at one another while the little fire spat sparks at the bank of fog around us.

"With never a word spoken, we moved in on the fire and all faced outward at the same time. The movement was quite instinctive and, one imagines, dates from the Paleolithic or earlier. Get your back to the light and face the enemy from a circle.

"For a little there was a silence again, except for the little noises of the fire and the wet leaves. Then another sound commenced. It was not far away, but impossible to register or get a fix upon in the night and mist.

"It was the sound of great jaws, as they crunched and tore at prey. Just that, but in the sound there was an element of—how can I convey it—play. It was the noise a house cat makes as it eats the first mouse, knowing that the other mice have been forced from their holes and cannot escape, can be gathered in at any time the cat chooses. And we knew, all of us, of what the meal consisted. Sergeant Asoto said something under his breath which was not a prayer. Yet no one flinched. The Wanderobo kept as firm in the face of the threat as the disciplined soldiers, I felt rather pleased with being a man, for a fleeting second."

Ffellowes stopped, stood up in front of the fire at this point and stretched luxuriously. All of us kept quiet, although we were as stiff as he was. We were there, with him, on that haunted mountain. Then he started again, sitting down once more.

"I suppose we were all wondering what would happen next. The initiative had been completely taken away from us, you know, in just seconds, and that's hard to bear, hard to readjust to. Happens in war, when one is ambushed. Only very highly trained men can recover in time to save themselves, can think reflexively or let reflexes and training take the place of organized thought. We were given no time to recover.

"The ghastly feeding noises ceased as suddenly as they had commenced. Before we had any time to think this over, a voice came ringing out of the rolling mist, a human voice speaking English.

" 'He-e-e-elp! Don't shoot, I'm coming in! For God's sake, don't shoot!'

"Along with the voice came the sound of running feet, just as it had before only very close this time.

" 'Don't move, not any of us!' rasped Sizenby. 'Keep your positions; face out, rifles ready! It may be another trap.'

"We all obeyed, none moving. We needed no telling. Suddenly a man stood before us, on the uphill side of the circle, the side we had all faced the first time. His hands were up in the air and empty.

"He was a tall chap, a white man, light-haired and distinguished looking in a way. His garments were torn, stained and filthy—ripped almost to shreds in fact—but his boots were still good. He had several days' growth of pale beard and his light blue eyes were glassy with what looked like fatigue. He stumbled forward and fell gasping at Krock's, who happened to be closest, feet.

" 'Good God, it's Bruckheller,' said Sizenby crisply. 'Well, that's one problem solved. More wood on the fire, Sergeant. Drag it from the pile right there. We'll keep you covered.' The ineffectual little colonial farmer had disappeared. I could see that Sizenby might have been very useful to Smuts' army in the East African war of long ago. This was a tough frontiersman talking and I was frankly delighted he was in charge. I'm no chicken, but I was out of my depth.

"Asoto dragged some more logs over, watched closely by all of us, and with more fuel the fire blazed up and widened the circle of light, driving back the dank wall of fog.

" 'Good,' said Sizenby. 'Now, I want the hunters in the middle, next to the fire, Sergeant, because they have no guns. Detail four men for permanent fixed watch, kneeling, rifles at ready position, one at each compass point. They are to fire at anything moving unless I say to the contrary. The hunters will keep the fire going at this level, covered by you, Mr. Krock, and the remaining private. Captain Ffellowes and I will see to this man. That is the arrangement.'

"With this new battle formation, we all felt better, and you could see the men respond to the firm orders. And I can tell you, / felt better. This show was a goodish bit more than I'd bargained for.

"We both knelt by the Italian's head and I lifted him until he was resting against my knee. He was not unconscious, but simply exhausted, to all appearances, and his eyes were wide open in an almost fixed glare.

" 'You are quite safe, Dr. Bruckheller,' I said, 'as well as being under arrest. Just relax and tell us what happened.'

"For a second the strange eyes just stared at me and then the man laughed, weakly but clearly. He proved too, that he was able to speak.

" 'Safe?' he said, in excellent English. He turned his head and looked at Sizenby on the other side, then briefly out at the silent fog-shrouded dark before turning back to me.

" 'Do you know what is out there? I have told Sizenby here some of my theories, but not all and you are unknown to me. Who are you?'

"I identified myself but he didn't seem very interested.

" 'Of course, an intelligence officer. An intelligent officer, a brilliant officer, is what I need. A second Lawrence, a Flinders Petrie, a Schliemann!'

"He took hold of my arm and shook it. 'Listen, Captain, and you too, Sizenby! I have made a discovery so fabulous that it will rock the world of science. I know why the Egyptians first came to Egypt! Yes, I know that, and all about their gods, too, where they got them. Because to begin, they had only one, you understand, only one!'

"Over his head I looked at Sizenby. It was clear that some tropical fever, heightened by exposure, hunger and fear had driven the fellow out of his head. This raving was utterly meaningless.

"In the silence, as Bruckheller gasped for fresh breath, we all heard a stick break. The clear sound was very close, somewhere beyond the firelight, but impossible to pin down as to direction. All of us tensed and I reached with one hand for the rifle I had laid down.

" 'Steady,' came Sizenby's voice. 'Steady now. It's just a noise. Don't give way!'

" 'No, don't give way,' mumbled Bruckheller. 'We are all dead men, but don't give way. You English are marvelous. None of us will live until morning! But don't give way! His cackling laugh was a nasty parody of the real thing, and there was a note of hysteria or worse running through it.

"He plucked my sleeve. 'Listen, Captain, listen, Sizenby. I must tell you something. We are walking dead men, but I have to tell you. Someone should know what I have found, even if they don't live long.'

" 'AH right, old chap, we're listening,' said Sizenby soothingly. His eyes nevertheless continued to watch the swirling mist which surrounded us and from which came an aura of silent menace, of malign observation. So did mine and the others.

"As the silence grew and the fog seemed to form sinister shadow shapes, Bruckheller talked on and on, his voice low and grating, somehow hard to understand. I don't remember half what he said, but it went something like this:

"Many thousands of years earlier, a tribe of brown-skinned people, hunters and crude agriculturalists, had lived in this very area. But every effort they had made in their rise to higher levels of culture had been crushed and blocked. Their foe was not neighboring tribes but a malevolent species of creature unlike anything known elsewhere on the Earth, a bloodthirsty monster, or race of monsters, which preyed upon them ceaselessly. No weapons succeeding in killing the creatures, no prayers averted their wrath. Indeed, the hapless folk even made them (or it; the number was not clear) the tribal gods, but all in vain, for no sacrifice, human or animal, was sufficient.

"At last, despairing and decimated, the remnants of the people simply fled. Pursued by their awful oppressors, they somehow struggled north until at last in the great swamps of the White Nile the pursuing creatures were left behind. And the people, freed at last from a thousand years of nightmare, went on to become the ancestors of the ancient Egyptians.

"Mind you, it didn't sound then, as wild as it no doubt appears to you chaps here in the well-lit room of a building in a great city," said Ffellowes. "Please recollect that out there, in that cold mist, barely held off by the fire, knowing that something had got the missing askari (soldier), and moreover got him from out of our very midst, it was a very different matter. So that although we, Sizenby and me, were only giving Bruckheller half our attention as it were, we were still impressed.

" 'The clues are all there,' he kept repeating in that very odd voice, 'if only one takes the trouble to read them, they are all there, in the hieroglyphics, in the religion, everywhere. But only I, of all those who have seen them, realized what they actually said.'

"Just then, any doubts we might have been entertaining about nocturnal visitors were abruptly dispelled. The mist had parted a little in front of the K.A.R. soldier on my left, the one doing sentry duty on one knee at this point. Two immense yellow eyes were reflected by the firelight, eyes with slit pupils, but nothing at all like a cat's, being long and pointed at the corners. They only appeared for a half-second, but they were unpleasantly close to us. The soldier never fired but Krock's reflexes were better and he shot almost over my head, momentarily deafening me and filling the quiet night with the crash of his Winchester.

"In reply there came the most hideous cry I have ever heard. It was a coughing howl of volcanic rage, rising to a crescendo of sound and yet with a fearful shriek running quavering through it. It lasted for a moment and seemed to leave the very air tingling.

" 'That's no death cry,' said Sizenby grimly. 'That was simply annoyance. A wounded brute would have sounded quite different.'

" Yah,' agreed Krock, 'I know when I hit anyway. That one, he moves plenty quick, I can tell you.'

" 'You cannot hurt them,' rasped Bruckheller from my knee, where he still lay. He seemed to have gotten his wind back and he sounded almost amused. 'They are just as clever as you, you must realize, and they know very well what guns can do. They have lived here since the dawn of time and never yet has anyone actually seen them and escaped.'

" 'Did you see one yourself?' Sizenby quickly asked, dropping to one knee beside me. 'Did you actually see them?'

"Bruckheller appeared disconcerted, as if his word had been challenged and seemed at a loss for speech. He gobbled something unintelligible and then muttered, 'I hardly got a look. They took my hunters and I had two: one by one, they took them. I saw only a dark mass as they took the last one.'

" 'When was that and how did they let you get here, get to us? Come on, Man, speak up!' Sizenby seemed to be following a thought and his voice was fierce. I had no idea what he wanted, but he was clearly in charge so I shut up.

" 'How do I know?' snarled the Italian. 'Sometime yesterday afternoon, I think. I have been running and hiding, running and hiding. When I heard the shots I tried to get close, but always I would hear things moving. Why do you ask me all this?' His voice had taken on an unpleasant, grating whine, like that of a spoilt child who wishes to make excuses for a fault, but in some indefinable way it was even nastier.

" 'Just wondered, that's all,' said Sizenby in an absent tone. He was once again standing and watching the misty perimeter of visibility.

"Since that dreadful scream, no sound had come from out in the night. But now the far silence and the patter of drops of water from the bamboos were again broken. And once again it was the sound of running feet. Never very close and never very far away, the pad,' pad of the runner came through the chill silence. First on one side of the circle then on the other. We had learned our lesson though and we watched all sides.

"The sounds would cease at intervals, then commence again. The noises, indeed any sound in the bamboo forest, had a curious echoing quality, so that at times we seemed encompassed by legions of stealthy, padding feet, running on urgent and malignant errands. Yet at others there seemed only the one creature, running in the night, driven by some ancient and evil compulsion as if in search of a phantom prey.

"Somehow the night passed. As the grey dawn slowly widened our circle of vision, the invisible feet ceased. One moment they were active, the next gone and a few birds began a desultory chirping deep in the ranks of the bamboo tufts.

"At length the area one could see clearly had widened to almost a hundred feet and a hot circle in the eastern fog banks indicated the struggle of the sun to break through. We all relaxed a little and looked at one another for the first time.

" 'I sat up for the Tsavo maneaters,' said Sizenby, passing his hand over his eyes, 'and at least once I heard them feeding on a Hindu railroad coolie twenty feet away from my tree. But it wasn't like this, I can tell you.' He looked grey and shriveled. Krock looked like the wrath of God too, and I could feel every nerve in my body aching from the constant strain of watching and waiting. The Negroes, Somali, Kikuyu and Wanderobo were silent, a bad sign if one knew them. Only Sergeant Asoto spoke, stepping forward to point at my feet.

" 'Sirs, is this the man we hunt? He looks bad to me.'

"This simple remark made me and the others remember our quarry, the reason for all this incredible strain and the nevus of our search, almost forgotten due to the night's stealthy evil.

"Bruckheller had been sitting crouched at my feet and as the Sergeant spoke, he looked up and I saw at once what the Sergeant's rather basic English meant. I had thought he meant that Bruckheller was ill when he said 'looked bad.' But it was obvious that the words were meant absolutely literally. The Italian's face seemed to have suffered some indefinable change. The man's jaws appeared prolongued into a snout, almost as if he were thrusting his lower face forward, like an angry monkey's. And his eyes were narrowed in what looked like a damned vicious glare. He did indeed 'look bad.' He looked evil, if ever a man did and as his eyes wandered over us, it was as though he were cataloguing us for some peculiar vengeance.

"Further, there was something markedly unpleasant about his posture. He was squatting but somehow gave the impression of a dangerous animal crouching to spring, rather than a human being seated or resting. I stepped back almost involuntarily and Krock and Sizenby both raised their guns.

" 'Stand away from him, Ffellowes,' said Sizenby sharply. 'I was afraid of this. It's one of the legends of the Kerit.'

" 'By God, you said it!' said Krock. 'Just look at him!'

" 'What's this?' I asked, as I turned around, baffled by the menace in their voices. All the blacks, faces set like flint, were leveling rifles and spears at the silent Italian.

" 'Why, it's got to him,' said Sizenby. 'Look at him, Ffellowes! He's not a man any longer. Can't you see that?'

" 'Are you completely daft?' I shouted. 'This man is my prisoner. What the hell do you mean, not a man? Put those guns down! That's an order, damn it!'

"At this point Bruckheller sprang. I say 'Bruckheller,' but I doubt the name was deserved any longer. In the light of what I next saw and heard, our companion of the night was frankly no longer anything that could be called human. The creature on the ground leapt with a snarl on my back and with a strength I wouldn't have believed possible seized me and held me as a shield between itself and the leveled rifles of the rest of the party. Helpless to move, I was neatly interposed against any bullets as my captor backed rapidly away toward the nearest point of bamboo jutting into the rapidly clearing glade.

"I could not move, but I could hear, see and speak. What I heard was a noise made by the thing clutching my neck in an iron grip, a rumbling, chuckling growl. It was pleased with itself, like a circus animal which has somehow downed the trainer.

"What I saw were the agonized faces of all of our party, white and black, as they tried to get a point of aim from which to shoot, or throw in the Wanderobo's case, without hitting me. Some appeared frozen, others were moving but slowly, as one seems to in a nightmare.

"That is not all I saw. The mist was thinning, but in swirls and twists, not all at once. And behind the men, in a patch of clarity for one second, I saw something appear.

"Reddish, matted fur, upright posture, great gnarled, hunched shoulders and surmounting them, I saw—Anubis!

"In one blinding instant I saw the great, pointed head, like a giant jackal's, the razor fangs bared in a snarl and I realized the truth of Bruckheller's story, the hidden horror behind the beast-headed statues of ancient Egypt.

" 'For God's sake—behind you.' I managed to scream. It was Krock who caught my meaning fastest and he whirled and fired in one motion, one arm cradling the rifle against his side and doing the firing as well. He could shoot, could Krock.

"Again from out of the mist we all heard that awful cry, like a coughing shriek which ran up the scale until it actually hurt one's ear. But this time there was a dreadful note of pain, so that the cry was half a wail. We all heard it. The second time, the Boer had hit his target.

"My own captor lost his head. What ghastly metamorphosis was working in him I will never know, but it was clear that a bond of some sort, psychic, spiritual perhaps, somehow connected him with that demon visage I had seen.

"At any rate, he hurled me on to the ground and throwing back his head (I was told this, I did not see it), he answered that horrible call with a perfect copy of it, slightly weakened but otherwise accurate. It was the last noise he ever made. Face down in the muck of that mountain meadow, I heard every rifle in our party explode simultaneously, some fired three or four times. Then, there was a great, ringing silence. I didn't move or even try to until I felt hands under my armpits and was hauled up to face the rest of the group.

"I turned then to look down at the late Dottore Guido Bruckheller. It was not a pleasant sight, since every bullet appeared to have hit, as well as two lion spears, but I felt then and still feel most strongly indeed that we had done the man an immense favor. It is not, I think, wise to speculate upon what he seemed well on the road to becoming. Whatever it was had no place in polite, or indeed human, society.

"Krock, Sizenby and I held a brief conference with Sergeant Asoto. The vote was unanimous. The men dug a rude grave, and, after I searched the body, unpleasant but necessary, and found nothing, we buried it. Then Asoto addressed the troops in Swahili, briefly, forcefully and, to me, unintelligibly. At the end of his speech he asked a question. I could catch the inflection as well as the answer, 'Asente', which rang out.

" 'That means 'yes,' does it not?' I asked the two whites.

" 'Quite so,' said Sizenby. 'They shot the foreign bwana because he was shooting at them. End of story. What they'll say in their own villages doesn't matter. It was made plain that all this had best be forgotten.'

" 'Yah,' added Krock, 'and a good thing too. Listen, I hear of an English sea captain once who sees the sea serpent, the groot Meerschlang, and goes to his cabin and tells the mate to log him as having been sick. He don't want people to think he's crazy. Neither do we and neither do you, eh, Captain?'

"I looked around at the sunlit glade. The mist had vanished and a green touraco bird fluttered on the stalk of bamboo over the mound where Bruckheller lay. My report would be the same, in essence, as the others. We came, he ran, he shot, we shot, finis. And there it rests to this day. You chaps are the first to ever hear the real story."

There was a long silence as we digested what we had heard. Then someone, not Williams—he was still numb—but another man, said hesitantly, "I guess it really is like the great sea serpent, isn't it, just too much to expect the world to believe?"

Ffellowes stared at him coldly, his blue eyes like ice. "Great sea serpent, indeed, my dear man? You don't know what you're talking about! That's a totally, I mean to say, totally different matter altogether. Why, there's nothing in the least unbelievable about the great sea serpent, as I myself can attest. Nothing like it whatsoever, nothing!"

I felt good at once. The great sea serpent! Well, well, well.

THE KINGS OF THE SEA

I don't remember how magic came into the conversation at the club, but it had, somehow.

"Magic means rather different things to different people. To me ..." Brigadier Donald Ffellowes, late of Her Majesty's forces, had suddenly begun talking. He generally sat, ruddy, very British and rather tired looking, on the edge of any circle. Occasionally he would add a date, a name, or simply nod, if he felt like backing up someone else's story. His own stories came at odd intervals and to many of us, frankly verged on the incredible, if not downright impossible. A retired artilleryman, Ffellowes now lived in New York, but his service had been all over the world, and in almost every branch of military life, including what seemed to be police or espionage work. That's really all there is to be said about either his stories or him, except that once he started one, no one ever interrupted him.

"I was attached to the embassy in Berlin in '38, and I went to Sweden for a vacation. Very quiet and sunny, because it was summer, and I stayed in Smaaland, on the coast, at a little inn. For a bachelor who wanted a rest, it was ideal, swimming every day, good food, and no newspapers, parades, crises or Nazis.

"I had a letter from a Swedish pal I knew in Berlin to a Swedish nobleman, a local landowner, a sort of squire in those parts. I was so absolutely happy and relaxed I quite forgot about going to see the man until the second week of my vacation, and when I did, I found he wasn't at home in any case.

"He owned a largish, old house about three miles from the inn, also on the coast road, and I decided to cycle over one day after lunch. The inn had a bike. It was a bright, still afternoon, and I wore my bathing trunks under my clothes, thinking I might get a swim either at the house or on the way back.

"I found the place easily enough, a huge, dark-timbered house with peaked roofs, which would look very odd over here, and even at home. But it looked fine there, surrounded by enormous old pine trees, on a low bluff over the sea. There was a lovely lawn, close cut, spread under the trees. A big lorry—you'd say a moving van—was at the door, and two men were carrying stuff out as I arrived. A middle-aged woman, rather smartly dressed, was directing the movers, with her back to me so that I had a minute or two to see what they were moving. One of them had just manhandled a largish black chair, rather archaic in appearance, into the lorry and then had started to lift a long, carved wooden chest, with a padlock on it, in after the chair. The second man, who must have been the boss mover, was arguing with the lady. I didn't speak too much Swedish, although I'm fair at German, but the two items I saw lifted into the van were apparently the cause of the argument, and I got the gist of it, you know.

" 'But Madame,' the mover kept on saying, 'Are you sure these pieces should be destroyed! They look very old.'

" 'You have been paid,' she kept saying, in a stilted way. 'Now get rid of it any way you like. Only take it away, now, at once.'

"Then she turned and saw me, and believe it or not, blushed bright red. The blush went away quickly, though, and she asked me pretty sharply what I wanted.

"I answered in English that I had a letter to Baron Nyderstrom. She switched to English, which she spoke pretty well, and appeared a bit less nervous. I showed her the letter, which was a simple note of introduction, and she read it and actually smiled at me. She wasn't a bad-looking woman—about 45 to 48, somewhere in there, anyway—but she was dressed to the nines, and her hair was dyed an odd shade of metallic brown. Also, she had a really hard mouth and eyes.

" 'Em so sorry,' she said, 'but the baron, who is my nephew, is away for a week and a half. I know he would have been glad to entertain an English officer friend of Mr.—' here she looked at the letter '—of Mr. Sorendson, but I'm afraid he is not around, while as you see, I am occupied. Perhaps another time?' She smiled brightly, and also rather nastily, I thought. 'Be off with you,' but polite.

"Well, really there was nothing to do except bow, and I got back on my bike and went wheeling off down the driveway.

"Halfway down the drive, I heard the lorry start, and I had just reached the road when it passed me, turning left, away from the direction of the inn, while I turned to the right.

"At that point something quite appalling happened. Just as the van left the drive, and also—as I later discovered—the estate's property line, something, a great weight, seemed to start settling over my shoulders, while I was conscious of a terrible cold, a cold which almost numbed me and took my wind away.

"I fell off the bike and half stood, half knelt over it, staring back after the dust of the lorry and completely unable to move. I remember the letters on the license and on the back of the van, which was painted a dark red. They said Solvaag and Mechius, Stockholm.

"I wasn't scared, mind you, because it was all too quick. I stood staring down the straight dusty road in the hot sun, conscious only of a terrible weight and the freezing cold, the weight pressing me down and the icy cold numbing me. It was as if time had stopped. And I felt utterly depressed, too, sick and, well, hopeless.

"Suddenly, the cold and the pressure stopped. They were just gone, as if they had never been, and I was warm, in fact, covered with sweat, and feeling like a fool there in the sunlight. Also, the birds started singing among the birches and pines by the road, although actually, 1 suppose they had been all along. I don't think the whole business took over a minute, but it seemed like hours.

"Well, I picked up the bike, which had scraped my shins, and started to walk along, pushing it. I could think quite coherently, and I decided I had had either a mild coronary or a stroke. I seemed to remember that you felt cold if you had a stroke. Also, I was really dripping with sweat by now and felt all swimmy; you'd say dizzy. After about five minutes, I got on the bike and began to pedal, slowly and carefully, back to my inn, deciding to have a doctor check me out at once.

"I had only gone about a third of a mile, numbed still by shock—after all I was only twenty-five, pretty young to have a heart attack or a stroke, either—when I noticed a little cove, an arm of the Baltic, on my right, which came almost up to the road, with tiny blue waves lapping at a small beach. I hadn't noticed it on the way to the baron's house, looking the other way, I guess, but now it looked like heaven. I was soaked with sweat, exhausted by my experience, and now had a headache. That cool sea water looked really marvelous, and as I said earlier, I had my trunks on under my clothes. There was even a towel in the bag strapped to the bike.

"I undressed behind a large pine tree ten feet from the road, and then stepped into the water. I could see white sand for about a dozen feet out, and then it appeared to get deeper quickly. I sat down in the shallow water, with just my neck sticking out, and began to feel human again. Even the headache receded into the background. There was no sound but the breeze soughing in the trees and the chirping of a few birds, plus the splash of little waves on the shore behind me. I felt at peace with everything and shut my eyes; half sitting, half floating in the water. The sun on my head was warm.

"I don't know what made me open my eyes, but I must have felt something watching, some presence. I looked straight out to sea, the entrance of the little cove, as I opened them, and stared into a face which was looking at me from the surface of the water about eight feet away, right where it began to get deeper."

No one in the room had moved or spoken once the story had started, and since Ffellowes had not stopped speaking since he began, the silence as he paused now was oppressive, even the muted sound of traffic outside seeming far off and unreal.

He looked around at us, then lit a cigarette and continued steadily.

"It was about two feet long, as near as I could tell, with two huge, oval eyes of a shade of amber yellow, set at the corners of its head. The skin looked both white and vaguely shimmery; there were no ears or nose that I could see, and there was a big, wide, flat mouth, opened a little, with blunt, shiny, rounded teeth. But what struck me most was the rage in the eyes. The whole impression of the face was vaguely—only vaguely, mind you—serpentine, snakelike, except for those eyes. They were mad, furious, raging, and not like an animal's at all, but like a man's. I could see no neck. The face 'sat' on the water, so to speak.

"I had only a split second to take all this in, mind you, but I was conscious at once that whatever this was, it was livid at me personally, not just at people. I suppose it sounds crazy, but I knew this right off.

"I hadn't even moved, hadn't had a chance, when something flickered under the head, and a grip like a steel cable clamped onto my hip. I dug my heels in the sand and grabbed down, pushing as hard as I could, but I couldn't shake that grip. As I looked down, I saw what had hold of me and damn near fainted, because it was a hand. It was double the size of mine, dead white, and had only two fingers and a thumb, with no nails, but it was a hand. Behind it was a boneless-looking white arm like a giant snake or an eel, stretching away back toward the head, which still lay on the surface of the water. At the same time I felt the air as cold, almost freezing, as if a private iceberg was following me again, although not to the point of making me numb. Oddly enough, the cold didn't seem to be in the water, though I can't explain this very well.

"1 pulled back hard, but I might as well have pulled at a tree trunk for all the good it did. Very steadily the pressure on my hip was increasing, and I knew that in a minute I was going to be pulled out to that head. I was kicking and fighting, splashing the water and clawing at that hand, but in the most utter silence. The hand and arm felt just like rubber, but I could feel great muscles move under the hard skin.

"Suddenly I began to scream. I knew my foothold on the bottom sand was slipping and I was being pulled loose so that I'd be floating in a second. I don't remember what I screamed, probably just yelling with no words. I knew for a certainty that I would be dead in thirty seconds, you see." He paused, then resumed.

"My vision began to blur, and I seemed to be slipping, mentally, not physically, into a blind, cold world of darkness. But still I fought, and just as I began to be pulled loose from my footing, I heard two sounds. One was something like a machine gun, but ringing through it I heard a human voice shouting and, I thought, shouting one long word. The shout was very strong, ringing and resonant, so resonant that it pierced through the strange mental fog I was in, but the word was in no language I knew. Then I blacked out, and that was that.

"When I opened my eyes, I was in a spasm of choking. I was lying face down on the little beach, my face turned sideways on my crossed arms, and I was being given artificial respiration. I vomited up more water and then managed to choke out a word or two, probably obscene. There was a deep chuckle, and the person who had been helping me turned me over, so that I could see him. He pulled me up to a sitting position and put a tweed-clad arm around my shoulders, giving me some support while I recovered my senses.

"Even kneeling as he was, when I turned to look at him, I could see he was a very tall man, in fact, a giant. He was wearing a brown tweed suit with knickerbockers, heavy wool knee socks and massive buckled shoes. His face was extraordinary. He was what's called an ash-blond, almost white-haired, and his face was very long, with high cheekbones, and also very white, with no hint of color in the cheeks. His eyes were green and very narrow, almost Chinese looking, and terribly piercing. Not a man you would ever forget if you once got a look at him. He looked about thirty-five, and was actually thirty, I later found out.

"I was so struck by his appearance, even though he was smiling gently, that I almost forgot what had happened to me. Suddenly I remembered though, and gave a convulsive start and tried to get up. As I did so, I turned to look at the water, and there was the cove, calm and serene, with no trace of that thing, or anything else.

"My new acquaintance tightened his grip on my shoulders and pulled me down to a sitting position, speaking as he did so.

" 'Be calm, my friend. You have been through a bad time, but it is gone now. You are safe.'

"The minute I heard his voice, I knew it was he who had shouted as I was being pulled under. The same timbre was in his speech now, so that every word rang like a bell, with a concealed purring under the words.

"I noticed more about him now. His clothes were soaked to the waist, and on one powerful hand he wore an immense ring set with a green seal stone, a crest. Obviously he had pulled me out of the water, and equally obviously, he was no ordinary person.

" 'What was it,' I gasped finally, 'and how did you get me loose from it?'

"His answer was surprising. 'Did you get a good look at it?' He spoke in pure, unaccented 'British' English, I might add.

" 'I did,' I said with feeling. 'It was the most frightful, bloody thing I ever saw, and people ought to be warned about this coast! When I get to a phone, every paper in Sweden and abroad will hear about it. They ought to fish this area with dynamite!'

"His answer was a deep sigh. Then he spoke. 'Face-to-face, you have seen one of Jormungandir's Children,' he said, 'and that is more than I or any of my family have done for generations.' He turned to face me directly and continued, 'And I must add, my friend, that if you tell a living soul of what you have seen, I will unhesitatingly pronounce you a liar or a lunatic. Further, I will say I found you alone, having a seeming fit in this little bay, and saved you from what appeared to me to be a vigorous attempt at suicide.'

"Having given me this bellypunch, he lapsed into a brooding silence, staring out over the blue water, while I was struck dumb by what I had heard. I began to feel I had been saved from a deadly sea monster only to be captured by an apparent madman.

"Then he turned back to me, smiling again. 'I am called Baron Nyderstrom,' he said, 'and my house is just a bit down the road. Suppose we go and have a drink, change our clothes and have a bit of a chat.'

"I could only stammer, 'But your aunt said you were away, away for more than a week. I came to see you because I have a letter to you.' I fumbled in my bathing suit, and then lurched over to my clothes under the trees. I finally found the letter, but when I gave it to him, he stuck it in his pocket. 'In fact I was just coming from your house when I decided to have a swim here. I'd had a sick spell as I was leaving your gate, and I thought the cool water would help.'

" 'As you were leaving my gate?' he said sharply, helping me to get into my clothes. 'What do you mean "a sick spell," and what was that about my aunt?'

"As he assisted me, I saw for the first time a small, blue sports car, of a type unfamiliar to me, parked on the road at the head of the beach. It was in this, then, my rescuer had appeared. Half carrying, half leading me up the gentle slope, he continued his questioning, while I tried to answer him as best I could. I had just mentioned the lorry and the furniture as he got me into the left-hand bucket seat, having detailed in snatches my fainting and belief that I had had a mild stroke or heart spasm, when he got really stirred up.

"He levered his great body, and he must have been six foot five, behind the wheel like lightning, and we shot off in a screech of gears and spitting of gravel. The staccato exhaust told me why I thought I had heard a machine gun while fighting that incredible thing in the water.

"Well, we tore back up the road, into and up his driveway and without a word, he slammed on the brakes and rushed into the house as if all the demons of hell were at his heels. I was left sitting stupefied in the car. I was not only physically exhausted and sick, but baffled and beginning again to be terrified. As I looked around the pleasant green lawn, the tall trees and the rest of the sunny landscape, do you know I wondered if through some error in dimensions I had fallen out of my own proper space and landed in a world of monsters and lunatics!

"It could only have been a moment when the immense figure of my host appeared in the doorway. On his fascinating face was an expression which I can only describe as being mingled half sorrow, half anger. Without a word, he strode down his front steps and over to the car where, reaching in, he picked me up in his arms as easily as if I had been a doll instead of 175 pounds of British subaltern.

"He carried me up the steps and as he walked, I could hear him murmuring to himself in Swedish. It sounded to me like gibberish with several phrases I could just make out being repeated over and over. 'What could they do, what else could they do! She would not be warned. What else could they do?'

"We passed through a vast dark hall, with great beams high overhead, until we came to the back of the house, and into a large sunlit room, overlooking the sea, which could only be the library or study. There were endless shelves of books, a huge desk, several chairs, and a long, low padded window seat on which the baron laid me down gently.

"Going over to a closet in the corner, he got out a bottle of aquavit and two glasses, and handed me a full one, taking a more modest portion for himself. When I had downed it—and I never needed a drink more—he pulled up a straight-backed chair and set it down next to my head. Seating himself, he asked my name in the most serious way possible, and when I gave it, he looked out of the window a moment.

" 'My friend,' he said finally, 'I am the last of the Nyderstroms. I mean that quite literally. Several rooms away, the woman you met earlier today is dead, as dead as you yourself would be, had I not appeared on the road, and from the same, or at least a similar cause. The only difference is that she brought this fate on herself, while you, a stranger, were almost killed by accident, and simply because you were present at the wrong time.' He paused and then continued with the oddest sentence, although, God knows, I was baffled already. 'You see,' he said, 'I am a kind of game warden and some of my charges are loose.'

"With that, he told me to lie quiet and started to leave the room. Remembering something, however, he came back and asked if I could remember the name of the firm which owned the mover's lorry I had seen. Fortunately I could, for as I told you earlier, it was seared on my brain by the strange attack I had suffered while watching it go up the road. When I gave it to him, he told me again not to move and left the room for another, from which I could hear him faintly using a telephone. He was gone a long time, perhaps half an hour, and by the time he came back, I was standing looking at his books. Despite the series of shocks I had gone through, I now felt fairly strong, but it was more than that. This strange man, despite his odd threat, had saved my life, and I was sure that I was safe from him at least. Also, he was obviously enmeshed in both sorrow and some danger, and I felt strongly moved to try and give him a hand.

"As he came back into the room, he looked hard at me, and 1 think he read what I was thinking, because he smiled, displaying a fine set of teeth.

" 'So—once again you are yourself. If your nerves are strong, I wish you to look on my late aunt. The police have been summoned and I need your help.'

"Just like that! A dead woman in the house and he needed my help!

"Well, if he was going to get rid of me, why call the police? Anyway, I felt safe as I told you, and you'd have to see the man, as I did, to know why.

"At any rate, we went down the great hall to another room, much smaller, and then through that again until we found ourselves in a little sewing room, full of women's stuff and small bits of fancy furniture. There in the middle of the room lay the lady whom I had seen earlier telling the movers to go away. She certainly appeared limp, but I knelt and felt her wrist because she was lying face down. Sure enough, no pulse at all and quite cold. But when I started to turn her over, a huge hand clamped on my shoulder and the baron spoke. 'I don't advise it,' he said warningly. 'Her face isn't fit to look at. She was frightened to death, you see.'

"I simply told him I had to, and he just shrugged his shoulders and stepped back. I got my hands under one shoulder and started to turn the lady, but my God, as the profile came into view, I dropped her and stood up like a shot. From the little I saw, her mouth was drawn back like an animal's, showing every tooth, and her eye was wide open and glaring in a ghastly manner. That was enough for me.

"Baron Nyderstrom led me from the room and back into the library, where we each had another aquavit in silence.

"I started to speak, but he held up his hand in a kind of command, and started talking.

" 'I shall tell the police that I passed you bathing on the beach, stopped to chat, and then brought you back for a drink. We found my aunt dead of heart failure and called the police. Now, sir, I like you, but if you will not attest to this same story, I shall have to repeat what I told you I would say at the beach, and I am well known in these parts. Also, the servants are away on holiday, and I think you can see that it would look ugly for you.'

"I don't like threats, and it must have shown, because although it would have looked bad as all hell, still I wasn't going to be a party to any murders, no matter how well-planned. I told him so, bluntly, and he looked sad and reflective, but not particularly worried.

" 'Very well,' he said at length, 'I can't really blame you, because you are in a very odd position.' His striking head turned toward the window in brief thought, and then he turned back to face me directly and spoke.

" 'I will make a bargain with you. Attest my statement to the police, and then let me have the rest of the day to talk to you. If, at the end of the day, I have not satisfied you about my aunt's death, you have my word, solemnly given, that I will go the police station and attest your story, the fact that I have been lying and anything else you choose to say.'

"His words were delivered with great gravity, and it never for one instant occurred to me to doubt them. I can't give you any stronger statement to show you how the man impressed me. I agreed straightaway.

"In about ten minutes the police arrived, and an ambulance came with them. They were efficient enough, and very quick, but there was one thing that showed through the whole of the proceedings, and it was that the Baron Nyderstrom was somebody! All he did was state that his aunt had died of a heart attack and that was that! I don't mean the police were serfs, or crooks either for that matter. But there was an attitude of deference very far removed from servility or politeness. I doubt if royalty gets any more nowadays, even in England. When he had told me earlier that his name was 'known in these parts,' it was obviously the understatement of the decade.

"Well, the police took the body away in the ambulance, and the baron made arrangements for a funeral parlor and a church with local people over the telephone. All this took awhile, and it must have been four-thirty when we were alone again.

"We went back into the library. I should mention that he had gotten some cold meat, bread and beer from a back pantry, just after the police left, and so now we sat down and made ourselves some sandwiches. I was ravenous, but he ate quite lightly for a man of his size, in fact only about a third of what I did.

"When I felt full, I poured another glass of an excellent beer, lit a cigarette, sat back and waited. With this man, there was no need for unnecessary speech.

"He was sitting behind his big desk facing me, and once again that singularly attractive smile broke through.

" 'You are waiting for your story, my friend, if I may call you so. You shall have it, but I ask your word as a man of honor that it not be for repetition.' He paused briefly. 'I know it is yet a further condition, but if you do not give it, there is no recourse except the police station and jail for me. If you do, you will hear a story and perhaps—perhaps, I say, because I make no promises—see and hear something which no man has seen or heard for many, many centuries, save only for my family and not many of them. What do you say?'

"I never hesitated for a second. I said 'yes,' and I should add that I've never regretted it. No, never."

Ffellowes' thoughts seemed far away, as he paused and stared out into the murky New York night, dimly lit by shrouded street lamps, and the fog lights on passing cars. No one spoke, and no sound broke the silence of the room but a muffled cough. He continued.

"Nyderstrom next asked me if I knew anything about Norse mythology. Now this question threw me for an absolute loss. What did a dangerous animal and an awful death, to say nothing of a possible murder, have to do with Norse mythology?

"However, I answered that I'd read of Odin, Thor, and a few other gods as a child in school, the Valkyries, of course, and that was about it.

" 'Odin, Thor, the Valkyries, and a few others?' My host smiled, 'You must understand that they are rather late Norse and even late German adaptions of something much older. Much, much older, something with its roots in the dawn of the world.

" 'Listen,' he went on, speaking quietly but firmly, 'and when I have finished we will wait for that movers' truck to return. I was able to intercept it, and what it took, because of that very foolish woman, must be returned.'

"He paused as if at a loss how to begin, and then went on. His bell-like voice remained muted, but perfectly audible, while he detailed one of the damnedest stories I've ever heard. If I hadn't been through what I had that day, and if he hadn't been what he was, I could have thought I was listening to the Grand Master of all the lunatics I'd ever met.

" 'Long ago,' he said, 'my family came from inner Asia.' They were some of the people the latercomers called Aesir, the gods of Valhalla, but they were not gods, only a race of wandering conquerors. They settled here, on this spot, despite warnings from the few local inhabitants, a small, dark, shore-dwelling folk. This house is built on the foundations of a fortress, a very old one, dating at the very least back to the Second Century B.C. It was destroyed later in the wars of the Sixteenth Century, but that is modern history.

" 'At any rate, my remote ancestors began soon to lose people. Women bathing, boys fishing, even full-grown warriors out hunting, they would vanish and never return. Children had to be guarded and so did the livestock, which had a way of disappearing also, although that of course was preferable to the children.

" 'Finally, for no trace of the mysterious marauders could be found, the chief of my family decided to move away. He had prayed to his gods and searched zealously, but the reign of silent, stealthy terror never ceased, and no human or other foe could be found.

" 'But before he gave up, the chief had an idea. He sent presents and a summons to the shaman, the local priest, not of our own people, but of the few, furtive, little shore folk, the strand people, who had been there when we came. We despised and avoided them, but we had never harmed them. And the bent little shaman came and answered the chiefs questions.

" 'What he said amounted to this. We, that is my people, had settled on the land made sacred in the remote past to Jormungandir. Now Jormungandir in the standard Norse sagas and myths is the great, world-circling sea serpent, the son of the renegade Aesir Loki and a giantess. He is a monster who on the day of Ragnarok will arise to assault Asgard. But actually, these myths are based on something quite, quite different. The ancient Jormungandir was a god of the sea all right, but he was here before any Norsemen, and he had children, who were semi-mortal and very, very dangerous. All the Asgard business was invented later, by people who did not remember the reality, which was both unpleasant and a literal, living menace to ancient men.

" 'My ancestor, the first of our race to rule here, asked what he could do to abate the menace. Nothing, said the shaman, except go away. Unless, if the chief were brave enough, he, the shaman, could summon the Children of the God, and the chief could ask them how they felt!

" 'Well, my people were anything but Christians in those days, and they had some rather nasty gods of their own. Also, the old chief, my ancestor, was on his mettle, and he liked the land he and his tribe had settled. So—he agreed, and although his counselors tried to prevent him, he went alone at night to the shore with the old shaman of the shore people. And what is more, he returned.

" 'From that day to this we have always lived here on this stretch of shore. There is a vault below the deepest cellar where certain things are kept and a ceremony through which the eldest son of the house of Nyderstrom must pass. I will not tell you more about it save to say that it involves an oath, one we have never broken, and that the other parties to the oath would not be good for men to see. You should know, for you have seen one!'

"I had sat spellbound while this rigmarole went on, and some of the disbelief must have shown in my eyes, because he spoke rather sharply all at once.

" 'What do you think the Watcher in the Sea was, the "animal" that seized you? If it had been anyone else in that car but myself—!'

"I nodded, because after recalling my experience on my swim, I was less ready to dismiss his story, and I had been in danger of forgetting my adventure. I apologized and he went on talking.

" 'The woman you spoke to was my father's much younger sister, a vain and arrogant woman of no brainpower at all. She lived a life in what is now thought of as society, in Stockholm, on a generous allowance from me, and I have never liked her. Somewhere, perhaps as a child, she learned more than she should about the family secret, which is ordinarily never revealed to our women.

" 'She wished me to marry and tried ceaselessly to entrap me with female idiots of good family whom she had selected.

" 'It is true that I must someday marry, but my aunt irritated me beyond measure, and I finally ordered her out of the house and told her that her allowance would cease if she did not stop troubling me. She was always using the place for house parties for her vapid friends, until I put a stop to it.

" 'I knew when I saw her body what she had done. She must have found out that the servants were away and that I would be gone for the day. She sent men from Stockholm. The local folk would not obey such an order from her, in my absence. She must have had duplicate keys, and she went in and down and had moved what she should never have seen, let alone touched. It was sacrilege, no less, and of a very real and dangerous kind. The fool thought the things she took held me to the house, I imagine.

" 'You see,' he went on, with more passion in his voice than I had previously heard. 'They are not responsible. They do not see things as we do. They regarded the moving of those things as the breaking of a trust, and they struck back. You appeared, because of the time element, to have some connection, and they struck at you. You do see what I mean, don't you?'

"His green eyes fixed themselves on me in an open appeal. He actually wanted sympathy for what, if his words were true, must be the damnedest set of beings this side of madness. And even odder, you know, he had got it. I had begun to make a twisted sense of what he said, and on that quiet evening in the big shadowed room, I seemed to feel an ancient and undying wrong, moreover one which badly needed putting right.

"He seemed to sense this and went on, more quietly.

" 'You know, I still need your help. Your silence later, but more immediate help now. Soon that lorry will be here and the things it took must be restored.

" 'I am not now sure if I can heal the breach. It will depend on the Others. If they believe me, all will go as before. If not—well, it was my family who kept the trust, but also who broke it. I will be in great danger, not only to my body but also to my soul. Their power is not all of the body.

" 'We have never known,' he went on softly, 'why they love this strip of coast. It is not used so far as we know, for any of their purposes, and they are subject to our emotions or desires in any case. But they do, and so the trust is honored.'

"He looked at his watch and murmured 'six o'clock.' He got up and went to the telephone, but as his hand met the receiver, we both heard something.

"It was a distant noise, a curious sound, as if, far away somewhere, a wet piece of cloth were being dragged over stone. In the great silent house, the sound could not be localized, but it seemed to me to come from deep below us, perhaps in a cellar. It made my hair stiffen.

" 'Hah,' he muttered. 'They are stirring. I wonder—'

"As he spoke, we both became conscious of another noise, one which had been growing upon us for some moments unaware, that of a powerful motor engine. Our minds must have worked together for as the engine noise grew, our eyes met and we both burst into simultaneous gasps of relief. It could only be the furniture van, returning at last.

"We both ran to the entrance. The hush of evening lay over the estate, and shadows were long and dark, but the twin lights turning into the drive cast a welcome luminance over the entrance.

"The big lorry parked again in front of the main entrance, and the two workmen I had seen earlier got out. I could not really understand the rapid gunfire Swedish, but I gathered the baron was explaining that his aunt had made a mistake. At one point both men looked appalled, and I gathered that Nyderstrom had told them of his aunt's death. (He told me later that he had conveyed the impression that she was unsound mentally: it would help quiet gossip when they saw a report of the death.)

"All four of us went around to the rear of the van, and the two men opened the doors. Under the baron's direction they carried out and deposited on the gravel the two pieces of furniture I had seen earlier. One was the curious chair. It did not look terribly heavy, but it had a box bottom, solid sides instead of legs and no arm rests. Carved on the oval-topped head was a hand grasping a sort of trident, and when I looked closely, I got a real jolt. The hand had only two fingers and a thumb, all without nails, and I suddenly felt in my bones the reality of my host's story.

"The other piece was the small, plain, rectangular chest, a bit like a large toy chest, with short legs ending in feet like a duck's. I mean three-toed and webbed, not the conventional 'duck foot' of the antique dealers.

"Both the chair and the chest were made of a dark wood, so dark it looked oily, and they had certainly not been made yesterday.

"Nyderstrom had the two men put the two pieces in the front hall and then paid them. They climbed back into their cab, so far as I could make out, apologizing continuously for any trouble they might have caused. We waved from the porch and then watched the lights sweep down the drive and fade into the night. It was fully dark now, and I suddenly felt a sense of plain old-fashioned fright as we stood in silence on the dark porch.

" 'Come,' said the baron, suddenly breaking the silence, 'we must hurry. I assume you will help?'

" 'Certainly,' I said. I felt I had to, you see, and had no lingering doubts at all. I'm afraid that if he'd suggested murdering someone, by this time I'd have agreed cheerfully. There was a compelling, hypnotic power about him. Rasputin was supposed to have had it and Hitler also, although I saw him plenty, and never felt it. At any rate, I just couldn't feel that anything this man wanted was wrong.

"We manhandled the chair and the chest into the back of the house, stopping at last in a back hall in front of a huge oaken door, which appeared to be set in a stone wall. Since the house was made of wood, this stone must have been part of the original building, the ancient fort, I guess, that he'd mentioned earlier.

"There were three locks on the door, a giant old padlock, a smaller newer one and a very modern-looking combination. Nyderstrom fished out two keys, one of them huge, and turned them. Then, with his back to me, he worked the combination. The old house was utterly silent, and there was almost an atmospheric hush, the kind you get when a bad thunderstorm is going to break. Everything seemed to be waiting, waiting for something to happen.

"There was a click and Nyderstrom flung the great door open. The first thing I noticed was that it was lined with steel on the other, inner side, and the second, that it opened on a broad flight of shallow steps leading down on a curve out of sight into darkness. The third impression was not visual at all. A wave of odor, strong but not unpleasant, of tide pools, seaweed and salt air poured out of the opening. And there were several large patches of water on the highest steps, large enough to reflect the light.

"Nyderstrom closed the door again gently, not securing it, and turned to me. He pointed, and I now saw on one wall of the corridor to the left of the door, about head height, a steel box, also with a combination lock. A heavy cable led from it down to the floor. Still in silence, he adjusted the combination and opened the box. Inside was a knife switch with a red handle. He left the box open and spoke, solemnly and slowly.

" 'I am going down to a confrontation. You must stay right here, with the door open a little, watching the steps. I may be half an hour, but at most three quarters. If I come up alone, let me out. If I come up not alone, slam the door, turn the lock and throw that switch. Also if anything else comes up, do so. This whole house, under my direction, and at my coming of age, was extensively mined and you will have exactly two and a half minutes to get as far as possible from it. Remember, at most, three quarters of an hour. At the end of that time, even if nothing has happened, you will throw that switch and run ...!'

"I could only nod. There seemed to be nothing to say, really.

"He seemed to relax a little, patted me on the shoulders, and turned to unlock the strange chest. Over his shoulder he talked to me as he took things out. 'You are going to see one thing at any rate, a true Sea King in full regalia. Something, my friend, no one has seen who is not a member of my family since the late Bronze Age.'

"He stood up and began to undress quickly, until he stood absolutely naked. I have never seen a more wonderful figure of a man, pallid as an ivory statue, but huge and splendidly formed. On his head, from out of the stuff in the chest, he had set a narrow coronet, only a band in the back, but rising to a flanged peak in front. Mounted in the front peak was a plaque on which the three-fingered hand and trident were outlined in purple gems. The thing was solid gold. Nyderstrom then stooped and pulled on a curious, short kilt, made of some scaly hide like a lizard's and colored an odd green-gold. Finally, he took in his right hand a short, curved, gold rod, ending in a blunt, stylized trident.

"We looked at each other a moment and then he smiled. 'My ancestors were very successful Vikings,' he said, still smiling. 'You see, they always could call on help.''

"With that, he swung the door open and went marching down the steps. I half shut it behind him and settled down to watch and listen.

"The sound of his footsteps receded into the distance, but I could still hear them in the utter silence for a long time. His family vault, which I was sure connected somehow with the sea, was a long way down. I crouched, tense, wondering if I would ever see him again. The whole business was utterly mad, and I believed every word of it. I still do.

"The steps finally faded into silence. I checked my watch and found ten minutes had gone by.

"Suddenly, as if out of an indefinite distance, I heard his voice. I recognized it instantly, for it was a long quavering call, sonorous and bell-like, very similar to what I had heard when he rescued me in the afternoon. The sound came from far down in the earth, echoing faintly up the dank stairs and died into silence. Then it came again, and when it died, yet again.

"My heart seemed to stop. I knew that this brave man was summoning something no man had a right to see and calling a council in which no one with human blood in his veins should sit.

"Silence, utter and complete, followed. 1 could hear nothing, save for an occasional faint drop of water falling somewhere out of my range of vision.

"I glanced at my watch. Twenty-one minutes had gone by. The minutes seemed to crawl endlessly, meaninglessly. I felt alone and in a strange dream, unable to move, frozen, an atom caught in a mesh beyond my comprehension.

"Then far away, I heard it, a faint sound. It was faint but regular, and increasing in volume, measured and remorseless. It was a tread, and it was coming up the stair in my direction.

"I glanced at my watch, thirty-four minutes. It could be my friend, still within his self-appointed limits of time. The step came nearer, nearer still. It was, so far as my straining ear could judge, a single step. It progressed further, and suddenly into the circle of light stepped Nyderstrom.

"He was alone and as he came up he waved in greeting. He was dripping wet and the light gleamed on his shining body. I threw the door wide and he stepped through.

"As his head emerged into the light, I stepped back, almost involuntarily. There was a look of exhaltation and wonder on it, such as I have never seen on a human face. The strange green eyes flashed, and there was a faint flush on the high cheekbones. He looked like a man who has seen a vision of Paradise.

"He walked rather wearily, but firmly, over to the switch box, which he closed and locked. Then he turned to me, still with that blaze of radiance on his face.

" 'All is well, my friend. They are again at peace with men. They have accepted me and the story of what has happened. All will be well now, with my house, and with me.

"I stared at him hard, but he said no more and began to divest himself of his incredible regalia. He had one more thing to say, and I can hear it still as if it were yesterday, spoken almost as an afterthought.

" 'They say the blood of the guardians is getting too thin again. But that also is settled. I have seen my bride.' "

HIS COAT SO GAY

There had been a big spread in the newspapers about a British duke going through bankruptcy proceedings and his third divorce simultaneously. The divorce was contested, the evidence was sordid and those giving it equally so. The nobleman in question came out of the whole thing very badly, it being proved, among other things, that he had run up huge debts to tradesmen, knowing damn well he couldn't hope to pay. There was lots more, though, including secret orgies, which seem to have been dirty parties of the sort to have passed quite unnoticed in Los Angeles.

One of the members tapped his newspaper. A few of us were sitting upstairs in the library after dinner. It was a hot night in New York, but the club was air-conditioned and very pleasant.

"Good thing," said the man with the paper, "that Mason Williams isn't here to shout about this. He'd love to give General Ffellowes a hard time. Can't you hear him? 'Rotten bunch of degenerates! Lousy overbearing crooks and cadgers! Long line of aristocratic bums and swindlers!' It would be the best opportunity he's had in years for trying to annoy the Brigadier."

"I notice you were smart enough to say 'trying,' " said some one else. "He's never managed to annoy Ffellowes yet. I doubt if this would do it either."

"Who wants to annoy me, eh?" came the easy, clipped tones of our favorite English member. He had come up the narrow back stairs at the other end of the room and was now standing behind me. He always moved silently; not, I feel certain, out of a desire to be stealthy, but from a lifetime's training. Ffellowes' years in (apparently) every secret as well as public branch of Her Majesty's service had given him the ability to walk like a cat, and a quiet one at that.

I jumped and so did a couple of the others and then there was a moment of embarrassed silence.

Ffellowes is very quick. He saw the newspaper headline in my neighbor's lap and began to chuckle.

"Good heavens, is that supposed to offend me? What a hope! I suppose someone thought our friend Williams might make use of it to savage the British Lion, eh?" He moved from behind my chair and sat in a vacant seat, his eyes twinkling.

"Item," he said, "the man in question's a Scot, not English. Most important distinction. A lesser and unstable breed." This was said with such dead-pan emphasis that we all started to laugh at once. Ffellowes' smooth, ruddy face remained immobile, but his blue eyes danced.

"If you won't be serious," he said, when the laughter died away, "I shall have to explain why Chattan's little peccadilloes are unlikely to move me to wrath. Or anyone else with any real knowledge, for that matter.

"You know, Richard the Lion Heart was a bad debtor on a scale that makes anyone modern look silly. All the Plantagenets were, for that matter. Richard seems to have been a quite unabashed queer as well, of course, and likewise William the Second, called Rufus. When, at any rate, one asked those lads for monies due, one had better have a fast horse and a waiting ship ready. They cancelled debts rather abruptly. There are thousands more examples, but I mention the kings as quite a fairish sample.

Now Chattan's an ass and his sexual troubles are purely squalid, fit only for headlines in a cheap paper. But there are other cases no paper ever got to print. Not so long ago, one of your splashier magazines ran a purely fictional piece about an aged nobleman, Scots again, who was sentenced never to leave his family castle, as a result of an atrocious crime, not quite provable. The story happens to be quite true and the verdict was approved by the Lords in a closed session. The last Pope but two had a South Italian cardinal locked up in his own palace for the remainder of his life on various charges not susceptible of public utterance. The old man died only ten years ago. So it goes, and there are dozens more cases of a similar nature.

The fact is, persons in positions of power often abuse that power in the oddest and most unpleasant ways. The extent of caprice in the human mind is infinite. Whenever public gaze, so to speak, is withdrawn, oddities occur, and far worse than illicit sex is involved in these pockets of infection. Once off the highways of humanity, if you care for analogies, one finds the oddest byways. All that's needed is isolation, that and power, economic or physical." He seemed to brood for a moment.

Outside the windows, the haze and smog kept even the blaze of Manhattan at night dim and sultry-looking. The garish electricity of New York took on something of the appearance of patches of torch and fire light in the heat and murk.

"Haven't you left out one qualification, Sir?" said a younger member. "What about time? Surely, to get these Dracula castle effects and so on, you have to have centuries to play with a complaisant bunch of peasants, hereditary aristocrats, the whole bit. In other words a really old country, right?"

Ffellowes stared at the opposite wall for a bit before answering. Finally he seemed to shrug, as if he had come to a decision.

"Gilles de Rais," he said, "is perhaps the best example known of your Dracula syndrome, so I admit I must agree with you. In general, however, only in general. The worst case of this sort of thing which ever came to my personal—and very personal it was—knowledge took place in the early 1930's in one of your larger Eastern states. So that while time is certainly needed, as indeed for the formation of any disease, the so-called modern age is not so much of a protection as one might think. And yet there was great age, too."

He raised his hand and the hum of startled comment which had begun to rise died at once.

"I'll tell you the story. But I'll tell it my way. No questions of any sort whatsoever. There are still people alive who could be injured. I shall cheerfully disguise and alter any detail I can which might lead to identification of the family or place concerned. Beyond that, you will simply have to accept my word. If you're interested on that basis ...?"

The circle of faces, mine included, was so eager that his iron countenance damned near cracked into a grin, but he held it back and began.

"In the early days of your, and indeed everyone's, Great Depression, I was the most junior military attaché of our Washington embassy. It was an agreeable part of my duties to mix socially as much as I could with Americans of my own age. One way of doing this was hunting, fox-hunting to be more explicit. I used to go out with the Middleburg Hunt and while enjoying the exercise, I made a number of friends as well.

"One of them was a man whom I shall call Canler Waldron. That's not even an anagram, but sounds vaguely like his real name. He was my own age and very good company. He was supposed to be putting in time as a junior member of your State Department.

"It was immediately obvious that he was extremely well off. Most people of course, had been at least affected a trifle by the Crash, if not a whole lot, but it was plain that whatever Can's financial basis was, it had hardly been shaken. Small comments were revealing,' especially his puzzlement when, as often happened, others pleaded lack of funds to explain some inability to do a trip or to purchase something. He was, I may add, the most generous of men financially, and without being what you'd call a 'sucker,' he was very easy to leave with the cheque, so much so one had to guard against it.

"He was pleasant-looking; black-haired, narrow-faced, dark brown eyes, a generalized North European type and as I said about my own age, barely twenty-six. And what a magnificent rider! I'm not bad, or wasn't then, but I've never seen anyone to match Canler Waldron. No fence ever bothered him and he always led the field, riding so easily that he hardly appeared to be conscious of what he was doing. It got so that he became embarrassed by the attention and used to pull his horse in order to stay back. Of course he was magnificently mounted; he had a whole string of big black hunters, his own private breed he said. But there were others out who had fine 'cattle' too: no, he was simply a superb rider.

"We were chatting one fall morning after a very dull run and I asked him why he always wore a black hunting coat of a non-hunt member. I knew he belonged to some hunt or other and didn't understand why he never used their colors.

" 'Highly embarrassing to explain to you, Donald, of all people,' he said, but he was smiling. 'My family were Irish and very patriotic during our Revolution. No pink coats ('pink' being the term for hunting red) for us. Too close to the hated Redcoat Army in looks, see? So we wear light green and I frankly get damned tired of being asked what it is. That's all.'

"I was amused for several reasons and said, 'Of course I understand. Some of our own hunts wear other colors, you know. But I thought green coats were for foot hounds, beagles, bassetts and such?'

" 'Ours is much lighter, like grass, with buff lapels,' he said. He seemed a little ill at ease for some reason, as our horses shifted and stamped under the hot Virginia sun. 'It's a family hunt, you see. No non-Waldron can wear the coat. This sounds pretty snobby, so again, I avoid questions by not wearing it except at home. Betty feels the same way and she hates black. Here she comes now. What did you think of the ride, Sis?'

" 'Not very exciting,' she said quietly, looking around so that she should not be convicted of rudeness to our hosts. I haven't mentioned Betty Waldron, have I? Even after all these years, it's still painful.

"She was nineteen years old, very pale and no sun ever raised so much as a freckle. Her eyes were almost black, her hair midnight and her voice very gentle and sad. She was quiet, seldom smiled and when she did my heart turned over. Usually, her thoughts were miles away and she seemed to walk in a dream. She also rode superbly, almost absent-mindedly, to look at her."

Ffellowes sighed and arched his hands together in his lap, his gaze fixed on the rug before him.

"I was a poor devil of an artillery subaltern, few prospects save for my pay, but I could dream, as long as I kept my mouth shut. She seemed to like me as much, or even more, than the gaudy lads who were always flocking about and I felt I had a tiny, the smallest grain of hope. I'd never said a thing. I knew already the family must be staggeringly rich and I had my pride. But also, as I say, my dreams.

" 'Let's ask Donald home and give him some real sport,' I suddenly heard Can say to her.

" 'When?' she asked sharply, looking hard at him.

" 'How about the end of cubbing season? Last week in October. Get the best of both sports, adult and young. Hounds will be in good condition and it's our best time of year.' He smiled at me and patted his horse. 'What say, Limey? Like some real hunting, eight hours sometimes?'

"I was delighted and surprised, because I'd heard several people fishing rather obviously for invitations to the Waldron place at one time or another and all being politely choked off. I had made up my mind never to place myself where such a rebuff could strike me. There was a goodish number of fortune-hunting Europeans about just then, some of them English, and they made me a trifle ill. But I was surprised and hurt too, by Betty's reaction.

" 'Not this fall, Can,' she said, her face even whiter than usual. 'Not—this—fall!' The words were stressed separately and came out with an intensity I can't convey.

" 'As the head of the family, I'm afraid what I say goes,' said Canler in a voice I'd certainly never heard him use before. It was heavy and dominating, even domineering. As I watched, quite baffled, she choked back a sob and urged her horse away from us. In a moment her slender black back and shining topper were lost in the milling sea of the main body of the hunt. I was really hurt badly.

" 'Now look here, old boy,' I said. 'I don't know what's going on, but I can't possibly accept your invitation under these circumstances. Betty obviously loathes the idea and I wouldn't dream of coming against her slightest wish.'

He urged his horse over until we were only a yard apart. 'You must, Donald. You don't understand. I don't like letting out family secrets, but I'm going to have to in this case. Betty was very roughly treated by a man last year, in the fall. A guy who seemed to like her and then just walked out, without a word, and disappeared. I know you'll never speak of this to her and she'd rather die than say anything to you. But I haven't been able to get her interested in things ever since. You're the first man she's liked from that time to this and you've got to help me pull her out of this depression. Surely you've noticed how vague and dreamy she is? She's living in a world of unreality, trying to shut out unhappiness. I can't get her to see a doctor and even if I could, it probably wouldn't do any good. What she needs is some decent man being kind to her in the same surroundings she was made unhappy in. Can you see why I need you as a friend so badly?' He was damned earnest and it was impossible not to be touched.

" 'Well, that's all very well,' I mumbled, 'but she's still dead set against my coming, you know. I simply can't come in the face of such opposition. You mentioned yourself as head of the family. Do I take it that your parents are dead? Because if so, then Betty is my hostess. It won't do, damn it all.'

" 'Now look,' he said. 'Don't turn me down. By tomorrow morning she'll ask you herself, I swear. I promise that if she doesn't the whole thing's off. Will you come if she does and give me a hand at cheering her up? And we are orphans, by the way, just us two.'

Of course I agreed. I was wild to come. To get leave would be easy. There was nothing much but routine at the embassy anyway and mixing with people like the Waldrons was as much a part of my duties as going to any Fort Leavenworth maneuvers.

"And sure enough, Betty rang me up at my Washington flat the next morning and apologized for her behavior the previous day. She sounded very dim and tired but perfectly all right. I asked her twice if she was sure she wanted my company and she repeated that she did, still apologizing for the day before. She said she had felt feverish and didn't know why she'd spoken as she had. This was good enough for me and so it was settled.

"Thus, in the last week in October, I found myself hunting the coverts of—well, call it the valley of Waldrondale. What a glorious, mad time it was! The late Indian summer lingered and each cold night gave way to a lovely misty dawn. The main Waldron lands lay in the hollow of a spur of the Appalachian range. Apparently some early Waldron, an emigrant from Ireland during the 1600's, I gathered, had gone straight west into Indian territory and somehow laid claim to a perfectly immense tract of country. What is really odd is that the red men seemed to feel it was all fine, that he should do so.

" 'We always got along with our Indians,' Canler told me once. 'Look around the valley at the faces, my own included. There's some Indian blood in all of us. A branch of the lost Erie nation, before the Iroquois destroyed them, according to the family records.'

"It was quite true that when one looked, the whole valley indeed appeared to have a family resemblance. The women were very pale and both sexes were black-haired and dark-eyed, with lean, aquiline features. Many of them, apparently local farmers, rode with the hunt and fine riders they were too—well-mounted and fully familiar with field etiquette.

"Waldrondale was a great, heart-shaped valley, of perhaps eight thousand acres. The Waldrons leased some of it to cousins and farmed some themselves. They owned still more land outside the actual valley, but that was all leased. It was easy to see that in Waldrondale itself they were actually rulers. Although both Betty and Can were called by their first names, every one of the valley dwellers was ready and willing to drop whatever he or she was doing at a moment's notice to oblige either of them in the smallest way. It was not subservience exactly, but instead almost an eagerness, of the sort a monarch might have gotten in the days when kings were sacred beings. Canler shrugged when I mentioned how the matter struck me.

" 'We've just been here a long time, that's all. They've simply got used to us telling them what to do. When the first Waldron came over from Galway, a lot of retainers seem to have come with him. So it's not really a strictly normal American situation.' He looked lazily at me. 'Hope you don't think we're too effete and baronial here, now that England's becoming so democratized?'

" 'Not at all,' I said quickly and the subject was changed. There had been an unpleasant undertone in his speech—almost jeering, and for some reason he seemed rather irritated.

"What wonderful hunting we had! The actual members of the hunt, those who wore the light green jackets, were only a dozen or so, mostly close relatives of Canler's and Betty's. When we had started the first morning at dawn I'd surprised them all for I was then a full member of the Duke of Beaufort's pack, and as a joke more than anything else had brought the blue and yellow-lapelled hunting coat along. The joke was that I had been planning to show then, the Waldrons, one of our own variant colors all along, ever since I had heard about theirs. They were all amazed at seeing me not only not in black, but in "non-red" so to speak. The little withered huntsman, a local farmer named McColl, was absolutely taken aback and for some reason seemed frightened. He made a curious remark, of which I caught only two words, "Sam Haines," and then made a sign which I had no trouble at all interpreting. Two fingers at either end of a fist have always been an attempt to ward off the evil eye, or some other malign spiritual influence. I said nothing at the time, but during dinner asked Betty who Sam Haines was and what had made old McColl so nervous about my blue coat. Betty's reaction was ever more peculiar. She muttered something about a local holiday and also that my coat was the 'wrong color for an Englishman,' and then abruptly changed the subject. Puzzled, I looked up, to notice that all conversation seemed to have died at the rest of the big table. There were perhaps twenty guests, all the regular hunt members and some more besides from the outlying parts of the valley. I was struck by the intensity of the very similar faces, male and female, all staring at us, lean, pale and dark-eyed, all with that coarse raven hair. For a moment I had a most peculiar feeling that I had blundered into a den of some dangerous creatures or other, not unlike a wolf. Then Canler laughed from the head of the table and conversation started again. The illusion was broken, as a thrown pebble shatters a mirrored pool of water, and I promptly forgot it.

"The golden, wonderful days passed as October drew to a close. We were always up before dawn and hunted the great vale of Waldrondale sometimes until noon. Large patches of dense wood had been left deliberately uncleared here and there and made superb coverts. I never had such a good going, not even in Leicestershire at its best. And I was with Betty, who seemed happy, too. But although we drew almost the entire valley at one time or another there was one area we avoided, and it puzzled me to the point of asking Can about it one morning.

Directly behind the Big House (it had no other name) the ground rose very sharply in the direction of the high blue hills beyond. But a giant hedge, all tangled and overgrown, barred access to whatever lay up the slope. The higher hills angled down, as it were, as if to enclose the house and grounds, two arms of high rocky ground almost reaching the level of the house on either side. Yet it was evident that an area of some considerable extent, a smallish plateau in fact, lay directly behind the house, between it and the sheer slopes of the mountain, itself some jagged outlier of the great Appalachian chain. And the huge hedge could only have existed for the purpose of barring access to this particular piece of land.

" 'It's a sanctuary,' Canler said when I asked him. 'The family has a burial plot there and we always go there on—on certain days. It's been there since we settled the area, has some first growth timber among other things, and we like to keep it as it is. But I'll show it to you before you leave if you're really interested.' His voice was incurious and flat, but again I had the feeling, almost a sixth sense if you like, that I had somehow managed to both annoy and, odder, amuse him. I changed the subject and we spoke of the coming day's sport.

"One more peculiar thing occurred on that day in the late afternoon. Betty and I had got a bit separated from the rest of the hunt, a thing I didn't mind one bit, and we also were some distance out from the narrow mouth of the valley proper, for the fox had run very far indeed. As we rode toward home under the warm sun, I noticed that we were passing a small, white, country church, wooden, you know, and rather shabby. As I looked, the minister, parson, or what have you, appeared on the porch, and seeing us, stood still, staring. We were not more than thirty feet apart, for the dusty path, hardly a road at all, ran right next to the church. The minister was a tired-looking soul of about fifty, dressed in an ordinary suit but with a Roman collar, just like the C. of E. curate at home.

"But the man's expression! He never looked at me, but he stared at Betty, never moving or speaking, and the venom in his eyes was unmistakable. Hatred and contempt mingled with loathing.

"Our horses had stopped and in the silence they fidgeted and stamped. I looked at Betty and saw a look of pain on her face, but she never spoke or moved either. I decided to break the silence myself.

" 'Good day, Padre,' I said breezily. 'Nice little church you have here. A jolly spot, lovely trees and all.' I expect I sounded half-witted.

"He turned his gaze on me and it changed utterly. The hatred vanished and instead I saw the face of a decent, kindly man, yes and a deeply troubled one. He raised one hand and I thought for a startled moment he actually was going to bless me, don't you know, but he evidently thought better of it. Instead he spoke, plainly addressing me alone.

" 'For the next forty-eight hours this church will remain open. And I will be here.'

"With that, he turned on his heel and re-entered the church, shutting the door firmly behind him.

" 'Peculiar chap, that,' I said to Betty. 'Seems to have a bit of a down on you, too, if his nasty look was any indication. Is he out of his head, or what? Perhaps I ought to speak to Can, eh?'

" 'No,' she said quickly, putting her hand on my arm. 'You musn't; promise me you won't say anything to him about this, not a word!'

" 'Of course I won't, Betty, but what on earth is wrong with the man? All that mumbo-jumbo about his confounded church bein' open?'

" 'He—well, he doesn't like any of our family, Donald. Perhaps he has reason. Lots of the people outside the valley aren't too fond of the Waldrons. And the Depression hasn't helped matters. Can won't cut down on high living and of course hungry people who see us are furious. Don't let's talk any more about it. Mr. Andrews is a very decent man and I don't want Canler to hear about this. He might be angry and do something unpleasant. No more talk now. Come on, the horses are rested, I'll race you to the main road.'

"The horses were not rested and we both knew it, but I would never refuse her anything. By the time we rejoined the main body of the hunt, the poor beasts were blown, and we suffered a lot of chaff, mostly directed at me, for not treating our mounts decently.

The next day was the thirty-first of October. My stay had only two more days to run and I could hardly bear to think of leaving. But I felt glorious too. The previous night, as I had thrown the bedclothes back, preparatory to climbing in, a small packet had been revealed. Opening it, I had found a worn, tiny cross on a chain, both silver and obviously very old. I recognized the cross as being of the ancient Irish or Gaelic design, rounded and with a circle in the center where the arms joined. There was a note in a delicate hand I knew well, since I'd saved every scrap of paper I'd ever received from her.

" ' Wear this for me always and say nothing to anyone.'

"Can you imagine how marvelous life seemed? The next hunt morning was so fine it could hardly have been exceeded. But even if it had been terrible and I'd broken a leg, I don't think I'd have noticed. I was wearing Betty's family token, sent to me, secretly under my shirt and I came very close to singing aloud. She said nothing to me, save for polite banalities and looked tired, as if she'd not slept too well.

"As we rode past a lovely field of gathered shocks of maize, your 'corn,' you know, I noticed all the jolly pumpkins still left lying about in the fields and asked my nearest neighbor, one of the younger cousins, if the local kids didn't use them for Hallowe'en as I'd been told in the papers.

" 'Today?' he said, and then gobbled the same words used by the old huntsman, 'Sam Haines,' or perhaps 'Hayne.'

" 'We don't call it that,' he added stiffly and before I could ask why or anything else, spurred his horse and rode ahead. I was beginning to wonder, in a vague sort of way, if all this isolation really could be good for people. Canler and Betty seemed increasingly moody and indeed the whole crowd appeared subject to odd moods.

"Perhaps a bit inbred, I thought. I must try and get Betty out of here. Now apparently I'd offended someone by mentioning Hallowe'en, which, it occurred to me in passing, was that very evening. 'Sam Haines' indeed!

"Well, I promptly forgot all that when we found, located a fox, you know, and the chase started. It was a splendid one and long and we had a very late lunch. I got a good afternoon rest, since Canler had told me we were having a banquet that evening. 'A farewell party for you, Donald,' he said, 'and a special one. We don't dress up much, but tonight we'll have a sort of hunt ball, eh?'

"I'd seen no preparations for music, but the big house was so really big that the London Symphony could have been hid somewhere about.

"I heard the dinner gong as I finished dressing and when I came down to the main living room, all were assembled, the full hunt, with all the men in their soft emerald green dress coats, to which my blue made a mild contrast. To my surprise, a number of children, although not small ones, were there also, all in party dress, eyes gleaming with excitement. Betty looked lovely in an emerald evening dress, but also very wrought up and her eyes did not meet mine. Once again, a tremendous desire to protect her and get her out of this interesting but rather curious clan came over me.

"But Can was pushing his way through the throng and he took me by the elbow. 'Come and be toasted, Donald, as the only outsider,' he said, smiling. 'Here's the family punch and the family punchbowl too, something few others have ever seen.'

"At a long table in a side alcove stood an extraordinary bowl, a huge stone thing, with things like runes scratched around the rim. Behind it, in his 'greens' but bareheaded, stood the little withered huntsman, McColl. It was he who filled a squat goblet, but as he did so and handed it to me, his eyes narrowed and he hissed something inaudible over the noise behind me. It sounded like 'watch.' I was alerted and when he handed me the curious stone cup I knew why. There was a folded slip of paper under the cup's base, which I took as I accepted the cup itself. Can, who stood just behind me, could have seen nothing.

I'm rather good at conjuring tricks and it was only a moment before I was able to pass my hand over my forehead and read the note at the same instant. The message was simple, the reverse of Alice's on the bottle.

" 'Drink nothing.' That was all, but it was enough to send a thrill through my veins. I was sure of two things. McColl had never acted this way on his own hook. Betty, to whom the man was obviously devoted, was behind this.

"I was in danger. I knew it. All the vague uneasiness I had suppressed during my stay, the peculiar stares, the cryptic remarks, the attitude of the local minister we had seen, all coalesced into something ominous, inchoate but menacing. These cold, good-looking people were not my friends, if indeed they were anyone's. I looked casually about while pretending to sip from my cup. Between me and each one of the three exits, a group of men were standing, chatting and laughing, accepting drinks from trays passed by servants, but never moving. As my brain began to race overtime, I actually forgot my warning and sipped from my drink. It was like nothing I have had before or since, being pungent, sweet and at the same time almost perfumed, but not in an unpleasant way. I managed to avoid swallowing all but a tiny bit, but even that was wildly exhilarating, making my face flush and the blood roar through my veins. It must have showed, I expect, for I saw my host half smile and others too, as they raised their cups to me. The sudden wave of anger I felt did not show, but now I really commenced to think.

I turned and presented my almost full goblet to McColl again as if asking for more. Without batting an eye, he emptied it behind the cover of the great bowl, as if cleaning out some dregs, and refilled it. The little chap had brains. As again I raised the cup to my lips, I saw the smile appear on Can's face once more. My back was to McColl, blocking him off from the rest of the room and this time his rasping penetrating whisper was easy to hear.

" 'After dinner, be paralyzed, stiff, frozen in your seat. You can't move, understand?'

"I made a circle with my fingers behind my back to show I understood, and then walked out into the room to meet Canler who was coming toward me.

" 'Don't stand at the punch all evening, Donald,' he said, laughing. 'You have a long night ahead, you know.' But now his laughter was mocking and his lean, handsome face was suddenly a mask of cruelty and malign purpose. As we moved about together, the faces and manners of the others, both men and women, even the children and servants, were the same, and I wondered that I had ever thought any of them friendly. Under their laughter and banter, I felt contempt, yes and hatred and triumph too, mixed with a streak of pure nastiness. I was the stalled ox, flattered, fattened and fed, and the butchers were amused. They knew my fate, but I would not know until the door of the abbatoir closed behind me. But the ox was not quite helpless yet, nor was the door quite slammed shut. I noticed Betty had gone and when I made some comment or other, Can laughed and told me she was checking dinner preparations, as indeed any hostess might. I played my part as well as I could, and apparently well enough. McColl gave me bogus refills when we were alone and I tried to seem excited, full of joie de vivre, you know. Whatever other effect was expected was seemingly reserved for after dinner.

"Eventually, about nine I should think, we went in to dinner; myself carefully shepherded between several male cousins. These folk were not leaving much to chance, whatever their purpose.

"The great dining room was a blaze of candles and gleaming silver and crystal. I was seated next to Betty at one end of the long table and Canler took the other. Servants began to pour wine and the dinner commenced. At first, the conversation and laughter were, to outward appearances, quite normal. The shrill laughter of the young rose above the deeper tones of their elders. Indeed the sly, feral glances of the children as they watched me surreptitiously were not the least of my unpleasant impressions. Once again and far more strongly, the feeling of being in a den of some savage and predatory brutes returned to me, and this time, it did not leave.

"At my side, Betty was the exception. Her face never looked lovelier—ivory white in the candle glow, and calm, as if whatever had troubled her earlier had gone. She did not speak much, but her eyes met mine frankly, and I felt stronger, knowing that in the woman I loved, whatever came, I had at least one ally.

"I have said that as the meal progressed, so too did the quiet. I had eaten a fairish amount, but barely tasted any of the wines from the battery of glasses at my place. As dessert was cleared off, amid almost total silence, 1 became aware that I had better start playing my other role, for every eye was now trained at my end of the table.

Turning to the girl, an unmarried cousin, on my right side, I spoke slowly and carefully, as one intoxicated.

" 'My goodness, that punch must have been strong! I can scarcely move my hand, d'you know. Good thing we don't have to ride tonight, eh?'

"Whatever possessed me to say that, I can't think, but my partner stared at me and then broke into a peal of cold laughter. As she did so, choking with her own amusement, the man on her far side, who had heard me also, repeated it to his neighbors. In an instant the whole table was aripple with sinister delight, and I could see Can at the far end, his white teeth gleaming as he caught the joke. I revolved my head slowly and solemnly in apparent puzzlement, and the laughter grew. I could see two of the waiters laughing in a far corner. And then it ceased.

"A great bell or chime tolled somewhere, not too far off and there was complete silence as if by magic. Suddenly I was aware of Canler who had risen at his place and had raised his hands, as if in an invocation.

" 'The hour returns,' he cried. 'The Blessed Feast is upon us, the Feast of Sam'hain. My people, hence to your duties, to your robes, to the sacred park of the Sheade! Go, for the hour comes and passes!'

"It was an effort to sit still while this rigamarole went on, but I remembered the earlier warnings and froze in my seat, blinking stupidly. It was as well, for four of the men-servants, all large, now stood behind and beside my chair. In an instant the room was empty, save for these four, myself and my host, who now strode the length of the table to stare down at me, his eyes filled with anger and contempt. Before I could even move, he had struck me over the face with his open hand.

" 'You, you English boor, would raise your eyes to the last princess of the Firbolgs, whose stock used yours as the meat and beasts of burden they are before Rome was even a village! Last year we had another one like you and his polo-playing friends at Hicksville are still wondering where he went!' He laughed savagely and struck me again. I can tell you chaps, I learned real self-control in that moment! I never moved, but gazed up at him, my eyes blank, registering vacuous idiocy.

" 'The mead of the Dagda keeps its power,' he said. 'Bring him along, you four, the Great Hour passes!'

"Keeping limp, I allowed myself to be lifted and carried from the room. Through the great dark house, following that false friend, its master, we went, until at last we climbed a broad stair and emerged under the frosty October stars. Before us lay the towering, overgrown hedge, and now I learned the secret of it. A great gate, overgrown with vines so as to be invisible when shut, had been opened and before me lay the hidden place of the House of Waldron. This is what I saw:

"An avenue of giant oaks marched a quarter mile to a circular space where towered black tumuli of stone rose against the night sky. As I was borne toward these monoliths, the light of great fires was kindled on either side as I passed, and from them came an acrid, evil reek which caught at the throat. Around and over them leapt my fellow dinner guests and the servants wearing scanty, green tunics, young and old together, their voices rising in a wild screaming chant, unintelligible, but regular and rhythmic. Canler had vanished momentarily, but now I heard his voice ahead of us. He must have been gone longer than I thought, for when those carrying me reached the circle of standing stones, he was standing outlined against the largest fire of all, which blazed, newly-kindled, behind him. I saw the cause of the horrid stench, for instead of logs, were burning white dry bones, a great mountain of them. Next to him stood Betty and both of them had their arms raised and were singing the same wild chant as the crowd behind me.

"I was slammed to the ground by my guards but held erect and immovable so that I had a good chance to examine the two heirs of the finest families in the modern United States.

"Both were barefoot and wore thigh-length green tunics, his apparently wool, but hers silk or something like it, with her ivory body gleaming through it almost as if she were nude. Upon her breast and belly were marks of gold, like some strange, uncouth writing, clearly visible through the gauzy fabric. Her black hair was unbound and poured in waves over her shoulders. Canler wore upon his neck a massive circular torque, also of gold and on his head a coronal wreath, apparently of autumn leaves. In Betty's right hand was held a golden sceptre, looking like a crude attempt to form a giant stalk of wheat. She waved this in rhythm as they sang.

"Behind me the harsh chorus rose in volume and I knew the rest of the pack, for that's how I thought of them, were closing in. The noise rose to a crescendo, then ceased. Only the crackling of the great, reeking fire before me broke the night's silence. Then Canler raised his hands again in invocation and began a solitary chant in the strange harsh tongue they had used before. It was brief and when it came to an end, he spoke again, but in English this time.

" 'I call to Sam'hain, Lord of the Dead, I, Tuathal, the Seventieth and One hundred, of the line of Miled, of the race of Goedel Glas, last true Ardr'i of ancient Erin, Supreme Vate of the Cor-cou Firbolgi. Oh, Lord from Beyond, who has preserved my ancient people and nourished them in plenty, the bonefires greet the night, your sacrifice awaits you!' He fell silent and Betty stepped forward. In her left hand she now held a small golden sickle, and very gently she pricked my forehead three times, in three places. Then she stepped back and called out in her clear voice.

" 'I, Morrigu, Priestess and Bride of the Dead, have prepared the sacrifice. Let the Horses of the Night attend!'

"D'ye know, all I could think of was some homework I'd done on your American Constitution, in which Washington advocated separation of church and state? The human mind is a wonderful thing! Quite apart from the reek of the burning bones, though, I knew a stench of a spiritual sort. I was seeing something old here, old beyond knowledge, old and evil. I felt that somehow not only my body was in danger.

"Now I heard the stamp of hooves. From one side, snorting and rearing, a great black horse was led into the firelight by a half-naked boy, who had trouble with the beast, but still held him. The horse was saddled and bridled and I knew him at once. It was Bran, the hunter I'd been lent all week. Behind him, I could hear other horses moving.

" 'Mount him,' shouted Canler, or Tuathal, as he now called himself. With that, I was lifted into the saddle, where I swayed, looking as doped and helpless as I could. Before I could move, my hands were caught and lashed together at the wrists with leather cords, then in turn tied loosely to the headstall, giving them a play of some inches but no more. The reins were looped up and knotted. Then my host stepped up to my knee and glared up at me.

" 'The Wild Hunt rides, Slave and Outlander! You are the quarry, and two choices lie before you, both being death. For if we find you, death by these ... and he waved a curious spear, short and broad in the blade.

" 'But others hunt on this night, and maybe when those Who Hunt Without Riders come upon your track, you will wish for these points instead. Save for children's toys, the outside world has long forgotten their Christian Feast of All Hallows. How long then have they forgot that which inspired it, ten thousand and more years before the Nazarene was slain? Now—ride and show good sport to the Wild Hunt!'

"With that someone gave Bran a frightful cut over the croup, and he bounded off into the dark, almost unseating me in the process. I had no idea where we were going, except that it was not back down the avenue of trees and the blazing fires. But I soon saw that at least two riders were herding me away at an angle down the hill, cutting at Bran's flanks with whips when he veered from the course they had set. Twice the whips caught my legs, but the boots saved me from the worst of it.

"Eventually, we burst out into a glade near the southern spur of the mountain and I saw another, smaller gate had been opened in the great hedge. Through this my poor brute was flogged, but once through it I was alone. The big house was invisible around a curve of the hill, and no lights marked its presence.

" 'Ride hard, Englishman,' called one of my herdsmen. 'Two deaths follow on your track.' With that, they turned back and I heard the gate slam. At the same time, I heard something else. Far off in the night I heard the shrill whinnying of a horse. Mingled with it and nearer was the sound of a horn, golden and clear. The horse cry was like that of no horse I have ever heard, a savage screaming noise which cut into my ear drums and raised the hackles even further on my back. At the same time I made a new discovery.

"Some sharp thing had been poking into my left thigh ever since I was placed on the horse. Even in the starlight I now could see the reason. The haft of a heavy knife projected under my leg, apparently taped to the saddle! By stretching and bending my body, I could just free it and once free I cut the lead which tethered my wrists to the head stall. As I did so, I urged Bran with my knees downhill and to the right, keeping close to the trees which grew unclipt at the base of the mountain spur. I knew there was little time to waste, for the sound of galloping horses was coming through the night, far off, but drawing nearer by the instant! It might be the twentieth century outside the valley, but I knew it would be the last of me if that pack of green-clad maniacs ever caught up with me. The Wild Hunt was not a joke at this point!

"As I saw it I had three secret assets. One, the knife, a sturdy piece of work with an eight-inch blade, which I now held in my teeth and tried to use to saw my wrists apart. The other was the fact that I have a good eye for ground and I had ridden the length and breadth of the valley for a week. While not as familiar with the area as those who now hunted me over it like a rabbit, I was, nevertheless, not a stranger and I fancied I could find my way even at night. My third ace was Betty. What she could do, I had no idea, but I felt sure she would do something.

"The damned leather cords simply could not be cut while Bran moved, even at a walk, and I was forced to stop. It only took a second's sawing, for the knife was sharp, and I was free. I was in deep shadows, and I listened intently, while I unknotted the reins.

"The sound of many horses galloping was still audible through the quiet night but it was no nearer, indeed the reverse. It now came from off to my left and somewhat lower down the valley. I was baffled by this, but only for a moment. Canler and his jolly group wanted a good hunt. Drugged as I was supposed to be, it would never do to follow directly on my track. Instead, they were heading to cut me off from the mouth of the valley, after which they could return at leisure and hunt me down. All of this and much more passed through my mind in seconds, you know.

"My next thought was the hills. In most places, the encircling wall of mountain was far too steep for a horse. But I could leave Bran behind and most of the ground ought to be possible for an active chap on foot. By dawn I could be well out of reach of this murderous gang. As the thought crossed my mind, I urged Bran toward the nearest wall of rock. We crossed a little glade and approached the black mass of the slope, shrouded in more trees at the base, and I kept my eye peeled for trouble. But it was my mount who found it.

"He suddenly snorted and checked, stamping his feet, refusing to go a foot forward. I drew the knife from my belt, also alerted—and by a sudden awakening of a sense far older than anything merely physical. Ahead of us lay a menace of a different sort than the hunters of Waldrondale. I remembered my quondam host threatening me that something else was hunting that night, and also that the men who had driven me through the hedge called after me that two deaths were on my track.

"Before me, as I sat, frozen in the saddle, something moved in the shadows. It was large, but its exact shape was not easy to make out. I was conscious of a sudden feeling of intense cold, something I've experienced once or twice. I now know this to mean that one of what I'll call an Enemy from Outside, a foe of the spirit, is about. On my breast there was a feeling of heat as if I'd been burnt by a match. It was where I wore Betty's gift. The cross too was warning me. Then, two dim spots of yellow phosphorescence glowed at a height even with mine. A hard sound like a hoof striking a stone echoed once.

"This was enough for Bran! With a squeal of fright which sounded more like a hare than a blood horse, he turned and bolted. If I had not freed my hands I would have been thrown off in an instant, and as it was I had the very devil of a time staying on. He was not merely galloping, but bounding, gathering his quarters under him with each stride as if to take a jump. Only sheer terror can make a trained horse so forget himself.

"I did my best to guide him, for through the night I heard the golden questing note of a horn. The Wild Hunt was drawing the coverts. They seemed to be quite far down the valley and fortunately Bran was running away across its upper part, in the same direction as the big house.

"I caught a glimpse of its high, lightless gables, black against the stars as we raced over some open ground a quarter mile below it, then we were in the trees again, and I finally began to master the horse, at length bringing him to a halt. Once again, as he stood, sweated and shivered, I used my ears. At first there was nothing, then, well down the vale to my right front came the sound of the questing horn. I was still undiscovered.

"You may wonder, as I did at first, why I had heard no hounds. Surely it would have been easy for this crew to keep some bloodhounds, or perhaps smear my clothes or horse with anise and use their own thoroughbred fox hounds. I can only say I don't know. At a guess, and mind you, it's only a guess, there were other powers or elements loose that night which might have come into conflict with a normal hunting pack. But that's only a guess. Still, there were none, and though I was not yet sure of it, I was fairly certain, for even the clumsiest hound should have been in full cry on my track by now. The Wild Hunt then, seemed to hunt at sight. Again the clear horn note sounded. They were working up the slope in my direction.

"As quietly as possible, I urged Bran, who now seemed less nervous, along the edge of the little wood we were in and down the slope. We had galloped from the hill spur on the right, as one faced away from the house, perhaps two thirds of the way across the valley, which at this point was some two miles wide. Having tried one slope and met—well, whatever I had met, I would not try the other.

"My first check came at a wooden fence. I didn't dare jump such a thing at night, as much for the noise as for the danger of landing badly. But I knew there were gates. I dismounted and led Bran along until I found one, and then shut it carefully behind me. I had not heard the mellow horn note for some time and the click of the gate latch sounded loud in the frosty night. Through the large field beyond I rode at a walk. There was another gate at the far side, and beyond that another dark clump of wood. It was on the edge of this that I suddenly drew rein.

"Ahead of me, something was moving down in the wood. I heard some bulky creature shoulder into a tree trunk and the sound of heavy steps. It might have been another horse from the sound. But at the same moment, up the slope behind me, not too far away, came the thud of hooves on the ground, many hooves. The horn note blew, not more than two fields away, by the sound.

I had no choice and urged Bran forward into the trees. He did not seem too nervous, and went willingly enough. The sound ahead of me ceased and then, as I came to a tiny glade in the heart of the little wood, a dim shape moved ahead of me. I checked my horse and watched, knife ready.

" 'Donald?' came a soft voice. Into the little clearing rode Betty, mounted on a horse as dark as mine, her great black mare. I urged Bran forward to meet her.

" 'I've been looking for you for over an hour,' she whispered, her breath warm on my cheek. I was holding her as tightly as I could, our mounts standing side by side, amiably sniffing one another. 'Let me go, Donald, or we'll both be dead. There's a chance, a thin one if we go the way I've thought out.' She freed herself and sat looking gravely at me. My night vision was good and I could see she had changed into a simple tunic of what looked like doeskin and soft, supple knee boots. Socketed in a sling was one of the short, heavy spears and I reached over and took it. The very heft of it made me feel better. The glimmering blade seemed red even in the dim tree light and I suddenly realized the point was bronze. These extraordinary people went in for authenticity in their madness.

" 'Come on, quickly,' she said and wheeled her horse back the way she had come. I followed obediently and we soon came to the edge of the forest. Before us lay another gentle slope, but immediately beneath us was a sunken dirt road, which meandered away to the left and downhill between high banks, their tops planted with hedge. We slid down a sandy slope and our horses began to walk along the road, raising hardly any dust. Betty rode a little ahead, her white face visible as she turned to look back at intervals. Far away a cock crowed, but I looked at my watch and it was no more than 3 a.m. I could hear nothing uphill and the horn was silent. We rode through a little brook, our path crossing it at a pebbly ford only inches deep. Then, as we had just passed out of hearing the gurgle of the stream, a new sound broke the quiet night.

"It was somewhere between a whinny and a screech and I remembered the noise I had heard as the two riders had driven me through the hedge. If one could imagine some unthinkable horse-creature screaming at the scent of blood—eagerly, hungrily seeking its prey, well, that's the best I can do to describe it.

" 'Come on, we have to ride for our lives!' Betty hissed. 'They have let the Dead Horse loose upon us. No one can stand against that.'

"With that, she urged her mount into a gallop and I followed suit. We tore along the narrow track between the banks, taking each twist at a dead run, always angling somehow downhill and toward the valley mouth.

"Then, the road suddenly went up and I could see both ahead and behind. Betty reined up and we surveyed our position. At the same time the horn blew again, but short, sharp notes this time and a wild screaming broke out. Three fields back up the long gentle slope the Wild Hunt had seen our black outlines on the little swell where we paused. I could see what looked like a dozen horsemen coming full tilt and the faint glitter of the spears. But Betty was looking back down along our recent track.

"From out of the dark hollows came a vast grunting noise, like that of a colossal pig sighting the swill pail. It was very close.

"Betty struck her horse over the withers and we started to gallop again in real earnest. Bran was tired, but he went on nobly, and her big mare simply flew. The Hunt was silent now, but I knew they were still coming. And I knew too, that something else was coming. Almost, I felt a cold breath on my back, and I held the spear tightly against Bran's neck.

"Suddenly, Betty checked, so sharply her horse reared, and I saw why as I drew abreast. We had come very close to the mouth of the valley and a line of fires lay before us, not three hundred yards away on the open flat. Around them moved many figures, and even at this distance I could see that a cordon was established and from the hats and glint of weapons, I knew not by the Waldrons or their retainers. Apparently the outside world was coming to Waldrondale, at least this far. We had a fighting chance.

"Between us and the nearest fire, a black horseman rode at us, and he was only a hundred feet off. The raised spear and the bare head told me that at least one of the valley maniacs had been posted to intercept me, in the unlikely event of my getting clear of the rest.

"I spurred the tired hunter forward and gripped the short spear near its butt end, as one might a club. The move was quite instinctive. I knew nothing of spears but I was out to kill and I was a six-goal polo player. The chap ahead, some Waldron cousin, I expect, needed practice, which he never got. He tried to stab at me overhand, but before our horses could touch I had swerved and lashed out as I would on a long drive at the ball. The heavy bronze edge took him between the eyes and really, that was that. His horse went off to one side alone.

"Wheeling Bran, I started to call to Betty to come on and as I did saw that which she had so feared had tracked us down.

"I am still not entirely certain of what I saw, for I have the feeling that part of it was seen with what Asiatics refer to as the Third Eye, the inner 'eye' of the soul.

"The girl sat, a dozen yards from me, facing something which was advancing slowly upon us. They had called it the Dead Horse, and its shifting outlines indeed at moments seemed to resemble a monstrous horse, yet at others, some enormous and distorted pig. The click of what seemed hooves was clear in the night. It had an unclean color, an oily shifting, dappling of grey and black. Its pupilless eyes, which glowed with a cold, yellow light, were fixed upon Betty, who waited as if turned to stone. Whatever it was, it had no place in the normal scheme of things. A terrible cold again came upon me and time seemed frozen. I could neither move nor speak, and Bran trembled, unmoving between my legs.

"My love broke the spell. Or it broke her. God knows what it must have cost her to defy such a thing, with the breeding she had, and the training. At any rate, she did so. She shouted something I couldn't catch, apparently in that pre-Gaelic gibberish they used and flung out her arm as if striking at the monster. At the same instant it sprang, straight at her. There was a confused sound or sounds, a sort of spinning, as if an incredible top were whirling in my ear and at the same instant my vision blurred.

"When I recovered myself, I was leaning over Bran's neck, clutching him to stay on and Betty lay silent in the pale dust of the road. A yard away lay her horse, also unmoving. And there was nothing else.

"As I dismounted and picked her up, I knew she was dead, and that the mare had died in the same instant. She had held the thing from Outside away, kept it off me, but it had claimed a price. The high priestess of the cult had committed treason and sacrilege and her life was the price. Her face was smiling and peaceful, the ivory skin unblemished, as if she were asleep.

"I looked up at the sound of more galloping hoofbeats. The Wild Hunt, all utterly silent, were rounding a bend below me and not more than a hundred yards away. I lifted Betty easily, for she was very light, and mounted. Bran still had a little go left and we headed for the fires, passing the dead man lying sprawled in his kilt or whatever on the road. I was not really afraid any longer and as I drew up at the fire with a dozen gun barrels pointed at me, it all felt unreal. I looked back and there was empty hill, a barren road. The riders of Waldrondale had vanished, turned back apparently at the sight of the fires and the armed men.

" 'He's not one; look at the gal! That crowd must have been hunting him. Call the parson over or Father Skelton, one of you, Keep a sharp lookout, now!'

"It was a babble of voices and like a dream. I sat down, staring stupidly and holding Betty against my heart until I realized a man was pulling at my knees and talking insistently. I began to wake up then, and looking down, recognized the minister I had seen the previous day. I could not remember his name but I handed Betty down to him when he asked, as obediently as a child.

" 'She saved me, you know,' I said brightly. 'She left them and saved me. But the Dead Horse got her. That was too much, you see. She was only a girl, couldn't fight that. You do see, don't you?' This is what I am told I said at any rate, by Mr. Andrews, the Episcopal minister of the little Church of the Redeemer. But that was later. I remember none of it.

"When I woke, in the spare bed of the rectory the next day, I found Andrews sitting silently by my bed. He was looking at my bare breast on which lay the little Celtic cross. He was fully dressed, tired and unshaven and he reeked of smoke, like a dead fireplace, still full of coals and wood ash.

"Before I could speak, he asked me a question. 'Did she, the young lady, I mean, give you that?'

" 'Yes,' I said. 'It may have saved me. Where is she?'

" 'Downstairs, in my late wife's room. I intend to give her Christian burial, which I never would have dreamed possible. But she has been saved to us.'

" 'What about the rest of that crowd?' I said. 'Can nothing be done?'

"He looked calmly at me. 'They are all dead. We have been planning this for three years. That Hell spawn have ruled this part of the country since the Revolution. Governors, senators, generals, all Waldrons, and everyone else afraid to say a word.' He paused. 'Even the young children were not saved. Old and young, they are in that place behind the house. We took nothing from the house but your clothes. The hill folk who live to the west came down on them just before dawn, as we came up. Now there is a great burning; the house, the groves, everything. The State Police are coming but several bridges are out for some reason, and they will be quite a time.' He fell silent, but his eyes gleamed. The prophets of Israel were not all dead.

"Well, I said a last goodbye to Betty and went back to Washington. The police never knew I was there at all, and I was apparently as shocked as anyone to hear that a large gang of bootleggers and Chicago gangsters had wiped out one of America's first families and gotten away clean without being captured. It was a six-day sensation and then everyone forgot it. I still have the little cross, you know, and that's all."

We sat silent, all brooding over this extraordinary tale. Like all of the Brigadier's tales, it seemed too fantastic for human credibility and yet—and yet.

The younger member who had spoken earlier could not resist one question, despite Ffellowes' pre-story ban on such things.

"Well, Sir," he now said. "Why this means that one of the oldest royal families in the world, far more ancient than King Arthur's, say, is only recently extinct. That's absolutely amazing!"

Ffellowes looked up from his concentration on the rug and seemed to fix his gaze on the young man. To my amazement he did not become irritated. In fact, he was quite calm.

"Possibly, possibly," he said, "but of course they all appear to have been Irish or at least Celts of some sort or other. I have always considered their reliability open to considerable doubt."

THE LEFTOVERS

I started the discussion by accident. A national magazine recently had carried some color photographs of an alleged giant, ape-like creature said to be living in the California mountains. This intrigued me, and I mentioned that I would like to go and look for the beast and wished I were younger.

We were sitting over coffee at the club's big table, four or five of use, and Ffellowes, out retired British brigadier, was one.

"Like that coelacanth fish off East Africa," said somebody. A survivor from earlier times, perhaps, like a live Pithecanthropus or even a Neanderthal man."

"Probably a lot of nonsense or else a crude publicity stunt," said someone else. "You've traveled a lot, General Ffellowes, what do you think?"

" 'Brigadier', please, not 'General'," said Ffellowes absently. "Our generals begin with major general. A lot of nonsense? I saw the pictures and they looked extremely convincing to me. I must say. But I don't think I want to look for the thing, not myself. If it is a survivor, a sort of leftover, as it were, why I would leave it quite to itself, or themselves properly speaking. There must be more than one, if they do exist, you know."

He looked vacant, his red, clean-shaven face smooth as a boy's, his eyes focused on nothing as he stared over our heads.

I scented a story. The vacant look and musing manner had always preceded one of Ffellowes incredible tales in the past, and I felt sure there was something similar on his mind now. Several others, who had heard him in the past, also looked alert. None of us dared speak, because Ffellowes is moody. Usually you can let well enough alone and he'll talk by himself, but if someone says something at the wrong moment, he simply shuts up. We waited.

"If my geological knowledge is not too dated," he said, still looking at the mantelpiece, "these man-apes and hairy giants once existed in the Pleistocene epoch, about a million years ago, and may still be with us. Why not, indeed? A million years is nothing in terms of the Earth's history."

Mason Williams had been sitting glaring at Ffellowes since he first spoke. Williams disliked him, and the British in general, but he couldn't seem to stay away from him, either. Now he had to say something.

"A million years ago there was only the beginning of intelligence, pal. That's a mighty long time and it's how long it took to develop us, from whatever ancestor you pick."

Exactly what his point was, I don't really know. He'd just been looking for something to argue with Ffellowes about, and this was the first statement he could pounce on.

Ffellowes stared coldly at Williams, and I knew it was touch and go. He'd either clam up or be irritated enough to go on talking. But we were lucky.

"Intelligence, according to a number of experts in the field of evolution, a study, Williams, somewhat removed from stock-broking, may well be an accident. That Pleistocene or Pliocene, or even earlier still, hominids of some sort achieved it could very well be ascribed to luck. Circumstances in one place loading the dice, so to speak, in terms of the right animal, the right climate, the right impetus.''' He fell silent again.

Williams opened his mouth, but what he was about to say will remain unknown, because Ffellowes started talking, steadily and precisely, in a way which permitted no interruption, at least not by anyone of Williams' caliber.

"I rather imagine none of you know the Hadhramaut, do you? I thought not. Well, it's the southern coast of the Arabian peninsula, the area the British just abandoned when we left Aden last month. If you go from the Aden area east, you run through a lot of what were called 'associated states'; and finally, a little more than halfway, on a map, across the Arabian peninsula, you hit Oman, a sort of dreary, fringe state which borders Saudi Arabia on the southeast, cutting it off from the sea. Now that we're gone, I rather imagine that the Saudis will do something about Oman. They could use a seaport on the Indian Ocean. But that's by the way.

"A most unpleasant country to travel in, the Hadhramaut, unless one is, or appears to be, a part of the scenery and very well armed in addition. Two people simply aren't enough, or weren't in 1924.

"A Sudanese Arab named Moussa wad Helu and I were moving east along the coast, quite near the Oman border and hoping we'd get out alive. I'd been sent to get some information on a reputed Mahdi, a prophet, who was going to expel the British from that part of the world, and I'd got myself rumbled. You'd say 'blown' now I think.

"Old Moussa, who was an awfully sound chap, one of our best men in the area, volunteered to get me out, before the Mahdi's boys did me in, that is. We left a ghastly hole called Hauf on the run, with the opposition firing badly aimed Lewis guns at our backs. We had two fairish camels and a limited amount of food and water, plus one rifle, two pistols and an assortment of knives. I was rigged out as an Arab but couldn't have fooled anyone. I speak Arabic but appearances are against me. I'd been hiding, lying low inland collecting information when the balloon went up.

"We knew the local Mahdi's people would be after us like a shot, and we only had one ace in the hole. This was a big torch, a flashlight, for signaling a motor torpedo boat the Navy had in the area. We'd got a last message off on my wireless set before we destroyed it, and we could only hope the boat would be cruising along looking for us where it was supposed to be.

"We rode all through the night, along the low dunes behind the beach. It was cool and lovely, but we knew what the next day would be like.

"In the dawn light the ocean stretched like a sheet of pink glass on our right. There was a narrow stretch of pebbly beach, about a quarter mile of exposed coral reef, because the tide was out, and then the empty, motionless sea.

"We rode on all through the burning hot day, hoarding our water and not talking. The vague rendezvous with the MTB was about fifty miles ahead, and we knew the local bad types were sure to be not too far behind.

"Lovely scenery if one had the time to enjoy it, really. I saw a flock of large black and white birds, not gulls or terns, but something else, standing on the reef at one point. That was all that moved until about noon. Then I pulled up my 'oont' with a jolt. There were five blackish, hunched figures way out on an outcrop of coral, scrabbling about in the shallow water.

" 'Only dwellers of the tide, S'ayyid,' said Moussa, also reining up. 'They are dwarfs, harmless, not even able to kill. They eat all the dirt cast up by the sea, shells and seaweed, dead fish also. They are no danger to anyone.'

" 'Are they then Bedawi (Arabs)?' I asked.

"He looked disgusted, his narrow, sun-blackened face wrinkled in contempt. 'They are barely human. They have no house, nothing. God never sent the Prophet, blessed be His Name, to speak to such as they. But they are very old. They have always been here.'

"This was apparently all he cared to say, and we moved off again. I looked back at the strange little shapes and wished I knew more about them.

"At dusk we stopped. The straight shore had sloped in a little, and some sort of seep had brought enough water to form a small bog at the entrance of a shallow gully. It was a nasty, evil-smelling place, but the camels needed rest and so did we. Also, and this was even more important, the camels could drink the brackish, scummy water of the seep and allow us to save our waterskins.

"The mosquitoes were particularly bad, so we tethered the animals in the gully and climbed to its western edge to both rest and keep watch. I noticed Moussa seemed a bit edgy, constantly glancing about, you know, and I finally asked him if he had heard or seen anything that disturbed him. He'd been quite relaxed earlier in the afternoon and had even said we had a good lead on the opposition, so this change in attitude got the wind up a bit for me.

" 'I don't like this place, S'ayyid,' he finally said. 'No one comes here. It has a bad name among all the people of the Hadhramaut. I wish we were far enough along the shore to signal the English ship.'

"I looked about us more carefully, but I couldn't see anything very disturbing. A range of barren, reddish hills rose inland, the ground sloping up rather sharply from the sea coast. Below us, in the light of late afternoon, the camels fed placidly in the marsh, ignoring the clouds of gnats and mosquitoes around them. I couldn't see what was bothering the man, a very tough customer indeed, and I said so, telling him at the same time to calm down a bit. To get him in a better mood, I asked him to give me a bit more detail about the area and why it was so disliked.

" 'Dawut, S'ayyid,' he said, staring at me with his red-rimmed eyes. Now dawut means a number of things, depending on the context of your speech. His meant magic, magic and sorcery.

"I had sense enough to keep from smiling, and I think this reassured him. He fiddled with his big, sickle-shaped Hadhramaut dagger and then went on, clearly speaking with an effort.

" 'Not all of the demons were caged by Suleiman bin Daoud' (that is, Solomon). All sensible men know this. Djann and Grol still live in the Rub' al Khali, the greatest of deserts to the north, claimed now by Ibn-Saud. But around here,' and he looked around in the failing light, 'here the cursed ones, the worst of those ancient ones who lived before Adam, the Beni (unpronounceable) are said still to hide. That is why no one ever comes here.'

"After the word Beni, which means 'sons of,' the next word had been a curious grating hiss, which 1 can't imitate now and which somehow made me rather uncomfortable then.

"I was quite intrigued. Moussa was anything but soft, and I'd never heard a superstitious word out of him before. Now all this tosh about magic and devils came boiling out like beer from a shaken bottle. It was all very surprising and mysterious.

"There was still light enough to see one another quite well, and some contempt or something must have shown on my face. His mouth shut like a trap and he swung away down the slope. Over his shoulder he called back, 'We have rested long enough and we must keep moving. Otherwise we will miss the English ship.'

"I couldn't argue that, so we went down, unhobbled the camels and set off over the dunes again. The daylight was now very dim and the blazing stars of the tropics were clearly visible. On our right the Indian Ocean lapped al the pebbles, and aside from the shuffle of our camels and the creak of our leather gear, this was the only sound. We could see well enough to ride if we didn't move too fast, and as the night came on the stars gave us quite decent visibility.

"Every so often and with increasing frequency, we came to one of the marshy, ill-smelling wadis, or gullies, sloping down from the hills, and I soon noticed that Moussa gave these as wide a berth as possible. I knew that I must always follow him, because he knew the country and I didn't, but when we finally waded the camels out knee-deep into the ocean to avoid one of these little estuaries, I asked him what he thought he was doing.

" 'Be silent!' he said in a carrying whisper, whipping around in his saddle. I could see the whites of his eyes clearly. 'If you make any more sound, I will forget my oath and leave you here. We are in deadly danger, and because you are stupid we will die if we are not careful. Now—silence!' He turned and urged his beast on.

"This was a new Moussa with a vengeance! No 'S'ayyid' and a threat to leave me flat in addition. I made up my mind to have it out with Master Moussa at a later date, but meanwhile I kept my mouth shut and followed.

"Now in the silence that followed, I suddenly became aware of something new. Moussa and most other desert Arabs I ever met could beat me all hollow at seeing things far away. I reckon our civilized noses aren't worth much either, and again he could catch scents I couldn't begin to detect. But his ears were curiously inefficient, compared to mine. I've noticed this before among other various folk who live out of doors, notably in West Africa, and I have no idea why, but it's a fact nonetheless.

"I heard something now and I didn't much care for it either. It was a curious padding and scuffling noise, and it seemed to come from our left where the land rose. At first it seemed near, then farther away, then closer again. We were riding at a slow trot over the gentle sea face of the sand dunes, and I finally caught on to just what I was hearing.

"Some thing, or things, was moving parallel to us along the other side of the line of dunes, and the slight variation in the height of the dunes made for the difference in the sound.

"I looked at Moussa's back, but even though it appeared tense, I knew somehow he couldn't hear what I could. What should be done, I wondered?

"Finally, I urged my camel alongside his to get his attention quietly. As he looked up in surprise, I pointed to my ears and made a motion of someone walking or running with my fingers. Then I pointed to our left, to the crest of the dunes. The starlight was so bright that it was easy for him to see what I was doing.

"He caught on at once and his face went all drawn and taut while his mouth opened in an 'o' of surprise. Then he unslung his rifle in one motion and laid it across his saddlebow. He took out his pistol and jammed that in his cartridge belt and motioned to me to do the same. Next, he waved me around him so that I rode on the ocean side, but next to him. All this was done without our camels breaking stride, and I was beginning to get a bit shaken.

"He angled our line of march down off the dunes onto the pebbly strand itself and even further, so that the camels were running almost in the calm water itself. They had speeded up, by the way, and we were now moving at a pretty fair clip. They were well-trained camels and the hour's rest had done them good.

"I could hear nothing now, because the splash of their feet in the water made too much noise, but I felt sure we were not out of danger. Soon I saw the reason why. Up ahead, the dunes suddenly got very low and then for a space vanished. This flat lasted about half a mile, and then the dunes resumed again. A wave of fetid odor told me we were coming to yet another tidal marsh where still another wadi led to the sea.

"The camels were running ankle-deep now, and any deeper would have slowed them badly. We were in the best possible position to meet whatever was pacing us, and as the last dune halted abruptly, I got my first sight of it, or rather, them.

"A line of lean dark figures, perhaps a score or more, erupted over the crest of the white dune and poured down the face of it in our direction. In a second, they were out on the flat and coming after us like race horses. And they were men! The starlight showed their long legs clearly as they ran, in tremendous, leaping strides. By heavens, I had no idea men could run like that, and, mind you, I'd seen Masai and Shilluk warriors, both supposed to be tops in that field. They came on in utter silence, what's more, and Arabs would have been yelling like the devil by now. Also, desert Arabs don't like fighting at night, and won't if they can help it.

"Moussa beat his camel and mine, too, with his goad, and we went on at a fine pace over the sea's edge, but behind us those dark figures got more and more distinct in the starlight.

"In a pinch, you couldn't find better than Moussa. Not all Arabs can shoot, but a lot can, and he was one. He spun on his saddle and began snapping his Enfield off like a veteran. I saw one runner go down, but the rest came on. Then he hit another, who veered off into the water and fell with a mighty splash, and they seemed to check for a moment. By this time, Ed made up my mind whatever they were, they certainly were no Arabs for they were naked or almost so, and I really could see no clothes of any sort at all.

"Moussa reloaded in the saddle and we thundered on. The dunes had reappeared again, but our enemies weren't taking cover, but coming on right behind us once more, and once more they were gaining. Such running I simply could not believe.

" 'S'ayyid,' yelled Moussa, 'the camels can't last at this speed. How far to the ship-meeting place?'

"Now Ed been devoting a lot of thought to just that, and I felt sure it wasn't much farther. Ed been checking a pedometer at intervals, and it works on camel-back, you know; and with that and a certain landmark, a small island now visible off the coast, I knew we were only about two miles or so away. Of course, if the boat wasn't there...!

"Actually, it was quite a narrow squeak, what with one thing and another. Ed hauled out my big torch from the saddlebag and started blinking it like mad in an SOS aimed out to sea. Moussa was shooting again, really browning the lot, I suppose, but I couldn't see, being busy with the light. What a chase! And still not one bloody sound out of those beggars. If it hadn't been for the rifle, it all could have been a bad dream.

"My camel gave way suddenly with no warning at all. The poor brute had done its best, and it collapsed kicking and threw me over its head into the shallows. As I flew through the air, I kept thinking to myself, don't let the pistol go, and I managed to hold it as I hit in about three feet of water. It was a big 'broom handle' Mauser automatic, and as I staggered erect, three of them were on me, coming through the shallows like Olympic sprinters.

"I blinked the salt out of my eyes, flipped the change lever to full auto and sprayed all three until the magazine was empty.

"I downed them all, but one got his hand on my arm and pulled me under with him. I pulled free of the body as the grip relaxed and there was Moussa and his camel beside me.

" 'Get up behind me quick,' he called, and believe me, I did. He was still shooting over my head, but then his shots stopped as I mounted, and by the time I'd hauled myself up, the night was quiet again. As we sat in the shallow water, watching and listening, I could hear the MTB's engines as it swept in to meet us, and in another minute a searchlight beam had picked us out. We shot Moussa's camel, nothing else to do, and left the area in a great hurry. I wasn't sorry to see the last of it.

"You see, the flash of my pistol had lit up my attackers all too clearly. They were about seven feet tall, stark naked, hairless and covered with minute blackish scales. In addition, their mouths were full of needle-like fangs, and they only had two holes where a nose ought to be. Their hands had long, sharp claws on the fingers, which I can demonstrate."

No one said a word as Ffellowes removed first his coat and his left cuff link and finally rolled up his sleeve. There on his inner elbow were four savage white wheals, obviously done a long time ago.

"Yes," he went on, "if anyone wants to look for Pleistocene man in California, good luck to him. I rather fancy I've seen Paleozoic Man, and that's quite enough of a leftover for me, thank you. Someone else can find the others."

Even Williams could think of nothing to say.

A FEMININE JURISDICTION

The evening talk in the club library had reached (or descended to—it's all in the point of view) the subject of women. Not sex. Older men are perfectly capable of discussing sex of course, but women are far more interesting to an experienced, intelligent man. Here we are, sharing the planet with what is another species really, and yet we still don't know how they think! Incredible!

The subdivision, you could call it, of the current conversation, was "executive women," or "business women," but really what was meant was women running things that men normally do or holding jobs men have always held in the past.

Mason Williams was in his usual noisy, if not good, form. He told a long story about some woman in a brokerage office who had annoyed him by doing something or other she shouldn't. Williams is a bore and the story was both interminable and completely uninteresting. Several of us were openly yawning before it mercifully ended.

Yet oddly enough, the anecdote, dull and trite though it was, struck a response among a number of others present. A quiet guy named Callahan, a lawyer, spoke up quite vigorously for more women's rights and said that very few women ever got a decent break in any profession. I personally have always felt this was true in my business (I'm a retired banker) and chipped in a few examples of how I'd known capable women who got "new" titles and drastically lowered salaries to do exactly the same work as the men they were replacing.

Of the ten or so present, we were finally all talked out on the subject. Except, that is, for Donald Ffellowes, our retired British Brigadier. (He always corrected anyone who said 'Brigadier General.') There is no one more worth listening to on any subject. His commission was supposed to have been in the Royal Artillery, but his experiences ranged from the Colonial Police to MI-5 to the R.A.F. I mean he'd been everywhere. He had a liking for obsolete American slang and he'd say "I've seen the elephant and heard the owl." A lot of his stories were absolutely wild and almost unbelievable.

A few anti-British types, like Mason Williams, said he was a liar and a fake, but I noticed they never left once he'd started talking or telling a story.

Anyway, he'd been sitting, saying nothing about women or anything else, and finally it became obvious that he was the only one left who hadn't said anything. We sort of looked at him and he suddenly looked up and blinked, as if he'd been a long way off, in time and space.

"Let us see," he said, "the subject was, or is, women as executives, eh? That is, women running things, and especially men; supervising or ordering them about, as it were. Is that it? And you are good enough to ask my opinions on the matter?"

Williams mumbled something mostly inaudible in which I caught the word "Limeys," but no one paid any attention, especially Ffellowes. This annoyed Williams more than anything else, by the way.

"To be frank," said Ffellowes, "I feel that much of what has been said this evening rather begs the question—evades it, don't you know.

"You see," he went on, his ruddy, smooth-shaven face calm and reflective, "women are perfectly constructed, mentally, physically and spiritually for certain things. They possess, in my opinion, and that of others such as Kipling, a quality of stark ruthlessness which is an outgrowth of the maternal defense mechanism."

He stared moodily at his Scotch and soda as if seeking inspiration, took a hearty gulp and continued.

"But constructive imagination on a large scale is perhaps not their long suit. They don't usually innovate well, to coin a barbarism, and once they find a comfortable or accustomed pattern of living, they are very reluctant indeed to change it. Did any of you married chaps ever have an easy time getting the wife to move to another area? (None of us knew whether Ffellowes himself was married and no one liked to ask.)

"As the Benedicts grinned in response to his question, he took up the thread of his theory again.

"As I see it, then, one can't say women are suitable for this and that position, unless one knows both the woman concerned and the position concerned very well indeed. Some women such as Elizabeth the First and Catherine of Russia have made admirable rulers. Still, I think a continuous matriarchy is not a good thing, really. It tends to, well, freeze in a mold, allowing no change to occur, and in nature, that sort of thing is quite unnatural."

He looked reflective again, and then said a funny thing.

"To make a very unpleasant pun, 'freeze' is exactly the word I wanted to use. Matriarchies are bad things in the long run and when there is an element of something else added, the situation is compounded for the worse. Much the worse.

"Now I once encountered a situation of this sort. Would you like to hear a story?" He knew us all pretty well by now and didn't wait long before starting.

"In May of 1941, the Germans had completely overrun Greece. I had been sent over by Wavell's intelligence people since I speak Demotic—modern—Greek to do a spot of resistance preparation. It was obvious to all of us, except Winston apparently, that we couldn't hold the Panzers back, even though we'd stripped North Africa to do it, and some farsighted blokes decided to help set up a guerrilla network in advance.

"It was an excellent idea and we did good work. But the Jerries moved one hell of a lot faster than even the most pessimistic of us had thought possible. Instead of taking a leisurely departure through channels laid on in advance, I had to run like hell and trust to luck, if I weren't to be snaffled and stuck in some ghastly stalag.

"Well, I got to the coast and found the last of the Royal Navy had just left. With another chap, a Greek intelligence wallah whom we badly needed and whom I'd been guarding, among other things, I located a small motor-driven caique, a Greek fishing boat, and we shoved off for Crete.

"I had kept a pretty useful radio with us and I raised our people in Crete easily at night. They told us to keep off and as you say here, 'get lost,' because Student's crack Fallschirmjager division was dropping out of every plane and Crete itself was obviously a short hop from a total loss.

"I told our Greek crew, who were all three good men, and we took new bearings for the Southeast. Perhaps we could work our way into the Sporades and Cyprus if our luck held. We had providentially put lots of fuel aboard and could go a long way, if at not too fast a pace. We wore Greek civvies in the hope no Messerschmidt pilot would think us worth strafing.

"Our luck held exactly ten hours, and then a perfectly ghastly Aegean gale blew up out of Asia, driving at us from the Northeast. We were somewhere north of Denusa and were driven southwest at a furious rate, really fighting to just stay afloat. This seemed to go on all night but lasted about five hours, much of it spent submerged, to one degree or another under cold salt water.

"Sometime around six in the morning, when the spume and murk was coming a bit alight, we hit something, a rock one supposes, very, very hard. The little caique, which had really behaved admirably, just burst asunder and we were all in the sea in seconds.

"The three sailors must have drowned. At any rate, I'm sorry to say I never saw or heard of them again. God bless them, they did their level best for us.

"But my Greek officer and I survived, both by chance seizing opposite ends of an empty wooden crate which had been lashed to the deck and which had come loose intact. The weather was so bad and black, spray and all, that it was quite a while before each of us saw that the other was hanging on to the same object.

"This seems as good a time as any to mention my charge, the Greek army captain. His name was Constantine Murusi, called Connie by everyone, and he was one of the really old and true Greek nobility, a descendant of the Phanariot princes who ruled the Balkans under the Turks for hundreds of years. A delightful man, humorous and charming, he was educated in France and spoke a dozen languages. He was steeped in the legends and history of Greece and could make its antiquity come alive for me as no professor ever did. The Greek army thought the world of him and I'd been told by my chief to take very good care of him, since he was slated for high command in the near future.

"Well, I had not gotten him killed at this point, but that was about all that could be said for my care. We were unable to do much except cling to our crate, fortunately a sturdy one, and pray, as we were buffeted by spray and pounded by heavy seas. Little by little, the weather was lightening, and finally our range of vision allowed us to actually see one another clearly. Connie grinned at me and even managed to gesture in a feeble way and I tried to smile back. The force was going out of the waves but we were exhausted and very cold and I knew that it was only a matter of time until I simply couldn't hang on any longer.

"Still, the light grew and the wind dropped and we somehow held on, aided by the fact that the crate was lower in the water and we could rest our chests on it a bit, if we were careful. If we weren't, it would fling you off.

"Suddenly, the clouds all vanished at once and there was the sparkling blue sea, only a bit choppy now; the bright blaze of the morning sun and about a half-mile off, an island.

"It must, I still feel, be one of the odd bits that lie in the triangle between Naxos, Ios and Amorgos. I am not really sure to this day and I confess I have no intention of going back to find out. It was small and rocky, we could see that, you know, even low in the water as we were, perhaps a mile long, not more. There was a little cluster of white houses near the water's edge where a harbor opened and a larger building set up on a cliff, some distance above. It looked like heaven, I can tell you.

"We began to kick and push our clumsy raft as hard as we were able. Neither of us dared swim for it—too tired for that—but we hoped to get ashore by floating. The current seemed to help and we had actually gotten near the harbor entrance, before a sign of life appeared.

"A small boat, rowed by two men, put out from the shore and we were hauled out of the sea and carted to the beach. When the boat grounded, we tried to stand, but neither of us had the strength and the boatmen, not roughly, but not gently either, picked us up and dumped us on the sand. As we lay, still panting, we got a most unpleasant shock.

"A sneering voice said in excellent English, 'An obvious Englishman, probably a deserter, looks like a ragamuffin, and a piece of Greek offal who could be anything, so long as it were sufficiently unsavory. Not much of a catch.'

"I looked up and saw that we were lying at the feet of an immaculately uniformed German officer, wearing the black collar tabs of the Waffen SS and the insignia of a Sturmbannfuhrer, which was equivalent to our major. A thoroughly nasty-looking piece of work he was, thin, blue-eyed, blond, narrow-headed to boot—could have passed for Heydrich's own brother. His only concession to actual war was that he wore a helmet rather than the uniform cap. He now holstered a huge Browning pistol, since we were obviously helpless, and ordered the two men to pick us up and bring us along. He spoke as good modern Greek as he did English, stilted by our standards, but good.

"One of the men answered, in a curious, slurred, singsong dialect, that the Kyrios (lord) would be obeyed, and each one put a shoulder under one of ours and one of our arms around his neck. Half supported, half dragged, we were taken in a direction away from the cluster of houses and up a narrow and rocky path to the larger building I had seen earlier. It was quite a steep climb and although the Nazi marched arrogantly along in front, never even turning around, our two supporters were soon panting. But they never said a word and gave us all the help they could.

"They were shortish, sturdy chaps, both quite young I should say, dark and heavy of feature. Their black eyes were not the usual animated Greek orbs however, but utterly blank, as if nothing at all interested them or ever would. Not dead precisely, but dumb, as in a dumb beast, such as a cow or better still, an ox.

"Eventually we reached the top of the path and the building lay before us. There was a rather surprising garden, mostly tamarick sorts of shrubs and low trees, but laid out well and there were some very fine-looking marble statues here and there. Even in my depressed state I noticed one of an ancient Greek warrior in Hoplite armor, which if genuine ought to be priceless. The man had an arm raised to ward off some danger, and the horror and rage on the face were remarkably done, the work of some master equal to Phidias or Scopas at their best.

"The building was very large, not anywhere over two stories and most of it one, but long and sprawling. The base tier of stones was of huge marble blocks and I saw at once that a great temple had surely stood here once upon a time. Some of the later work was good, some was not and various rough and smooth courses of stone had been added at various times. Everything not already of white marble had been whitened by stucco so that the surface effect was not inharmonious.

"And yet—the major impression was quite unpleasant. It was as if some vast, inchoate creature had built or accumulated a strange nest, or as if a cosmic whirlpool had gathered house materials and never let any one of them go. There was rather the same feeling I once got on contemplating an underwater cave in the South Pacific, where a large octopus had lived for a long time. There were all sorts of empty shells and fishbones around the cave's entrance and I had the feeling that something inside was patiently waiting. It was like that.

"Here, though, there was an added touch, and this was simply age. The great, rambling structure, patched and repaired, seemed immeasurably old, more like a piece of the island than something built upon it. The over-all feelings induced, even in the glaring Aegean sunlight, were not particularly happy.

"I was brought sharply out of this semi-conscious reverie by the Nazi, who had just ordered us dropped on to some turf in front of him. He was now sitting on a moss-covered marble bench and had taken his helmet off. Connie and I managed to sit up, but that was about all we were good for. The two Greek boatmen stood behind us in silence.

"The German stared at us for a moment and then surprised me. He extended a pack of cigarettes that he produced from his uniform, and when we had each taken one, lit them for us. He also had some water brought in earthenware cups from a fountain nearby. He was no fool.

" 'Neither a Greek peasant nor the average Tommy as a rule wears gold seal rings, Gentlemen,' he said, when we were all smoking. 'I am Obersturmbannfuhrer Freiherr Klaus von dem Bruch-Wiletzki of the Waffen SS. I may as well tell you that at the moment I am the only German on the island. My plane, which was part of the invasion force of Crete, crashed and I am the sole survivor.'

"I have always suspected personally he had the only parachute or something, but who can say?

" 'Now, Gentlemen,' he went on, 'as you may or may not be aware, Crete has almost certainly fallen by now. The Axis forces will be all through these islands in a very short time. I suggest you cooperate fully with me, give me your names and ranks for a start, and we will try to live in a civilized manner until the time when you will have to be sent to a prison camp. What do you say?'

"Here was pretty solid truth, at least in most of what he said. These islands could not be held without air cover and the Germans did indeed end up roping them in before the end. I looked at Connie and he looked at me and shrugged. A German baron who was enough of a Nazi to be a field grade SS officer must be an unpleasant customer, but he was telling the truth and what could we do about it?

"Well, we gave him our names and ranks. He said, rather surprisingly for someone of that type, that since we were obviously not yet clearly behind German lines, the matter of uniforms would not be brought up and they would be considered lost at sea. He may actually have grown tired of associating with the scum he normally commanded; I don't know.

" 'This is a strange island, Captain Ffellowes,' he said to me at length. 'I have been here now two days and am living in the big house here as a guest. The family who owns it runs the whole place, almost, one could say, owns it all—the people and every other thing. But so far as I can see, no other island people, not even local fisher folk, come here. And, look, we are high up. Can you see another island?'

"It was true. We were at one of the highest points on the island and yet, looking about, nothing but empty sea could be discerned.

" 'By my last accurate calculations and those of my dead pilot,' von dem Bruch-Wiletzki went on, 'there should be many such islands nearby. Also, we crashed on a clear day. Suddenly came a mist out of nowhere and, since we were flying quite low, when the engine suddenly failed, pfui, all was gone. Peculiar, nicht wahr?"

"Well, it was peculiar, but that was all one could say. An interruption of a quite different kind brought all three of us to our feet just then.

"Apparently out of nowhere, but actually from the strange building behind us, a girl seemed to have materialized.

"She was blond and very pale, an incredibly rare thing for a Greek and quite beautiful in an indefinable and also non-Greek way. Her face was both round and rather flattened, so that except for her blue eyes, which were also very round, she looked something like a blonde Chinese. She wore a simple, white, flowing garment, rather archaic in cut, and, sandals. I judged that she was about eighteen.

"She seemed amazed and yet very pleased at the sight of us. She clasped her hands together in delight and almost skipped with pleasure, the round eyes showing whites all the way around the irises.

" 'Two more and one fair-skinned,' she cooed.

"I shouldn't have thought we looked that delightful—unshaven, coated with rime and dressed in water-soaked rags—but she did. Her voice was low and pleasant but her Greek was simply amazing. It was nothing less than Attic, the ancient language of the Classical period. It was highly inflected and singsong, which Demotic is not, but it was not at all the Classic Greek that I had learned in school. It contained a number of modern or at least reasonably modern words, but its inflections made it hard, though not impossible for me to understand, and it was not the dead and arid thing one gets in school texts. Connie, who was a real scholar, perked up his head and bowed grandly.

"She looked at him with interest, but one could see there was a difference. The Nazi and I were blonds and this was obviously more important to her.

" 'You are not the same as our folk,' she said to him, pointing to the two silent men who still stood behind us, just as horses might, fidgeting but patient. 'But you are more like them than these two. Perhaps once you were as they, or once they were as you. Who shall say?' She laughed, a pretty sound, but not exactly heartwarming after her strange little speech.

" 'But come, you two, I must take you in to see the ______'

She used a word I had never heard but which Connie later told me was a very ancient one, which meant something between 'relatives' and 'persons in authority.'

"Von dem Bruch-Wiletzki interrupted at this point. 'I shall accompany them, Fraulein,' he said ponderously. 'Pray precede us.'

"She looked at him for a moment and then shook her head. He was speaking Demotic and apparently she could understand it just as he and I could understand Attic, but not speak it.

" 'They have seen you,' she said pleasantly. 'You will remain until I return.'

" 'I must insist,' he said harshly and one hand moved to his pistol holster. Then a strange thing took place. He stopped moving. That was all. Hand still resting on the holster flap, head thrown back, staring at nothing now, for the girl had moved slightly, the German simply froze, his mouth slightly open.

"Connie and I gaped at the girl who still smiled pleasantly at us.

" 'Come,' she said. 'He is very impatient, your friend. He can wait here until we are through inside. He must learn patience. We do not like impatient people here.' She shook a finger at us in mock reproof, half play, half admonition.

"We followed her up a broad but shallow flight of steps and entered a large open door. Just before going in, I looked back and there was the Nazi, hand on hip, staring at nothing. It was eerie.

"Inside it was cool and ought to have been refreshing, but it was not. Rather like the overdone air-conditioning one gets in so many shops over here, actually; all dank and chill. The room was large and dark as indeed were all the rooms in this strange house, and any details were hard to make out. There seemed to be no windows and yet a dim, diffused light came in from some place or other.

"However, our guide beckoned us to another door and we dutifully, and wearily, I may add, followed her through a succession of similar rooms. There seemed to be no halls, just large rooms, all tacked on to each other in the strangest way.

"Eventually, after passing through at least a dozen of these rooms, we came to an extra large one which seemed to have even worse light than usual. Across the far half of it there was a sort of vast hanging, of something thin and translucent, like fine linen. But it was ragged and not clean and looked more like a sort of grey dusty spider web grown much too large.

"There were two stools and a low round table set in front of the curtain. On the table were a jug of wine and some cups as well as a plate of some small cakes. The girl motioned to us to sit and then poured for us. When we had tasted the wine, very heavy sweet stuff, but refreshing, she nodded and simply left us sitting there. We were hungry and pitched into the cakes and the huge room was silent except for us crunching and sipping for some minutes.

"Then suddenly, we were aware that we were not alone. I stopped in the middle of a bite and looked up, and so did Connie. He told me later that he got the feeling, just as suddenly as I, of being observed.

"Behind the great dirty hanging, someone was moving in the gloom. Although only a vague shape or impression came through the dim, dark air and the filthy drape, I got the impression of a person of considerable bulk. A sudden dull crash indicated that something quite heavy had been knocked over and a clumsy scraping sound followed. Then there was a heavy sigh and a series of muffled sounds which seemed to indicate that someone was settling down.

"Then came the voice. It was slow, heavy and grating, most unpleasant to listen to, I do assure you. And there was a suggestion of size and loudness, deliberately muffled about it, too. But it was also bleak and despairing. There was something hopeless and lost about it that would have aroused one's sympathy if the over-all effect had not been so thoroughly ghastly. I can still hear it as I sit here.

"It spoke the same strange archaic Greek as the girl did and like hers it was perfectly intelligible, if one concentrated.

" 'Why have you come here? We seek no visitors, except once in a long, long while. The urge comes seldom. Keto, she who brought you here, was the last of the daughters for long, for many, many great tides. I say again, Strangers, what do you want?'

"Well, d'you know, I could make nothing of this speech. It sounded like raving of some kind. I gathered only two things, one being that the girl's name was Keto, a pretty name I thought, and that the person addressing us was female. Somehow, under all the grating and rumbling, the tone was that of a woman, an extremely old woman at that. Apparently some half-demented matriarch, some Miss Faversham of the Cyclades was now interviewing us.

"Tired, dirty and now cold as well, because this last room was like an ice chest, I had no idea what to say. Connie though was sitting bolt upright, staring fixedly at the dirty hanging and the shadows moving, or seeming to move, behind it. He spoke in answer and his classical Greek was really superb, although he didn't use the strange inflections these people did.

" 'I am sorry we may not see you, Lady,' he began. 'It is very dark in here and our eyes are used to the light. As for coming here, the sea brought us and we are thus in the lap of the Gods, castaways who ask protection.'

"There was a long silence, so long I thought the old creature must have gone to sleep. But the rasping, croaking voice boomed out from behind the curtain at last.

" 'Are you Greeks, Acheans or other kinds?' it said.

" 'I am of Greek blood,' said Connie calmly. 'My companion is from the West and the other man is a barbarian of the far North.'

"Again there was a long silence. Then the unpleasant voice did something even more unpleasant; it laughed. The noise sounded to me like a barrel of old nails and broken glass dropping on wet cement. Then again, more speech:

" 'The other one is cold, cold as the House of the Eye. He plots and schemes and listens and pries. He cannot find me and the other sister and this makes him angry. And now a Greek has come and with him yet another from far away.'

"The voice died away for a moment and I caught only the word 'dream.' Then it strengthened.

" 'Greek, you wish to see me. Well, perhaps you will later, although I do not love the light. Now go and let me be in peace.' Again there came that decidedly nasty laughing noise. This was followed by a loud clatter and the sound of slow-heavy steps going away from us. We could hear them quite a long way off until they finally seemed to cease, lost in some far recess of this strange house.

"The light was good enough for me to see Connie clearly, although it was anything but bright. He was sitting, eyes shut, with his hands clenched on his knees and his face was very pale and drawn. He seemed to open his eyes with an effort and looked at me and tried to smile, but it wasn't easy for him.

" 'Donald,' he said in a low voice, leaning over to tap my knee, 'we must get off this island at once. We are in terrible danger here, far worse than anything you possibly can imagine.'

" 'I thought the old lady sounded a bit bonkers, I agree,' I replied. 'But do you feel she's a real menace? Let's not get the wind up.'

"I know this bit sounds very stuffy and British of me, but I was trying to put some starch back in Connie. He was badly shaken and I didn't like it. It didn't work, though.

" 'A bit bonkers—old lady,' he repeated in despairing tones. 'Damn you, Donald, you English idiot, did you see what the girl did to that German in the garden? The way he was made to stay put there? Well, did you?'

" 'Of course I did,' I answered. 'And a very useful bit of hypnotism, I thought. When we're rested up, we can get her to put him to sleep again, take his gun and do a bunk in one of the local boats. Now Connie, do get hold of yourself, old chap. What we both need is some rest, that's all.'

" 'Some rest?' he almost wailed. 'Donald, you cretin, we have to get out of here at once. At once, do you hear me! The German is nothing compared to what lives here!'

"A voice from behind me stopped whatever I was going to say. I turned and saw the girl, standing smiling at the entrance to the room.

" 'Have you talked with Euryale?' she repeated, when she saw I hadn't heard her. 'Let us go then and see the other man, the impatient one.'

"Connie pushed past me, rather rudely as a matter of fact, before I could answer and faced the girl from a very short distance. He spoke in the old language.

" 'So you are Keto, eh, young lady? And the ... the one whom we talked with was Euryale, then?' His voice was very gentle and low, as if he were anxious not to excite or annoy the girl.

" 'Then,' he continued still facing her, 'where is Stheno? Surely she dwells also in the House of the Eye, does she not?'

"Now I can, as I said earlier, understand slow-spoken Classic Greek, but what this rigmarole meant escaped me completely. However the girl answered quite calmly as if it all made perfect sense to her.

" 'Of course,' she said, looking mildly at us, 'And they have always needed one daughter. Euryale comes up seldom and Stheno never, so I must see the House is kept strong and safe and tell the folk in the village what to do and how to get food for us and themselves.'

" 'I wish,' she added slowly, 'that I had a sister, for it is often lonely. But that is for the Two to decide.'

"Connie backed up until he was close to me, as if he wanted to lean on me, as perhaps he did. I was feeling pretty chipper again, but he was a bit older and a rather thin chap. His reserves of energy were about gone.

" 'Come,' said Keto again, more abruptly, 'we will go out and find a place where you can rest. You seem tired and not strong. We do not like people who are not strong. It will be better for you if you are strong. You are not old or weakened by sickness which is something we do not like either.'

"She turned on her heel, assuming we would follow and we did, in silence, back through that maze and jumble of dark rooms until we left the portico and were once more standing outside in the garden with the sun on our heads and a soft breeze ruffling our hair. It now seemed very hot, but it was the effect of that dank and frigid pile of stone on our systems for it was really a lovely day.

"Around a corner of the building, pacing fast, gun in hand, came the SS man, von dem Bruch-Wiletzki. He broke into a trot when he saw us, charged up and thrust that Browning practically up my left nostril. He was furious and his mean, narrow face was also frightened. There was no more 'cultivated-among-equals-of-good-birth-together' manner about him now, just suspicion and nastiness. He yelled in English, 'Where did she take you, Captain Ffellowes? Don't try to lie to me! I had an attack of dizziness and when I came out from it, you and that Greek were gone! I demand to know what you have been doing! Remember, I am in charge here and you two are nothing but my prisoners whom I can, and will, shoot out of hand if it should be necessary. Well?'

"I tried at least to appear calm. These Teuton hysterics are usually impressed by what they consider British phlegm, whether they admit it or not.

" 'Now see here,' I said, 'put that pistol away and please do try to be reasonable. We left you in the garden (I made no mention of how we had left him; if he was prepared to assume he had had a dizzy spell, that was his lookout) and were taken down to be interviewed by what must be one of the more unpleasant old ladies on record. She said a few words of dubious import from behind a dirty curtain and told us, in effect, to go away. That is absolutely and completely all, and now let's sit down and talk sensibly for a change.'

"His pistol drooped and he re-holstered it grudgingly and then actually did sit down, on a bench where we joined him. Keto sat on the grass nearby looking happily at us, apparently not bothered by our use of another language, simply content to gaze on her new toys, or possibly playmates.

" 'Himmelherrgottkreuzer!" suddenly burst out the German, 'This damned place is becoming intolerable. Every time I issue an order to this stupid girl I find myself an hour later sitting staring at the ground. The only thing that she has done which I wished was to tell those two undermensch to row out and pick you up. I can't even find out what the name of this place is!' His voice had steadily risen until at the end it was almost a wail.

"I looked over at Connie in a questioning way, but he was staring at the German. He asked him a question and got a prompt answer.

" 'Yes, I talked with some old woman, some hag-like creature down in the dark,' he admitted. 'I could scarcely understand her and when I shined my belt lamp,' he indicated a small torch clipped to his cross buckle, 'she had fled, vanished and there was nothing behind the curtain but a hideous statue.'

" 'A statue?' breathed Connie, his face taut, 'a statue of what?'

" 'How do I know?' yelled the Nazi, springing to his feet. 'Who cares anyway? A huge octopus with an awful sleeping face or something. I can't catalog these barbaric atrocities. It made me sick to look at it, with its shuttered eyes, so I called for the girl, this moron Keto, and demanded to be taken away.'

"He looked down at us angrily and then, apparently realizing that he needed us, tried to relax. He sat down again and almost visibly got a grip on himself.

" 'Listen, gentlemen,' he said, his voice trembling. 'This is a very remote island, wherever it is. Germany will absorb it in due course but there may be a longish time before that happens. I admit it, we may be here quite a while. I find this situation intolerable, personally. I have things to do, important things, and I do not doubt that you have also.

" 'Therefore,' he went on, trying to be as persuasive as he could, 'I propose a temporary armistice. I could make you help me, but I will not. Two more Allied officers freed will not stop the Third Reich to any serious degree. Aid me in escaping and I swear to let you go, even to assist you to rejoin your forces, on the honor of a German officer. What do you say? Tell me you agree and we can develop a plan.'

"I looked at Connie and he looked at me and we read each other's minds. We could trust this bastard exactly the distance of a mosquito's antenna, but we had better play along and see what developed.

" 'Captain Murusi and I are agreeable, Major,' I said blandly (be damned if I'd use his idiotic SS title). 'We don't much care for this place either. Your offer sounds reasonable enough. What had you planned to do?'

"Well, while Keto smiled and gazed at us, like an ornithologist with three totally new species, all discovered together, we worked out a simple escape plan. It seemed that the German had been given a small ground floor room on the far wing of the great sprawling house. He felt sure we would be given similar rooms near or next to his. Although there were only very small windows, too small for a man, the rooms had no doors and were really only cells or cubicles made of stone. There was an exit to the outside at the end of a short corridor and at midnight (we all still had watches) we would rendezvous there and go down and simply steal a row boat. There were several at the base of the path to the house and no one seemed to guard them.

"To me it sounded rather too easy. I frankly had not cared a bit for our encounter with the old person inside and I knew Connie was very upset indeed about the whole layout, although for some esoteric reason I couldn't fathom. The Nazi had the wind up worse than either of us, although he was trying to pretend otherwise in the best herrenvolk manner. I also felt sure that a German bullet in the back would be our destined reward as soon as he considered himself quite safe, and I knew Connie felt exactly the same.

"Nevertheless, we had little choice except to agree. The man was on the edge of a complete crackup, and might shoot us on the spot. Even the likelihood of Miss Keto's swift—and paralyzing—retribution afterwards would hardly have been of much concern to us.

"Connie turned to the young lady and asked very politely if we could be shown to our rooms. It was indeed by now late afternoon, and the sky was darkening rapidly, which made our request all the more credible.

" 'Do you wish food brought to you,' she said a bit dubiously, 'for I wished you to eat in my company?'

"Connie was superb. I knew him enough so that I could tell it gave him the absolute chills to even talk to her, but he concealed it awfully well. He told her that we wanted to rest and be in our top-hole best form to enjoy her ravishing company and a lot of bumph like that.

"Her reaction was curious, I thought—not that of a flattered woman at all, but more like that of a child, who knows it's being put off but anticipates a treat in the near future anyway. Also as the light faded, her strange round eyes grew less attractive and rather, well, spectral.

"Von dem Bruch-Wiletzki was quite right. She showed us to rooms, or cubicles, next to his and drifted reluctantly and slowly away.

"A short time later one of the island men, older than the two we'd seen, but the same dull, vacant-eyed article, appeared with food. There was coarse bread and meat, some grapes and a jug of the sweet, heavy wine. Connie wouldn't touch the meat, seemingly some sort of local and very stringy goat. It wasn't bad, so I ate his. He wouldn't say why at the time, only asked me not to eat it either, but I was hungry. I expect he was wrong anyway.

"There was no fish, which was odd for an island, but one can't worry about everything.

"The Nazi ate with us, but he actually didn't tuck much away. Mostly he fidgeted and looked at his watch and muttered to himself. Once he shot a question at Connie, something about the statue he'd seen, I believe, and Connie said 'I knew the eyes were closed or you couldn't describe them,' whatever that meant.

"It was not exactly a cheery meal, but I felt better when I'd finished. Always grab a bite in a tight place, because you never know where the next nibble is.

"We decided to set, since it was now six-thirty, three rough sentry go's until midnight. I had the first and the other two went to their respective cubicles and tried to sleep on the pallets provided for them.

"I lay down on mine and tried to plan ahead a bit on how to deal with our German 'comrade.' I had not, you may have noticed, given my word to any agreement, and he was so obviously meditating treachery, he hadn't even asked for it, which was a trifle silly of him if he expected to be believed.

"I hadn't much luck in thinking up any schemes, beyond grabbing a rock and blipping von Bruch from behind. The atmosphere of the gloomy place, the House of the Eye, was not conducive to ordered thought. A soft wind moaned through the little narrow windows and strange groaning and creaking noises echoed through the cold, dank air.

"I think the whole place must have been built over vast limestone caverns in the island's rock, caverns which allowed the sea to enter. Every so often a great muffled noise, something like a softened howl, would come vibrating through the floor, almost shaking it with its sheer intensity. I am considered to be anything but oversensitive, and yet at times one was almost persuaded that one was hearing some monstrous and awful beast, whose feeding hour is overdue and whose bellow signals the rise of a titanic and raging hunger. All this from the sea simply banging away at the ceiling of an underground and underwater cave far below my feet. Shows you how wrought up I was, eh?

"It really was a most weird place with the utterly dumb and peculiar servants or serfs or whatever and the two women, old and young, running everything and lurking in this vast mausoleum. I almost got up and woke Connie, because he at least seemed to have some idea of who these very odd people were, but decided to let him alone. He had the last watch, just before we left and I thought he looked really done up.

"Eventually the German appeared from his cell and announced he would take his turn. But he told me in a nasty voice that he would take it in my company. I could sleep and he would wait for Murusi. 'I don't trust you two overmuch, Captain,' he said and tapped his pistol. 'We will wait together until midnight.'

"I was annoyed, but too tired to argue and fell asleep on my pallet almost at once. I needed rest and the Nazi problem could wait.

"I woke up suddenly to a crash and a thud. The SS man had been sitting on a low wooden stool, the room's sole furniture, and must have nodded off. At any rate, as I blinked and stretched, I saw a grinning Connie tucking that very large pistol in his belt. He had waited, come around the door fast, and dotted the German over the head with the stool from his cell. The Nazi lay on the floor, quite visible in that strange light, looking as if he were asleep. Well, let him answer the questions about where we had gone.

"There was no need for speech. My shoes were already on and we had never removed our clothes at all. We stole down the corridor, Connie in front with the gun, me carrying one of the stools. We could see moonlight coming in a door at the far end, and there was no sign of life or movement elsewhere, unless one counted the sub-aqueous and subterranean roarings, which were both louder and more frequent. I thought to myself there must be quite a sea running.

"When we actually got out, we could see a strong wind had come up and the sea was indeed rising. We were at an exit leading directly into the garden, and after a quick look around, we dashed off for the head of the path down to the beach. The shrubs and low trees were bending in the wind and the moon gave strong but fitfull illumination through a wrack of racing cloud.

"We had just reached the Hoplite statue I mentioned earlier, and it looked very effective and alive in the moonlight, when the last sound I expected to hear broke on my ears. It was the snap of several bullets passing by! An accompanying burst of fire came from behind us.

"I threw myself flat instinctively and saw Connie dive under a bush to the right. We wriggled around and got a look back at the building and saw we had made two cardinal errors.

"One was assuming that the Nazi had only one weapon. He was staggering after us firing a Schmeisser machine pistol in short bursts and screaming something in German, probably curses. The second error was not bashing his conk a bit harder, or at least tying him up.

"Connie sighted the Browning carefully and fired twice. One bullet must have been a near miss, and that was excellent shooting with a pistol, by the way, especially at night. Usually, a large rock is a far more reliable weapon. At any rate, von dem Bruch-Wiletzki also fell flat and got behind that base of a statue about a hundred feet off. He stopped firing and a momentary quiet, broken only by the wind and the sound of waves far below, lay about us.

"But now the House of the Eye was roused. No light appeared, but suddenly Keto in her white robe, her heavy blond locks flying, appeared in a clear space not far from the German and a little behind him. She called out something, but he had either had enough or was rattled, and whipping around, shot her dead in her tracks, using at least six bullets. I was appalled, because strange though the girl may have been, she was unarmed and had done nothing to justify her cold-blooded murder, at least that I could see. Connie, I may add, disagreed, but that is another matter.

"The German seemed a bit stunned by his own action and remained staring at the body, his back to us and resting on one knee. Connie motioned to me and we both got up and ran for the path like deer. We were running on turf and made no sound at all. I think we could have just gone racing on down, but at the head of the path something, some premonition or other, made us turn back and this is what we saw:

"Where the Nazi had been standing, something had interposed between us and him. The moon was partly veiled and sight was difficult, but some great, dark bulk, whose upper parts seemed to writhe and be full of restless movement, had blocked off the light so that the German was momentarily hidden. Whatever it was suddenly withdrew, lurching off to one side and at that precise moment the moon came from behind the clouds.

"What we both saw made us tear down that path like Olympic sprinters. In seconds it seemed, we were in one of the little boats, each at an oar and pulling like hell for the harbor entrance. The waves were rising but we fought our way out of the narrow entrance and pulled for the open sea like good ones.

"Despite the rest and grub, we'd been through a lot you know, and as we passed the two little headlands which guarded the harbor I began to slack off a bit on the oars. But Connie noticed at once and, thank goodness, was having none of it.

" 'Goddammit, Donald, keep pulling!' he screamed over the rising wind. 'We aren't near being safe yet! Pull, for the love of your mother, pull!'

"Something about his manner, d'you know, made me tug a bit harder and my idea that we could rest vanished.

"The wind was strong, but not near gale force and the air was warm. The little boat was well-shaped for riding the seas and we took in hardly any water, but we were getting quite wet from the spray. Overhead the sky had grown darker and black clouds seemed to be increasing ahead of us, to what I assumed was north. Behind us not a light shown and only an occasional gap in the clouds revealed the mass of the island. Now, in the clouds ahead, I could see lightning begin to play as I looked over my shoulder. The thought crossed my mind that we had come to the island in storm and in storm we were going forth.

"Connie, however, wasn't looking ahead at all. He was staring back at our stern and over it, as if determined to memorize every speck of wood on the square stern. Suddenly he cried out sharply and stopped pulling. He pointed at the water some way astern, but I could see nothing except that an unusually large wave had broken at its crest, showing a splash of foam.

"Ahead of us, and now almost over us indeed, lightning bolts played down the sky. The moon had vanished behind the heavy cloud cover and only the lightning gave any view of the tossing black waves and the foaming combers.

"At this time, new strength came to my arms. It may sound peculiar, and indeed downright mystical sitting here, but I felt as if I'd received a combination message and shot in the arm, so to speak. The message said 'Pull, just a trifle harder and you're safe,' and the jolt seemed to give me the strength to do it. Connie was pulling like hell, too, and we simply tore through those waves as if we were working up for Henley.

"Then it happened. Connie had never stopped watching the sea astern, and he shipped his oar inboard in one easy motion. I was still pulling but I stopped slack-jawed and the boat poised on a tall wave crest.

"Illumined by a strong lightning flash, what Connie had seen emerged from the crest of the next big wave but one from us."

Ffellowes was silent for a moment and seemed reluctant to continue, staring at the floor. Then he looked soberly at us and went on.

"I am not quite certain to this day exactly what it was I saw or what sensations I felt. Something enormous rose and broke the surface, something like a great rounded mass of long pieces of seaweed, many yards across in area. Only the separate seaweed fronds were moving! And under the weed mass I thought I could see two great round eyes, eyes which had their own luminescence and glowed under the water with a baleful light.

"At the same time, the strength left my hands, indeed left me completely. I simply sat, gaping at the thing which had arisen from the ocean depths to pull us down.

"Connie was made of sterner stuff. In the next flash of lightning I saw him kneeling at the stern and the roar of the big Belgian pistol blasted out over the noise of the storm. He emptied the magazine and then, he told me later, hurled the empty gun at the creature. Whether or not it did any good we will never know.

"Because the next flash of lightning almost struck the boat. There was an ear-splitting crack of sound, a blinding glare and a sudden stink of ozone, all together, and just as suddenly the sea behind us was empty. Whatever it was had gone, and somehow one knew inside that it had gone and that it would not, or better yet, could not, harm us again.

"Well, we started to row again. The storm died, the seas moderated and the stars came out so we rowed northwest as well as we could. At dawn we were almost run down by a Turkish freighter, neutral of course, and in two weeks time we were back in Cairo. Turkey's 'neutrality' was useful. All in all a very peculiar experience.

"What had we seen on the island to make us run so? What happened to the German?

"Well, he's crouching still there, I expect. In that bright moonlight, he, his clothes and gun, everything in fact, had turned into nice white stone, probably marble. Very ornamental if you're in a mood to appreciate it. We weren't.

"I can still hear Connie's last words when we talked over what had happened.

" 'I don't think one pierces the barrier around that island very often, which is just as well. The Ancients,' he continued, 'made it very plain, that of the Three Sisters, Medusa was the only mortal.' "

FRATERNITY BROTHER

We had gotten ourselves on the subject of secret societies one day at the club, although how exactly I forget.

The Carbonari, the Black Hand, the Illuminati, Rosicrucians (the real ones, not the modern newspaper ad people), all had been argued over. From them, we had gone on to the Leopard and Hyena societies of Africa, the Thugs of Nineteenth-Century India (a case was made, by the way, for their continued existence) and the various Chinese secret societies, of which the tongs are but a part.

We ended up with the medieval German Vehmgericht, the recent Balkan murder groups such as IMRO, the Inner Macedonian Revolutionary Organization, and of course, the Ku Klux Klan.

With the latter, it was agreed we were approaching political parties too closely, which were not really the same thing at all. The discussion began to peter out into an argument about continental European Freemasonry, particularly so-called Grand Orient lodges, and whether or not the South and Central American lodges were still connected with them.

I didn't even know Brigadier Ffellowes, late of Her Majesty's forces, was in the club until he got up and came over. He'd been sitting in an alcove of the library behind us, reading the London Times, and had overheard us talking.

"I've heard," he said quietly, in a pause in the conversation, "that every member of the Mexican Cabinet still must be a Grand Orient Mason, in order to prove that he will make no later concessions to the Roman Church. Mexico is the only Latin country to have disestablished the church, severed it from the state, you know, and Rome is still violently opposed to Freemasonry."

"What we were really after," I said, "was the origin of secret societies and fraternities, which are the oldest still going, and when they started."

He looked thoughtful, his ruddy, smooth-shaven face turned to the window. "Well, the Masons are pretty old, certainly," he said at length.

"Their early periods are somewhat confused, but they run in a continuous line from at least 1400 and probably a good deal earlier. There are records in the British Museum. The chaps who were sent to England from the Continent to build our cathedrals seem to have been some kind of Masons, I believe, but the Craft died out there until we re-introduced it, beginning with the formation of the first British Grand Lodge in 1717."

"Are you a Mason?" I asked.

"Not at all," he said quickly. "This is all a matter of public record. I'm giving away no one's secrets, I assure you. But you know, the Masons are not really competitors for your early date.

"The Chinese secret societies you mentioned go back to the Han dynasty at least. That's 206 b.c., so you see they have a long lead on the Masons. Confucius was a secret society member, and so was Mencius and probably Laotze as well."

"What about the Near East?" said someone else. "Do any modern groups come down from Babylon or Sumer? What about ancient Egypt?"

"Yeah, and what about the Mafia?" came another question.

"Aren't they pretty damned old?"

"I say, not so fast," said Ffellowes. He sat down in a vacant chair and took up the thread of his lecture again.

"Near Eastern societies are all relatively pretty modern, like the Arab Brotherhood types who are always trying to do Nasser in. They're usually religious and semi-mystical, like old Ibn Saud's Wahabis, who are sort of Moslem monks, really. But very few, if any, date from earlier than six or seven hundred a.d.

"The sect of the Assassins is gone in its original sense, although a few villages in northern Persia call themselves that, I think.

"And finally, the Mafia, although nasty, probably goes back to around 1700 in Sicily, its place of origin, and so isn't really very old at all."

There was a silence while we all tried to think of any group we might have missed, but none of us could.

"That means, then, that the Chinese are the oldest?" I finally said.

Ffellowes was now looking vacantly out of the window at the evening traffic and appeared not to hear me, so I repeated my question.

"I do beg your pardon," he said, coming back to earth. "What did you say?"

For the third time I asked if the Chinese had the oldest secret societies.

"Yes, I think so," said the brigadier, "with one exception, that is. Yes, with one exception."

There was something almost teasing in the tone of his voice, although his face was as expressionless as ever. But I knew and so did the others, that he had sprung a trap on us and was waiting for a question.

1 couldn't resist saying, not maliciously, but for fun, "I suppose you're the only guy who knows the exception?"

His blue eyes twinkled for a second, but his face remained immobile.

"I don't know how you guessed it, but that's so. As a matter of fact, there's a story connected."

There was a scraping of chairs as we closed in around him. His stories were like that. When we were settled, he began in his flat, clipped tones.

"In the spring of 1939, I went, for a vacation of two weeks, to a place in the Spanish Pyrenees, It's a very small place and its name will not appear in my story. Lovely clean air and pine-clad mountains.

"My hobby, or one of them, is bird-watching, and it's a grand area for birds. I saw the short-toed eagle my first day out, and all sorts of rare species nested there. I was staying at a little mountain village inn, and except for a few scattered cottages, this tiny hamlet of some hundred-odd souls was the only inhabited place for miles.

"The ghastly havoc of the Civil War was only just over, of course, but I was in such a remote area that even that had had very little visible effect. The people were very poor and life was hard, but that had always been the case.

"They were interesting people. They were Basques, but not the big, burly seamen one finds around Bilbao and on the Asturian coast. This was a shorter, darker race, very curt in speech, and impassive in appearance. Mind you, they were kind and gentle as well, but they had a great capacity for minding their own business.

"Now I speak a little Basque. It's a hard tongue to grasp, but I've lived in northern Spain at various times and I can make myself understood. As most of you know, I'm sure (this was flattery, pure and simple), the Basque language has no relatives in any other tongue in the world. This is one reason it's so hard to learn.

"And it's a funny language in other ways. All the words for cutting implements, such as scissors or knives, mean 'the stone which does such and such,' when translated literally. As I say, an odd speech."

He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as if to marshal his thoughts.

"When I said that there was no trace of the Civil War in the village, I overlooked something. Three members of Franco's Guardia Civil, his state police, were stationed there. To be precise, two privates and a sergeant.

"The privates were decent enough sorts, but the sergeant was 'something else,' as you say over here. He was a Navarrese city tough named Sandoval, who hated his exile to the mountains and was damned well going to take it out on someone.

"He tried to bully me at first, and when that didn't work, tried to cadge drinks and use me as a wailing wall. I soon choked him on that tack and as a result he hated me like poison. But then, he hated everyone.

"The Spanish Government at this time was still flushing out enemies all over the country. They saw Communists under every rug and were especially suspicious of the Basques and the Catalans, since the two large minorities had been pillars of the late, unhappy Republic. Hence the presence of the sergeant and his men, even in this remote backwater of a village.

"When the locals realized that I could speak Basque and disliked Sandoval as much as they did, they began to warm up to me. Children would sometimes stop me on the street to tell me about an ibex they had seen or to inquire which birds interested me the most. And the adults smiled when they said good morning.

"The patriarch and ruler of the village was one Macario Urrutia, the innkeeper in fact. There was no chapel and the children had no school save for one twelve miles away, which few attended. Thus the school teacher and the priest, traditional authorities of the village scene, were absent and the elderly innkeeper ruled instead.

"Perhaps he would have done so anyway. He was a squat, powerful man, clean-shaven with very broad cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes of a dark brown. I imagine he was around sixty, though I don't know: he could have been eighty, I suppose. The people live to a great age in this area. Certainly he was very strong and agile as well. I have seen him lift a great barrel of wine as if it were nothing, and as for his agility—well, that comes later.

"Even Sandoval rather feared him, although I don't think it was altogether physical. The Guardia sergeant was drunk one evening in the large room of the inn and began stigmatizing the whole Basque race as cowardly, treacherous scum. I was about to speak to him myself when Llrrutia appeared from somewhere and stood in the center of the room looking down at the seated man.

"Sandoval suddenly shut up quite abruptly, crossed himself and lurched out. The innkeeper had never said a word and it never happened again. It was a peculiar performance.

"But to my amazement, Sandoval, now quite sober, approached me on the street later that same night as I was getting some fresh mountain air before going to bed.

" 'Senor Ingles,' he said abruptly, 'do not be deceived by these people. You may think them your friends, but I, whom you dislike, tell you they are not. Leave here, lest they involve you in their dirty conspiracies.'

"I was quite annoyed and showed it. 'Do you think them enemies of the State, Sergeant,' I said ironically, 'about to overthrow the Caudillo perhaps?'

"He wasn't annoyed, which surprised me again. 'Señor,' he said, quite politely, I thought, 'you have lived in the Biscay provinces and in Spain elsewhere. Where, then, is their cemetery?' With that he turned on his heels and left.

"This was a puzzler! Of all the possible charges against these quiet, law-abiding folk, this seemed the most ludicrous. And yet, the man had been deadly serious. Moreover, his question was not so idiotic to a Spaniard. He must have had a dossier on me, for one thing, since I had told no one where I'd lived, and had implied I'd learnt Basque and Spanish at the University. However, that's by the by.

"Where was the damned cemetery? True, there was neither church nor priest, but I had never heard of any place, no matter how small, on the Iberian Peninsula, without a communal burial site. I resolved to ask Urrutia, since I was getting very tired of Sandoval.

"When I went back to the inn, I found him in the big room making out bills or receipts. He rose as I approached and courteously asked me to take wine, speaking in Basque, but slowly, so that I should be sure to understand. Even the children invariably were this polite, I may say.

"I addressed him as 'Jaun,' the Basque title meaning 'Lord,' which every male Basque uses to every other, and explained in my poor Basque, helped out by Spanish, what it was I wanted to know.

" 'Our cemetery?' he said at length. 'You have been listening to that animal of a sergeant, whom the obscenity calling itself a government has sent to afflict us? I thought so.

" 'Friend,' he continued, laying his hand on my arm, 'the stones are thick and heavy in these parts. There is little soil and when the rain comes it washes that little away.

" 'As true children of Mother Church we send our dead to ______ (he named a town some miles away) where they can lie undisturbed in ground so deep the elements will not expose them to the mountain wolves and stray dogs. I tell you this much,' he added, his voice suddenly very stern, 'because you are a friend and honest. With others I would let them think what they wanted.'

"I appreciated his compliment and said so. He never smiled, but nodded and tapped my arm again, as if in dismissal. I went up to my room under the eaves wondering why the sergeant was so stupid.

"Late one afternoon, three days later, I found myself high in the mountains to the east of the village and quite suddenly realized that I was lost.

"I had a compass and wasn't too worried, just annoyed. I'd somehow gotten into a maze of gloomy canyons and deep gorges that lay between the village and the French frontier. No one much ever went there; it was trackless all through and not even Sandoval thought there was any smuggling. The route involved would have been so awful that platinum or diamonds wouldn't have been worth it. The villagers themselves didn't like the general area, and I'd been warned that several local men had been lost there and never found.

"Yet it was evident that I was in the exact same place I'd been warned to avoid. Night was coming on, but I wasn't much bothered. Plenty of bushes and stunted pine trees grew about the particular canyon I found myself in, and I resolved to sleep high, to avoid any flash flood coming down the gorge at me. The following day it should be easy enough to find my way out.

"I collected some dry wood with no trouble, found a place to sleep—a shallow cave to be exact, well above the marks of past waters on the canyon wall—and prepared to settle down. I had a chocolate bar and even a chunk of spicy, local sausage as well as my canteen, so I wasn't too badly off at all.

"The fire died down to a bed of coals and I curled up around it. I'd slept a lot worse than this, both before and since, I may say, and the sky was clear and full of stars. I fell asleep in no time.

"When I suddenly woke, it was past midnight by my watch. Clouds covered the stars and the fire had gone out completely so that I was in total darkness.

"But it was what awakened me that had me fully alert. It was a sound, and I knew that I hadn't dreamt it. Somewhere, not very far away, there had come a sound which had raised the hackles on my neck.

"I listened, straining every nerve. The sounds of the night were gentle, water falling in a tiny brook at the canyon's bottom, the wind in the bushes. I began to persuade myself that I had heard nothing.

"Then, just as I was dropping off again, it came. Rising to a crescendo and then dying away, the howl of a great wolf rang down the canyon. As it died away, it was answered, this time by a chorus of howls. The whole pack had gathered and were giving tongue. From the sheer volume of noise, they couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards off.

"D'you know, I was quite thrilled. Very few people have ever gotten this close to a wolf pack. There was no real danger; in summer, European wolves, even in Russia, are perfectly harmless. After a great battle or a winter famine, I suppose things can be different, but I wasn't a bit frightened.

"I was about to strike a light, since I was a trifle cold, and rekindle the fire, when something altogether different happened.

"Not from the direction of the wolves, but from down the canyon came first one shot, then a number close together. A scream rang out and to my horror, I realized that it came from a human throat. I sprang to my feet as I heard a hoarse voice shouting in Spanish, 'So, you Communist pig, that's one of you who won't bother the Government again.' The voice was that of Sergeant Sandoval!

"Then, as silence fell again, I heard from not far away, a low, pitiful moan and the sound of Sandoval's laugh. Wretched creature that he was, he never laughed without meaning ill to someone.

"At the same time, I saw the glow of a torch, a flashlight you know, not more than fifty yards away down canyon, and heard the Guardia sergeant speak again.

" 'Stop pretending to be hurt, Animal. If you want to be really hurt, then don't answer my questions. Now, why are you in these mountains at night? I have followed many of you. Where do you go? Speak, you—' Here he used a stream of filthy epithets.

"There was no answer except that I again heard a low groan.

"This was altogether too much.

" 'Sandoval,' I bellowed. 'Sergeant Sandoval,' I bellowed. 'Sergeant Sandoval, it is I, the Señor Ingles. I am coming over. Leave that man alone!'

"I scrambled down from my cave and following the flickering torchlight soon stumbled into a little pocket on the other side of the tiny rivulet. Two figures were revealed in the light.

"Sandoval had laid his torch on a big rock and it illuminated all of us. He stood with his carbine ready, aimed at my stomach, his face contorted with fury and suspicion. It relaxed a little when he saw that I was alone and unarmed, but not much, and the gun stayed aimed.

"Between us on the bare ground crouched the figure of a young man. He was one of the locals whose face I vaguely remembered seeing from the village, although his name escaped me.

"His uncured sheepskin jacket was oozing blood from the right shoulder and his eyes were wide with shock and pain. Why Sandoval had shot the lad I didn't know, but I was determined to stop any further beastliness.

" 'All right, Sergeant,' I said firmly. 'What's all this about? You woke me up with all your racket. What's this chap done, eh? Looks harmless enough, don't he?' My imitation of the authoritarian Pukka Sahib, I felt, was the best way to deal with Sandoval.

"It was only partially successful. The gun muzzle lowered a little and a speculative look replaced the venom in his eyes.

" 'Perhaps the Señor knows what this Basque dirt is doing here himself? Perhaps he was meeting the Señor for some secret purpose? Perhaps the Señor is an agent of the Ingles government, eh?'

"Sandoval was not half-witted and was well aware what the current Spanish hierarchy felt about England. This looked like a more than plausible chance to involve me in something illegal.

" 'Don't be a bigger damned fool than you can help, Sergeant,' I said briskly. 'I'm unarmed as you can see. If I were a spy or some such rot, I'd have shot you from ambush and no one would be the wiser. I certainly wouldn't have shouted your name and come to be slaughtered.

" 'Now sling that gun and we'll see what we can do for this lad here. He's bleeding badly, can't you see?'

"It was a good try, but it missed by a mile. The carbine muzzle came up and again centered on my midriff.

" 'Always the orders from the great Ingles,' said Sandoval in a very nasty voice. 'I think you are wrong, Señor. I have another idea. This cabron here murdered the poor Ingles traveller, and was caught in the act by me, Juan Sandoval, of the Guardia Civil, who avenged the Ingles nobly. Do you like that idea, Señor?'

"And he meant it. The bastard was going to shoot me down like a rat and blame it on the kid lying between us. It was easy in the torchlight to see there was murder in Sandoval's eyes, as he slowly raised the gun until I could look down the barrel. I couldn't believe it. I was frozen, don't you know, and at the same time realized that I would be dead in one second. Whew!

"At this point my legs came to life almost by themselves. I had no conscious idea of doing anything, I just jumped at him. There was a blast in my face and utter darkness.

"When I woke, there was singing. How appropriate, I thought to myself. Of course you're now Up Above and the singing is official.

"But then I realized that I had one king devil of a headache and that the singing didn't sound much like any heavenly choir I'd ever envisaged. I also realized that my eyes were tight shut, so I opened them. Then I shut them quickly. Then I opened them again. A wolf was looking at me from a foot away.

"The wolf said 'ah,' in a satisfied voice and went away. I really began to wake up then, and look about as well.

"I was lying on a bed of skins in a little stone-walled and ceilinged room lit by a small fire in one corner. My hands were tied in front of me and feet were tied together as well, both by a loose sort of leather strap arrangement. I could move, but only hobbled as it were, and I wasn't uncomfortable except for an aching head. The room was empty but that didn't last long. A skin curtain or hanging was twitched aside and two men came in. Here was my wolf, or rather wolves!

"They were dressed in skins, entirely, except for peculiar leather leggings of some sort, and set over their heads were the beautifully carved and decorated heads of wolves. These combined helmets and masks were apparently made of painted wood and the wolf's furry skull, somehow blended. The effect was striking, grotesque and most effective. Save for the eye slits, no trace of a human face was visible.

"Without a word, they came over and helped me to my feet. Half-leading, half-carrying, they got me through the skin doorway and out into the larger cave beyond.

"Of course, that's what it was. My room was a natural alcove off a huge grotto, at least two hundred feet long and twice that wide, and God alone knows how high. The light of the great log fire, in the center of the cave, and to one side, simply vanished up above in the blackness.

"Around the fire on the floor were at least fifty seated figures, all singing. This was the music I'd heard, a splendid, deep-chested chant that went on and on. The words were quite unintelligible. Every figure wore skins like my two guards, but the faces, or rather the masks, were a wide selection. There were wolves, the majority, but also some few badgers, at least one ibex, two or three bears and a number I couldn't identify by the firelight.

"While I'd been looking at all this, I'd been set down on a flat rock and my two attendants had sat down with me, one on each side. They began to sing also, but although they were roaring practically in my ears, one still couldn't make out the words. Still, there's no denying it was impressive.

"I was about thirty feet from the fire and I could see that it was dying; no one was trying to replenish it either, and as it died, other things became visible. As the logs smouldered and collapsed, a great square block of stone appeared behind the fire and against the central wall of the cave. And the wall itself also appeared. It seemed to have been polished or smoothed down, for there were designs and things painted on it, but too dim for me to make them out in the dying light.

"Next the singing began to die out along with the light, and soon there was a hush, with only the crackle of the coals and blackening logs breaking the silence. Everyone, and I include myself, was waiting for something. One could feel it in the air like electricity.

"Now four men, all in wolf masks, appeared, carrying a heavy burden. They marched solemnly through a lane in the crowd and deposited the burden on the great stone altar. The big block could have been nothing else, you know, and the second I spotted it I knew what was coming. Somehow, something or someone was going to occupy that altar and I felt pretty certain who it would be! Still, no point in yelling, so I sat quietly. Nothing else I could do, actually.

"But on the altar now lay the body of a huge brown bear. The carriers had left and I could see it clearly, it's great clawed fore-paws spilling over the side of the stone, its massive, snarling jaws clotted with dried saliva open in a grin of rigor mortis. I can tell you chaps, it made me feel just a trifle easier in my mind.

"A new light appeared at the far end of the cave, and as it advanced a stranger and even more curious sight became visible.

"The new light came from a single torch, not a flash, a real torch, made of wood, and holding it was the damnedest figure in the whole assemblage. The mask this time was the neck and head, antlers and all, of a great red deer, a stag. The skinclad body beneath was naked to the waist and attached to the waist by a belt was a great, carved wooden phallus, strapped on over a kilt of fur and hide. The legs again were bare and on the man's chest were painted strange geometric designs. Oh, yes, there was a long tail of some animal or other fastened on behind. Sounds ludicrous in a description, I dare say, but it was anything but to see. I rather think I was still dizzy from that gunshot or head crease, but the whole wild scene was superb and this last entry a figure of tremendous and awful dignity.

"The chant began again with this new arrival and he seemed to lead it, singing out in a great roaring voice, quite audible over the rest. And the others began to rise and whirl about as they sang.

So did the chief, whirling his torch about so that the sparks flew. He moved like a ballet dancer, too.

"Several times as he did so, the torch illumined the back wall of the cave, and I saw the painted designs upon it clearly for a second or two. I'd seen them before, or others like them. Blackened by age and smoke, the wooly mammoth and the reindeer, the vanished aurochs and the wild horse marched across the wall as they had for countless millennia. The cave evidently had been in use for a very long time indeed.

"Now the man-deer held a great club in his free hand. All the others, save for my guards, had produced them too, and began to form a great line leading to the altar, with the antlered leader in front. While the mighty chant rose higher and higher, first he, then in turn the others, filed by the carcass of the bear and struck it each one tremendous blow. The dead body shook to the frightful pounding, but I'd rather have seen it than felt it, I can tell you!

"When all were done, I was amazed to see that blood was trickling down the face of the altar in a dark stream from under the bear skin. I should have thought this impossible in a creature dead so long, but I was clearly mistaken. No doubt the battering the body had received had caused it to flow afresh.

"The man-deer suddenly whirled up his snapping torch, by now almost the only light, and there was instant silence. Then, one by one, the worshippers approached the altar. As they did so, they briefly knelt while the chief hierophant dipped one finger in the blood and marked their beastly disguises on the muzzle.

"As they finished, my two wolfish attendants suddenly lifted me firmly to my feet and carried me also down to the altar stone. For a second I stared into the burning eye slits of the great deer mask, and felt the wet finger mark my forehead. I was no longer afraid. For I knew well, oh yes, I knew now I was in no danger. I had been sealed in the compact.

Then a bowl was brought and held to my lips. In silence I drank without fear and without fear felt the whole scene darken, then vanish as my drugged eyes closed.

"When I woke, the morning sun was streaming into my window at the inn. I lay for some time quietly in my pajamas, listening to the sounds of passers-by on the village street outside, smelling the stew cooking in the kitchen.

"Presently I rose, shaved and dressed. As I looked into my travelling mirror, I saw the weal on my right temple, but the headache was gone.

"I went downstairs to the big room, noting that it was about nine and called for coffee and bread. I was very hungry.

"The landlord brought the tray himself and after placing it in front of me, stood looking down at me, his broad face calm as always. I determined I'd say nothing and finally he spoke.

" 'You are well again, Friend? You were found on the mountain yesterday, having apparently fallen, but when we carried you down, my wife said you would be yourself after a good sleep. This is so, no?'

"That was the way it was going to be then. A 'fall' and a 'good sleep.' And then it came to me with a rush.

"You fellows must think I was awfully obtuse, but one thing had completely vanished from my thoughts. Sandoval! I'd completely forgotten a man who'd tried to murder first a village boy and then me! Where was the Guardia sergeant? The shock of remembering started to bring me to my feet in an involuntary spasm, when Urrutia's great hand fell upon my shoulder, calming me and preventing my getting up.

" 'We have had a worse tragedy, Friend, which is why we have not paid you the attention you deserve,' came his deep, resonant voice. 'The evil-spoken sergeant of the government police has vanished. All the men in the village are out looking, and his two men as well. It seems he left here very drunk, yesterday afternoon, and I fear that he has been foolish. Even you fell and you are used to the mountains, which he is not.'

"Presently his hand left my shoulder and when I eventually looked up, he was gone.

"I remained seated long after my coffee had cooled. How does one tell the last of the Cro-Magnon priest-kings that one strenuously objects to witnessing human sacrifice? I never did think of a way until I left.

"Still, as I say, the Chinese do not have a clear run on being the oldest at everything, you know."

I asked a question and Ffellowes looked thoughtful.

"The cemetery? I don't think they buried their dead locally, that's all. In fact, I think they were in the cave. Logical, eh? Well, goodnight all." He was gone.

SOLDIER KEY

Everyone in the club, even those who disliked him, agreed that Brigadier ("not Brigadier General, please") Donald Ffellowes, R.A., ret., could tell a good yarn when he chose. He seemed to have been in the British Army, the Colonial Police and M.I.-5 as well at one time or another, and to have served all over the globe.

People who loathed him and the English generally, said all his tales were lies, that he was a remittance man, and that his gift for incredible stories was a direct inheritance from Sir John Mandeville, the medieval rumormonger. Still, even those who denounced his stories the most loudly never left once he started one of them. If Ffellowes was a liar, he was an awfully good one.

Mason Williams, who was one of those who resented Ffellowes as both British and overbearing, had instantly ordered stone crab when he saw it on the club's lunch menu. Of the eight others present at the big table that day, only one besides Williams had ever had stone crab, but we all decided to try it; all, that is, except Ffellowes.

"No, thank you," he repeated coldly, "I'll have the sweetbreads. I don't eat crab or any crustacean, for that matter. I used to love it," he went on, "in fact I ate crab, lobster, langouste, crawfish and shrimp with the best of you at one time. Until 1934 to be exact. An unpleasant and perhaps peculiar set of circumstances caused me to stop. Perhaps you would care to hear why?

"Now, I couldn't get it past my mouth, and if I did I couldn't swallow it. You see, something happened ..."

His voice trailed away into silence, and we could all see that his thoughts were elsewhere. He stared at the snowy tablecloth for a moment and then looked up with an apologetic smile. We waited, and not even Williams seemed anxious to interrupt.

"I've never told anyone about this, but I suppose I ought, really. It's a quite unbelievable story, and not a very nice one. Yet, if you'd like to hear it?" he queried again.

An instant chorus of affirmation rose from around the table. We were all men who had traveled and seen at least something of life, but none of our tales ever matched what we extracted from Ffellowes at long intervals.

"Wait until after dinner," was all he would say. "I need a good meal under my belt and some coffee and a cigar before this one."

The rest of us looked at one another rather like boys who have been promised a treat, as indeed we had. Williams grunted something, but made no objection. His denunciations of the British always came after Ffellowes' stories, I noticed.

When we were settled in our leather chairs in an alcove of the huge library, with cigars drawing and coffee and brandy beside us, Ffellowes began.

"Did any of you ever sail the Caribbean in the pre-War period? I don't mean on a cruise ship, although that's fun. I mean actually sailed, in a small boat or yacht, touching here and there, calling at ports when you felt like it and then moving on? If not, you've missed something.

"The dawns were fantastic and the sunsets better. The food from the galley, fresh fish we'd caught ourselves usually, was superb, and the salt got into our skin, baked there by the sun. "Islands rose up out of the sea, sometimes green and mountainous like Jamaica, sometimes low and hidden by mangroves and reefs like the Caymans or Inagua.

"We called at funny little ports and gave drinks to local officials who came aboard and got tight and friendly and told us astonishing scandals and implausible state secrets, and finally staggered off, swearing eternal friendship.

"And then at dawn, we hoisted anchor, set sail and checked our charts, and off we went to see what was over the next horizon, because there was always another island."

He paused and sipped his coffee, while we waited in silence.

"I had three months leave on half pay at the time due to a mixup; so Joe Chapin and I (he's dead a long time, poor fellow, killed at Kohima) chartered an island schooner at Nassau and hired two colored men to help us work her and cook. They were from Barbados and wanted to get back there, and that suited us. Badians are good seamen and good men, too. One, the older, was called Maxton, the other, Oswald, and I've forgotten their last names. We told them to call us Joe and Don, but it was always 'Mistah Don, Sah' to me, and 'Cap'n' to Joe, because he was officially captain on the papers.

"Well, we sailed along south for a month or so, calling here and there, picking up news and having fun at this port or that, until we got to Basse-Terre on Gualdeloupe. We were ashore having a few rums in the bar with the port officials when we first heard of Soldier Key.

"Any of you ever hear of it? Well, you won't now because it's gone. The people are anyway. The big hurricane of 1935 smashed it more than flat, and I'm told the few people left were moved by the British government. I checked up later on and found they went first to Dominica and then elsewhere, but there weren't many left.

"At any rate, the French customs officer we were drinking with suggested we look in at Soldier Key if we wanted an unusual, what you call 'offbeat,' place to visit.

" 'Messieurs,' he told us, 'this is a very strange place. You will not, I think, call twice, because few do, but I do not think you will be bored. These people are British like yourselves, and yet the island has no British official in residence, which is odd. They have an agreement with the government of Dominica that they govern themselves. Twice a year comes an inspection, but otherwise they are alone, with none to disturb them. Curious, is it not?

"We agreed it sounded mildly strange, but asked why we should bother going at all?

" 'As to that,' he said, 'you must suit yourselves. But you English always seek new things, and this place is a strange one. The people are, how you say it, forgot by everyone. They trade little, selling only langouste (the spiny lobster) and the meat of green turtle. They are good seamen, but they call at few ports and avoid other fishing boats. For some reason, they never sell the turtle shell, although they could catch all the shell turtles they wish. I cannot tell you more, except I once called there for water when on a cruise and the place made me feel discomfortable.' He paused and tried to convey what he meant. 'Look, these Key of the Soldier people all belong to one church, not mine or yours either. To them, all who are not of this communion are damned eternally, and when they look at you, you feel they wish to speed the process. A funny place, Messieurs, but interesting.'

"He finished his rum and stood up to go. 'And another thing, Messieurs,' he said, 'all people of color dislike this place, and there are none of them who live there. Again, interesting, eh? Why not try it? You may be amused.'

"Well, after we got back to the boat, we hauled out our charts and looked for Soldier Key. It was there all right, but it was quite easy to see how one could miss it. It lay about two days sail west by northwest of Dominica, and it looked like a pretty small place indeed. The copy of the Mariner's Guide we had wasn't really new, and it gave the population as five hundred (approximately) with exports limited to lobster and imports nil. A footnote said it was settled in 1881 by the Church of the New Revelation. This, of course, must be the church to which our little customs official had been referring, but I'd never heard of it, nor had Joe. Still, there are millions of sects all over the place; so that meant nothing, really.

"Finally, before we turned in, Joe had an idea. 'I'm certain someone has some reference books in town,' he said. 'I'll have a dekko tomorrow morning, first thing, shall I?'

"Well, he did, and about noon, when I was considering the day's first drink in the same waterfront bar as the night before, he came in with a small volume, very worn-looking, in his hand.

" 'Look at this,' he said, 'I found it in the local library; been there forever, I should think.'

"What he had in his hand was a slim, black book, written in English, cheaply bound and very tattered, with brown pages crumbling at the edges. It was dated London, 1864, and was written by someone who called himself the Opener of the Gate, Brother A. Poole. The title of the book was The New Revelation Revealed to the Elect.

" 'One of those island people must have left it here on their way through,' I said, 'or perhaps some fisherman lost it. Have you looked at it?'

"We read it aloud in turn, as much as we could stand, that is, because it was heavy going, and it was really a very boring book. A good bit of it came from Revelation and also the nastier bits of the Old Testament, and practically all of it was aimed at warning Those Who Transgressed.

"But there were stranger parts of it, based apparently on Darwin, of all people, and even some Jeremy Bentham. All in all, a weirder hodgepodge was never assembled, even by your Aimee Semple McPherson or our own Muggletonians.

"The final summing up of the hundred pages or so was a caution, or rather summons, to the Faithful, to withdraw from the world to a Secluded Spot at the first opportunity. Judging from what we had heard, Soldier Key was the Secluded Spot.

" 'It would be fascinating to find out what a gang like this has done in seventy years of isolation, don't you think?' said Joe. I agreed. It sounded like giving a new twist to our trip.

"Well, we weighed anchor that afternoon, after a farewell drink with our customs friend, and his last words intrigued us still more.

" 'Have you any weapons on board?'

"I answered that we had a shark rifle, a .30-30 Winchester carbine, and a Colt's .45 automatic pistol.

" 'Good. I think less well today than I did last night of having directed you to this place. There are strange rumors among les Noirs of Soldier Key. Send me a card from your next port, as a favor, eh'?'

"We promised and then said goodbye. Once clear of the harbor, we plotted a course and then told the two crewmen where we were going. The reaction was intriguing.

"Maxton, the older, looked rather glum, but Oswald, who was a six-foot black Hercules, actually forgot his usual respectful terms of address.

" 'Mon, what you go theah fo'? They not good people theah; wery bad people on Soljah Cay, Mon!'

"When Joe and 1 pressed them to say why exactly they disliked the place, they could not, or would not, give us any answers, except that no one went there from other islands and that the folk were unfriendly, especially to colored people.

" 'Come, come, Oswald,' said Joe finally, 'there surely must be something you are not telling us.'

"The man stared at the deck and finally mumbled something about 'Duppies.'

"Well, you know, this made us laugh and that was an error. Duppies are West Indian ghosts, evil spirits, and are objects of fear among all British West Indian Negroes from Jamaica to Trinidad. When we joshed these two men about them, they shut up like oysters! Not one further word could we get out of them about Soldier Key. No, that's not right. I got one more thing a day later.

"Oswald was fishing with a hand line from the stern at a time when I had the helm. I had asked him idly what he was using for bait.

"He reached into a metal pail beside him and pulled out a huge black and grey snail's shell about six inches across. 'Soljah, Mistah Don, Sah.' I noticed he held it gingerly, and I suddenly saw why. The owner of the shell was not the original snail at all, but a weird-looking crab, with great orange and purple claws, too large for its size, beady eyes on stalks and a mass of red spiky legs. In fact, it was the northern hermit crab, simply grown huge and aggressive in the tropics. Its claws snapped and clicked as it tried to reach his fingers, and then he dropped it back into the pail.

" 'They are many of them where we go, Mistah Don, Sah, wery many of the Soljahs.'

"So here was the reason for the name of the island! I had been speculating to myself as to whether the British had ever had a fort there, but the explanation was much simpler. Hermit Crab Island! Under this new name, it made all the vague warnings of our French friend seem quite silly, and when I told Joe about it later when we changed watch, he rather agreed.

"We made our landfall in a trifle under three days, due mostly to light airs, you know. The island was flat, only about seven miles long and two wide; so it would not have been a hard place to miss, actually. We came steadily in from the East, took down sail and started the auxiliary engine, because there was a circular reef marked on the charts as extending almost completely around the island and it only had a few navigable openings.

"It was evening, and the sun was on the horizon when we saw the first lights of the island's only town. There was a hundred-yard passage through the reef, marked clearly as showing seven fathoms opposite the town; so we brought the schooner in until we were no more than fifty or so yards off-shore.

"The town lay in a semicircle about a shallow bay. There was a broken beach, with bits of low cliff about five feet above the water, which we could just dimly make out. I say dimly because it was now completely dark and there was no moon, only Caribbean starlight, although that's pretty bright.

"We switched off the engine, anchored and watched the town, because it was the oddest-appearing port we had ever seen. There wasn't a sound. A few dimmish lights, perhaps half a dozen, burned in windows at wide intervals, but no dogs barked, no rooster crowed, no noise of voices came over the water. There was a gentle breeze in our rigging and the lapping of wavelets on the hull, and that was all.

"Against the sky at one point to the left, we could see the loom of some tall building, and we thought that this might be a church, but what we were to make of this silence baffled us. Night, especially the evening, is a lively time in the tropics, in fact the liveliest. Where were the people?

"We debated going ashore and decided against it. I say 'we,' but I assure you our crew wasn't debating. They had made it quite plain earlier that they were not going even if ordered, not even in daylight.

" 'This is a bod place, Cap'n,' said Oswald to Joe. 'We do not wish to discommode you, Sah, but we don't go on thot land, at all, Sah, no!'

"And that was that. So, we set anchor watch and turned in. A few mosquitoes came out from shore but not many, and we fell asleep with no trouble at all, determined to solve the mystery of the quiet in the morning.

"I was awakened by a hand on my arm. I blinked because it was still pitch-black out, and I looked at my watch. It was two in the morning. Against the stars I could see Joe's head as he stooped over me.

" 'Come on deck, Don,' he said, 'and listen.' Even as he spoke, I was conscious that the night was no longer completely quiet.

"On deck, the four of us, for the two crewmen were up too, crouched in the cockpit, and we all strained our ears.

"The sound we were hearing was quite far off, a mile at the very least from the volume, but it was unmistakably the sound of many human voices singing. To us, it sounded like a hymn, but the tune was not a familiar one.

"After what seemed about twenty-three stanzas, it stopped, and we listened in the silent night again. Then, there came a distant shout, somewhat sustained and again silence for a moment. Then the rhythmic mass cry again, but longer this time and seeming to go up and down. It went on this way for about ten minutes, first the silence and then the noise of human voices, and I tried without success to make out what was going on. Joe got the clue first.

" 'Responses,' he said, and of course, that was it. We were listening to something very like a psalm, chanted by a lot of people, a long way off, and naturally we couldn't hear the minister at all, but only the antiphony.

"After a bit, it stopped, and after fifteen minutes or so we turned in again. Now we knew why the town was quiet. All the people, apparently including the babies, were celebrating a church service somewhere inland. The Church of the New Revelation seemed to go in for midnight services.

"Well, we woke at six to a typical blazing Caribbean morning and also to a visitor. Standing on the edge of the deck coaming was the hatless figure of a man, staring down at Joe and myself out of pale blue eyes.

"He was about sixty from his looks, clean-shaven and sallow, with thick white hair and a gaunt, peaked face. Not especially impressive until you studied the eyes. Ice blue they were, and so cold they gave me a chill even in the ninety-plus heat on deck.

" 'What do you want here?' he said, with no other introduction at all. 'We seek no visitors. This island is dedicated to the Lord.'

"I introduced Joe and myself, but he paid no attention. I noticed his shabby but clean white suit, shirt and tieless stiff collar, as he stepped down into the cockpit. Behind him, I saw a little skiff tied to the stern in which he had rowed himself out.

" 'Look!' he said suddenly, an expression of disgust crossing his features. 'You are bringing pollution with you. You slay the helpless creatures of the Lord!' With that he reached down and seized the bait bucket and emptied Oswald's bait, three of the big purple hermit crabs, over the side in one convulsive heave.

" 'Now, I say, just a moment, now,' said Joe, letting annoyance show through. 'Exactly who are you, and what's this all about? We've tried to be polite, but there are limits ...'

"The cold eyes swept over us again, and their nasty glint deepened. '1 am Brother Poole, son of the Founder. You would call me the Pastor, I suppose. The government of this blessed place is in my keeping. Once again, I say, who are you and what do you want?'

"Joe answered peaceably enough and re-introduced us, but he had obviously been doing some thinking while he listened to Poole.

" 'We just wanted to get some water and a little food,' said Joe, 'and some fresh fruit, before we go to Dominica. No law against going ashore on your island, is there?' He added, 'Isn't this British territory? Doesn't the Dominican governor ever allow people ashore here?'

"It was quite obvious that he had given Brother Poole something to chew on, you know. Whatever Poole's powers were on the island, he wasn't used to having them challenged. And it was evident from his hesitation that he didn't care for the remarks about the British or Crown government. You could see his bony face working as he grappled with the problem. Finally, something he must have thought was a smile struggled to get through. Frankly, I preferred his previous expression. A sanctimonious whine also crept into his hard voice.

" 'I regret my sharpness, gentlemen. We have so few visitors, mostly fishermen of loose morals. I am the guardian of our little Eden here, and I have to think of my flock. Of course, you may come ashore, and buy what you need. I only ask that you kill nothing, do no fishing while here, out of respect to our law.'

"We stated we had no intention of killing anything and said we'd come ashore after we cleaned up and had breakfast. He climbed back into his boat, but before he cast off, turned back to us.

" 'Please see that those two black heathen stay on your schooner. Their presence is not wanted on our island, where they might corrupt our people.' A good share of the original venom had come back in his speech.

"As he pulled away, I turned to Maxton and Oswald to apologize, but it was unnecessary. Their faces were immobile, but also, it seemed to me, a shade paler under their natural darkness. Before I could say anything, Maxton spoke.

" 'Don't worry about us, Sah. We hov no desiah to enter in thot place. It is of the utmost dislike to us, I ossuah you, Sah.'

"Well, Joe and I shaved, and put on clean clothes, and then rowed our dinghy into the empty dock. There was only one, and that one small. A lot of fishing boats, all under twenty feet, were moored to buoys and also pulled up on the sloping beach—where it existed, that is.

"The town lay before me to observe, as Joe was doing the rowing, and I had a full view from the stern. It looked pretty small, perhaps fifty houses all told, plus the one church we had spotted the night before, a steepled white thing with something metallic, not a cross, on the steeple, which caught the sunlight and reflected it blindingly.

"The houses were all white stucco, mostly palm-thatch roofed, but a few with rusting tin instead, and all set on short stilts a foot or so off the ground. You could have duplicated them on any other island in the Caribbean.

"A few coco palms grew here and there and some shortish trees, mostly in the yards of the houses. Behind the town, a low green scrub rolled away, the monotonous outline broken only by a few of the taller thatch palms. The whole place lay shimmering in the heat, because not a breath of air moved.

"And neither did anything else. A white figure on the end of the dock was Brother Poole, identifiable at long range as waiting for us. But behind him the town lay silent and still. Not so much as a dog or chicken crossed a yard or disturbed the dust of the white roads. It was, if anything, more eerie than the night before.

"We nosed into the dock, and Poole leaned down to catch the painter Joe flung up to him. We climbed up as he was securing it to a post. Then he stood up and faced us.

" 'Welcome to Soldier Key, gentlemen,' he said. 'I hope I did not appear too unfriendly earlier, but I have a precious duty here, guarding my flock. Although you are not of the Elect, I know you would not wish to bring disturbance to a pious community, which has cut itself off from the dross and vanity of the world.' He turned to lead us down the dock without waiting for an answer and threw another remark over his shoulder. 'The Governor of Dominica has given me magistrate's powers.'

"The carrot and the stick, eh! Joe and I exchanged glances behind his back.

"At the foot of the dock, Poole turned again, the cold eyes gleaming in the sunlight. 'I presume you wish to see our little town? You will find it quiet. This is a festival of our church, and all of our people rest during the day to prepare for the evening service, by fasting and by prayer. 1 would be doing so too, but for the duties of hospitality, which are paramount.'

"I had been trying to analyze his very odd accent since I'd first heard it. It was not West Indian, but a curiously altered Cockney, flat and nasal, something like the worst sort of Australian, what they call 'Stryne.' I thought then, and still think, that I know exactly how Uriah Heep must have sounded.

"As we walked up the silent main street, which lay dreaming in the white heat, our feet kicking up tiny clouds of coral dust, I suddenly saw something move in the shadow of a house. At first I thought it was a cat, then a large rat, but as it moved, it came momentarily into a patch of sunlight, and I stopped to stare.

"It was a soldier, a hermit crab, but enormous in size, at least a foot long, its naked body hidden in and carrying a huge conch shell as it scuttled clumsily along. As we came abreast of it, its stalked eyes seemed to notice us, and to my surprise, instead of retreating, it ran out toward us and stopped only a foot away. Its great orange and purple claws looked capable of severing one's wrist, or a finger, at any rate.

"Poole had stopped too, and then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a linen bag from which he extracted a strip of dried meat. He leaned down, do you know, and placed it in front of the crab. It seized it and began to shred it in the huge claws, passing bits back to its mouth, where other smaller appendages chewed busily. It was as thoroughly nasty a sight as I'd ever glimpsed. Also, I wondered at the meat.

" 'That's a monster,' I said. 'How on earth do you tame them? I had no idea they grew so big. And I thought you ate no meat?'

" 'They are not tame, as you in the gross world think of it,' said Poole sharply. 'They are our little brothers, our friends, as much a part of life as we, and all units of the great chain live here in peace, some higher, some lower, but all striving to close the great circle which holds us to the material earth, at peace, yet in competition, the lower sinking, failing, the higher mastering the lower, then aiding. It is all a part of—' His whining voice rose as he spoke, but then suddenly stopped as he realized that our expressions were baffled, unmoved by the exposition of his extraordinary creed. 'You would not understand,' he finished lamely, and pocketing the still unexplained meat, he turned to lead us on. We followed, glancing at one another. Behind us, the huge crab slill crunched on its dainty, clicking and mumbling.

"Wrapped in thought about Poole and his religion, I really didn't notice that we had come to the town square, until I almost ran into Joe, who had stopped in front of me.

"Before us now stood the church we had glimpsed earlier, a massive, white-stuccoed structure with a pointed spire. As I looked up, I could see by squinting that the shiny object on the steeple was, indeed, not a cross. It was a huge crab claw, gilded and gleaming in the sunlight!

"My jaw must have dropped, because Poole felt it incumbent on himself to explain. 'We have abandoned the more obvious Christian symbols,' he said. 'And since our friends, the soldiers, are the commonest local inhabitants, we choose to symbolize the unity of all life by placing their limb on our little place of worship.'

" 'Rather! I can see it's their church,' said Joe pointing. 'Look there, Donald.'

"As he spoke, I saw what he had seen first, that the shadows around the base of the church were moving and alive—alive with the great hermit crabs.

"Large, small, and a few immense, they rustled and clanked in and around the coral blocks which formed the base, and the scrubby bushes which flanked the blocks, a sea of shells, claws, spiny legs and stalked eyes.

"Poole must have seen that we were revolted, because he moved on abruptly, leaving us no choice except to follow him. As we moved, I heard a distant human sound break the hot silence for the first time that morning, the sound of hammering. It came from our right, toward the edge of town, and peering down a sandy street in that direction, I thought I could identify the source as a long shed-like structure, about a third of a mile away.

" 'I thought everyone had retired to pray?' said Joe at the same moment. 'What's that hammering?'

"Poole looked annoyed. I never met a man less good at disguising his feelings, but since he normally never had to while on his island, it must have been quite hard to learn. Finally, his face cleared and the spurious benevolence gained control.

" 'A few of the men are working on religious instruments,' he said. 'We have a festival coming: we call it the Time of the Change, so there is a dispensation for them. Would you like to see them at work?'

"Since the silent town had so far yielded nothing of interest except the soldiers, which we loathed, we said yes.

"We came at length to one end of the long building, and Poole held aside a rattan screen door so that we could go in first. A blast of frightful heat hit us in the face as we entered.

"Inside, the building was one long open shed, lit by vents in the walls, and by a fire which blazed in a trench running half the length of the structure. Several giant metal cauldrons bubbled over the fire, with huge pieces of some horn-like material sticking out of them.

"Over against one wall were several long benches, and at these, a number of bronzed white men, stripped to tattered shorts, were furiously hammering at more pieces of the horny substance, flattening it and bending it, forcing it into huge wooden clamps and vises and pegging it together.

"As we watched, several of them stopped work and seized a huge piece of the stuff and dragging into the fire, dumped it into one of the giant pots. No one paid us the slightest attention, but simply kept working as though driven by some frantic need, some internal pressure. The whole affair was most mysterious.

"I stepped close to one of the pots to see if I could learn what it was they were working on, and as I looked I saw, to my amazement, it was tortoise shell.

"Now, a hawksbill sea turtle, the only known source of shell, seldom grows one much over a yard long, you know. The pieces these men were working on must have been made with many dozens of them at least. What on earth were they doing?

"Poole, who had been surveying our bewilderment with a sardonic smile, decided to mystify us further. Tapping Joe on the shoulder and pointing, he started walking down the length of the long shed, skirting the fires and the workmen, but ignoring them.

"His goal was the far left-hand corner, which we now saw had a palm-thatch curtain extending from floor to ceiling, masking what lay behind.

"With the air of a second-rate showman on his unpleasant face, he pulled on a rope and drew the high brown curtain aside. 'Behold our aim, gentlemen. Here is a fitting offering that we make for the altar of the Most High!'

"What we saw was certainly worth more than a little showmanship. Before us, poised on seven or eight large sawhorses, was a giant, gleaming shell, as if some colossal and quite improbable snail had washed up from the deeps of the sea. Golden, mottled and semi-translucent, it towered over our heads, and must have been at least twelve feet in diameter from the great opening in the base to the peak of the spiral tip. As we drew closer we saw that the whole marvelous object was artificial, being made of plates of overlapping tortoise shell pegged so cunningly that it was hard to see any joint. At one place on the side, a large gap showed where the work was not yet complete. Obviously, this was why the silent, half-naked workers were toiling so industriously. It was a very beautiful and awe-inspiring sight, if still a mysterious one.

"Poole drew the curtain closed and stood with his arms in his coat pockets smiling at our amazement. 'That's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen,' I said, quite honestly. 'May I ask what you do with it when it's finished?'

"Some strong emotion flashed for a second across his face, to be replaced by a bland expression of benignity. 'We set it afloat on a large raft, surrounded by offerings of fruit and flowers,' he said. 'An offering to God, to be swept where He wills by the waves and winds.'

"Seeing our incomprehension at the idea of so much hard work going to waste, he elaborated, still smiling in his sneering way. 'You see, it takes a long time to make the shell. The whole community, our whole little island, participates. Men must catch turtles. Then they must be killed, as mercifully as possible, the shell cured in a special manner and so on, right up until the final work. Then, when we gather at the ceremony of departure, all our people share in the delight of speeding it forth. We feel that we send our sins with it and that our long labor and offering to God may help our souls to Paradise. A naive idea to you, cultivated men of the great, outside world, no doubt, but very dear to us. My father, of blessed memory, the Founder, devised the whole idea.'

"Actually, you know, the idea was a lovely and reverent one. It reminded me of the Doge of Venice marrying the Sea, and other ceremonies of a similar nature. Brother Poole must have spent some time indeed on the composition of his tale, for it was quite the pleasantest thing we had heard about the island.

"While he had been speaking, we had passed out of the shed into the glaring sunlight, which seemed cool after the inferno we had left behind us.

"As we stood blinking in the sun, Poole turned to us with the false benignity now vanished from his face. 'So, gentlemen, you have seen all there is to see of our little town. There is an important religious festival tonight, the launching of our offering. I must ask you to purchase such supplies as you need and leave before this evening, since non-believers are not permitted here during our holy night and day, which is tomorrow. I can sell you any supplies you may need.'

"Well, we had no reason to linger. Personally, as I said earlier, I had taken a profound dislike to the whole town and particularly to Brother Poole, who seemed to embody it, as well as actually to direct it. We walked to the wharf, discussing what we needed on the way. Poole seemed ready to sell fruit, bananas, mangoes and papayas, as well as bread, at perfectly honest prices, and offered us fresh water free of any charge at all.

"Only once did any hardness come back into his voice, and that was when I asked if any spiny lobsters, langouste, were for sale.

" 'We do not take life here,' he said. 'I told you earlier of our rule.'

"Joe could not help breaking in with an obvious point, although he should have known better when dealing with a fanatic.

" 'What about the turtles. You kill them for their shells and presumably eat the meat? And what about the fish you catch?'

"Poole looked murderous. 'We do not eat meat,' he snapped. 'You would not understand, being heretics, unaware of the Divine Revelation, but the turtles' deaths are allowable, since we beautify our offering to God with their shells. The greater cause is served through a smaller fault. Also, the fish are set aside to us as our portion, although a sinful one. But what is the use of explaining these holy things to you, since you have not seen the Light?'

"After this, he declined to say anything else at all, except to wish us a good journey in a furious voice and to add that our purchases and water would be on the dock in an hour. With that, he stalked off and disappeared around a corner of the street. Upon his departure, all movement ceased, and the town dreamed on, neither sound nor movement breaking the noon silence. Yet we both had the feeling that eyes watched us from behind every closed shutter and each blank, sealed window.

"We rowed back to the schooner in silence. Only when we climbed aboard, to be greeted by Maxton and Oswald, did our voices break out together, as if pent up.

" 'Appalling character, he was! What a perfectly hellish place! Did you feel the eyes on your back?' et cetera.

"Only after settling down and disposing of lunch, which the men had thoughtfully made in our absence, did we seriously talk. The conclusion we reached was that the British government and the local administration in Dominica needed a good jolt about this place, and that it ought to be thoroughly investigated to find out just how happy the locals really were about Brother Poole and his hermit crab church. Other than that, we decided the sooner we left, the better.

"During lunch we had seen some of the locals, all whites, manhandling a cart down on the dock, and unloading it. We now rowed ashore and found two large, covered baskets of fruit, half a dozen loaves of new bread, and an old oil drum of water, which looked and tasted clean and fresh. We also found Poole, who seemed to appear out of the air and accepted the previously agreed-upon payment for the food. When that was over and we promised to return the water drum after putting the water in our tank, he came to his official business again.

" 'Now that you have water, you can leave, I suppose,' he said. 'There is no further reason for interrupting our holy festivities?' His arrogant whine, half command and half cringe, was on the upsurge. It annoyed Joe as well as me, and his answer to the order, on the face of it, was quite natural, really.

" 'We'll probably use the land breeze this evening,' said Joe.

'Of course, we may decide not to. Your bay is so pretty. We like to look at it.'

" 'Yes,' I added, picking up his cue. 'You know how we yachtsmen are, passionate lovers of scenery. Why, we may decide to stay a week.'

"Of course we were only trying to get a rise out of the Reverend Poole, but he had absolutely no sense of humor. Yet he realized that we disliked him quite as much as he did us. His eyes blazed with sudden rage, and he half-lifted one hand, as though to curse us. But another expression crossed his face first, and the mask dropped again. He must have suddenly realized that he didn't have a pair of his co-religionists to deal with.

"Without another word, he turned on his heel and left, leaving us sitting in our rowboat staring at one another.

"We got the water, bread and fruit out, and I rowed back and left the empty oil drum on the dock. The town still lay as quiet as ever in the sun, and no breeze disturbed the few coco palms. From the pier, I could see no sign of any movement further in, and the harbor was like a mirror, reflecting our schooner and the small, anchored fishing boats suspended motionless in the heat.

"Back aboard again, I conferred with Joe, and then we told the two crewmen we would leave on the evening land breeze. The harbor was deep enough so that tide made no difference. We could have used our engine, of course, but we hated to do so when sails would do the work. Aside from disliking engines, as all who sail for pleasure do, we always thought of emergencies, when the fuel might be desperately needed.

"Oswald and Maxton brightened up when we said we were going, and had we left right then, I'm sure they would have offered to row, or swim, for that matter. Their dislike of Soldier Key had never been plainer.

"The afternoon drifted on, and again the tropical night came quickly, with no real evening. But there was no wind. The expected land breeze simply didn't appear. When this happens, one can usually expect it to come around midnight or a little after in these waters, although I have no idea why. We'd had it happen before, however, so we waited. Since we had anchor lights on, we were perfectly visible from shore, but tonight no lights at all showed there. There was no moon, but brilliant starlight, and we could see the outline of the shore and the loom of the buildings behind, as silent as ever.

"We decided to leave one man awake to look for wind, and the rest would turn in all standing, that is, dressed, not that we wore much but shorts. We could raise sail in no time. Oswald said he was not sleepy, and so he got the job.

"I don't know why I should have wakened at midnight. There was still no wind, and we had all been sleeping on deck. I looked at my watch, cast my eye along the deck to Maxton's and Joe's sleeping forms and then went aft to find Oswald. He wasn't there, so I looked forward again. No sign of him, and the starlight was clear enough to see from bow to stern. There was no use waking the others on a false alarm. I got up and dropped into the cabin, gave it a quick once over, and then came out of the forward hatch and went quickly aft to the stern. No Oswald.

"I woke the others quietly, and explained the situation in a few words. From the moment I spoke, none of us had any doubt as to what had happened. Oswald had never left voluntarily. Someone, or something, with human motivation, had plucked him off the schooner as easily as you gaff a fish and even more quietly, and the purpose and the strength had come from the silent town, from Soldier Key.

"We discovered afterwards that it had been easy for them. Several swimmers approached as silently as sharks and one of them had clipped Oswald over the head with a club as he sat with his back to the rail. Then, without a sound, he had been lowered into the bay and towed back to shore. Why they left the rest of us I shall never know, but I suspect that they simply had gotten cold feet. Or perhaps Poole thought we'd be reluctant to report our loss. By the time we got back with help, he could always plead ignorance and say that we had done the poor chap in ourselves. He of course would have his whole island to back him up. As a second purpose, I think he wanted us out of there and that this was perhaps a last warning. Well, if that were so, he had made a mistake.

"Without anyone's having to speak, all three of us went below and began to gather weapons. I took the big Colt automatic pistol, because it was my own, Joe the .30-.30 carbine, and Maxton simply tucked his cane knife, a big machete, without which most West Indians feel undressed, in his belt. Then we collected ammunition and went aft to our dinghy. I hauled the painter in without even looking until the cut end came into my hand! I had not noticed its absence on my earlier check, but the Key men had cut it adrift.

"However, this actually didn't put us back a bit. Still without speaking, but all three purposeful, we began to rig a float for the weapons out of small line and four life preservers. We had it done and ready to move in less than ten minutes and were about to slip over the side when Maxton suddenly caught us by the arms and put a hand to his ear.

"As we listened in the quiet dark, a noise, almost a vibration began to come over the water. It was a sound we couldn't identify, a strange sort of muffled rustling or shuffling sound, and Joe and I looked at each other in the starlight, absolutely baffled. Maxton whispered in our ears.

" 'Dot is feet. Dey move somewheah.'

"Of course he was quite right. We were listening to the whole town on the move, the rustle of hundreds of feet scuffing through the coral dust of the streets. Where they were going we didn't know, but we began to drop into the water, because this silent march almost certainly meant no good to Oswald. We all three knew that, somehow. I took the lead, carrying the pistol out of the water, so that we should be armed upon landing. Behind me, Joe and Maxton swam, pushing the little raft with the rifle, the spare ammo, our shoes, and two canteens. Joe had added something else, but I didn't find that out until later.

"I swam for the edge of town way over on the left, well away from the dock or the boats, since I had to assume that if they had posted a sentry, he would be placed at that point. It apparently was quite unnecessary, but we had to try to outguess them at every point, and we still thought these people rational. I tried not to think of sharks, which I dislike.

"As we swam, I listened for the sound of the footsteps, but it had died away, and this lent new urgency to our efforts. In a very short time, my feet grated on the coral beach, and keeping the pistol poised, I waded ashore, the other two behind me. Joe had the rifle at ready now, and Maxton had drawn his machete.

"There was no sign of movement. We had landed just on the outer edge of town, the last house looming about two hundred feet to our right. Not a sound broke the silence but faint insect humming and the splash of ripples breaking on the narrow beach.

"After listening a minute, we put on our shoes, then divided the ammunition and the canteens. I saw Joe stick something else in his belt, but I was concentrating so hard on listening that it really didn't register.

"We placed the life preservers above the high water mark under a bush and moved into the town, guns at ready. If the town were quiet by day, it was dead that night. This was a town presumably inhabited by living people, but not a murmur of life came from any of the shuttered houses. At each corner, we stopped and listened, but we could hear nothing. Nothing human, that is. Twice I almost fired at rustling shadows and faint clanking noises, only to realize that it was only the hideous crabs from which the island took its name.

"The church was our goal, by unspoken agreement, but when we reached the square, it loomed silent and unlit in front of us. The central door was wide open, and we could hear no movement from the black interior. Wherever the people were, it was not there.

"Moving on, we struck a broader street, one which led away from the water inland. As we paused in the shadow of a tamarind tree, Maxton suddenly held up a hand and dropped to his knees. I couldn't make out what he was doing, but he stood up in a second.

" 'This dust has been kicked up wery recent. 1 think the people come this way, many people.'

"I couldn't smell anything, but Joe and I knew we didn't have his perceptions, and we had no other clues anyway. Besides, we had heard the marching feet, and they had gone somewhere, and then there was the singing of the previous night, too.

"Keeping to the edge of the road, we went inland, walking quickly, but very much on the alert. The road left the town, which wasn't too big, remember, after about two hundred yards and cut straight into the scrub, in the direction of the center of the island, as near as we could make out. At about fifteen minutes walk from the town, we learned that Maxton was right. We were deep in the shadowy scrub now, not a jungle, but the thick, low thorn bush of most West Indian islands. The road still ran straight and smooth ahead of us, a dim, white ribbon under the stars. Only insect noises broke the silence.

"Suddenly, we all halted. Not far off, a half mile at a guess, a sound had erupted into the night. We had heard it before, not so loud, on the previous night and recognized it at once for the mass chorus of human voices in a chant. It came from ahead of us and to one side, the left.

"Our pace quickened to a trot, and as we ran we listened, trying to pinpoint the noise. It was some sort of service, because we could hear the sound die into silence and then start again. As we drew closer to the source, we began to hear the single voice which led the chant, high and faint, and then the muffled roar that followed from the congregation.

"It was only the voices that saved us from missing the path. The trees had increased in height, and shadowed the road a good deal, so that we should have overshot the left fork if we hadn't been watching for it. Even then, Maxton was the only one to spot it, and he suddenly signaled us to turn into what looked like a dense bush. Following him, we broke through a screen of vegetation, which gave way so easily that we realized that it must have been dragged there after cutting. And there was a road again, narrower but still plain and well-trodden. Some old habit of caution must have led them so to mask their path. We now moved at an increased speed.

"Ahead of us, the voices swelled in another chant, but we could not as yet distinguish words. The single voice was silent. As the noise increased, so did our caution, and we slowed our pace, since we had no wish to burst unexpectedly into the middle of some gathering of goodness knows what.

"All at once, we could see light ahead through the trees, a flickering, reddish glow which lit the path far better than the dim starlight. We eased down to a slow walk and advanced cautiously-

"The light grew continually stronger as we went on, reflected back from our faces and the boles and leaves of the thorn bushes and palmettoes. The sound of voices was almost deafening now, but we were searching so hard for a sight of a guard or sentry, we paid no attention to the words, which were blurred in any case.

"The trees suddenly thinned before us, and stooping low, the three of us crawled abreast of their edge and peered into the open, keeping well behind the screening branches, and off the road, which suddenly appeared to vanish. When we reached the last line of bushes, it was easy to see why. We were gazing down into an immense pit.

"We were on one edge of an enormous hole in the ground, quite round and perhaps seventy feet deep. It was rimmed with greyish limestone rock, level at the edges, to which point the bushes grew, all around.

"At our feet, the path, now very narrow, wound down a steep slope to the smooth floor of white sand below. One side of the natural amphitheatre, for such it was, was banked up into lines of crude seats, sloping to the open floor of packed sand. The width of the whole place must have been at least two hundred yards in diameter, if not more.

"The entire population of Soldier Key, now silent, was sitting on the banked seats of this private arena, gazing at the scene before them with rapt attention. We had an excellent view of them, which made up in completeness for what we had missed earlier. Every man, woman and child, perhaps two hundred or more, was stark naked, clothed only in garlands of flowers and flower necklaces. Every single living soul on the island must have been there, and not a sound came from even the smallest baby at its mother's breast, or the oldest crone. I could see no colored people, but only whites. Apparently the creed of the New Revelation was not valid for any but Caucasians.

"Inching forward to get a better look, we were able to see what held their attention. Two great bonfires burned on the floor of the pit, and between them Brother Poole, the Shepherd of his people, was moving about. As naked as his flock, his scrawny white body gleaming as if oiled, he was capering in a strange way around three objects on the sand, between the fires.

"In the center, golden in the firelight, lay the immense shell we had seen earlier in the workshed in town. No holes now marred its perfection, and it lay gleaming and wonderful on one of its sides, the opening facing us as we watched.

"On either side of the shell, dwarfed by its bulk, were two bound human bodies! One was Oswald. He was not only bound but gagged. As far away as we were, we could see his eyes roll and the muscles under his dark skin strain as he tried to break his bonds. The other figure was that of a white girl, perhaps fifteen or so from her build. She lay silent and unmoving, but I could see that her eyes were open. Around the three, the shell and the bodies, Brother Poole danced and waved his hands, as if in some maniac's parody of a benediction. Although he was otherwise quite nude, he wore a strange necklace, of some hard, purplish objects, which bounced and shook as he moved. So silent were the people that even as high as we were lying, I could hear the click and rattle of them. The sound jogged my memory, until I suddenly realized why it was familiar. He was wearing a necklace of hermit crab claws and the noise was just as if some of them were scuttling about.

"I stated that the pit was circular. The floor was level, sloping up on one side to the packed earth seats of the people, and on the other side to the limestone walls. Nothing grew on these smooth walls, excepting only in one place, directly opposite the seats, where dense canopies of some creeper hung down, half obscuring a great triangular opening or cleft in the rock, about twenty feet in height and at least that wide near the base. Pressed against the cliff to one side of this hole was a massive, now open door or gate, made of bulky timers in a heavy frame. It was hung on great iron hinges driven into the rock. Could this be the Gate of which Poole claimed to be the Opener, I wondered? In front of the hole, and a little to one side, there was a still pool of water, probably a spring. Directly across from us, a path similar to that below us wound up the cliff face and vanished into the dark fringe of foliage at the top.

"Brother Poole suddenly ceased his capering and raised both hands. He was now facing the dark opening across the arena, and to this he addressed his invocation. I cannot at this date give it word for word, but roughly it went rather like this:

'Oh, Lord of Majesty, Incarnation of Survival, Manifestation of Nature and its struggle, Devourer of Sin and the Flesh, have mercy upon us.'

"Behind him a roar arose as the crowd repeated the last line, 'have mercy upon us.' He continued:

'Have mercy, Oh Thou, Shelled in Adamant. Of Thy mercy, accept our offerings, a new home for Thy greatness, new life for Thy limbs, new viands for Thy table. Enter now upon Thy new home and partake of Thine offerings.'

"This rather unpleasant parody of a communion service seemed extraordinarily unreal, it was so fantastic.

"In the red light, Poole's gaunt face, now drooling slightly, assumed an air of repellent majesty. Much as he disgusted me, the creature did have a certain hypnotic power at that moment. He believed in what he was doing. Behind his back, his audience sat rapt and expectant, all of them, old and young, leaning forward in the same tense pause of anticipation. As he ceased to speak, time almost seemed to stop, and he held his hands out, facing the opening in the rock wall.

"Joe broke the spell, pushing the rifle at me and snatching the Colt from my limp hand.

" 'Stay here and cover us,' he hissed. 'Maxton and I are going down.'

"The two of them moved like cats, breaking from the scrub and racing down the path below me with driving steps. My brain cleared and I aimed the loaded rifle at Poole. If anybody went, he certainly would be the first.

"Maxton and Joe were on the sandy floor of the pit before anyone even noticed them. Joe had a clasp knife in one hand and the pistol in the other, and he flashed behind Poole's back and stopped to cut the girl's bonds. Behind him, Maxton was doing the same for Oswald with the edge of his machete.

"A chorus of screams from the crowd announced that not all of them were in a trance, but none of them moved. I refocussed on Poole, but he still faced the cave, apparently lost to the actual world, entranced in an ecstasy of religion.

"Then, I caught a flicker of movement from the corner of my right eye and risked a glance in that direction. What I saw made my rifle fall with a thud to the earth.

"Framed in the entrance to the cleft was Horror incarnate. Poised on giant, stalked legs, monstrous, incredible gleaming in the firelight, stood the Soldier of Soldier Key, the Living God of Brother Poole and his awful church.

"The giant purple and orange claws, the larger of the two at least six feet long, were held in front of the mass of clicking, grinding mouth parts. From the stalked eyes held out ten feet above the ground, to the great, red-pointed legs, jointed and barbed with three-inch spines, there stood complete and perfect a hermit crab that must have weighed not less than a thousand pounds.

"As it moved slowly forward from the mouth of its private cave, the dragging shell which covered its soft body and rear end became visible, and I saw the true reason for the labor of the whole island. It, the shell, was made of tortoise shell, still recognizable though dirty and scarred, and although enormous, it was obviously too small. The soft body bulging from the opening must have desperately needed more room. The purpose of the new and larger shell, which still lay sparkling on the sand, was now clear. The god was to have a new house.

"As all this flashed through my mind, I recovered my wits and snatched up the rifle again. It was as well I did, because now things were starting to break down on the pit floor.

"Emerging from his trance, Poole had turned around and had seen before his dumbfounded eyes his sacrifices no longer neatly tied up but actually escaping. Joe had the limp body of the girl over one shoulder, and Maxton was aiding Oswald to follow in the direction of the foot of the nearer path, just beneath my own position.

"With a shriek, Poole summoned his nude worshippers to the assault. 'Blasphemy! Slay the desecrators of the shrine! Kill them, in the sight of the Living God!'

"With a roar, the whole mob poured off its earth benches and rushed for the three figures which ran slowly across the sand. Poole stood where he was, his hand raised in a curse, his face now wholly evil, working with madness in the firelight. Behind him some few yards, that unbelievable crustacean had paused, immobile, like a bizarre statue, motionless save for the moving, twitching mouth parts.

"I think to this day we would have been dead men, but for two factors. Joe, heavily burdened, Maxton and Oswald were still thirty feet from the path's entrance. Behind them, the horde of frantic, raving islanders were no more than a hundred paces. I had begun to shoot, forgetting Poole, firing at the foremost men instead, and hitting at once, but it did no real good. Those behind simply leapt the prostrate bodies and came on. One rifle simply could not stop this gibbering, animal horde. But something else could.

"Above the howling of the pack and the bark of my rifle rang out a scream so awful and agonized that I can still hear it in my sleep. No one could have ignored that dreadful cry. With three exceptions, everyone halted to see the cause.

"Brother Poole had momentarily forgotten his god, but his god had not forgotten him. As he stood there launching curses and hellfire, the monster, irritated no doubt by all the noise and movement, had come from behind and now clutched him in its titanic, larger claw, as firmly as its little brothers would hold a grasshopper. Suddenly, with no apparent effort, it simply closed the claw, and before our eyes, the two halves of the screaming Shepherd of the Island fell to the sand in a fountain of blood.

"The three below, however, had not halted nor seen this sight, but were now steadily coming up the path. I resumed my ineffective rifle practice, for with fresh screams of rage, the mob of worshippers surged forward again, and began to gain. But Joe changed that.

"He halted and allowed Oswald and Maxton to run past. Dumping the girl, who had never moved at all, to the ground, he reached for his belt and pulled out a bulky metallic object which I now saw for the first time in the firelight. It was the schooner's flare pistol.

"Aiming at the center of the oncoming crowd, he fired straight into them, and then the flare exploded somewhere in the mass in a blast of white incandescence. At the same instant, I had a stroke of genius, and almost without thinking, I shifted my sights and squeezed off a shot at that incredible horror, the Soldier, aiming directly for the center of the head, and just over the grinding mouth parts.

"In the twin lights of the flare and the still-blazing fires, I caught a glimpse of Hell. Blackened figures writhed in agony on the ground, and others, their hair ablaze, ran aimlessly about, shrieking in pain and fright. But this was not all. My bullet must have wounded the Soldier in its tenderest parts. Raising its great shell off the ground and snapping its giant claws, it rushed at the nearest humans in a frenzy, not gripping and holding, but instead slashing and flailing about with its colossal pincers. That a creature of its bulk could move with such speed was a revelation to me, of an unsought kind. I remember seeing a screaming child crushed flat by a great leg.

"I was no longer firing, but simply watching the base of the path with one eye and the terrible scene below with the other. In only a few seconds, Maxton's and Oswald's heads appeared just below me, as they climbed panting from the inferno below.

"A little behind them came Joe, reloading as he ran and checking his backtrail as he paused at the bend in the path. The girl was gone.

"I rose and covered the path behind them as they reached level ground. 'That lunatic girl got up and ran back into the crowd,' gasped Joe. 'To hell with her. Let's get out of here.'

"With me to the rear covering the retreat, we stumbled off down the track to the main road. In a minute the edge of the cliff was lost to view, and only the red glow on the leaves and the appalling sounds remained to tell us of what we had left behind. Breathless with shock and fright, we ran on at our best speed under the stars and trees until we reached the road and only a far-off wailing came to our ears.

"As we ran, I tried to make some sense out of what I had seen. In only a few moments, a maze of jumbled thoughts poured through me. How had that incredible thing been grown? How long had it lived? How many people had died to feed it? As the sound of anguished voices died away, my brain simply gave up, and I devoted myself to breathing and moving. Thinking back now, I believe that somehow, through their insane religion, the islanders had created a miracle of biology, taking a tiny animal and forcing its size somehow until no natural sea shell would contain it, and then building artificial ones to house its increased growth. But now, of course, no one will ever know the answers.

"There was no pursuit, I may say. The whole population of the island had been in that shambles of a pit, and we simply walked, for we could no longer run, back to the town and along the beach to our piled and tied life preservers. Within an hour of leaving the Amphitheatre of the Crab, we were climbing wearily over the side of the schooner. It took us only a few minutes to start the engine and get in the anchor, and then we were underway. Checking my watch, I found it was 4:30 a.m., although it seemed that a week had gone by.

"At blazing dawn, the island was only a faint blur on the horizon, which soon sank into the sea, leaving us feeling that we had been in a bad dream.

"No, we never called at Dominica. The four of us talked it over and decided not to.

"Look here, you fellows, we had probably killed, at a minimum, twenty or so souls, directly by flare or gunfire, and more still through the agency of the Soldier. By the time any representatives of the law arrived, what evidence would they find in our favor? Whatever governing group or person took over from Poole would have the whole island behind him or it. Who would believe our story? No one.

"No, we did nothing, at least at the time. We sent an anonymous letter to the Colonial Office and a copy to the Dominican Administrator later on, saying nothing at all about giant crabs, but demanding an inquiry into voodoo murders and local affairs generally. I have never heard that anything came of it, and as I told you earlier, the people were almost entirely wiped out by the hurricane of the following year.

"But I don't eat lobster or crab. It came too close to being the other way round, you see? Anyone care for bridge?"

Williams managed to grunt. We would hear from him later on, no doubt.

The End

The Curious Quests of Brigadier Ffellowes

Brigadier Ffellowes 02

(1986)

INTRODUCTION

If Old Lanier tells you he's his own role model for the Brigadier, don't you believe him!

I've known Lanier for fifteen years now the first ten of them through the mails with never a face-to-face meeting. In those ten years, I learned that he had gone to Harvard, Yale, or Princeton depending upon the man's particular needs, whims, or faulty memory and that he possessed doctorates in anthropology, archeology (oh hell, Sterling, have it your way, archaeology!), sociology, animal-husbandry, podiatry, geriatrics, criminology, herpetology (I believed that one), and gynecology. I also learned that he had traveled to Tibet, Afghanistan, the North and South Poles, Pellucidar, the Ahbor Valley, and Kir Asa.

During the five years before we actually met, he described himself (glowingly) as a composite of Andy Jackson, Teddy Roosevelt, and Lord Nelson, insisting that they were presidents of those colleges he had attended. Then, I guess he remembered my fondness for George Fraser's writings, and he added Harry Flashman to the aforementioned trio. "Without the cowardice, of course. Harumph!"

Indeed, when I finally met the man he was dressed in a ragged, faded brigadier's uniform that he had scrounged or stolen somewhere. It didn't take me long (about eight belches and a few other assundry contributions to the peace of the land) to see a similarity between Flashman and Lanier. I was reminded that the Apaches had a name for Flashman (*Flashman and the Redskins.) which, translated to its briefest form, came out as "breaker of wind."

Harumph! yourself.

In person, however, Lanier admitted to me in an unusual, lucid moment that he had never been west of Philadelphia nor east of the Maryland shore, and that his role model for the Brigadier was probably a lot closer to me that it was to him. But lucid or not, Lanier never lost his braggadocio! (Alright, damn you, Sterling, I'll italicize it there: braggadocio!)

You may ask, and justifiably so, why a man of my reputation would involve himself with so disreputable a character. As a matter of fact, it is a question that I have asked myself many times. We have very little in common, and even a proximity to the man gives me the shudders. After all, Lanier is at least thirty years my senior, (*Mediator's note: Lanier and Grant were born in the same year. What Grant obviously refers to is physical appearance. Lanier appears to be much the older man.) and his reading tastes are generally quite abominable. Oddly, we do share a liking for that ancient and honorable subdivision of the fantasy genre called the "lost race" tale. But where my taste for this type of fiction includes such novels as The Face In the Abyss and The Sunbird, Lanier's great favorites are Bomba the Jungle Boy and the Lost City and The Bobbsey Twins in the Unknown Land: A Romance of the Polar Pit. (*Mediator's note: Published 1901. This novel is rumored to have been written by Lanier's younger brother employing a pseudonym.)

What absolutely defies and mystifies me, though, is the man's writing. Lanier's Hiero books (he pronounces it "Hero," and woe to the uninitiated who chooses to call it "Hyro") are good, solid novels that have achieved no small degree of popularity, while his juvenile, The War for the Lot, is really a competent effort. Best of all his output, however, are the tales of the Brigadier Ffellowes, most of them first appearing in Ed Ferman's excellent Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Seven of these episodes were collected in one volume by Walker & Company, a New York publisher, in 1972, under the title of The Peculiar Exploits of Brigadier Ffellowes. And while the book was reprinted in England shortly thereafter, it has been out of print for a number of years a highly sought-after book and most difficult to obtain.

The Peculiar Exploits is lauded in an introduction from no less an expert than Arthur C. Clarke, so I doubt that Lanier has somehow hypnotized me into liking these things without my knowledge. (That is not to say that he wouldn't try!) The first three stories - "His Only Safari," "The Kings of the Sea," and "His Coat So Gay," each one getting better and better as one progresses are enough to hook a person on the Brigadier tales. The final four are just frosting on the cake!

Not many writers can equal the delight afforded by these tales, but Lanier does it again with this new volume of six more tales The Curious Quests of Brigadier Ffellowes. As good as are the stories found in Exploits, I don't think that any of them can overshadow such gems as "Ghost of a Crown" or "A Father's Tale." Curious Quests is a real joy to read, and I hope there will be more ... many more ... before the series ends.

But something does not add up. The Brigadier stories are clever, well-plotted, well-written, and they display a broad knowledge that I have never been able to discover in Lanier himself. Indeed, the tales are such good fun that, from the first reading of the first book, I suspicioned the involvement of a second party. Is there a Francis Bacon who would perhaps forego the glory of authorship for the filthy lucre proffered from the purse of this wealthy rogue?

Enough of this! The play's the thing, and whoever planned the tales ... whoever did the writing ... did it competently; yes, even delightfully. If we give the devil his dues, that is to say if we allow that Lanier is the author of these tales, then certainly they are a breath of fresh air from the breaker of wind.

Donald M. Grant

FORE/THOUGHT/WORD

Unaccustomed as I am to Public Writing, a word or two is necessary, if only in my defense.

When reading the average offerings to the trade of one D. M. Grant, I borrow the Apache name of the war chief, Geronimo: Goyathlay, or "He who constantly yawns." Crepitation also accompanies perusal of same.

My actual learning is somewhat scanted. The alleged "introduction" overlooks seismology, lycanthropy, ophiology, hagiology, telekinesis (and other ESP talents), metaphysics and cryptozoology among other studies.

Many of my venturesome field trips to little-known areas are ignored as well. To cite only one example, few know of my probe of the Islands of Langerhans, and the adjoining fringe of Gastroenteritis, a trip of some danger, since at the time I was badly infected with Mopery.

I must at this point, relate a true story, since it applies to a tale in this volume, a story unknown to either the publisher or to even any human being.

Many years ago, at age 14, when reading all of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes tales, I became perplexed over the mention of various Holmes adventures which were never written, at least in any book I could locate. A kindly English teacher explained that Sir Arthur mentioned many unwritten adventures simply to intrigue the reader and that they had no actual existence. A few months later, I heard the word pastiche and its explanation. Now, I had never intended to become a writer of any kind. But I swore to myself that I would write one story only, that of "The Giant Rat of Sumatra, for which the world is not yet prepared." I was going to write that one story for my own self and amusement. It never occurred to me at the age of 14 that I would ever write a real story that would be published! So that one story goes back a long way in my life. Whether it has any other distinction, I must leave to the readers.

I must now leave the aforesaid readers and return to a battle with the Internal Revenue Service. Since Mr. Grant pays me almost nothing and professes to be a charitable institution, founded for the vaguely literate, I have been struggling to get my miniscule royalties made "Tax Deductible." For some reason or other, the IRS professes not to believe the claims of this worthy man, a man who always tells the truth, despite his patent inability to run a publishing company of any significance or worth.

Remember that with the above statement goes another and much older one. "There's always one exception that proves the rule!"

Happy Reading.

S. E. Lanier 1986

P.S. In listing my favorite books, Grant skipped a famous wartime (Spanish American) thriller about himself, The Publisher Who Never Was.

N.B. Almost missed another Granterror (new word, but spreading). Hiero is properly pronounced "Hee-ehro," not "Hero."

GHOST OF A CROWN

"Ghost stories are passé in some circles, I suppose," said a new member. I didn't know his name, but he was a younger man, of what, I guess, could be called a bookish type. He had rather thick glasses and a thin, angular face. He was drinking Madeira, which is not much in vogue with most of my acquaintances, but I didn't hold that against him either.

It was a cold spring night, and the club library had a fire lit at one end of the long room. A group of us were sitting in one of the big bay window alcoves overlooking Fifth Avenue, and the park looked rather gloomy in the drifting mist below. Personally, I'd rather hit Omaha Beach alone than go into it at night.

"I like them myself," said Bryce. He was something important in the Bank of New York. "I read them in my office, that is, when my secretary is busy." This raised a mild laugh. "In fact," he went on, unperturbed, "I have a standing order with Blackwells, in England, to send me any new ones that look good. And I even put myself on the lists of some of these jobbers that deal in science fiction, horror stories, and such things, in case some of the old ones come in that sound good." He sipped his drink. "Actually, I've found that some of the best are long out of print, and damned hard to get hold of."

Perhaps a banker was needed to break the ice, the image of bankers being so stuffy and conventional, even to those of us who knew better. It turned out that a whole lot of us read ghost stories, horror stories, wild fantasy, and so on. In no time an argument was raging over who wrote what, who wrote best (and worst!), and various schools of opinion began to get sorted out. For the library it was a pretty noisy scene. Two old gentlemen drowsing by the fire got up and left, muttering about seeing someone on the house committee, but we paid them no attention, being busy attacking H. P. Lovecraft or someone similar.

During a lull, the younger guy who had started the whole thing suddenly asked, "But why do you all enjoy these things? Is it because your lives are so dull today? Or is it that you'd really like to believe that there are things beyond our level of knowledge, powers of darkness, say, that still can reach us at times and in certain places? In other words, friends, what grabs you about all this, as the kids say now?" He was quite excited.

We all thought for a minute. Frankly, I don't think any of us had ever given a hell of a lot of thinking time to why we enjoyed being frightened or whatever.

The young guy, whose name turned out to be Simmons, went on. "Is it the same reason children ride roller coasters? Or do you think it may be something deeper, such as a feeling that the ancients, perhaps, knew more than we do, that a deep well of lost knowledge underlies all the broomstick and Halloween nonsense? And that by reading the stuff, you both acknowledge its reality and in a subconscious way, well, pay it a sort of respect?"

Well, the argument started afresh. Some of us admitted we liked being scared (I was one), especially if we knew we could always close the book! But a few others picked up Simmons' idea of a racial memory of the Ancient Past, and started telling of strange things that had happened to them or to people they knew. I noticed the really strange things were always those that had happened to someone else, while the ones that they had experienced in person sounded pretty flat.

I think almost everyone present must have had the same sequence of thoughts simultaneously. They ran: Yes, these experiences are dull and banal-sounding, and next Ffellowes!

And, of course, there he was. Leaning against the end bookcase in the alcove, just as if he'd been there all evening, and none of us, as usual, had even seen him come in! God knows how long he had been there, or how much he had heard. He was smoking a long thin cigar, very pale in color, and sipping brandy, which he took, incidentally, in a tumbler.

We introduced him to Simmons, who had never met the Brigadier before, and rather confusedly explained what we had been talking about, then more or less sat back, not quite panting, but pretty obvious.

Our English member smiled politely around at us. His pink face was bland, but the bright blue eyes were amused. Oh, he knew what we wanted, all right! If anyone in the room could lay claim to knowing the strange and the inexplicable, the man who had served the Empire all over the world, who had encountered more weird things in person than we had ever read about, was surely the man. And he knew we wanted a story. He teased us a little.

"I just had a nice brisk walk through the park. You chaps ought to get out more. You're all simply getting fat, sitting around here."

I ask you! A nice brisk walk, at 38°F, through Central Park at eleven at night! That was Ffellowes, all right. If a gang of muggers jumped him he probably became invisible! Yet none of us doubted he had come that way.

He turned to look at Simmons for a moment, in a reflective way, and I rang a bell for a waiter to bring us a fresh round. I had learned the signs by now.

"You postulate, Mr. er ah, Simmons," he was saying when I looked back, "that we are subconsciously aware of older things, or past, well, unpleasantnesses, which once had power, and might still, under certain circumstances? May I ask if those are in any way your own beliefs or are simply put forward as the basis of a discussion?"

Simmons kind of drew back a little. "It is a theory, I believe, that some people hold: that some places and some persons even, are influenced by the Ancient Past, and that certain things can allegedly be summoned by the right people, in the right place, and even at the right time. Personally, I have no views on the matter." His face turned a little pink. "I should say," he added, "no views that I care to give at the present time or verbally." He retired into his glass of Madeira, leaving us a little puzzled.

"I see," said Ffellowes, and I had the idea he did see, though what it was he saw, I was damned if I knew.

A waiter had drawn up another chair, and the brigadier sat down and took a dip of his brandy. The room was suddenly very quiet.

"Many years ago," came the clipped English tones, "I had a friend who was Cornish. I don't mean he lived in Cornwall; I mean rather that he was Cornwall. His family, and, yes, he had a title, had lived there since time immemorial. They owned a ruined castle, and I mean a really frightful ruin, all tumbled stones, and also a delightful manor house, called Avalon House. Goodness knows how old the castle was, but the house was 18th century, a lovely thing of aged brick, surrounded by wild gardens and overlooking the Atlantic. It could be most windswept but was very wonderful even in Winter. There were great tangled hedges, which had been planted strategically, to keep off the worst of the wind, you know, but it still could howl about the eaves in a full gale. The family were not of great wealth, but not poor either. Occasional judicious marriages with nabob's daughters and city merchants, I expect. A very normal county custom and a very normal county family, of no particular note, with a fat paragraph in Debrett's Peerage.

"We'll call my friend the Earl of Penruddock, which sounds right and was neither his name nor his title. He and I had known each other since childhood, having gone to what we call a "little school" together, what you fellows call a grade school, I think. We were not the closest of chums, but rang each other up at times when one or another was in London, for a lunch or a drink. He was quite a normal specimen of his class, had served in the Grenadier Guards before succeeding to the title. He hunted with the Quorn and grew prize roses. When he married, I was an usher, and his wife was equally suitable, a distant cousin with some money of her own, a jolly girl, who loved the country as he did.

"I was startled one day, therefore, to get a wire from James (that was his real given name) asking me down in a curiously urgent way, down for a visit to Avalon House. There was a sort of appeal in the wire, you know, something such as 'your advice most necessary' and 'would be extremely grateful if you could see your way,' and so on. All very peculiar from one of the most composed men I ever knew. I was doing odd jobs for the War Office already, and I found out James knew this, through what might be called the 'old boy's circuit'. Still, I couldn't imagine what had made him think of me in particular.

"I arranged a leave, ten days or so, with my chief, wired James to have me met and set off by train. It was late April, and as I changed to the small local train, a sort of Rowland Emmett affair with a staff all ninety in appearance, the countryside was really lovely. We went through a number of sleepy little towns and green valleys, until in late afternoon the creaky old car attendant warned me that Tolferry was next.

"James was there to meet me and I was shocked at his appearance. He was a big blond chap, like me in his late twenties, with a Guards mustache and normally a genial grin. Now, though, he looked both pale and harassed, as if some overpowering worry, some strain of overwhelming proportions were eating at his vitals. He tried to smile as he seized my bags, but it was a poor effort. Yet there was nothing in the least false about his relief at seeing me.

" 'My dear man!' he said. 'This is really awfully good of you. I'm at my wit's end. I had heard ...' and here he paused in some confusion, 'not to put too fine a point of it ...

"Lionel Penruddock, at this Juncture, was one of the most controversial members of the younger order. He was also, in the opinion of many, a complete swine. He used women as if they were candy, and at least one girl was known to have committed suicide over him. As a young man. he was asked to leave Italy, at roughly the same time as Aleister Crowley and his commune, and for the same reasons, or worse. He could now no longer dig in Egypt, even the easygoing Egyptians having had enough of his treatment of native labor, which had culminated in the deaths of three experienced men whom he had run afoul of, or the reverse. The verdict was 'loss of life due to a sandstorm,' but no one believed it. There was much more which I will not go into, and not all of it was this personal. The Foreign Office, as we knew, was beginning to take an interest in Lord Lionel, who had many strange and quite un-archaeological friends in many countries, including both Russia and Germany.

"When all this has been said, it has to be added that he was also a master of his chosen profession. He was that rare thing, a truly, all-round expert. One year he was astonishing the world with the work he did at Gohklat, and its amazing revelations of the Sarmatian Migrations. The next, he discovered the Codex Panamensis, extending the Old Empire Maya hundreds of miles beyond their previously known southern boundaries. And his fantastic recovery of a Gokstad type of Viking ship from the Namib Desert of Southwest Africa made even his most bitter professional rivals admit that he had genius.

"I had thought him to be in the Far East, but he was not. And as we drove, my poor friend attempted to tell me why his brother's appearance had so upset him and his household.

" 'He simply popped up here, Donald, about a month ago. Had a couple of chaps, very rum ones, too, with him and asked if he could use the cliff cottage. Well, Isobel can't stand him, you know, and if he wanted to stay, this way he was at least out of the house. I've never got on with him, and he makes it plain he thinks, and always has, that I'm a complete ass. But, well, he is my only brother and he's never asked me for anything before. He's got his own money, you know, and lots of it. Mother left him a packet and he is no fool at business. So, the long and the short of it is ...'

"The long and the short of it was, of course, that James, good fellow that he was, had told his brother to use the cliff cottage as long as he liked, assuming not unnaturally that Lord Lionel sought no more than a quiet vacation. This building was a comfortable house made of stone and perched on the edge of the cliffs not far from the ruined castle of the ancestral Penruddocks. They did not use it, and it was usually to let, often to artists of some means. It was a mile from Avalon House, and that was a million miles too close for my friend's wife. Lionel's wedding present (he did not attend at St Margarets, Westminster, needless to say) to James and Isobel had been a Tantric image of such startling and revolting obscenity that James, noting it to be covered with jewels of undoubted worth, instantly sent it under seal to the British Museum, where no doubt it still reposes in some obscure vault. It certainly could never be exhibited. That incident may give you all some small idea of Lionel, by the bye.

"Lionel, however, reappeared at the house during breakfast the following day, making his brother and sister-in-law extremely nervous, since they had expected (and hoped) to see nothing further of him during his stay. But he was perfectly polite in his sardonic way, and he could be charming when he chose. What he wanted, it seemed, was something quite simple. He had a little time on his hands, and noting and remembering the old ruined pile of stone, the aforesaid 'castle,' he had come to ask his brother for permission to dig around and about it. His two 'assistants' would be all the help he needed. I'll have occasion to speak further of these two.

"James could see no reason why his brother should not pursue his excavations if he wished. The castle was even further from Avalon than the cottage, which may have played some part in his decision. And the place was not much visited. It had an ill-omened name throughout the countryside, and the children did not play near it, while adults mumbled about 'pookahs' (the local 'good folk') if the site was mentioned. It crouched on a black fang of rock which thrust out into the ocean far below and was really nothing but a gigantic jumble of stones, some of them, including the foundation, of absolutely enormous size and all laid without mortar. It had not been occupied, so far as anyone could tell, since early Plantagenet times, and some said it was far older. No roads led to it, and it had escaped the attention of any serious researchers up to that point.

"Lionel left with his brother's permission and did not reappear. He got his supplies sent in by truck, and one of the two assistants barrowed them over the hills on a cart to the cliff cottage. Lionel had a shooting brake, an early form of the American station wagon, but it was not much used, save for a rare trip to London once in a while.

"At this point, my friend stopped the car, or rather pulled it off of the road to one side. His hands were actually shaking and frankly, I was just as happy he had them off the wheel. The road, as I have said, often ran very close to the cliff.

"One week after permission had been given to dig, the phenomena, for want of a better word, commenced. And they began, appropriately, at night"

Ffellowes put his cigar out and rang the bell for another brandy. He stared at the books opposite him, but no one spoke, and the crackle of dying coals in the fireplace was quite audible. Then he went on.

"Now what I am going to tell you next is not my own information, but second-hand. Nor was it as clear and sorted out as you chaps will hear it James was a fine fellow, but a good specimen of Anglensus inarticulatis. I had to keep making him stop and go back over things, and also to keep him from interrupting himself or simply mumbling. The fact was, he was so terribly embarrassed about the whole thing, even with me, and also so frightened (and ashamed of that) that he simply couldn't tell a coherent story. But what I heard finally was roughly this:

"On the night I mentioned, everyone had gone to bed early, as country folk tend to. Around two in the morning, James was awakened by a sound, or rather, two sounds. The first was the sound of a horn, a brassy, echoing bawl, not the clear note of a hunting horn. As he sat up in bed, the horn fell silent, and the night was broken by a hideous screaming, as if, as he put it, 'a thousand pigs were being killed all at once!' Then, there was silence, except that all the dogs on the place, a half dozen setters, retrievers, and such, all started to howl in unison. These in turn fell silent, but a great wind began to sweep in from the Atlantic, and all the house shutters and doors rattled while slates were dislodged from the roof. This sudden gale lasted about fifteen minutes and then died away as suddenly as it had started.

"That was the first incident. Of course the whole household was roused at this one, maids scurrying about and squawking, grooms rushing about, gardeners in an uproar, lights blazing and general confusion. James took over with a few Guards bellows and managed to restore something like order, but it wasn't easy. Those screams particularly, had been appalling. Isobel got the house staff in shape finally, while James led a force of the younger men out with lights and shotguns to see what they could find.

"They found nothing, I may say, either then or the next day, nothing at all. And when they got to the cliff cottage, Lionel appeared and, on being questioned, denied hearing a sound. James informed the police, and a local bobby came out, poked about and went away, managing to convey without words that the gentry should have better things to do than bother the police with utter nonsense.

"For three days nothing further occurred. That is, nothing tangible. Yet, there was a feeling of oppression in the atmosphere, very odd in March, to be sure. The servants were nervous, and one London maid gave notice and left at once. On the third night, James was roused from an uneasy sleep by more screams, but this time plainly human and emanating from his own house, from the servants' wing in fact. Rushing to investigate, he found the butler trying to control the cook and the maids, one of whom had fainted while the others were simply hysterical. When the unconscious one was revived and the others quietened, the girl told the following story:

"She had been sewing in her bedroom when she happened to look at her window, which incidently was shut. Pressed against the glass was a face, and she almost fainted again attempting to describe it. It was very pale, she said, and the eyes were black and burning. The hair was long and black also, and so were the beard and mustache. A great weal or scar ran across the forehead. She had screamed and her friends had run in from their adjoining rooms. The first in had seen movement at the window also, though no more than that, just as the room's occupant had fainted. Now even as they all stood in the girl's room, they were all suddenly aware that the wind had risen again from out of the west and was roaring at full blast about the house. And James felt a strange tingling of his skin, as if, he put it, he were somehow in the center of an electric discharge. He did then not ask if the others felt anything, not wishing to add to the panic, but he did ask the butler alone the following day, and the man, an old soldier, said that he at least had not noticed it.

"The wind dropped again and they all got back to bed, all the servants now sleeping two to a room." Ffellowes smiled at us as he continued.

"What I have omitted from my account is that the servant in question, the maid, lived on the third floor. When James examined the room both from the inside and from the lawn on the following morning, he grew very upset indeed. The house, you see, was covered with an immense and hoary canopy of ivy, and it was clear that this had been disturbed in more than one place. Some of the stems of this plant were over two inches thick, you know. Whatever the girl had seen, and she was a local lass of an unimaginative nature, it was clearly material.

"My friend and his wife decided to face the matter in the open. They called in all the staff, from outside as well as the house people, and told them they could leave, that they were not expected to face whatever was going on, and that the Penruddocks would think none the less of them if they did, though they themselves would stay. It was their home and their responsibility. And here, I may say, James interjected something that interested me greatly. 'I felt somehow. Donald, that whatever happened. I had to stay, was compelled to stay, what?' he told me.

"Well, he and his wife had a surprise coming, and a very pleasant one. The staff had had its own conference earlier, and they were not leaving, not even the girl who had fainted. They were all Cornish men and women, and the Penruddocks were their responsibility, as well as the other way, you see? Remember the loyalty of Cornwall to Charles the First when all else was lost—' Under the sometimes stolid Saxon exterior, there burns often the ancient stubborness of the Celt.'

"This display of loyalty heartened Isobel and James immensely, and Isobel even wept. Then they all got down to business. No one, when asked, thought that calling the police again would serve any purpose save to embarrass all concerned. On this they were all agreed. James issued all the shotguns and sporting rifles that he owned, and most of the men were veterans of the Great War. They arranged watches and made sure all doors and windows were locked after dark. Then they waited.

"James did one further thing. He went to call on Lord Lionel. He found him in the yard of the cliff cottage, issuing some instructions to one of his assistants, a short dark man with a most unpleasant face. As it happened, he approached without either of them seeing him at first and heard Lionel addressing the other in a foreign language, or rather, he thought, a very local one. Few in those days spoke Cornish, the original tongue of the land, which like Gaelic and Erse, was even then dying out, leaving only Welsh as the surviving British Celtic. But my friend had once had an old nanny who spoke it, and he thought he recognized it, though, as he put it to me, 'It didn't sound quite right, but foreign somehow.'

"When Lionel saw his brother, he seemed irritated and waved his helper away. 'What now, noble Earl?' he said in an unpleasant manner, 'more of your bogles frightening the tweenies?'

"James kept his temper and simply told his brother what had happened and asked him to keep his eyes open. The response was a jeering laugh. 'Good God, James, I think you've all gone round the bend up there. Faces at the window! I should think you would keep this to yourself. Well, I'll say nothing. I don't want to be known as the brother of a lunatic, infected by the hysterics of a still-room slut. But don't expect me to join your witch hunts. I have better things to do.' And with that he had stalked into the cottage. This was the help he offered his only brother, who had never done him anything but kindness.

"James had expected little else. Lionel had been as hateful and unfriendly as a child as he was as a man. So this display was nothing new. But, as he told me about it, a thought began to stir in my own mind. All of this peculiar business had started when Lord Lionel appeared. Was there a direct connection?

"My friend went on with his tale, less disjointed now and easier to follow as he became somewhat more relaxed. It appeared that he and his household were living under siege, in a way, and a strange siege it was. The apparition of the face had not reappeared, but other things had. For one there was the smell.

"It had first been noticed in the cellars, by the butler, who was looking through the wine bins. It was a rank stench, which seemed to seep through the floor; and although they had bolted the cellar doors and stuffed rags around the cracks, it still got into the house, though far more faintly or the place would have been unlivable entirely. I smelled it myself later on, and I can assure you it was awful, a reek of graveyard mold, mixed with other, less describable things. Further, it seemed to ebb and flow, being weak at times and billowing up at others.

"The house had always kept a few sheep in a paddock, and also a small herd of dairy cows. One night, two sheep and a cow were found slaughtered, and not simply slaughtered but frightfully mangled, as if by a pack of wolves. No one had heard a sound, but the wind had been going through one of its sudden western gales, and it would have taken an artillery discharge to penetrate that. Indeed, this strange new wind, which always blew from the west when it came, was another mystery. It came at the same time or sometimes a bit beyond one of the other outrageous happenings, as if they summoned it; and though it did not direct harm, the Avalon folk were learning to dread its coming, for it always seemed to presage some appalling happening, or at least the imminent discovery of one.

"James had pulled the car back onto the road and we again resumed our slow way over the hills and gulleys. As he drove, he continued the sequence of events at what had once been the happiest of homes.

"Thank God, Isobel and I have no kids yet," he went on. 'We were sorry before, but, by the Eternal, we're not now. They'd have gone off their chumps at half of what we've been through in the past fortnight.' And this remark also set me thinking, though in a quite other direction to his.

"Now we were winding up the long drive to Avalon House, leaving the sea cliffs at our backs. As we pulled up to the entry, we saw two figures on the stairs. One was Isobel, whom I knew and loved, but with her face pallid and haunted-looking, and lines no woman her age should have possessed around her eyes and mouth. She seemed particularly glad to see us both.

"There was no welcome in the eyes of the other figure, and I knew who he was long before James made the introduction. I had seen Lord Lionel's picture on many occasions, but I should have known him anywhere, I think.

"He was middle-sized, far below his brother's blond bulk in height, and as dark and pale as James was fair and ruddy. He was by no means ugly, his long black hair framing a white, clean-shaved face of considerable good looks. Nor was he a weakling, for his shoulders were immense for his stature, and his grip was that of an athlete. Yet I disliked him on sight, the instant I saw the cold jet eyes, and should have done so even had I not known of his past record.

"His voice was rather high and strident as he turned to speak to his brother. 'You'll have to call off those peasants of yours, James,' he said in an arrogant way. 'Damned if I can afford to have these taradiddles of yours mucking up a site I am working on. That fool of a gardener was staring at my men the other day for an hour while they worked. They are highly trained and I can't afford to have them upset, d'you hear!'

"His tone was quite insufferable, and his brother flushed to the eyebrows. I was expecting trouble right then and there, but James controlled himself admirably. I expect he had had plenty of practice in his youth.

" 'I shall see no one bothers you,' he answered coldly. 'You know why the men are looking about even though you profess to believe none of it. Since you have neither help nor advice to offer, I suggest that you, in turn, stay out of my hair!'

"It was a funny little scene, or rather odd. Lionel actually took a step backward, and Isobel looked at her husband in puzzlement I don't think either of them had expected the icy tone or the rebuke from my gentle friend. I must say it took me by surprise as well.

"Lionel left abruptly and we went into the house. The butler, Traheal, was an old acquaintance of mine from the Penruddock townhouse, and he took me up to my room.

'His Lordship told me why he had asked you, Captain, if I may be so bold,' he said. 'We badly need some help, sir.' His voice dropped as he went on. 'The Powers of Darkness, sir, that's what we're facing. In my opinion, we need a priest. If this goes on we'll all have to leave.'

"He had been a sergeant on the Western Front and was no chicken. I bathed and got ready for dinner in a state of some perturbation.

"Dinner passed quietly, but conversation was strained, and there were long periods of silence as each of us fell into our own thoughts. We went early to bed.

"I awoke suddenly about three a.m. with a sense that something was about to happen. On impulse, I moved to the window and looked out. A red half-moon was partly hid by racing clouds, and the wind seemed to be rising. The stunted trees down toward the cliff face were bending toward the house. For some reason I felt that something was racing to the land from far, far out on the deeps.

"Then there came a sound. It seemed to come from a long way away, but it was very loud. It did have a direction, which seemed to me to be down the coast to my left. I was on the second floor, in a room facing the front drive and hence the sea. As to the sound, it was really several sounds, a medley, so to say. Overriding the rest were what sounded like the blaring of several immense trumpets, echoing and challenging, a brazen uproar. Under this ran a strange susurration of what sounded like shouting, or perhaps screams, with an occasional ringing noise, as of metal being struck. All this ran perhaps twenty seconds and then was cut off suddenly. There was a pause and I could hear the west wind gathering strength.

"Across that in turn broke out the horrible squealing cry, or cries, which James had described to me in the car as the sound of pigs being killed. But in me they produced a different reaction. I felt I was listening to something with a note of triumph, as if something foul beyond endurance, and not only foul but alien, was rejoicing and reveling in victory. It made my flesh creep, and my hands went white as I pressed the window ledge.

"This, too, was suddenly cutoff, and now the wind was making all the noise needed, tearing and raging in from the ocean and buffeting the house with great fury. The clouds were blasted away from the moon, and far out at sea I could see the white spume of great waves.

"On impulse, I opened the window, which, like all in the house, had been both shut and bolted. The wind tore into the room, making the heavy drapes stand out, and actually pushed me back a bit! As it did so, I had the most extraordinary sensation. I smelt apple blossoms! And not just smelt them, I felt drenched in the scent, delicious and exhilarating. Now early April may produce this scent in southern England, but hardly at night on a sea cliff in the midst of a gale! Time seemed to stand still as I inhaled the delicious odor, and I could hear nothing over the roar of the great winds.

"Then, that too was gone, after some few minutes, perhaps ten. The wind dropped to a gentle breeze, the clouds gathered, and a light rain began to fall. I was suddenly conscious that my room door was open, that I was wearing silk pajamas and was getting awfully cold. I slammed the window shut and turned to find James standing in the doorway.

"He was wearing a dressing gown and slippers over his night clothes. And he was staring at the window and the night sky over my shoulder, a strange look of pain on his face. His face had lost any trace of its normal amiability and looked hard and set. He spoke softly, as if to himself.

" 'Too late, too late!' he said. 'Ever the cycle repeats and there is no escape.' His voice dropped and he said two more words I could hardly catch at all. One sounded like 'curse' while the other might have been 'migraine' or something that sounded like it.

"Then his face cleared and it was as if he had seen me for the first time. 'Well, Donald,' he said in his normal tones, 'what do you think of a month of things on that nature? A pretty noise to have around one's home, eh, quite apart from all else. D'you wonder I fear for Isobel's sanity?'

" 'Why don't you leave?' I said on impulse. 'Or at least, send her away while you and I try to puzzle this out'

" 'Because she won't go.' His voice was inexpressibly tired. 'Not unless I go and I can't! I must stay and face this thing down and I don't know why. I just know I must. My God, what have we done to be afflicted with this?'

"I did not refer to the earlier words he had spoken, then or later. I was sure, you see, that he had no memory of them and would have been further upset by the conviction that his mind was going, and this was the last thing I wanted. We were going to need clear heads before this business was over, of that I was sure. But the words had started a train of thought in my mind, though I hardly dared voice my thoughts, even to myself. They were too monstrous and incredible.

"The next morning I spent some time in the library, a vast old place in which my host and hostess seldom entered, neither being bookworms. It had many rare volumes, collected by ancestral Penruddocks no doubt, but modern things, too, and I had no trouble finding the reference I sought I still could not quite face what I was thinking, for if I was right, a tragedy as old as time was building up before my very eyes, and I was powerless to interfere.

"The morning passed quietly enough. None of us referred to the previous night, by common and unspoken agreement, but the faces of all of us were haggard and full of strain. The servants were very quiet, but their faces were set and grim. Theirs' was loyalty indeed. I honor them.

"After lunch I asked James if he thought Lionel would mind if I strolled down to look at his site. The castle lay a mile or so south on the coast, and for reasons of my own I wished very much to see it, as well as to find out exactly how it could be reached in the most expeditious manner.

" 'Can't think why he should object,' said my host 'But you've seen what he can be like, damn him. He's always been like that, you know. A word and blow, that's Lionel since birth. No one but mother could stick him at all, and he even frightened her at times.' His face hardened in thought.

" 'I can't think why you shouldn't be allowed to look at his work. It's my own castle, when all's said and done, not his. Go ahead. He'll hardly be likely to treat you as he does the servants, after all. But you can be prepared for some piece of rudeness, all the same. I wish to goodness he'd take it into his head to go away! I don't think he has a friend in this country, even among his fellow pot hunters.'

"Back in my room I put on heavy shoes, for the track to the castle was a rough one, I had been warned. I also borrowed a stout stick, of blackthorn, from the cane holder downstairs, and thus equipped, I set out.

"It was a still afternoon and fog lay in the hollows. I had excellent directions and a pocket compass as well, for there were bogs and ghylls as well as the sea cliffs, of course. But I swung somewhat inland. I did not want to be observed as I went from the cliff cottage, and the road ran past the drive to Avalon and stopped there. I saw the roof of the cottage well before I got to it and was able to avoid it by going even further east until I was well past. The going was not bad, and though I saw no bogs close by, I caught glimpses of livid green in the distance, but way off my line of march. Now I angled back toward the coast, and after another half mile or so, I saw the castle in front of me. I had studied pictures of the thing in the house, but the reality was something else.

"A great point of dark rock jutted out over the sea, perhaps a hundred yards square. In the center of this, on a flat area, lay a huge pile of tumbled blocks, as black or blacker than the weathered cliff on which they rested. The foundation layers were intact, to double the height of a man, but above that, all was destroyed. The huge blocks of stone looked as if some giant had reached down and crushed the upper courses into ruin, like jackstraws turned over by a child. I do not think modern explosives could have done a more thorough job, even today. I had no idea that engines of destruction had reached such a level in medieval times, or even earlier, if some of the rumors about this place were correct.

"The area looked truly desolate, for I could see none of the white streaks that would indicate that sea birds nested there. But as I worked my way closer, down a bracken-covered slope, I began to feel uncomfortable. There was an atmosphere I did not like about this pile of time-worn rock. I could see why the locals disliked the place. I felt an air of something menacing, as if somewhere around me something old and strange were brooding over its wrongs, with silent hate emanating from every fiber of its being. I raised my glance and saw the smoke of a steamer far out on the wave-tossed horizon. Around the cliff foot, hundreds of feet below, the sea beat endlessly with a constant roar. But this view of normal things did not dispel the feelings that had been aroused by the pile of shattered stones before me. Almost, they seemed to increase them, by making the place itself more of an intruder, something which had no habitation here in the normal world.

"I was not very close to the foundation, but no more than several yards, and suddenly out of a hole I had not even seen in the rocks, a little to my right, a man's head popped out, making me start back. We stared at each other for a second in silence, and then the man whisked down into the cavity from which he had emerged so silently. Now, I could hear movement below, and the dark visage of the person whom I sought appeared. Lord Lionel climbed out easily, and I now noticed the very tip of a ladder protruding from the black hole behind him. Two other men followed him, and the three stood watching me attentively for a moment.

"Lord Lionel was the first to break the chilly atmosphere, though he did not sound particularly friendly.

" 'Ffellowes, eh? Come to look over the dig? Didn't know you chaps at the War Office ever got outdoors these days, let alone took an interest in archaeology.'

"Now this was a bad mistake, and if I were right in my gathering suspicion, the first the man had made. That I was attached to the War Office and not doing regular duty in my own branch of service was not all that well-known a fact. James knew it because he had asked very high up indeed. That much I had checked. But this meant that Lord Lionel had also been asking questions about me. I let none of this show in my face but looked casually about, while very conscious of his intent gaze. And I managed to get my first good look at his two helpers. They were interesting, too.

"They might have been brothers and perhaps were. Both were short massive men, very swarthy, unshaven and dirty-looking in soiled work clothes. They had high cheekbones and narrow black eyes, eyes in which I read contempt and dislike as they watched me impassively.

"Lionel must have noticed something, since he suddenly spoke harshly to them in a language I had never before heard, a tongue both lilting and harsh at the same time. I suppose it might have been Cornish, as James thought, but these two looked like nothing I had ever seen in Cornwall, or anywhere in the British Isles, for that matter.

"Both men ducked back down the ladder, and as they vanished into the depths, something stirred in my memory. Men like these and piles of black stones somehow went together, as if belonging! No, what was that memory?

" 'Not much to see, I'm afraid, Ffellowes. I'm still trying to clear a lower passage. There have been a number of rock falls. It's a bad place and only for experts. Can't ask you down, I fear, since the risk is mine should you happen to be hurt.'

Under this show of concern lay an almost open sneer. I was not to be allowed down, whatever the pretext, that was plain.

" 'Shouldn't dream of troubling you,' I answered, keeping my face as blank as I could. 'I'm sure you and these chaps of yours know how to work in safety. Never cared for scrambling about in holes, myself.' I dared not be too much the silly ass, but I could hint at it 'What was that jabber you were giving them? Some Wog or Gyppo language?'

"His dark eyes narrowed as he studied me. I hoped I had not overdone the Pukka Sahib image. The wind soughed and wailed around us as he answered slowly.

" 'Yes, it's an Arab dialect. My helpers were trained in the field by my own methods, in the Near East. This way they don't gossip. I don't like gossip, Ffellowes, or prying either.' He took a step closer to me. 'Now, My dear captain, I have work to do. I suggest you finish your Cook's tour elsewhere. Perhaps,' he added, 'you can go back and hold my brother's hand. He seems to need it, now that he's taken to believing in bogey men.' The malice was naked and so was something else. James had told me that his brother held him in contempt. But this was not contempt that I saw, but pure hatred, a very different thing.

" 'I say, that's a bit raw,' I mumbled. 'Still, if you have things to do, I'll push on.' What I should have liked to do was push in his nasty face, or have a good stab at it. I had determined not to lose my control, and I turned away still mumbling inaudibly.

"I thought that was to be the end of the encounter, but I was wrong. I had underestimated the depths of Lord Lionel's anger. His temper, always evil under the surface, now flared up. I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I was spun around to find him glaring at me from a foot away, his face bone-white with passion.

" 'You can tell my brother to stay out of my hair!' he hissed at me, his voice actually shaking. 'Tell him to stay away from here and keep his damned house pets out of my business, too, or, by heaven, I'll give him something to really moan about! Now, get out!'

"This was too much, even for my role of chartered idiot I chopped his hand aside with the edge of mine, a blow that really hurt, and had the satisfaction of seeing him wince. 'I think, sir,' I said coldly, 'that you have been in too many primitive places recently. You forget yourself. This is England, you know.'

"I meant to infuriate him further, in the hope of learning more, but I was only partly successful. His face contorted in fresh rage, but suddenly changed. Over it instead, stole a most malignant and evil smile.

" 'Yes,' he said in quiet tones. 'Now how could I have forgot that? We are in Merry Old England.' And he began to laugh! Still chuckling, he stalked over to the gap in his ruin and lowered himself down, without giving me the benefit of another glance.

"I walked back toward the house over the main track, having no reason to conceal myself any longer. As I walked I tried to puzzle out all the mixed and convoluted things and impressions that swam about my mind. One of them was the realization that whatever tongue his lordship had used to his men, it was nothing out of the Near East. I knew something of those languages even as a young man, and the inflections were totally different. So, why had he lied? Because the real truth would have meant something, would have given some clue as to what he was doing? I concentrated. James thought the language to be Cornish or something like it. It was not Gaelic or even Welsh. I did not speak either, but had heard both often enough. Could it be the soft Celtic of Ireland (though that was a rare speech even back then). No, the consonants were far too harsh and clipped, and those two stunted giants looked like no Sons of Erin in my experience. The answer lay elsewhere, and as I thought, the vision of those two and the great black stones came unbidden to my mind, and with the vision came the solution. There was another Gaelic, or rather Celtic tongue still in use in Europe! I saw in my mind the great menhirs and dolmens of Brittany, the stones of mist-shrouded Carnac, lost in antiquity, about which dark legends still circulated among the peasants. Those two were Bretons!

"Now why should the employment of Bretons be a secret? I racked my brain as I strode along past the cliff cottage, paying the place no heed, since I knew it to be empty. I think I later paid for this piece of egregrious stupidity, since I might possibly have had a very useful look around. But, meanwhile, I was turning over in my mind what I knew of Brittany, ancient and modern, which was damned little, actually. I knew, and don't ask me why, that they had a dismal separatist movement from France and even a 'national anthem', whose name sounded like 'Bro Goz Ma Zadou'. This meant nothing. I surmised that it was the past of Brittany, the last Celtic stronghold on the continent, that was important. And of that I knew little. No one seemed to know who had built Carnac. The whole peninsula had always been a hotbed of legends and folktales, even before medieval times. Among other things, King John, Richard the Lion Heart's most unpleasant brother, had murdered his nephew, Duke Arthur of Brittany, who had a better claim to the Plantagenet throne that he. And what else? Something was just out of reach in my mind! Legends, cults, Carnac, Prince Arthur (why that name?), Celtic mysticism, black stones, west winds, apples, all of this mishmash meant something, if only I could think of what!

"By this time, I was at the house and I hurried in to tell James what I had seen. We sat in the old drawing room, and I related my afternoon to both of them. Isobel, after pouring tea, told me that none of it, save for one thing, conveyed anything much to her.

" 'You've seen what he's like, Donald,' she said. 'You have no idea, really, what poor James has had to put up with, even going back to childhood. Many of the stories are family secrets. No, James, I simply won't be silent any longer, not to Donald. Why was he asked here, if not to help?' James subsided into a chair, muttering 'dirty linen' into his tea cup.

" 'I think you are quite correct,' she went on to me, 'about this hatred, I mean. Yes, he has pretended to find James silly and stupid, but I have seen him look at James when he thought no one else was watching. He hates you, darling, and always has.' She turned back to me, her tired face still glowing with love.

" 'When they were still little, Donald, still in the nursery, Lionel tried to kill James. They are only two years apart in age. He packed a fruit cake, or rather James' portion, with ground glass! I don't think he could have been eight years old!'

"My friend looked at me after she had spoken. 'I'm afraid it's true, you know. Had a good old nanny, who didn't take to Lionel, and she saw him do it. Told Dad, and we were sent off to separate schools. If it hadn't been for an open scandal and mother's weeping, I think it might have come out in the open. As it was, Dad made him see some alienist or something: they were just coming in then. I've seen the medical reports. Chap said he could do nothing with Lionel, nothing at all, and would be afraid to try. Fact is, I've never felt quite safe while he was nearby. Sounds silly, but Isobel and I have no kids, which makes him heir. Rotten thing to suspect your own brother, but he's been such an all-round bloody piece of work ...' His voice trailed off.

" 'That's the oldest of all crimes,' I said in a tight voice, 'murder for a throne or title. If you get away with it, it's called rebellion. One thing is clear to me, and that is that all your present troubles have started since your brother came on the scene. To my knowledge, and I'd like this confirmed, there has never been any trouble of any even vaguely supernatural nature in this house, or around it, until recently?'

"Isobel looked at James. After all, it was his house. He shook his head, finally. 'No,' he said, 'I can think of nothing. I expect I would have heard, too. I used to be awfully put down about it as a kid at school, come to think of it. All the others had places with Anne Boleyn or someone walking, and Cavaliers on the battlements. When they asked me, I had nothing to tell them, not even a monk or headless serf, or whatever. No, Donald, there has never been anything of the kind here.'

"I could only take refuge in silence. Poor devil, if my slowly coalescing ideas were correct, he was about to get an overabundance of all the things he had treated so lightly!

"We dined early. There was little conversation, and that was of a nature which omitted any discussion of what we were awaiting. Traheal came up the stairs with me, and I knew that, on his part, it was no accident. 'Well, sir,' he said hoarsely, 'have you got some idea now of what we are going through?'

"I stared at him, not out of any class consciousness, I assure you, but simply because my thoughts were elsewhere. Then, I realized that a good man was asking for information.

" 'Yes,' I answered bluntly. 'I think the whole thing centers around his lordship's brother. What do you think?'

"The blaze of anger on his face surprised me, though it should not have done so had I thought. After all, Lord Lionel had grown up in these parts.

" 'I knew it,' he said. 'Just what I've been telling the rest of them. There's black evil, and he's the man to bring it. Sir, when he was even a little child, he was wrong. We all knew this! The Earl, God bless him, never could see what his brother was like ... but we could! My father was of the opinion that he was mad! All the servants used to watch him when he was young, so that he was never unobserved. We all felt that he would do his lordship an evil. And he tried, sir.' He looked at me in a questioning way, as if debating what else he could tell me.

" 'I know about the ground glass,' I said in answer to his look. 'I shall do my utmost to protect the Earl and Countess, yes, and you all as well. But I may need help. If I am right, there is a most ancient malignancy gathering around this house, yes, and one which seems to be gaining strength.' Looking back from this distant point in time, it seems the maddest conversation ever held between a guest at an English country house and its dignified butler! But, you know, after what we had seen it seemed quite normal, in the context.

"I continued: 'By the way, Traheal, did you know the two men Lord Lionel employs were Bretons? I am told that their language is very close to the original Cornish. And I think Lord Lionel doesn't want this known. Do you make anything of that?'

"He paused in the act of opening my door, his face thoughtful. 'We used, back in the old smuggling days, sir, to have a lot to do with the Bretons. Long before my time of course, but I've heard many tales from the older folk. There was a lot of intermarriage among the sailors, back in Napoleon's day and earlier, my granny used to say. Most of us have some Breton blood in us, if you can believe the stories. And they do say, too, that a Cornishman could understand them, and vice versa, those of us who used the old talk, mind you. But there's none of them left now that speaks it any longer.' He paused, still thinking, or rather, trying to recall some thought. 'I don't know, Captain, that we have much in common any longer. This is King Arthur's land, you know, sir, and I do seem to remember somewhere that the Bretons lay some claim to him, too, some old stories about him living there or something. Maybe that's how the languages got to be the same? They tell us now, Captain, that there was no such King and that the whole thing was a made-up tale of some old writer.' He laughed, his rosy countryman's face clearing. 'You'll never get a Cornish man or women to believe that, now. Why, to us the King over there in London, and a fine man he is, meaning no disrespect, I assure you, he's a new chum compared to our king.' His face sobered as he turned to go back downstairs. 'Those two rogues may be Bretons, though I'd hate to claim kinship to such ill-looking scoundrels. But I'll leave you with this, Captain. If those two are Lord Lionel's men, then they're also black evil. None but the worst would willingly do his bidding!'

"He left me with a good deal more than he thought to mull over. A missing piece had dropped onto my puzzle table, though one I could not yet fully assess. The Pendragon! The great king of legend, and the savior of what was last and best in Celtic Britain! Arthur, the most towering shape in the mist of legend, the greatest of folk heroes in Western Europe! Was he a last Roman, as some have postulated, an inspired commander of heavy cavalry? One theory I had read made him Dux Brittanorum, the British war leader left behind by the last Roman garrison to save what vestige of civilization he could from the barbarism reaching out of the north and west. Another school thought him to be Comes Littorae Saxoni, The Count of the Saxon Shore, and thus the guardian of the east coast against the migrating hordes from the dark German forests, pagans and sacrificers to the bloodstained idols of the vast Hercynian woods.

"All accounts agree on a few points, though many of them have become cause for laughter in our present state of so-called enlightenment. Arthur was a Christian, and he fought the sorcery of his enemies with spiritual powers of his own. He was aided by at least one white wizard, usually called Merlin, but sometimes Blaize, or other names. Discounting the Round Table, Galahad, the Sword in the Stone, and other such trimmings, one was left with a series of desperate battles, against diverse foes, such as that of Mount Badon, and final defeat at the hands of ...!

"I opened my window and leaned against the shutter, staring out into the swirling mist. Could this be the solution to my riddle? If it was, Avalon House was a nexus, a focal point for an historic crime, a crime of the immemorial and incredibly antique past. Was it now in the process of recreation? What was Lord Lionel Penruddock, a man of the foulest antecedents, with a limitless potential for evil, doing in that slag heap without a name out there on the cliff? What was he digging for?

"I stared out into the dark, my eyes trying to pierce the wraiths of mist and fog, down to the nameless castle on the rock promontory of that ocean-bound crag. The night was silent, save for the distant murmur of the Atlantic surges against the Cornish shore. Yet I felt, somehow, that far to the west something was stirring, out beyond human sight or the reach of human kind at all. I looked absently at my watch. It was eleven thirty. More time had gone on than I had realized, as I had stood there trying to see light where there was none to see, trying to read sense into a matter so strange that a mention of it in most places would have been grounds for accusations of insanity! It was well for us that no one at Avalon House had returned a second time for help from the police! This battle, for that was how I saw it, had to be fought by us alone, and our antagonist was a man with strange weapons at his command. If I were right, they might be weapons against which we would find ourselves powerless.

"I was about to close and bar the windows when I heard the sound in the night. Far off, to the south, I felt sure, echoing through the mist, came the high, shrill whinnying of a horse. Now, all the horses, the some half-dozen there were, belonging to the estate, were stabled and shut in tight at sundown. So too, with the sheep and cattle. And nothing lay to the south but miles of empty cliff and moor, with no habitations or roads. Save for the cliff cottage.

"And the castle, if that were truly ever a habitation. And anything that issued from the gloomy pile meant this house and all in it no good. Whatever was coming, and I knew in my bones that it was coming, was advancing from there. I knew this also, just as I knew that midnight was fast approaching.

"Then I heard it again, a high-pitched neighing, which got all through my bones, nearer than last time and coming fast. That nickering cry was wrong in some way I could not define. No normal horse would have made such a sound, nor indeed, could have done so.

"At the same time the mist began to swirl and part. It was a cloudy night, and the stars and moon were still hidden. But the ground mist was being shredded, and I heard, far off, the first faint moan of a wind, off in the uttermost west. And almost, so faint I could hardly catch the tremor of a scent in my nostrils, I seemed to smell the delicate perfume of apples. It seemed to give me hope, though why I did not know, and it also spurred me to action.

"I hurled myself out the door and raced down the corridor toward James' and Isobel's bedroom. They had to be roused at once.

"The door was opening as I arrived, and James stood there, fully clothed, with his wife behind him. Like myself, they had not undressed, but on his feet he now wore boots instead of the evening slippers he had worn with his dinner clothes.

"Her face was pale and frightened, though she was striving hard to conceal it. But his? The quiet, placid face of the country squire that I knew was utterly gone. He was a big man, and suddenly a most formidable one as well. His face was set like flint, in a brooding but awesome expression, one I had never seen before and I expect no one else had either. He looked steady as a rock and just as hard to move, but it was more than that. Above all, the impression was regal, in the old sense of the word, that of a great ruler and master of men, one who controlled destiny and was never its plaything.

"And as I stared transfixed at this new and mighty visage, there came from outside in the night the sound of the rising wind and over it the neighing of whatever it was out there masquerading as a horse!

"James turned and gently, without a word, pushed his wife back into the room. I caught one glimpse of her white face before the door closed. Then he turned back to me and stared hard at me for a second, as if in assessment.

" 'He has loosed the Hunter upon us,' he said. 'Do you dare face him, and perhaps worse?' His voice was as strange as his expression had been to me, being deep and sonorous, with each word carefully chosen, as if he were speaking a language which was somehow not his, but a recently acquired tongue.

"I could only nod, for somehow speech seemed out of place, or else my tongue simply would not function in my dry mouth.

"He seemed to understand and laid a hand on my shoulder. 'Then come,' he said, 'Follow and ask no questions for there is no longer time. We must go and face this thing at its lair. What has been summoned must be laid to rest or it will come again and that must not be.'

"In silence, I followed him down the dark stairs and into the great silent hall. The clouds had parted outside, and through a mullioned window came just enough fitful moonlight to show us the way. The moaning of the wind had risen once more to gale force, but over it we could hear the neighing bray of whatever ranged the night, and ever and anon the sound of its hooves, beating a sinister tattoo as they galloped to and fro in the dark and storm.

"A patch of moonlight rested on one wall, and one could see the glimmer as it lighted on the various ancestral weapons which hung there. They ranged from trophies of foreign wars in the East, to mementos of Cavalier and Roundhead, and even older things, Lochaber axes, Scottish broadswords and claymores, with naval cutlasses of various times interwoven in the pattern.

"James moved to the wall and studied it for a moment, then reached up and unhooked a great Scottish broadsword, a thing most men would have needed two hands to swing, though he held it lightly enough in one.

"He turned to me, his face as grave as before and said, very simply, 'Choose.'

"As I hesitated, he added in the same slow, stately way, 'We must use fire or steel. The newer things will not help against that which walks the night. The servants and the woman sleep. They cannot face what we must. Choose!'

"This last was in a tone I could not resist. Nor did the mention of his beloved wife as 'the woman' rouse me to rebellion. Someone else had taken over command, and my business was to obey.

"I stepped over and peered up at the great wall. My hand went out to a blade as if led, and d'you know, the thing I had grasped almost seemed to leap into my hand. The minute I felt the hilt, I knew what I had, for I had handled the weapon in admiration a day or so earlier. It was a long, straight cut-and-thrust, with a basket hilt, made for some remote Elizabethan ancestor by the great Andrea Ferrara himself. I had been handy enough with the saber at Woolwich and later at Oxford. I could have chosen nothing better.

" 'A good choice,' rang out the deep voice at my side. 'A noble sword indeed, though lighter than is my use to wield. Now, let us on to the contest. We face the first challenge and perhaps not the lightest!'

"Grasping the great weapon in his right hand, he strode down the hall and, freeing the bolts, flung open the great oak doors to the storm of wind and to whatever it was I knew waited for us in the night. Out beyond the portico we went, with me three paces behind.

"Facing the darkness, he called above the storm in a voice like roll-thunder. 'Come and do battle, Hunter! You have no place here now! You and your kind were banished to the hills and under them, far back in the lost ages. You have no power over men of trust. I speak for Christ and defy you and all your pack. No longer should you roam the land and bring fear to the lost and the helpless in the dark! Come out, I command, on that horse I overthrew once and shall again!'

"And over the storm and the moaning winds, came an answer! Out of the night came a wild cry, a long rising sound, which pierced the noise of the wind as if it were not there. I could distinguish no words, but the tone was enough. In it, I heard defiance and anger, and something else, a kind of emptiness, as if whatever spoke were wracked with lost hopes and challenged us from bleak despair as well as dreadful hate.

"The moon had vanished for a second or two behind a cloud, and we stood in the dark, facing nothingness. In front of us and quite close, I heard the sound of a hoof, then another. Something was advancing on us and we were sightless!

"The Earl stood, his sword in the guard position, solid as one of his own great gnarled oaks. I raised my own blade, though I could see no target. I felt a sudden chill, which seemed to cut through me like a knife. Then the clouds parted and the pale moon burst through and gave us light. At the same time, the gale from the west seemed to stiffen, and I caught again the sweet scent of apples.

"In front of us, no more than ten yards off, was the outline of a great horse. Its color was a white, an opaque, shifting shade, so that it seemed almost without color at all. Its eyes were the same shade and showed no glint or light. And on its back, saddleless, it bore a rider.

"He was as dark as the horse was light, and seemed clothed in furs of a tight fit, which caught the fitful moonlight and trapped it, giving nothing back. His head was bare, with shaggy hair, and rising from it were two forked projections, as if somehow he had made a cap from the upper cranium of some strange deer. I could not see his face at all, but the flicker of red points came from the place where his eyes should have been. In one hand he held a great barbed spear, and this he now raised to shoulder height.

"I sprang forward as fast I could for I knew I was not the target, but I was too slow for the cast.

"The feeling of cold sharpened suddenly and terribly, and something long and barely glowing flew toward my companion's breast. His long sword flashed in the moon gleam, and there was a crash, as of riven metal. A nimbus of flame curved about his great blade and was gone.

"The light died as the racing clouds once more covered the white moon. Out of the pitch-black air in front of us came that wild cry again, despairing and lost now, its defiance gone, leaving only loneliness and utter wildness.

" 'Begone!' shouted James in that great roar. 'Seek the under hills and lie quiet! On the earth your time is done and your power gone from the world. I command you, get hence and never return!' He held the great sword in both hands with the cross guard facing out.

"The moon came through the clouds again. Before us was ... emptiness! The twin shapes of the strange steed and its night-gaunt of a rider had vanished as if they had never been. And around us, the mighty winds raged as if in salute, roaring in bursts that sounded like my friend's new voice when he gave commands.

" 'Come,' said James, his call sounding clear over the storm. 'We need mounts, so to the stables. The Hunter has lost his power, save against the frightened, and he and his were put down long ago. But this raising of the long-gone is an evil thing and perhaps not the worst. We must go and seek out our enemy in his lair. We must ride to the Caer Dhub, the Fortress of the Dark, and our time is short!'

"I had no argument, indeed I was eager to obey. I was not master here, and I had no purpose of my own any longer, except to serve as best I could. But if I were no more than a pawn, at least I was a willing one, and I raced behind James at my best speed.

"The horses were wild with excitement when we reached the stables, plunging and rearing in their stalls. But James gentled two down in a most marvelous manner, speaking to them in some language I had never heard before. Where he had learned it, I had no idea. But this new James was not the man I knew, and strange tongues were a part of this whole nightmare.

"We saddled up quickly and in a few minutes had ridden out into the full force of the wind. We took the track which led south to the cottage on the cliff, our way marked out by the intermittent moonlight. James galloped in front, an extraordinary figure in his black dinner cloths with trousers stuffed into hunting boots. I wished that I had had time to get some, but my patent leathers were better on horseback than they would have been to walk in. Like him, I carried my sword across the saddle.

"We thundered on through the night, often in sight of the sea, which was beaten to a fury by the wild and howling wind. The gale actually seemed to be still rising, and had we wished to speak, it would have been quite impossible through its shrieking and raging. It tore at us, too, so that we had to crouch over the horses' necks, and they, poor beasts, had to angle themselves against it. But they bore us nobly and never faltered.

"Now on our right I glimpsed a single light. It was one of the windows of the cottage, gleaming through the dark. But our way did not lie there, I sensed, and James never drew rein. Our path was south, south to the grim ruin on the headland, which James had called the Fortress of the Dark. It was from this that all the portents had come, the threats and the wickednesses had been unleashed. It was in that nighted wreckage that some foul sorcery had been revived, and it was there that we must seek its sources, yes, and destroy them.

"I had lost my sense of direction by now, but James cantered on through the bracken and heath, and I simply followed him. Suddenly he put up his left hand, at the same time checking his mount. He gestured to me to draw rein beside him. When I came up, he leaned so close that his mouth was almost on my ear.

" 'We are very close now,' he shouted over the wind's howl. 'We must leave the horses and go to battle on foot. They are of no use to us and they have carried us bravely. We shall let them go and they will take no hurt. Dismount now and follow.'

"I did as he bade and gave my beast a pat on the flank, dismissing it. Both of them cantered back the way we had come, and we were left alone in the night and the storm. In silence we advanced, with me once more backing James. We angled into a gentle downward slope, and now the bellowing of the sea grew louder in front of us as we approached the coast. It had not yet rained through all this storm of wind, but now my face grew damp and I tasted salt. The spray of the Atlantic was being flung hundreds of feet up through the sheer force of the driven air.

"The moon broke through another cloud, and there, downslope, was the ancient fortalice, exposed in all its shattered and titanic wreckage before us. Nor was this all. Two squat shapes were crouched not a hundred feet away, staring in our direction as if awaiting us. As we stood mutually exposed, they rose to their feet and, with wild cries in their harsh speech, rushed at us. One carried a great ax, like a woodsman's but larger, while the other had a strange weapon, a thing like a great rounded hammer, large enough to need the strength of both arms to wield. Lord Lionel might have expected no danger, but he had, nonetheless, left his two guardians.

"It was over in seconds. James took the one on the right with a great sweeping blow, a blow which shore through his ax shaft like paper and drove deep into the fellow's chest. He crumpled up like a felled tree.

"The other swung his huge maul, or hammer, at my head, a swing that would have spattered my brains to pulp had it landed. I ducked under it, though I felt the air move in my hair, and extending my body, left hand on the ground, drove the Ferrara point straight through his heart. He stood for one instant, his face contorted, then fell transfixed to lie by his mate. I wrenched loose the blade and stood up. James was facing me, a look of stern approval on his face. 'A good stroke,' he said briefly. 'Now follow, once more. The last test is to come and it will be far more dangerous than what has gone before. Be silent and keep watch, especially to the rear. We go into the dark, the true dark now, to speak with the master of these creatures.'

"We were both damp with our exertions and the wind-driven spray, up-welling from far below. But I felt no sensation of cold as I walked behind James in the direction of the fortress. Instead, I felt, despite the storm and the bleak surroundings, a sense of high resolve, almost of exhilaration. I felt myself part of a crusade, and yet certainly a stranger one never existed, consisting of two Englishmen in dinner clothes, armed with swords unused for many centuries!

"We crossed the bare wet rock around the site, and James headed unerringly for the spot where I had seen the cavity and its protruding ladder the previous day.

"In the flashes of moonlight we had no trouble picking our way over the rubble and soon the black cavity lay before us. The ladder was still in place.

" 'Listen,' said my friend, pausing above the opening, one hand uplifted. Faintly, above the great noise of the wind and the raging sea, I seemed to hear a far-off throbbing, a beating pulse, as if from some mighty drum deep in the earth. I had no need to ask whence it came.

" 'He is there. Still he works his crimes, still conspires with things that never see the light of day. So be it. He has found that which should not have been disturbed until the end of time. And from it he gains power even now. If we wait longer, matters will grow worse.'

"We two stood now in the lee of a broken wall, whose vast slabs cut off some of the gale. His face was grave, as he seemed to muse on things beyond my comprehension, leaning on the pommel of that giant sword.

"Then he looked up at me, strangely as if in doubt, not of me, I thought, but of something else, perhaps even of himself. 'We must go down. But my strength is less in the shadows under the earth, and his will be more. Let us go now, before I weaken further, from doubt and lack of faith. I will go first. Remember, have an eye to the rear and to the sides!'

"With no more ado he seized the first rungs of the ladder and began to go down. I waited and, when I could no longer see his hands, began my own descent, gripping the sword with two fingers and using the rest to cling to the ladder.

"The ladder was a long one, perhaps twenty feet. When my shoes touched rock, I was glad to stand up and look about James was next to me, peering down the long tunnel in which we now stood. For there was light. Ten paces off, set in a niche in the wall of undressed stone, a kerosene lantern burnt with a dim glow. It was as if the light were changed down here in some way, for the color was odd, a pale light, like marsh fire in a summer bog. Far down the long shallow slope of the tunnel, another spot of similar hue shone in the distance.

"Remembering his warnings, I turned and looked back the other way. Here, the rock floor leveled off, as if we stood at the top of a slope; but here were no lights. Yet I had the feeling that the tunnel did not end near us at all but ran on for unguessable distances through the heart of the hills.

"Raising a finger to his lips, James led off down the gentle slope, his huge blade at the ready. I came behind in equal silence, listening as hard as I was able. Down here, out of the sound of the storm, the silence seemed muffled, but also echoing, so that the faint scuff of our feet rang abnormally loud in my ears. The faint throbbing beat we had heard on the surface had fallen silent as we had come down the ladder, but now it resumed again, louder and louder as we progressed. Then it halted once more, and the silence closed in upon us. We were now some few paces past the second lantern, still descending, and in the remote distance was the glowworm flicker of yet another light.

"All at once, on our left, there loomed up the opening of a huge passage, whose arch was far larger than the one we trod. We listened tensely, but I could hear nothing at first except the faint sound of dripping water some way off in the distance. Concentrating hard, I began to hear something else, or thought that I did. It was a sliding sound, as if something like wet hose were being dragged over a rock. It stopped, and I could only hear the drip of moisture again, but from James' taut face I fancied I had not been mistaken.

" 'If we go on,' he whispered, 'we will have things behind us as well as before. Be twice vigilant.' He turned and moved off again, with me still in his wake.

"As we reached the third of the lights, a distance I estimated of some hundred of yards, I began to be conscious of yet another sound. This was a faint roaring, more of a vibration to be felt, rather than something caught by one's ears. It was not loud, but constant, as if it were coming through the rocks all around us, and it, too, seemed to emanate from in front, the direction in which we were advancing. James heard it also and turned to face me.

" 'We are almost under the sea face,' he whispered in my ear. 'You hear the ocean as it strikes the cliff. There may be a chance still. I had hoped for this.'

"What he hoped for escaped me. This whole episode had taken on the quality of a waking dream in which I felt myself a spectator as well as an actor. I could do nothing except follow and await events, in some world of which I knew nothing, except that it, and James as well, had taken over control of my actions, shaping them to suit themselves.

"We had passed the last light long since, but now ahead of us we saw something new. The tunnel took a sharp bend to the right, and the rock floor no longer sloped at all. From around this bend came a lurid glare, far stronger than the lantern gleam. As we halted to watch, the throbbing boom we had first heard burst out once more, but this time far closer. If it were not some sort of drum, then I had never heard one.

"James motioned me on and led the way cautiously. As we approached, I saw the mouth of still another tunnel opening on our left, just before the bend. It had been hidden from us as we approached by a shallow buttress or stone, which thrust from the tunnel wall. We listened as before, but could hear nothing. But from its mouth came a vile reek, a stench of decay which turned the stomach. It was the awful smell which had so sickened the people at the Avalon House, and I felt sure this was its origin. We moved slowly past the hole and more slowly still to the turn of the passage. Reaching this, we halted and peered around it. I dropped to one knee, with James over me so that we offered as little of a target as possible to any observer.

"What we saw was this: we were staring into a cave or vault, which arched to a high point in the center. It was roughly oval in shape, but appeared to be man-made rather than natural, for its proportions seemed shaped and fairly symmetrical, if rough. It was perhaps three hundred feet in circumference.

"Around the walls were dark alcoves at regular intervals, and between the alcoves rough stone benches had been hacked out of the wall material itself. In the center was a great rectangular block of smooth black stone, unadorned but polished to a glossy sheen, from which the evil light glanced back and glimmered on the walls about. The light itself came from a fire which had been lit just in front of the block itself and on our side. It seemed to be of ordinary logs, but the flame burned with a greenish glow and not the orange of a normal blaze. Smoke swirled about the place, but most of it was carried upward as if by some draught, and I thought there must be a chimney of some sort up above in the viewless center, out of our sight. Between us and the fire, with his back to us, stood a man.

"He seemed to wear a long dark robe and was bareheaded. In the light of the fire I could just see that the robe had reddish symbols or shapes of some sort on its back, but what they were I could not make out. The figure rose to its full height, arms extended over its head, and made some signs in the smoky air. The drum beat sounded louder as if in answer. But where was the drum?

"The sound seemed to come from off to my right someplace. I could not see into the black pits of the alcoves, which the firelight did not reach, and the drumbeat apparently came from one of these.

"Now the figure which postured before us began to chant, a long singsong, in some speech unknown to me. The voice was high and strident, and the sound cut through the drum song and seemed to reach a long way as if carrying to unguessable reaches of space and time. The drumming halted for a second and then resumed, louder and more menacing than before.

"James lowered his head to where I crouched. 'Watch here, as I have told you. I must face what comes alone. Your task is to ward my back, unless I call. God give us strength, and His Son as well!'

"He rose, head erect, and while I watched in awe, he marched straight down into that ghastly chamber, his boots ringing on the rock, his sword loose in his great right hand.

"The figure in front of that grim altar, if that was what it was, whirled as it caught the sound, holding out its hands as if to hold off danger. And a strange sight he was.

"It was Lord Lionel, of course. What we had thought was a robe, was a long cloak, fastened about his neck with a jeweled clasp. Under it he wore a shirt of some coarse stuff that looked like frieze, and below that again a kilt of dark material, falling to just above his knees. On his legs were cross-garters, and his feet bore soft leather shoes, laceless and reaching to the ankles. He might have been garbed to play Hamlet on the stage, even to the curved dagger thrust into a gem-studded belt.

"But there was no playacting here. Even I, who loathed the man, had to admit he looked magnificent. It was as if these were his true clothes, the ones for which he had been born. His lank hair was bound back by a fillet of dull purple, and under it his eyes blazed in his chalk-white face. I read surprise, but that faded and was replaced by the raging hatred I had seen before, the fury of a demon unleashed. As he glared, the drum faltered and fell silent, and once more I heard about us the muffled roar of the Western Ocean. There was an atmosphere of waiting. I felt a wave of cold, alien and charged with malice, coming from the right of the room where the unseen drummer must lurk in the shadow of one of the niches.

"It was James who broke the silence. He took three more steps, which placed him to the left of the fire, forcing his brother to turn also and giving to me full view of both their profiles. The Earl's was calm, with the brooding calm of majesty which I had earlier noted. His strange garb in no way detracted from his towering good looks, and I felt that any clothes would have meant nothing. He was what he was now, and clothes were extraneous.

" 'I have come to end it,' his voice rumbled out. 'I know why you are here and what you have summoned. The Hunter has been sent back to the hills, from whence only your vile arts could have roused him. Your servants, the spawn of ancient and black sorcery in the dolmens and monoliths of the lost, sunken lands of Brittany, lie dead over your head. I know, too, who seeks to be free, with his night wandering and frightening of the countryside. I know, too, how he is to be freed and what a price you will pay for it. Not even a thing like you, with your years of foreign delving into that which should have been long forgot, I say, not even you can fully know what it would cost you, and the world as well, if what sleeps here would once more come into full life!'

"The hatred left Lionel's face for a moment to be replaced by wonder. It was a shock to hear his despised brother, I think, whom he had held in such contempt for years, challenging him on his own ground and, yes, with such a wealth of apparent knowledge. Then his face hardened.

" 'You think to defy me?' he shouted incredulously, 'me, with that stupid sword? You break in here, to this place of the most ancient mystery in the isles, the cavern of the Dark Prince, where lies his tomb? You bring that cretin in the door to attack me, who have sought for knowledge of this place the world over? It is you who are mad! In the name of the Lost One who lies here, I defy you! You have a sword, have you! Well, look on this then, you whom all the world call my brother! Look on the ax of him who lies here, laid in his tomb by the faithful, when he was cheated of his rights by the Christ-worshipers in that last battle, when dying he took with him the enemy of all his hopes!' He rattled out a string of uncouth syllables, and once more that horrid drum began to pulse from its hiding place.

"Lionel had crouched at the base of the great ebon block, which I had thought an altar but which now appeared in its true light. It was a mighty catafalque. I could barely make out the faint, time-scored line of the massive lid.

"When Lionel rose, he had thrown off his cloak and in his left hand carried a great ax, double-headed, with lunate curves, its somber blades giving back no more light than the tomb at whose marge it had lain. On his right forearm hung a small round shield, of apparently the same metal with a spiked boss in the center. A grim and dangerous figure he looked as he circled the black, basalt-hued block and moved in, seeking an opening. I strained to join in, for the shield gave him a deadly advantage, and James had no such defense.

"But I had been given a charge, and I knew I could not yield to impulse. As the drumming rose in volume, I stole a glance over my shoulder to the tunnel at my back. It was well I did.

"Something as pale as white bone was creeping up on me, indistinct in the fire's murky light I caught a glimpse of long thin arms, the fingers ending in huge claws, a face like a starved baboon's skull, all bone and yellowed fangs, with two eyes of opaque flame, pupilless and blinking. That I had turned at the last moment was luck, if anything was due to luck on that mad night I think even the dim glow of the evil fire slowed the monster down, for whatever cavern it had stolen from must have been utterly without light.

"As it snarled hideously and rose from a crouch, I turned and lunged straight at that countenance of hell, between the orbs of pale phosphorescence it used for eyes.

"The blade bent, as the good steel struck something hard, and a shock ran up my stiffened arm to my shoulder. Even as I struck, I heard the clash of steel behind me and knew that James fought his enemy even as I.

"The foulness in front of me screamed, a high whining note which hurt my eardrums, and drew back in a scuttling lope, deeper into the dark of the tunnel. I thought I had struck its skull and knew that I had hurt but not killed it. I, too, drew back to the entrance of the huge cavern. I could not win a fight with that lurker in the shadows without light of my own; protecting James' back came first in any case.

"The thing screamed again and once more came at me in that queer scrabbling way, low to the ground. I had backed almost out of the tunnel now, and the thud-thud of the devilish drums rang in my ears, mixed with the clatter of blows as ax met sword. Now, I had room for a cut and I used it.

"Once more, that unclean head came into the light. The spiderlike arms covered with pallid hairs groped for me. The fangs slavered and it crouched for a spring.

"I cut down and hard, the sweep beginning over my shoulder, and my aim was true. This sword was no courtier's rapier, but the long heavy blade of a soldier, and it bit into that bone, if bone it was, high on that unnatural head, and further yet, with a crunch I could feel down to my toes!

"For the last time I heard that eldritch cry, and as my blade came back to guard, stained with foul blood, the battle ended. Limping and swaying, the thing lurched back up the slope, clutching its mangled skull and wailing hideously, and vanished into the dark above. If I had not given it a death wound, then I had at least removed it from the board. It would make no more mischief that night.

"The ring of arms renewed made me wheel and look below. Here the war still raged and it was not going well. The dark man in the archaic dress was untouched and handling his ax and shield like a master as he circled and struck through the veils of smoke and the uncertain gleam of the fire. James was bleeding from a wound high on one shoulder, though his face was still calm and serene. But his sword was another matter. As he swerved in my direction, I saw that the broad blade was sorely battered, with many notches gouged into the edge. Even as I watched, he struck a terrible blow, which his brother took full on the blade of that grim ax. The weapons clashed together and neither gave an inch. But when James fell back into a guard position, holding the sword in both hands, point up. I saw a fresh notch, while Lionel's ax was untouched. The black metal of ax and shield had some awful power in them, perhaps a trick of forging long gone from the world.

"And he sensed his advantage. Over the rising, battering cry of that damned drum, he called out. 'This ax and shield were made with blood and torment under the hills, brother. Long the owner bargained for them and none could prevail against them! Yield now and I may show mercy!'

" 'One weapon prevailed against them!' came the deep-throated answer. 'They were not victor at the last!'

"Circling again, Lord Lionel sneered. 'Seek in the Hesperides for that weapon, dear brother. It is gone long ages from the earth, as well you know!'

"The drum beat higher still, and the Earl's eyes blazed with blue fury. Lifting high his immense sword, he fell upon his brother's shorter shape and with a series of battering blows began to drive him about the cavern, from one side of the fire to the other. And this was his undoing.

"As Lionel retreated, giving ground but protecting himself beautifully, James slipped and with a tremendous stroke drove his sword down on the stone top of that forgotten tomb. There was a rending crack and three things happened. The sword shattered, close to the cross hilt. The slab of midnight stone also cracked in two, straight across the top, and the drum suddenly ceased. Lionel leapt back, confronting his defenseless enemy in triumph, and, shaking the ax, howled something in that unknown language.

"And the sound of the sea outside on the rocks burst into a shrieking bellow such as I have never heard even in the worst of Pacific typhoons. There was another crash, like thunder, but far harder, and then yet another. High on one wall of the cavern, across the tomb, there appeared a great crack. For an instant, light came through it and a great burst of spray. Another horrendous crash shook the room and the gap doubled in size. A gout of storm-tossed sea poured in with this blow and with it came something else."

Ffellowes looked around at all of us before he continued speaking, but we were as silent as the grave. The library fire had long since gone out, and we sat, intent, lit only by a small lamp in a corner of the bay.

"It was long and glittered," he said at length. "I could not really undertake to say what it was, even to this day. James stooped, groping on the floor, now inches deep. The next wave poured down through the gap, and the fire spat and went out. Only dim moonlight and that only at intervals now lit the vault.

"When I could see again, James was advancing on his brother, and high above his head gleamed something which caught the light with a blue flame.

"The light dimmed again, and Lionel screamed. There was another tremendous crash, but this time it appeared to come from inside the cave.

"For a second there was silence, save for the wind and the water, which was now sloshing about my ankles. The next surge broke through the shattered wall of the place, and as it did, in the dim light something glittering flashed through it and vanished into the wild night outside.

" 'James,' I called uncertainly, 'are you all right?' I could see nothing and hear nothing but the elements pounding on and through the rock. The moon must have been behind a cloud. Suddenly his voice was in my ear, his huge hand under my elbow. 'Quick,' he shouted. 'We must run for it. The cliff is falling! Let me help you!'

"We ran. My God, how we ran. James must have been exhausted, but he was supporting me and wouldn't let go either. Before we reached the first lantern, rock was falling from the tunnel roof, and vast grindings were echoing down its length. I looked back as we passed and already the light was gone in a shower of stone and sand. Ahead of us, the next lamp gleamed faintly in the gloom, but rock was already crashing down between us and its flicker. The surging water would have caught us, I'm sure, had not the tunnel sloped up ever so gently, but I could hear that raging in the rear as well.

"Tripping and stumbling, we passed the second light. The groaning of the rocks was really something now, and cracks began to appear in the tunnel's floor. We had to vault a few but somehow always managed to keep staggering on.

"The next light was close now. As we passed it, a boulder the size of my head crashed down just behind us. An idea full of terror crossed my mind. Would we be able to see the tunnel entrance, the gap in its roof, should the moon not be shining? As it turned out we couldn't, but it didn't matter.

"I simply ran into the ladder, almost knocking my addled brains out. James made me go first, and I didn't argue. You know, I still had the Ferrara sword in one hand; dumb stubbornness, I guess, but I carried it out of that hellhole and later put it back on the wall myself.

"As I climbed out, the moon came out again and flooded the landscape with pale light. But the groaning and cracking in the earth hadn't halted for a minute, and I was damned glad to see my friend's head appear at the top of the ladder. His face was pale and his eyes were half shut. It was I who grabbed him this time and hauled away until he was out of the hole. I got one arm under his shoulder and we lurched off away from the castle toward the east. One moment we were on the slippery rock of the point, the next we were on soft turf, and I never felt gladder of common dirt in my life.

" 'Go on,' he gasped. 'We are not safe yet I know!'

"Up the slope we went, more at a crawl than a walk, I may say, until neither one of us could go a step further, and we simply collapsed into the moist verdure of the hills.

"Behind us, the grandfather of all breaking noises cut loose and we sat up and stared. The whole great finger of stone on which the castle sat was separating from the land!

"Slowly, inexorably in the moonlight, the cliff leaned out and away. There were rending and screeching noises deep down in the earth, and even where we crouched, the ground shook as though with an earthquake.

"James stood up, and that stern look of majesty was never clearer in the moonlight. 'Accursed be thy stones forever!' he shouted over the shattering noise of the cliff fall.

'Lie in the sea bottom until the end of time and never trouble the world again!' As he spoke the whole promontory point, fortress and all, vanished, and a splash roared up like some vast water spout and left us drenched. When the water had left our eyes, a ragged cliff edge ran some dozen yards away from us. Beyond this there was ... nothing.

" 'So passes Caer Dhub,' said James in a strange voice. 'So passes the last of an evil lost in time. And I too pass, yet I will ...' He never finished telling me what he would do because he had fainted. I was nigh on doing so myself, being exhausted as well as dripping wet. But someone had to get back to Avalon House, or else we would both die of exposure.

"I covered him with my jacket and in my soaked, boiled shirt, or the remnants of one, began to stumble over the faint trace Lionel's people had left on the slope. I don't know how long I had been putting one foot down after the other when I saw lights ahead and heard voices. I called out in a croak like that of an asthmatic frog and they heard me. I remember hands holding me up, but nothing more. Apparently I managed to tell them about James before I passed out, but I remember none of it, not until I woke up in my own bedroom at Avalon.

"I lost a whole day there, I later discovered. They found us at about four a.m., and I woke to an afternoon sun going down two days after that! That's what I call needing a rest, eh?

"Well, I got myself up and dressed and wandered downstairs. And here are James and Isobel having tea! You would have thought I'd slipped away five minutes earlier to visit the w.c. With my head full of the last time I had seen James, I could hardly believe my own eyes!

"Of course they leapt up, James spilling his tea in the process, and fell on my neck. Isobel, I was glad to note, looked ten years younger already, her eyes shining and her cheeks with some at least of the old bloom.

"But James! Here was the man I had left three-quarters dead on a cliff after the damndest struggle in my memory, beaming at me in his old tongue-tied way, trying to get out something that made sense in terms of speech!

" 'Can't thank you enough, old chap. I mean, dash it, you've been a trump to help us out this way! The lads on the place tell me you pulled me out of that damned landslide, the one that got old Lionel in the bravest way. I say, really, it was awfully decent of you. I can hardly recall a thing; must have been hit by a rock or something, what?' I was speechless.

"Even the old familiar voice was back, and the deep sonorous tones I had heard on that fatal night were gone forever. The clear boy's gaze which met mine was as untouched by trouble as a three-year-old's. Whatever had ruled my friend on that cliff and in that vault had left forever. From appearance, he might never have done anything rougher than a day's guard mount in front of Buck House.

"As I tried to think of something to say, a discreet cough came from the door. I looked up and there met Traheal's steady eyes. 'Very nice to see you up and about, Captain, speaking for myself and the staff. A very gallant thing you did, sir, saving his lordship like that. We all regret that poor Lord Lionel was lost in that tragic fashion, of course. No doubt he was trying to save them poor helpless men of his down below.'

" 'Mmh, well thank you, Traheal,' I said. So this was to be the pattern was it? 'I suppose, James, they were all down below? No hope of rescue? This awful weather of late, no doubt, loosened the cliff, eh?' No one can say I can't pick up a cue! I went on. 'Sorry as the devil about your brother. Hardly knew him, of course. Still wish to express regrets and all that.'

"But now the ball had moved to another court. It was Isobel who fixed her gaze on me.

" 'Such a pity. Lionel was a very peculiar man, there's no denying it, but he was family. I've always said that all this digging about in odd places must make one morbid. I understand they often use dynamite or some awful explosive in these excavations. They must have been careless, that's all.' She paused, her blue orbs politely holding mine. 'At least, that's what the police think, isn't it, James?'

" 'Ah, well, yes, I expect so,' mumbled her spouse. He turned to me, as if in appeal. 'You know, Donald, I honestly couldn't stand him, I mean frankly, but I do feel bad about all this. I should never have let him dig down there. The whole cliff must have been as rotten as cheese.' He sighed. 'At least that bloody old castle is gone with the slip up there, and that's a blessing.' He looked thoughtful, then turned to me again. 'Isobel thinks I must have had a premonition or something the other night when we rushed out there. I'll be blowed if I can recall it, but that's what she says and she's usually right about these things. But, I'll say this. Ever since I was a kid, I've had that old pile of slag on my mind, sort of hanging over me, what? I used to go miles to even avoid looking at it. At least that's gone for good, eh, my dear?'

" 'Yes,' she replied very softly, 'that's gone for good. It's all gone and it won't be back. Why even that most unpleasant smell has left the cellars. And the weather is perfect again.' Cornflower-blue fixed me with the same level gaze."

Ffellowes paused and we all drew a long breath. He lit a cigar and I leaned back in my chair for the first time in half an hour. But another figure bounced up across from me. It was this guy Simmons, and if the signs were right, he was mad as hell.

"General Ffellowes!" he exploded. "I have never heard in my life a more preposterous farrago of fables! Do you expect me to believe this absolute tissue of fabrications? Are we all expected to believe that this monstrous mélange of Tennyson, Geoffrey of Monmouth and Malory happened to you? In person?" He turned on his heel. "I believe, sir, that you have done your best to ridicule me, to make me a figure of fun for some obscure purpose of your own! This piece of senseless vulgarity is beyond belief! I shall never set foot in this institution again! Never!" He stormed out, leaving the rest of us flabbergasted.

"Well, for Pete's sake," said someone. "Who was that nut, anyway? And why did he blow up like that? I sure hope he keeps his word about not coming back!"

"I don't get it," remarked Bryce. "He was the one who brought up ghost stories in the first place. Brigadier, that's one of the best stories I ever heard, and if you say it happened, it happened, at least in my book. But what got that character so stirred up? Any ideas?"

"Well," said Ffellowes, "yes, I rather think I do. His name is Simmons. I have been hearing for the past year or so about one Professor Elwyn Simmons at Columbia or somewhere who is about to release the definitive work on the psychosis of witchcraft. It's supposed to be the latest word in debunking any belief in things nonmaterial, you know." He pulled on his cigar.

Bryce chuckled. "No wonder he got steamed up. Think he'll revise the book, sir?"

"I doubt it," said Ffellowes, "but I wish he'd stayed for the list of my friend's names. Like many very old families, the heir always gets handed a bundle."

"Such as?" I cut in.

"In James' case, aside from James, of course, he drew the following: Arthur, Geraint, Percival, Bedivere and Tristram." The ruddy face smiled at us.

For once my brain worked and back came a school English class on poetry. "And Lionel had only one initial, which might just have been M, right?" I asked.

"You have just won the coconut, as we say in Merry England," said the brigadier.

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE ...

We had a scientist at the club on this particular evening. One of the members had brought him as a guest, and he joined us after dinner in the library. He was a museum biologist, from the American Museum of Natural History, I think, but it may have been the Smithsonian. He had a beard, but a neat one, and was civilized in all ways. I forget his name, but he was a reptile expert, a herpetologist, and he was one of those men who are not really happy unless wading in a tropical marsh somewhere, up to the neck in mud and malaria. He spoke with great enthusiasm of his last trip, to some appalling swamp in West Africa, where he had found out that the local crocodiles dug holes rather than building nest mounds, as did some close relatives elsewhere. I never fully grasped the exact importance of this discovery, but it obviously meant a lot to him. He told the story well, too, and could laugh at himself, over his difficulties with the local people, who thought all crocodiles ought to be killed on sight. They could never grasp what he was trying to do, that is, in simply watching them dig nests. A very interesting fellow, and the talk was only marred by Mason Williams commenting loudly "that it was a relief to hear from a real expert for a change and not have to listen to more of Ffellowes' baloney!"

Ffellowes, our British brigadier (I sometimes think of him as the grenadier, but he always says his commission was in the artillery), was not in the room, at least at the beginning of the story, but I suddenly looked up and saw him standing outside the circle, smoking a cigar. He had just appeared, in that way he has, one minute absent, the next present. He said nothing, but listened quietly, until the visitor happened to get on the subject of turtles. Then, in the next break in the conversation, when Professor Jones, or whatever his name was, had finished a story about sea turtles mating, he asked, "Did you ever know a man named Strudwick? A specialist in your field, I believe." (The name, by the way, was not anything like Strudwick, but some relative might read this account, and I have no desire to be sued for libel.)

Our visitor grew pretty excited. "I knew him very well; as a matter of fact, I did some of my graduate work under him. A real genius, but a strange man. He vanished in the Pacific, I believe, some years back, though I forget the details."

"I knew him slightly," said Ffellowes quietly. "And he was certainly strange." He did not elaborate on his remarks, and Williams snorted audibly.

Eventually whoever had brought the scientist took him away and a number of others left also. Williams, alas, was not one of them. He had grown to know Ffellowes well enough to scent a story as well as the rest of us regulars, and though he never tires of denouncing the brigadier's tales as total fabrications, he never missed one if he could manage to get into the circle. As usual, Ffellowes ignored him, or treated him rather with the scrupulous courtesy used for unusually aged and stupid waiters and doormen. Williams, I think, would have disliked him less if he had walked up and belted him with a straight left. But, Ffellowes being Ffellowes, this was impossible.

Ffellowes smiled when we asked if there were a story concerning the missing scientist he had inquired about.

"Indeed there is. I don't mind telling it. But I warn you it is quite odd. There are a number of things about the whole thing that were, so to speak, left hanging, loose ends. A very peculiar business, from beginning to end." I settled back to listen with an audible, or almost audible, sigh of satisfaction, and I noticed others do the same.

"I was on leave from a job in Singapore. Let's see, that would have been in 1940. Things were on fire in Europe; London was burning night and day; the Jerries had France, the Low Countries, Norway and what all. I kept trying for active duty, and kept being shoved back into one odd job after another, like that thing in Kenya that I told you about.(*See "His Only Safari") "At any rate, I was due for a spot of leave, and it was decided by a rather intelligent superior of mine, that one could have some fun and still do some work. He knew I liked poking about in the world's backwaters.

"We were not too happy then about the situation in some of the Dutch islands below us. They had Java and Sumatra under firm political control all right, but we kept hearing about trouble in the smaller, less well-patrolled places, some of the old Somerset Maugham settings, you know. It was obvious that Brother Jap, whom I had already met in other areas, was only waiting for a chance to jump us, and we felt that our Dutch neighbors might be neglecting some of the classic soft underbelly. There were reported meetings of Bajau pirates, of whom plenty existed then, and probably still do, with dissident petty rajahs, Moro bandits from up in the Philippines and so on. Our intelligence people in north Borneo and Sarawak were getting edgy, feeling that there might be a widespread uprising at a time when we all needed to concentrate on a northern invasion. It seemed to want looking into.

"When you consider," he added, his smooth, ruddy face putting on a rueful appearance, "how badly we ourselves messed up the actual Jap invasion when did come, it seems we were a bit silly to worry about this other and, as it turned out, minor matter. Still, I make no apologies for my mission. Hindsight makes things only too evident that are invisible at the time. Half or more of any given intelligence mission is ridiculous to begin with, becomes more so as it goes on and usually ends up totally irrelevant. Still, as I say, one never knows, not in advance.

"The scheme we worked out was for me to hire a large prau, a native sailboat, in Sandakan, and then noodle down the islands on a poor man's yachting cruise, picking up what scraps I could from natives, informers, our local agents (mostly worthless, I may say, the latter), and generally trying to find out what was what. We briefed our Dutch opposite numbers, and they didn't care for it; but since their government and queen were now pensioners in England, they had to agree, like it or not, and keep hands off, too.

"It was a lovely trip, if one doesn't mind trading sunsets for bedbugs and the loveliest seas in the world for appalling grub. Bad Malay cooking is even worse than bad English cooking, but fortunately in those days I had a stomach of proof steel."

"Who said there was any good English cooking," mumbled Williams, but he might as well not have spoken for all the attention Ffellowes paid.

"We called at Manado, in the north of Celebes, and then sailed on down through the Molucca Passage. In the middle of the Molucca Sea lie the Sula Islands, lovely places or were then, quite unspoiled and full of white beaches, coco palms and pleasant folk. I used to mourn them privately when the Jap fleet made the waters blood-red later on. And it was there, from a most charming man, a self-exiled Norwegian who had settled as a trader years before, that I heard first of Pulau Tuntong, the Island of the Turtle, and also, incidently, of Dr. and Mrs. Strudwick.

"I shall not attempt to give you my Norwegian chum's accent, but under it, he spoke fairly intelligible if 'American' English, as well as fluent Malay Buginese, the local talk, into which he would switch when seeking a hard word. I used to speak fairish Malay myself, so we got along well enough.

" 'That's a funny place, Mr. Ffellowes. Only a few natives and they are not liked much either, sort of pariahs, like they have up in India. They seem to have always lived there, and the other peoples in these parts never go there, and they themselves, they never leave, neither. But I can't say they ever give trouble, no killings or nothing. The Dutch Controleur here, he don't never go there, and no ships call, no Chink traders even, and they go anywhere they can for a profit, with them old, beat-up junks. I never been there, but they say there ain't no harm in the place. Anyone can go there, if you see what I mean, but no one does. Except for the American and his wife. They are there right now, been there six months about. I forward their mail in my own boat once a month. They're some kind of scientists, studying turtles, they said. It's supposed to be a great place for turtles. Guess that's how it got its name. But the whole thing, by Joe, even looks like a turtle. One maybe three miles long, that is half in the water, with only the point of the head sticking out, which is another little island, maybe a quarter mile from shore, from the big one.

" 'How far? Maybe thirty miles southeast, as the crow is flying from here. Lots of bad reefs and no good anchorage. I wouldn't like to be there in a storm, I tell you. The place is always foggy, too. All kinds of mineral sinks and steams and smokes, so it takes a good wind to give you a view of the whole thing. Must be a capped volcano or something. Lots of these islands are, but I never heard that this one blew or nothing. Just the steams and smokes all the time, like Yellowstone Park in the U.S., or some of our warm springs back in Norway. But it is a kind of place that makes you well discomfortable. My boys don't like to go there, never go ashore, and they leave plenty quick, too.'

"He rambled on, but I got to wondering to myself. Who were these Americans and what were they doing there? The Dutch had said nothing of them to us, and this was odd. It may have been that they had forgot, but they kept pretty careful account of traveling Caucasians in their islands.

There weren't so many then, you know. Up in Malaya, we had picked up several White Russians already, types who were the most popular with the Japanese for work in areas where they themselves would be a standout. And there were one or two German agents in the Far East, too, men who had dropped out of sight at the beginning of the war in '39. We would dearly have liked to know where they were and what they were doing. I had a radio on my prau, and I tried to reach Sandakan and get an enquiry passed to Washington via London. But the damned thing was on the blink, as I have always found these devices to be when most wanted. There were Dutch authorities in the Celebes of course, but I had been warned to avoid them except in case of dire emergency, which this was not. What to do was a puzzle.

"I finally decided to go have a look-see myself. Old Ali, my captain, was a Bugi himself and passably familiar with these waters. As a matter of fact, he was a reformed pirate, caught by one of our gunboats robbing a trading junk up in the Anambas some years before. My chief had interviewed him, got him a suspended sentence and set him up as a handy type, whenever we needed someone for just such an offbeat mission as my present one. His crew were his sons and cousins, a cheerful collection of sea thieves, got by wives from every race in Indonesia, I imagine, since some were dark and some light and all dressed differently. But they jumped when the old man said 'frog,' and he himself had always proved utterly trustworthy in his dealings with us. There were nine of them, as I recall, all hung about with krises, bolos, kampilans and all other known variety of edged weapon found thereabouts. I had a rifle and a Webley auto pistol below, and the crew had guns too, though I had them kept out of sight. This was quite normal, for we could very easily have met pirates, of whom, as I said, plenty were still known to be operating.

"Ali waddled up when I called from my cabin the next morning, a short, rubbery old thing, with a Fu-Manchu mustache, stained red with betel nut, a bald head and an engaging black-stumped grin. But the grin vanished when I told him where I wanted to go.

" 'I have never been there, Tuan. No one goes there. I know we look for bad men, men who would plot against the British and the Dutch. You will never find such people there. It is a waste of time. Let us go further south.'

"He was talking the Malay lingua franca of the South Seas, which is used from the China Sea to the Australian coast. One can be quite elaborate in it, and he grew increasingly so, since it was obvious that he did not at all care for the proposed visit. Now this was a really case-hardened scoundrel, who had weathered a dozen typhoons in what amounted to skiffs, as well as a thousand other hair-curling experiences to boot. I grew intrigued as he persisted in trying to change my mind, because I couldn't imagine what could scare him. And he was scared.

"I finally announced that I was going to Pulau Tuntong, alone if necessary, and that if no one of sufficient courage would accompany me, I would rent a one-man boat and go by myself. As I thought, he had far too much pride to take that I had been entrusted to him, and he said he would go, even if all the djins of Hell (he was some kind of casual Moslem) stood in the way. I got out our maps, and the two of us sat down over a bottle of horrible gutrot, some form of arrack he liked, to work out a course. I already had interviewed the natives who took the mail, and got what they could tell me about the trip, and between us, we figured it out. The place might have been thirty miles as the crow flies, but it was nearer double that if you didn't want to get wrecked. We were coming from the north, and we had to land on the south shore of the island, which meant a long detour to avoid the very complex reefs. We decided to leave at first light; no place at all for running a night. After a while the spirit, as I had hoped, got to him, and he began to recall what he had heard from his grandmother or someone of that vintage about the Island of the Turtle. It was all very vague.

"There was a curse on the place, that was clear. It had, the curse, I mean, something to do with the turtles themselves, who swarmed there. When I asked if he meant the sea turtles, he said it did, but there were many turtles on land, too. This confused me for a moment, since, as you may or may not know, in England everything not a large sea turtle is called, confusingly, a tortoise, even if it lives in fresh water. I have since learnt that the rest of the world uses that term for the ones that live exclusively on land. When I got this sorted out, I continued to pump him, but got little more that made any kind of sense. The people of the island were under the curse too, but only if they left the island. Then they died. They had a turtle as a deity, avoided strangers, and though harmless in themselves, were considered unlucky and good to avoid. Mariners who were shipwrecked there simply never turned up again. Even the toughest Bajau and sea Dayak pirates never went near the place and hadn't for as long as tradition went back.

"Well, he finally reeled out, his sarong of whatever dragging on the deck, and I turned in with my own thoughts. I had hoped to carry some mail to the alleged scientists, but my Norse friend had sent some off only the week before. An evening with a steam kettle might have told me something.

"Our trip down was uneventful and we raised the anchorage we were seeking in the evening. I must say the place was not cheerful looking. A low cliff overgrown with scrub seemed to stretch around the whole island. It was hard to make out details, because the fogs and steams that my chum had mentioned did indeed blanket the landscape. Against the sunset it was a sort of whaleback of a thing, as one could make out when the rifts appeared in the mist, perhaps five or six hundred feet high at the top of the curve. There were patches of dense vegetation and patches of bald rock, the latter gleaming wetly. Once in a while, lighter areas showed, which looked like sand. We could see no beach, but I remembered hearing that there was a long one on the north coast, which is where the great sea turtles came to lay their eggs.

"But we had found the correct place all right. There was a cluster of lights, perhaps fifty or so, in front of us and quite near to the water, and higher up, and further to the east, one small clump, in what appeared to be a sort of shallow dip or declivity. The Americans were said to have built a real house, which sounded curious, but not wildly so, above the village, and this must be its lights. It could be nothing else, since we had been told that the entire population of the place normally lived in this one village which lay before us.

"Night fell with the suddenness of the tropics, and the lights became hard to see, since there was no wind once the land breeze had fallen and the fogs from the fumaroles (as I guessed) shrouded the island in a blanket. I decided, with the hearty approval of the crew, to lie to until morning, and go ashore only when we could see our way pretty clearly.

"I was sleeping soundly, my leg over the long bolster known as a 'Dutch wife,' waking only to slap a mosquito which had penetrated my net, when I became conscious of a sound. I can, to this day, think of nothing that quite matches it but the bellow of an alligator in a Florida swamp is somewhat the same. This was not so throaty nor so long lasting, however. A sustained, almost agonized grunt is not too far off, but in the deep note there was a treble as well, causing a most unpleasant wailing effect I have seldom heard a noise for which I cared less. I looked at my wristlet watch and it was 3 p.m. The noise ceased suddenly, and there was nothing more but the slap of tiny waves on the hull of the prau.

"There was a scratching at the sliding panel on my cab in, which served as a door. I opened it and found Ali holding a torch, a flashlight, you'd say, a small one with his hand over the lens.

" 'You heard that, Tuan?'

" 'Yes. What do you think? A crocodile?'

" 'Never! I have heard them all my life. I do not know this noise, nor my people either. We are frightened. Let us leave this place!'

"Well, I managed to send him off after a while, feeling a bit better, by pointing out that it was, after all, only an odd noise, perhaps even a night bird with which he was unfamiliar. I told him to set two of his crew as an anchor watch, and have them relieved every few hours. We would see what morning would bring.

"Morning brought no breeze, a humid stickiness, the dim sun shining through fog wraiths and a distinct smell of sulfur, the latter obviously emanating from the island.

"We launched our small boat, and with Ali at the helm and me in the stern, pistol under jacket, we rowed in to the place opposite the anchorage, where the village houses, thatched with the usual nipa palms, dimly could be seen. There was a low place in the cliff there, and we soon saw a well-marked path leading down to a place where one could step out of the boat onto a sort of rock platform. A small group of natives were standing on this waiting for us.

"As we drew in, I looked closely at them. They were, to my eye at least, innocuous. They all wore the wraparound skirt, though not with the usual bright colors, and seemed in no way very different physically to any of a thousand other Indo-Malayan types I had seen. That is, they were short, slightly built, had black hair, brown skins and slanted black eyes. They were all male, and all unarmed, not even the usually omnipresent kris being tucked in the skirt top. The only thing about them which might be called unusual was a sort of stoop-shouldered appearance, as if they all suffered from the beginnings of a hunchback condition. And one other thing, an air of apathy and disinterest. Most places that see few visitors are very eager to greet new arrivals. But these chaps looked as if we were as interesting as well, a coconut rind. They stood silently while we moored the boat on a rock projection, and only when I got out did one step forward and address me, in ordinary coast Malay, the same I used with the crew.

" 'Be welcome, Tuan.' He said it listlessly, as if by rote, or performing a set task of no interest or importance. He was obviously the oldest, for he had the worst stoop, but his thinning hair was still jet black, and he had no facial hair. Up close he and the others had another thing that was new to me. Their skins looked glossy in a strange way, almost as if they were a rigid and not a flexible covering, though they moved in the same way as ours and one could see the muscles. Some disease, I thought, seemingly a fungus condition. Perhaps they were inbred.

"I answered politely and asked if one of them could show me to the house of the other Tuan and his Mem. They looked blankly at one another, but the elder simply motioned me to follow and turned on his heel. No one of them looked at my men in the boat, but I did. They, even Ali, were not even trying to pretend they weren't frightened. They all looked seasick. I told them to go back to the ship and pick me up around five o'clock that afternoon. I didn't see how the Americans could refuse to give me lunch at least.

"We walked slowly up through the humidity of the steams and vapors, which made me cough a bit. The sulfur stink was very strong now. The path went through the village, laid out in a simple row of big communal houses on stilts, like lots of others I had seen; and then I got my first surprise. I almost stepped on a lot of little turtles which were waddling about on the path, right at the village entrance. I had to skip a bit to avoid them, and I noticed that my guide did so automatically. The little things paid us no attention at all, and most small turtles I have seen are very shy, rush away or into water at the glimpse of a man, you know. A few women and men (I saw no children) watched apathetically as we went by in line, the rest of the lads who had come down to the landing still bringing up the rear. It was a peculiar sensation, this utter lack of any interest at all. Never seen anything like it before or since.

"The fog grew denser on the upslope on the far side of the village, but the path was easy enough to make out as one went uphill. In places, it was actually dark, as big trees and vines leaned over it, and totally windless and dank as well. I heard no birds, no insects, nothing at all but my own and the others' footsteps and water dripping somewhere. Then, in the darkest patch we had hit yet; fog all around, came that Godawful sound I had heard the night before. The island men all stopped, and so did I, fumbling for my gun, I may say, because the sound was very close and very loud.

" 'Muaah, muaah, muaaaaah!' it came, like a colossal and very sick cow, or perhaps a diseased foghorn. Nasty!

"The men didn't seem afraid exactly, but I could feel them tense up, the first show of any feeling of any sort I had noticed. The noise stopped, and they promptly resumed their march, me along with them. In a few moments more, the path opened into a large clearing, and we had arrived.

"The mists were thinner here, and the glow of the sun could be seen in a blurred way through them. In front of us was a rather large house, made of peeled logs, like a hunter's lodge rather, although the roof was thatched in the island way. It too stood on stilts, or thin logs, right against a shoulder of the hill itself, and had a wide veranda running around the front and one side, up to which broad wooden steps had been laid. It looked quite pretty, or would have save for the unearthly surroundings. There were large pits of what looked to be brown wet sand all about, some with a scum of water on the surface, and the warmth was now almost sickening, like an overdone greenhouse. The path wound to the steps between several of these pits and seemed to be on a spine of rock. And all about were turtles.

"They were of different shapes and sorts, large and small, some black, some brown, some yellowish. One or two had red markings on their shells. Some had blunt heads, others pointed, and one great whacking chap had a leather platter instead of a real shell, one of the so-called 'soft shells,' as I later learnt.

"To my surprise, the fellows who had brought ine faced about and without a word turned and marched back down the path again, leaving me to the turtles and the fog. I quickly headed for the house before I heard that most decidedly sick-making noise again.

"I had gone perhaps halfway along the path, treading slowly to avoid the turtles which crawled freely over it and of which the littlest were hard to see, when suddenly I heard steps. A white man in khakis came out of the door onto the veranda and stood looking down at me. You'll never guess what his first words were.

" 'For God's sake! What are you doing here, Ffellowes?'

"Now, the name of Strudwick, while not as common as Smith, is not unknown in England. It simply had never occurred to me to recall this lad at all. He had been a Rhodes Scholar when I was doing my two years at Cambridge, in '21 that would be. An American and a brilliant student, he had lived down the hall from me for two terms, and we had got rather friendly. We had never written when he had left, and I had completely forgotten he had ever existed. And here he was, pumping my hand warmly, in the most isolated island in Australasia. Life is a funny thing.

" 'Hallo, Strudwick,' I said, preserving my British phlegm as best I could. 'As a matter of fact, Old boy, I've come to see you, more or less to find out what you're doing here. Pleasant surprise, eh, or I hope so anyway.'

"He was no fool. He looked at me shrewdly and laughed. 'Mysterious Americans attract the attention of His Majesty's Government, hm? Well, I'm glad to see you, though. I don't encourage visitors. Haven't had any, as a matter of fact. But I thought the Dutch looked after this part of the world?'

"I lied, though only a bit, and said they had called us in, being short-handed, and that seemed to go down all right. He wasn't really much interested anyway, though he did seem excited about something. By this time we were in the house, which was really very comfortable. All the furniture was obviously handmade and to European specs. I gathered he must have had everything made locally, but it was good work, and there were flowers in bowls and kerosene lamps on the tables. He even gave me an iced drink; had his own portable generator, and that was a treat.

"We filled each other in on the missing years for a bit, and then he started suddenly to talk.

" 'Let me tell you why I'm here,' he said, as quickly as that 'You may have forgotten I took a 'zoo' First (I had, of course). Well, I'm a reptile specialist. This tiny island is the home of the damnedest collection of turtles that ever existed in the world. I've done more original work here in six months than I ever did in the rest of my life. You can't follow all this, I know, but it's fantastic, and I know this field as well as anyone alive. Why there are types here that don't belong in any family, genus or species any scientist has ever seen before!'

"He went on like a brook in spate, while I relaxed with my drink and tried to follow him as well as I could. It seemed that turtles, tortoises and all the other things, like terrapins, were pretty well mapped out. No new ones had been found in years, and very few save the sea turtles, of course, went much to the east of Java, Sumatra and Borneo; that is, until one struck New Guinea. There was a lot about Wallace's Line, sort of a zoological barrier, I gathered, and what did and did not cross it, all mixed up in the lecture. Then came a flood of Latin names, mostly meaningless to anyone but another expert, like the lad who was here at the club earlier. New types of Emydura, not supposed to be here at all; a kind of Geochelone no one had seen anywhere; something that looked like a cross between Chelodina, or a type of it, and an unknown Geomyda variety, which was flatly impossible, but occurred here. And so on, until I was frankly bewildered.

"But there was one thing which kept my attention pretty well fixed through all this. I just was not hearing the whole story. One cannot do the work I had done and not pick this sort of thing up, you know. It was, my work, I mean, in many ways, not dissimilar to police work, and I must have interrogated hundreds of clever types at one time or another. Strudwick was not lying; his enthusiasm was genuine all right; that's very hard to fake. But he was keeping something back. I could read it in his body, in his rare sidelong glance. Something was not for me to learn.

"Now I had no idea that the chap was a spy. I could have been wrong, but it was simply not in the cards, as I read the man. But he had a secret and I wondered what it was. A very casual remark put me onto something.

"He paused for breath, and I had mentioned the hordes of turtles and how tame they had seemed. He smiled and was about to speak when I added, " 'And I hope whatever makes that disgusting sound out in the forest is equally tame. Gave me the grue, when I heard it, even out on the boat.'

"He caught his breath and turned pale. He was a big fellow, bigger than I, cleanshaven and with a goodish tan. Now he went almost green.

" 'You heard that?' His question was almost a whisper. It was echoed from the back of the room. I totally forgot he had a wife with him, and now she came in from the back, still muttering.

"Ethel Strudwick was big, too. She was not pretty, a faded blonde with hair stringy from the damp and a hard eye. She was also moderately drunk, and this at about ten in the morning. She wore the same khakis, shirt and 'ratting pants,' as we used to call them, and canvas shoes that he did. Her make-up had run. Not a very attractive sight.

"He mumbled an introduction, and I tried to be polite, but she could not stop staring at me and seemed to hear nothing of what he said, as he tried haltingly to explain who I was and what I was doing there. Not a pleasant woman, in looks or manners, but I felt very sorry for her. Because she was terrified. It was obvious, when one watched her for a minute or two. Something or someone had scared the living Hell out of her, and my former hall mate was equally jumpy, though controlling it far better. She sat down in a bamboo chair, and I tried to pick up the conversation at the point whence it had departed from the rails, so to speak.

" 'Well, Strudwick, before your wife came in, I mentioned that strange cry in the forest. I heard it last night, and it put the wind up my crew pretty thoroughly. What on earth was it?'

" 'A bird—We don't know—Why did we ever come to this awful place?—Just a bird!' They were both speaking together, he repeating his nonsense about a bird, she lamenting their arrival and stay, neither paying the slightest attention to the other. It was unsettling to watch and listen to.

" 'Look here!' I said loudly. 'May I stay the night? I have to run over your papers and all that. This is an official visit, don't you know. Could I get my things from the boat? It would be a pleasant break for me.' I could think of no place I wanted to stay less, but I was intrigued, and they were obviously in some kind of trouble.

"Mrs. Strudwick was delighted and practically kissed me. He was not nearly so pleased, in fact not pleased at all, but there was little he could say.

"There seemed to be no servants, and Strudwick walked me down through the forest to the landing himself. We heard nothing on the way. The villagers were moving slowly and droopily about as we passed through their street, and we saw small and large turtles the whole journey, though none so many as just about the house itself. My host explained that he had heard rumors about the island for years and had only just been able to get the funds and time to come there. The locals were obliging enough to work quite hard in building the house and furniture and had accepted the money he gave them without haggling. What they did with it, he had no idea. They had no pigs or fowls, save for a few gone wild in the jungle which covered much of the place, and no traders called. They grew rice, he thought, or some crop in fields beyond the village and fished in a desultory way when the mood took them. They refused to live in or near the house, but were perfectly amiable, if not forthgoing. He had never been able to get them to talk about turtles or anything else, for that matter. They provided him fruit and coconuts, as well as rice and even fish on occasion, and did not seem to care whether they got paid or not.

"I mentioned the odd look they all had, the rigid looking skin and the humped backs, and suggested that some obscure form of elephantiasis, added to prolonged inbreeding might be responsible.

" 'I believe you've hit it. I'm no anthropologist, but I'll bet that's exactly what's wrong with them.'

"His agreement sounded totally hollow to me, and I have a good ear for this. I was sure of one thing, though it made no sense, which was that he had some other theory of his own, concerning which he wished me to remain ignorant. 'Curiouser and curiouser,' I reflected to myself.

"When we got to the landing, the prau was in plain view, the fog being mostly burned off at sea level, and the small boat came in when I hailed. I went out, got my gear and a change of clothes, and we walked back up through the miasmatic heat to the house on the hill. I told Ali to keep a strict watch on the landing place and to come in at once if he saw or heard me, or if I signaled with my pocket torch during the night. He agreed promptly, and I thought I could rely on him, so long as he hadn't got to come ashore himself.

"Back in the building, Mrs. Strudwick had taken some pains to make up her face and no longer looked so bedraggled and miserable. She would never be lovely, but she at least looked decent, and she seemed to have sobered up as well. I learnt later that she was very wealthy and that they had not been married long. It must have been her money which allowed Strudwick to make this out-of-the-way trip.

"He brought out all his letters to officials for me to glance over, and he came well-recommended and was, as I had surmised, more than respectable from the scientific standpoint. He had three doctorates, I recall, one being from Yale, and all sorts of 'please aid the bearer' notes, signed by everyone from the American Undersecretary of State down. I solemnly made notes of it all.

"After lunch, which was mostly expensive tinned stuff they had brought with them, plus a little fruit and a lot of gin, I asked Strudwick why he had selected the particular site that he had for the house.

" 'The turtles, man, the turtles. There are more of them right here than anywhere else on the island. These hot springs or seeps seem to attract them, and you soon get used to the sulfur smell.'

" 'You do!' The venom in his wife's voice was naked. 'Why can't we get out of here? You've seen every damned turtle and its bloody grandmother that ever was! Why are we staying here any longer?' Her voice rose to a strident pitch that was almost a scream.

" 'Look, honey, it won't be much longer. I've told you that. I need to get just a little more information.' His tone was soothing, but I caught a nasty glint in his eye. Whatever was keeping them here, it was important to him, and he did not propose to have it interfered with.

" 'Information! On what prowls around this house on dark nights! I'm going crazy ' She got up and stumbled out of the room and disappeared in back somewhere, getting a drink, I expect. Her last sentence, unfinished, hung in the steamy air of the room.

"I saw Strudwick looking at me in a speculative way and felt bound to make some remark.

" 'What was that about something prowling around at night? Your wife seems to have a bad case of the jitters. Is it wise to stay here under the circumstances?'

"He took a long swallow of gin before answering, gathering his thoughts to sound convincing, it appeared.

" 'There is something here I haven't worked out yet, Ffellowes. If it's what I think, well, it will be one of the great zoological finds of the age. Hell, of any age! I can't give you the details. First, it's none of your business. Second, you'd think I was nuts. Christ Almighty, I think I am nuts, sometimes. Just bear with us, will you? Ethel isn't used to the tropics or my burying myself in my work either. The natives walk about at night, and this makes her nervous, though they're perfectly harmless.' It was then he told me the story of their recent marriage and mentioned that his wife had been both rich and sheltered.

"I retired to the room they had given me for a nap, but I found it hard to sleep. I was turning restlessly, when I caught the sound of voices, not too far away. I pricked up my ears not only because they were talking Malay, but because one voice was Strudwick's deep-chested rumble. I slid off the rattan couch and out of my window. I felt no compunction about eavesdropping. I had no great affection for my host, and I had commenced to have a great curiosity about whatever he was doing. I soon found he had told me a thumping lie in one area at least.

"Behind some dense undergrowth at the corner of the house he was talking to the strange-looking villager, the old one who had led me up to the house that morning. I caught only a snatch of conversation before the native turned and walked away, but it was an intriguing item.

" 'It must be soon, or we will find another, one of our own. But the Father likes yours. But it must be soon.'

" 'It will be soon!' Strudwick's answer was low yet intense. 'But this new Tuan has changed things. He must go, first.'

" 'It must be soon,' was the dull-toned answer. 'The strange Tuan is your business, not ours. What do we care for Tuans? Or the Father, either? Give him to the Father. But he grows impatient. They all do. They call.'

"With that remark, the man left, drifting away between the steaming muck holes until he had vanished from sight around a corner of the slope.

"I eeled back into my room, taking care to make no noise. So the locals never spoke about anything, eh? And who was the Father and what was he waiting for and why was I supposed to leave, or possibly be 'given' to him, whoever he was? With all these things chasing themselves through my head, I finally did drift off into an uneasy doze. But my hand gripped my pistol under the pillow. The Island of the Turtle seemed to have sinister overtones all of a sudden.

"Supper, or rather tiffin, that evening was strained. Strudwick was very silent, and I caught him more than once looking at me in an unpleasant and calculating way. He seemed to be suppressing an air of intense excitement. His wife again was two-thirds blotto, and at intervals would rouse herself to relate some incoherent tale of her past, usually involving a dance at Bar Harbor or a society scandal of her dead youth in some exclusive enclave in Pennsylvania; Pittsburgh, I think. The whole thing was both depressing and eerie. I excused myself as soon as I decently could and retired. But I did not undress, and I never had my hand far from the gun. A little nocturnal prowling on my own account seemed to be more than called for.

"The light, such as there was under the sulfurous vapors of the place, became suddenly absent. Tropic sunsets didn't last long, but here there was a dim light one moment, nothing the next. I frankly preferred it to the smoky haze of the day, and I can get about in full dark as well as most so-called savage people that I have met. In addition to my gun, I had a 4-inch, single-bladed, clasp knife, a tool I have often found to be more useful in the dark than any firearm.

"I went out through my open window again. I could hear nothing in the night but water drip and the sound of a faraway frog croaking. I placed my feet carefully, whole foot at a time, testing wherever I set it down before placing my full weight on the foot. I had my torch, but I kept it in my pocket for emergencies. The pallid ghost of a full moon appeared up over the fogs and reeks, and I found I could see quite well, if I concentrated. Eyes need training to see in dim light, and I had had more than just a trifle, since it is a sense I cultivate.

"Around the front of the house I moved, and even with care, I almost trod on a small turtle more than once. They appeared to be even thicker on the ground than at the morning hours, and after a while, I could hear them moving in the silence as my ears also grew attuned, the scrape of tiny claws on the rock path and an occasional squelch as they moved into one of the damper areas.

"Nothing happened to stir my interest for a very long time. I ignored the mosquitoes, which is also a trick and a necessary one, if one is to do any proper stalking. I just kept moving slowly about, resting under a tree at intervals, then going on again. The house was silent. There were no lights, and I gathered my host and hostess were abed. She had taken on enough gin to keep her insensible until morning.

"Once I heard a vast, heaving, sucking noise over to the far side of the clearing, as if a hippo were lurching out of some mud, but it soon ceased. I felt sure it was an internal gas bubble in one of the warm springs, erupting to the surface and throwing the sand about. I have seen the same thing in New Zealand, where such mud geysers are common.

"I must have been spooking around for several hours, with no incident of any kind, when the quiet came to an abrupt end. The house was still silent, and I had reached the lower end of the clearing in front of it, near the base of the path, when I heard a woman scream. The cry was short in length, and I felt sure it had been smothered. There was only one woman on this hill, and without thinking, I drew my gun from my belt and ran straight for where I knew the house to lie, though it was invisible through the mist.

"Now I had forgot those stinking pools of sand and water, and simply ran dead ahead in a straight line. I had cleared only a few yards when my right foot went smack into one and myself after it in a spiral curve, head over heels. But I kept hold of the gun, which, by the way, was heavily oiled and was loaded with greased cartridges. My other arm flailed about and hooked on something hard, the edge of the rock path. I was immersed, for the sand was in suspension, like quicksand, and seemed to have no bottom, but I had a good grip and began to haul myself out. There was no pull such as one finds in genuine quicksand, and I was soon halfway to the solid ground with only my legs from the knee down in the muck.

"Then my ankles were seized. There was no mistaking the feeling. Something warm, muscular and very powerful had two death grips on my legs and was exerting a steady pressure to drag me back down into that slop from which I had almost succeeded in freeing myself! I swear that not only was I being gripped but that I could feel fingers!"

We all sat silent, while Ffellowes took a long pull on his cigar. In passing, I noticed that Williams had his mouth open and was just as enthralled as the rest of us.

"I froze, but only for a second," resumed Ffellowes. "My first reaction was to try and get up, in other words a panicked one, simply to keep struggling out the same way I had been pulling. My waist was well up on the solid rock, and I dropped the gun and used both hands to try and haul myself forward on my stomach. But it was no go. Whatever had me was at least as strong as I and from the feel probably stronger. I couldn't move an inch, and the pressure to haul, that is to haul me back down, never slackened an inch. Then I got the use of my brain back, and tried to twist, so that I was now on my side. This got me a little ground, though not much, and I tried it again, gaining a few more inches. Now I could see the pool, or rather I could see my legs, sunk in something. The fog was so dense that the pool's surface was invisible. I never thought of yelling, you know. Something told me it would be useless, and so the silent struggle continued.

"By now, I was almost sitting, and I shifted my right hand to get a better grip. It was only a few inches, but it was almost the death of me. Whatever had hold of my legs also pulled at just this point, and the yank almost took me the whole way back in!

"But it also saved me. I scrabbled wildly with my right hand seeking a stronger hold, and the hand came down on my pistol. As a wave of sand and water eddied up around my middle, spilled out of the sink by my struggle, I wrenched myself around further, thrust the barrel down as close to my leg as I could, while still keeping it clear of the water, mind you, and fired. I kept firing as fast as I could squeeze the trigger.

"The thing must have come up near the surface to get a better grip on me. There was a great final heave and a flurry in the muck. I dimly could make out something brownish and rounded emerging briefly from the watery slime and ooze, but it was hard enough to see any detail. I could be sure of nothing except that I had seen something. Then, the stuff subsided, and I was left with a half empty gun, sprawled over the edge of the pool. The surface was calm again under the mist and vapor.

"I had not forgot that scream. I staggered to my feet and got out my torch. With that in one hand and the gun in the other, I headed for the house as fast as I could. With the light of the torch, the path was easy enough to view, and I carefully avoided the other pools. I made no effort to avoid the turtles, for there were none. For some reason they all had disappeared.

"I lurched up the front step, calling for Strudwick. There was no answer and the house was silent as a tomb. I tried to control my panting breath and listened. Not a sound broke the night I took the opportunity to reload the automatic with fresh .455 bullets. They had been useful once that night already.

"Barely had this been done when I did hear something. From the higher shoulder of the slope, behind the house and above it, there came a repetition of that appalling cry I had heard twice before. Loud and long, it rang out in the silent steaming dark. 'Muaah. muaaah!' But this time it sounded well, different with almost a note of triumph, or impossible as it sounds laughter.

"I raced through the house, no longer calling. The time for it seemed past, if it had ever existed. There was a back door and leading from it another path. It suddenly occurred to me that the house had been built on the existing path. My light showed that in the mud of the path were many footprints, some of feet shod with canvas tennis shoes, the rubber crosshatching showing clearly. My host and hostess had come this way, but so had others, many with bare feet. Another path joined this one a few yards higher up the hill, and there the new feet had come in. Some of them, even in that moment looked strange, as if the feet that made them were blurred and lumpy. Not that I stayed to examine them in detail, mind. For that strange cry was ringing out ahead of me again, and I went on upward, keeping my torch masked in my left fist which gave me enough vision. The moon was still up as well, and the mists were a trifle thinner up here.

"The track wound around the base buttresses and outthrust roots of monstrous trees, and vines and branches hung over the way, sometimes brushing my face. But I had my wind back and went steadily and softly. And all the while that ghastly sound kept echoing down the path, growing louder and louder as I went on.

"I must have done a good quarter mile, all steadily uphill, when I saw a glimmer of light ahead and slowed down a bit. As I drew near, I saw that another clearing lay ahead and that it opened out under the moon's rays. I crept on and presently found myself looking at something very strange indeed.

"Two steep sides of the island's peak made an angle here, though a shallow one. They, the walls, were rock but covered with mosses and wet growth that hung down over the face. In front of the angled steep, in the V, was a broad, flat place, and here was a much larger replica of the small pools such as lay in front of the house below, a sinkhole two hundred feet across, filled with the same dark water and patches of suspended sand as the ones lower down. Around the wet area was a strip of glistening rock, this perhaps ten yards and a bit in width. And it was full of people. The islanders were there in force, both men and women. Again, I saw no children. They stood silent, facing the pool, and in the center, his back to me, was Strudwick. He was supporting his wife over one arm. She appeared to have fainted, or was, at best, semiconscious.

"Now the light, and I must stress this, was most capricious. That is, the moon would illumine bits very clearly for a second or two, and then the drift of the fog and haze from the great pool would blot things out just as one was trying to concentrate one's gaze on some particular detail.

"But at the back of the crowd there were figures which made my flesh crawl. Whatever disease affected these people, the ones in the last stages, or at least I surmised, were not good to look upon. I could see long swaying necks, covered with leathery skin, and high, arched humped backs which looked rounded and hard. The terminal stages of the peculiar island blight ought not to have been viewed at all, not by normal people. All of the folk, though, were swaying the same way, their bodies still, but their necks weaving, as if in some ghastly parody of those little girls who do the formal Thai and Javanese dances. And all were watching Strudwick and his wife.

"Then came that terrible coughing, moaning cry again. And this time I saw, or at least partly saw, whatever made it.

"I had not been watching the pool as I edged closer, since I was looking for possible danger, being noticed by a native or something. Now I saw that the surface, the floating sand and brown scum were moving. And out of the water had come a head.

"To this day, I have trouble convincing myself I saw what I think I saw. As the head rose higher on a monstrous, rugose neck, I half noticed the beginning of a great rounded dome of a back, glistening and rigid in the unearthly moon glow. But it was on the head which I concentrated, because it was moving, the whole incredible thing was moving, slowly with hardly a ripple, directly toward where Dr. Sylvanus Strudwick, Ph.D., author of more learned papers than I can remember hearing, stood holding his wife. And I knew what it had come for, as if I somehow had known all along. This was the Father and Ethel Strudwick was what it wanted.

"You may ask what the head resembled. It was high-domed and leathery. Great flaps, or ears, stood out on the side. The pink mouth was frankly disgusting as it opened out for its hideous call, for it projected and there were no teeth, giving it the look of a great beaked maw. The eyes, as well as I could make out, were large and bulbous, of an unwinking black. And as I watched, I saw membranes slide across them and lift again. Yet the most awful thing concerning the whole appearance, if I may so describe it, was something not physical at all. The thing was intelligent. Whatever abysmal lair had spawned it had given it the same germ, DNA or whatever they call it now, that had been given us. It was not a beast, but somehow a hyena would have looked clean by comparison. Its size? Far larger than a human, but how much I really could not undertake to say.

"It was now very close to the edge of the rock surface. And Strudwick had shifted his grip on his wife. What madness affected the man, I will never know. Whether he hated her anyway, no doubt with some cause, or whether he had simply made some foul bargain in the interest of 'pure science' (I have always distrusted scientists most when they claim to be pure, by the way), I will never know. Certainly she feared him and his purposes. With good reason, since it was perfectly obvious he was about to chuck her into the grip of the insane-looking form of monstrous life in front of him.

"I had to do something and rather promptly. I tucked my torch in my pocket, opened my clasp knife, walked down to the pack in front of me and simply stabbed the nearest in the back, aiming high for the kidneys as a certain Pathan had once taught me, long before our commandos perfected the technique. I managed to kill three in three strokes, so hypnotized were they, and then there was no one at all between me and my fellow Cantabrigian.

"I had kept my pistol in my left hand. As I got clear of the natives, none of whom seemed capable of moving, I simply called out, 'Strudwick.'

"He turned and let his wife slip to the ground, which was what I had been praying for. Above and behind him, the impossible head rose higher on the vast wrinkled neck, and the great expressionless eyes focused on me. I ignored it for the moment. Everything seemed very plain and logical. There really was not time for parleying or argument.

"Strudwick must have read my eyes, for he tried to put up his hands. The moon was full on his face as I put a bullet through his brain, quite easy at that range. He reeled backward and fell into the muck with a sodden splash. The echo of the shot reverberated off the rock face behind the pool. I had no compunction about what I had done and still do not.

"The Father was now about six feet away and perhaps eight above the surface of the pool. I straddled Ethel Strudwick's body, which lay very still, and raised my pistol. As I did so, the thing's mouth opened and a rumble heralded the start of the cry. I sighted very carefully and fired three rapid shots into the yawning pink gape, resting one arm on the other forearm as I did.

"I watched the death, for my bullets had crashed up into the brain through the roof of the mouth, just as I intended. And as the light went out of those strange eyes and the giant head slumped, I felt a queer pang well, no doubt you'll think me soft almost of pity. Who knows how old it was, nor how long it had lived there?

"The great neck collapsed and the vast dome sank back. A wave of sulfurous water and sand sloshed over my shoes as I bent and lifted the woman. I still had four shots, and I still clung to the knife. I turned and saw the beginnings of movement in that circle of rapt faces. They could not yet believe what they had seen, but the death of the Father and the blast of the shots were beginning to have an effect, even on such very dim and peculiar minds as theirs.

"Then, and thank God for it, the moon went out. Whether a real cloud way up in the far sky had crossed it or whether an unusually heavy waft of the local murk had done so, I neither know nor care. The effect was all I cared for.

"Lifting Mrs. Strudwick, who was damned heavy, I ran right back the way I had come. In thirty very fast paces indeed, I felt a tree bole in front of me and dropped her. I tucked the knife in my belt, still open, and pulled out my torch. Then I bent down and gave her face a good hard slap. I was never going to get down that hill carrying a woman who must have weighed little less than I, and I had to get her on her legs. I jammed the gun into my belt next to the knife and hauled her to her feet. She moaned, but her eyes were open. I slapped her again, hard enough to sting, but not disable, and draped her arm over my shoulder. I could hear movement behind us now, and a grunting, cracking sound that reminded me more of the Father's voice than anything that ought to issue from human lips. The opposition could not be expected to stay quiescent forever.

"I shone the torch about, and there was the entrance to the path, just a few feet away. I ran toward it, forcing her to use her feet at least a touch and thus take some of the weight off me. My light was still the only one, but as we entered the trail and headed down, the moon came out again. The mumbling behind us now swelled into a yell, through which ominous grunts came all too clearly. I got a speedy notion that the village 'elders,' the gentry with the high backs and long necks, might not be too slow in action either.

"Down that slippery, twisting track we went like a couple of good ones. After a brief spurt she seemed to wake up at last and took her arm away. She was still shaky, not surprisingly, but she got along at a pretty fair clip, and I handed her the light at the next bend. She kept it on the path, which was good enough for me and enabled me to get my gun back in my hand. The cries behind us were getting louder, and some of them sounded like echoes of the 'Muaah' thing. Worse, though I said nothing, I thought at one point that I caught an echo of the same cry ahead of us. I had hoped the whole population would be up on the hill, indulging in what passed for church services, but it might be a mistaken hope. Well, I still had my weapons.

"Suddenly, sooner than I had hoped, the house was before us. We tore into it, through the open back door, and into the dark living room. Here I caught her by the arm. The hue and cry was a bit further back now, and I had an idea. I have mentioned that there were kerosene lamps about on the tables.

"I struck a match and grabbed one, which looked full.

I lighted it and quickly looked for more. 'Kerosene,' I gasped, 'pour it about as fast as you can.'

"She got the idea finally and began sloshing the lamp contents over the room as fast as I. I smashed the one lighted lamp into the biggest pile of papers I could see, some of her late husband's unpublished discoveries, I expect, and serve him right. The house was full of bamboo stuff, and even in this damp climate that would burn. Also, the house itself was only wet on the outside and had had time to dry out a lot since the months in which it had first been built. The room went up like a bonfire behind us, and I shoved her out the frontdoor and onto the veranda. With any luck, this blaze should delay our pursuers for a moment, and that might be enough. At the very least, they would have to take the other track around, the one that came in higher up the hill.

"We had got halfway across the path which ran between the sinkpools when I saw we were going to need all the luck we could get. All the islanders were not behind us. Clearly visible in the light from the burning house behind us, there now stood one of what I shall call for want of a better word, the 'elders.' He was waiting for us on a narrow place between two of the boggy patches, and his whole attitude was more than plain. As we caught sight of him, I pushed Mrs. S. behind me.

"The creature, for it hardly looked human any longer, stood, crooked arms outstretched, his eyes glittering in the light. His visible skin was cracked and leathery, almost like dun-colored scales, and the neck was obscenely long and twisting. He was hairless, and his ears had shrunk or rotted to mere stubs, while the shining dome of his back rose far up behind his shoulders. It seemed to me also that the feet and fingers had nails of extraordinary length and sharpness, but I may have been mistaken in this. He was quite nude, not even the island wraparound, and his whole body looked damp in the firelight. As I advanced slowly, the mouth opened, and I saw that the disease had caused him to lose his teeth as well. There was an uncanny resemblance to the monster I had dealt with up on the higher reaches. No doubt why they called the thing the 'Father.' No doubt.

"At ten paces, I fired. I shot steadily, and I could see the awful body shake from the impact of the heavy bullets. But though it staggered, it still came on. I shot carefully, for the midbody, not trying out anything fancy. The blank dark eyes never changed expression, though that toothless mouth opened and closed.

"Behind me, I could hear Mrs. Strudwick whimpering. Couldn't say I blamed her.

"At the fourth, and last, shot, I dropped the gun, pulled out my knife and waited. Incredible though it may sound, the man, or perhaps what had once been a man, lurched on and closed with me. The fetid breath of that ghastly mouth came into mine, as I drove the knife home again and again, meeting a queer resistance, as if the skin were actually a sort of armor or something similar.

"But it was dying. There was no strength to its grapple, only a kind of post-mortem will, as if the big nerve centers were actuating the body even after the brain had died. I hurled it aside, and it slid into the nearest muck pool, much as its giant forerunner had a few minutes earlier.

"We could hear the cry of the pack behind us somewhere, even over the roaring of the flames from the house. This was now totally ablaze and sending sparks over the landscape. Curiously, the only physical harm I got on the whole happening (unless you count a possible something I'll get to later) came from one of these, which caught, unnoticed, in my shirt back and gave me a nasty burn.

"Again we ran downhill, this time through the village, which, I am happy to say, was deserted. I was perfectly prepared to swim out to the prau, if necessary, towing my lady friend in my wake. The peril of sharks never entered my head, not after what we had just been through, and I feel certain she felt the same way.

"But it was not necessary. The shots and the blaze had got to old Ali, and though I am not sure he actually would have come ashore, he had fought down his fears and at least bully-damned some of his crew of family thugs to bring the small boat in to the landing place. There they were, armed to the teeth, and looking half petrified with fright. No more unsavory lot ever looked better to me. After the good folk of Pulau Tuntong, a squad of Waffen SS would have looked reassuring.

"Well, that was that. We got out to the ship, up-anchored and were gone, despite night, reefs and all, in less than twenty minutes. By the time dawn came, Pulau Tuntong was not even in sight. I was barely able to note this fact, because I was burning up with a curious fever. Mrs. Strudwick was not only feverish, but totally unconscious in my cabin, shock no doubt playing some part in the matter.

"We made port in the Sulas next day and my old Norwegian trader behaved like a saint. He took us in and nursed us both tenderly, as well as a woman could, that hard-handed old swab. I was well enough to leave in a couple of days, but Mrs. Strudwick was a very sick woman. The old man promised to see that she was shipped to the Celebes in his own vessel, and turned over to the Dutch authorities, for transfer eventually to the States. Looking at her, I was not sure she would make it, since she was out of her head half the time and raving senselessly. I told the old man that she and her husband had provoked a native uprising, which in a certain sense you'll agree was true. I also told him to stop sending any boat whatever to Pulau Tuntong, since the people there were far better utterly avoided. I would file my own (discreetly edited) report with the Dutch. He agreed, and told me that though he had tried to find native women to help us, none would do so, not when they had heard whence we came. He had done wonders, and I sent him a fattish check when I got back to Singapore, along with a gold watch I thought he might fancy. I know he got it because he wrote. Mrs. Strudwick had been shipped out also, and I never heard of her again.

"Now, before you fellows bombard me with questions, let me try to make a few things plain. First, I have never gone back there or checked up on the place, nor even bothered. I had too many other things on my mind until 1945. Never since met anyone who knew the area well enough to put a sensible question to, either. If anyone, either Jap or Allied ever landed there, I never heard of it. You are all welcome to inquire if you care to.

"As to what I ran into, in all its implications, I warned you, in the beginning, it was full of loose ends and unanswered questions. Most of the major things in life are, I find. But I have one thought that I will share, or rather some related thoughts.

"In 1940, beyond knowing vaguely that Madame Curie had died of radium poisoning, while doing experiments, the word 'radioactivity' meant literally nothing to me. Am I clear? Hiroshima, of course, changed all that. My current thought is this: the whole island, and especially around those seeps and sulfur springs, could, I think, have been rich in uranium or some such article. I say 'could,' since I know nothing of these matters, beyond what one reads in the tabloids.

"So, consider a possibility, nothing more. Consider an inbred, isolated fragment of humanity, constantly soaked in this stuff. Would it eventually not cause a mutation among those who survived and managed to breed? I don't know, nor I expect will anyone else, at least for a long time. Only a thought, mind you, and not clear in my own mind. But the turtles, now, according to Strudwick, who may have been loathsome morally, but was at least a good scientist the turtles were an extraordinarily odd mix, all sorts or strange breeds on one tiny island, to use his words. Another matter is my strange fever, not like malaria at all. And I lost a lot of hair, though it later grew back. Radioactivity? It gives one to think.

"Thus we come to the village 'elders.' They looked awful, but may, just may have been on the road to something new, a new breed, if a most unpleasing one to our eyes. Remember, I saw no children. Could the race have been dying out? Again, I have no idea, no real answers.

"And finally, I suppose you want my ideas on the creature they called the 'Father.' My first thought, and one I clung to for a longish while, was simply that it was an enormous, deformed and very aged turtle, changed perhaps by the radioactive bath in which it had soaked and indeed may have done so for ages, for all that I know."

He paused, then rose and stood behind his chair, staring blankly at the mantelpiece.

Then he turned to leave, but his voice floated back as he went "There are, naturally, many other possibilities. The eyes, you know, were utterly human in their expression. Many other possibilities." We heard his feet on the stairs.

For once in his life, Mason Williams had nothing to say, not a word. It was an occasion.

A FATHER'S TALE

"You certainly seem to like the tropics, sir," said a younger member. It was one of the dull summer evenings in the club. The outside fetor in New York City was unbelievable. Heat, accumulated off the sidewalks, hung in the air. Manhattan was hardly a Summer Holiday, despite the claims of its mayor. It was simply New York, The City, a place one had to work in or probably die in.

"I suppose you have a point there," Ffellowes answered. The library was air-conditioned, but all of us who recently had come in from the streets were sweating, with one exception. Our British member was utterly cool, though he had come in after most of us.

"Heat," said Ffellowes, as he took a sip of his Scotch, "is, after all, relative, especially in my case. Relates, I should say."

"But many of your tales, if you'll pardon me, in fact most of them, have been, well set in the tropics," the young member kept on.

Ffellowes stared coldly at him. "I was not aware, young man, that I had told any tales."

At this point, Mason Williams, the resident irritant, who could not let the Brigadier alone, exploded. "Hadn't told any tales! Haw-haw, haw-haw!"

To my amazement, and, I may add, to the credit of the new election committee, this piece of rudeness was quashed at once, and by the same younger fellow who had started the whole thing.

He turned on Williams, stared him in the eye, and said, "I don't believe you and I were speaking, sir. I was waiting for Brigadier Ffellowes to comment." Williams shut up like a clam. It was beautiful.

Ffellowes smiled quietly. His feelings about Williams were well-known, if equally unexpressed. A man who'd been in all of Her Majesty's Forces, seemingly including all the intelligence outfits, is hardly to be thrown off gear by a type like Williams. But the defense pleased him.

"Yes," he confessed, "I do like the tropics. Always go there when I can. But and I stress this it was a certain hereditary bias. I acquired it, one might say, in the genes. You see, my father, and for that matter his, had it as well."

Again the young member stuck his neck out. Those of us, the old crowd, who were praying that we would get a story, simply kept on praying. Ffellowes was not mean, or petty, but he hated questions. But the boy plugged on.

"My God, sir," he bored in, "you mean your father had some of the same kind of weird experiences you've had?"

I don't know to this day why the brigadier, ordinarily the touchiest of men, was so offbeat this evening. But he didn't either dummy up or leave. Maybe, just maybe, he was getting so fed up with Williams he didn't want to let the young fellow down. Anyway, those of us who knew him leaned forward. Of course, Mason Williams did too. He hated Ffellowes but never enough to miss a story, which is, I suppose, an indication that he isn't completely mindless.

"If you care to hear this particular account, gentlemen," began Ffellowes, "you will have to take it second-hand, as it were. I wasn't there myself, and all I know comes from my father. However he was there, and I may say that will strongly resent (here he did not quite look at Williams) any imputation that he spoke to me anything but the absolute truth." There was silence. Total. Williams had lost too many encounters.

Said Ffellowes, "The whole thing started off the west coast of Sumatra. My father had been doing a spell of service with old Brooke of Sarawak, the second of the so-called White Rajahs, C.V. that would be. Anyway, Dad was on vacation, leave, or what have you. The Brookes, to whom he'd been 'seconded', as the saying goes, from the Indian Army, were most generous to those who served them. And my father wanted to see a few new areas and get about a bit. This was in the fall of 1881, mind you, when things were different.

"So there he was, coming down the Sumatran coast, in one of Brooke's own private trading prahus, captained by old Dato Burung, picked crew and all that, when the storm hit.

"It was a bad one, that storm, but he had a largish craft, as those things went, a big prau mayang, a sort of merchant ship of those waters. No engine, of course, but a sturdy craft, sixty feet long, well capable of taking all the local weathers, save perhaps for a real typhoon, which this was not. They all battened down to ride out the storm. They had no trouble.

"Surely enough, the next morning was calm and clear. And off the lee side, within sight of the green west Sumatran coast, was a wreck. It wasn't much, but the remnants of another prau, a prau bedang, the local light craft used for fishing, smuggling, and what have you. Ordinarily, this much smaller vessel would have carried two modified lateen sails, or local variants, but now both masts were gone, snapped off at the deck, obviously by the previous night's storm. The fragile hulk was wallowing in the deep milky swells, which were the only trace of the earlier wind.

"My father's ship bore down on her. He had given no orders, but a ship in trouble in these waters was fair game for anyone. Occasionally, hapless folk were even rescued. Dad stood on the quarter-deck in his whites, and that was quite enough to make sure there would be no throat cutting. Forbidding anything else would have been silly. Next to him stood his personal servant, old Umpa. This latter was a renegade Moro from the Sulus, but a wonderful man. He was at least sixty, but as lean and wiry as a boy. Whatever my father did was all right with him, and anything anyone else did was wrong, just so long as my father opposed it, mind you.

"To his surprise, as the bigger craft wore, to come up under the wreck's lee, a hand was raised. Beaten down though the little craft had been, there was someone still left alive. Dad's vessel launched a rowing boat, and in no time the sole survivor of the wreck was helped up to the poop and placed before him. To his further amazement, it was not a Sudanese fisherman who confronted him, but a Caucasian.

"The man was dressed quite decently, in tropical whites, and even had the remnants of a celluloid collar. Aside from the obvious ravages of the sea, it was plain that some time must have passed since the other had known any amenities of civilization. His whites, now faded, were torn at the knees, badly stained with green slime and ripped at various places. His shoes were in an equally parlous condition, almost without soles. Yet, the man still had an air about him. He was tall, a youngish man, sallow and aquiline in feature, was tall, a youngish man, sallow and aquiline in feature, with a hawk nose. Despite his rags, he bore himself as a person of consequence. His beard was only a day or two grown, 'At your service,' said my father, as this curious piece of human flotsam stared at him. 'Can I be of some service?'

"The answer was peculiar. 'Never yet, sir, have I failed in a commission. I should not like this occasion to be the first. With your permission, we will go below.' With that, this orphan of the gale fell flat on his face, so quickly that not even my father or the ship's captain could catch him as he slumped.

"They bent, both of them, quickly enough when the man fell. As my father reached down to take his head, the grey eyes opened.

" 'At all costs, watch for Matilda Briggs,' said the unknown, in low and quite even tones. The lids shut and the man passed into total and complete unconsciousness. It was obvious to my father that he had only been sustaining himself by an intense effort of will. What the last piece of nonsense meant was certainly obscure. Who on earth was Matilda Briggs, and why should she be sought? As they carried the man below to my father's cabin, he had decided the chap was simply delirious. On the other hand, he was obviously a man of education, and his precise speech betrayed the university graduate. One can be excused of snobbery at this point. There were not so many of this type about in the backwaters of the world in those days, you know, despite what Kipling may have written on the subject. Most educated Englishmen in Southeast Asia had jobs and rather strictured ones at that. The casual drifter or 'remittance man' was a later type than one found in the 1880's, and had to wait for Willie Maugham to portray him.

"Well, my father took his mystery man below; the crew looted the remnants of the little prau (and found nothing, I may say, including any evidence of anyone else; they told the skipper that the mad Orang Blanda must have taken her out alone); and the White Rajah's ship set sail and continued on her way down the Sumatran coast.

"Dad looked after the chap as best he could. Westerners, Europeans, if you like, though my father would have jibbed at the phrase since he thought that sort of thing began at Calais, did this sort of thing without much thinking then. There were so few of them, you see, surrounded by the great mysterious mass of Asia. Outside the British fief, as the Old Man said, one felt A.C.I., or Asia Closing In. No doubt the feeling of the average G.I. in Viet Nam a few years ago. I know what they meant, having spent enough time out in those regions.

"First, the chap was, as I have said, a lean, tough-looking creature. As he lay there on my father's bed in the stern cabin, even in utter exhaustion and repose, his sharp features were set in commanding lines. His clothes, or rather their remains, which the native servants stripped off at my father's orders, revealed nothing whatsoever of their owner's past. Yet, as the ragged coat was pulled off the tattered shirt, something fell to the cabin deck with a tinkle and a glitter. My father picked it up at once and found himself holding a man's heavy gold ring, set with an immense sapphire of the purest water. Was this the unknown's? Had he stolen it? No papers, and my father made it plain that he felt no compunction in looking for them, were on the castaway's person. Save for the ring, and his rags, he appeared to own nothing.

"For a day, as the prau ran slowly down the coast, my father nursed the stranger as tenderly as a woman could have done. There was no fever, but the man's life had almost run out, nonetheless. It was simple exhaustion carried to the nth degree. Whatever the derelict had been doing, he had almost, as you chaps say, 'burned himself out' in the doing of it. Dad sponged and swabbed him, changed his personal linen and directed the servants he had with him, as they all fought for the man's life. The ship's cook, an inspired Buginese, wrought mightily with the stores at his command, and nourishing soups were forced down the patient's lips, even though he lay in total unconsciousness.

"On the second day, my father was sitting by the man's bed, turning over in his hand the sapphire ring, when he was startled to hear a voice. Looking up, he saw that the patient was regarding both him and also what he held.

" 'I once refused an emerald of rather more value.' was the unknown's comment. 'I can assure you, for whatever my assurances are worth, that the object that you hold is indeed my personal property and not the loot of some native temple.' The man turned his head and looked out the nearest of the cabin ports within reach. Through it, one could discern the green shoreline in the near distance. He turned back to my father and smiled, though in a curiously icy way.

" 'The object you hold, sir, is a recompense for some small services, of the reigning family currently responsible for the archipelago which we appear to be skirting. I should be vastly obliged for its return since it has some small sentimental value.'

"Having no reason to do otherwise, Dad instantly surrendered the ring.

" 'My thanks,' was the languid comment. 'I assume that I also have you to thank for my treatment on board this somewhat piratical vessel?'

"The question was delivered in such an insolent tone that my father rose to his feet, ready to justify himself at length. He was waved back to his cushion by a commanding arm. After a pause, the unknown spoke.

" 'As an Englishman, and presumably a patriot, I have some small need of your assistance.' The face seemed to brood for a moment before the man spoke again; then he stared in a glacial way directly at my father, running his gaze from top to toe before speaking again. His words appeared addressed to himself, a sort of soliloquy.

" 'Hmm, English, an officer, probably Sandhurst. Woolwich gives one rather less flexibility on leave, or else extended service; speaks fluent Malay; seconded to some petty ruler as a guide into civilization, perhaps; at any rate, tolerably familiar with the local scene.'

"At this cold-blooded and quite accurate appraisal (my family has indeed sent its males to Sandhurst for some time), my father continued to sit, waiting for the next comment from his bizarre guest.

" 'Sir,' said the other, sitting up as he spoke, and fixing my father with a steely glare, 'you are in a position to assist all of humanity. I flatter myself that never have I engaged in a problem of more importance, and, furthermore, one with no precedents whatsoever. Aside from one vaguely analogous occurence in Recife, in '77, we are breaking fresh ground.'

"As he delivered this cryptic series of remarks, the man clapped, yes, actually clapped his hands, while his eyes, always piercing, lit up with glee, or some similar emotion. My father decided on the spot that the chap was deranged, if not under the influence of one of those subtle illnesses in which the East abounds. But he was brought back at once by the next question, delivered in the same piercing, almost strident, voice.

" 'What is our latitude, sir? How far south have we been taken since I was picked up?' Such was the immense authority conveyed by the strange voyager's personality, that my father had no thought of not answering. Since he himself took the sights with a sextant every dawn, he was able to give an accurate reply at once. The other lay back, obviously in thought.

"Rousing himself after a moment, he seemed to relax, and his chiseled features broke into a pleasant smile as he stared at my father.

" 'I fear you think me mad,' he said simply, 'or else ill. But I assure you that I am neither. The Black Formosa Corruption has never touched me, nor yet Tapanuli Fever. I am immune, I fancy, to the miasmas of this coast, though I take no credit for the status. In fact, I believe it to be hereditary. If the world would pay more attention to that forgotten Bohemian monk, Mendel, we should be in a position to learn much ... but I digress.' Once more he stared keenly at my father, then seemed to come to some private decision.

" 'Would you, sir, be good enough to place yourself under my orders for the immediate future? I can promise you danger, great danger, little or no reward, but and you have my word, which I may say has never yet been called into question you would be serving your country and indeed all of humanity in aiding me. If what I have learnt is any evidence, the entire world, and I am not given to idle speculation, is in the gravest of perils.' He paused again. 'Moreover, I can not at this point take you into my full confidence. It would mean, for the moment, that you would have to follow my instructions without question. Is this prospect of any attraction?'

" 'My father was somewhat taken aback by this sudden spate of words. Indeed, he was both irritated and impressed, at one and the same time, by the masterful way the stranger played upon him.

" 'I should be happy, sir, or rather happier, if I had your name,' he said stiffly. To his complete surprise, the other clapped his hands again and fell back on his couch, laughing softly.

" 'Oh, perfect!' The man was genuinely amused. 'Of course, my name would solve everything.' He ceased laughing and sat up in the bed with a quick motion, and once he did so, all humor left the scene.

" 'My name is well, call me Verner. It is the name of a distant connection and bluntly speaking not my own. But it will serve. As to any other bona fides, I fear you will have to forgive me. I simply cannot say more. Again, what do you say to my proposal?'

"My father was somewhat disconcerted by his guest's manners, but and I stress this one cannot realize what the circumstances were unless one had been there."

As Ffellowes spoke, and perhaps because he spoke, we were there, in the quiet waters off Sumatra, long, long ago. The silence of the library in the club became the silence of the East. Honking taxis, bawling doormen, straining buses, all the normal New York noises heard through our shuttered windows, were gone. Instead, with quickened breathing, we heard the tinkle of gamilans and the whine of tropic mosquitoes; the shift of the tide over the reefs, and smelled the pungent scent of frangipani blossoms. I stole one look at Mason Williams and then relaxed. He had his mouth open and was just as hung up as the rest of us. The brigadier continued.

" 'I am astounded, sir, at your presumption,' my father said. 'Here you are a—"

" ' veritable castaway and runagate, no doubt the sweepings of some Asian gutter,' finished the other in crisp tones, putting my father's unspoken words into life. 'Nevertheless, what I have said to you is so deadly in earnest that if you will not agree to aid me, I must ask that you put me afoot at once, on yonder inhospitable shore, from whence, as you must have discerned, I have recently fled.' He stared again at my father's face, his piercing eyes seeming to probe beyond the mere skin. 'Come, man, give me your decision. I cannot idle away the hours in your yacht's saloon, no matter how luxurious. Either aid me, on my terms, mind you, or let me go!'

" 'What do you need then?' It was my father's tentative capitulation. I can only say in his defense, if he should need one, that as he told me the story, Verner's manner was such as somehow did not brook any opposition.

" 'Hah,' said Verner. 'You are with me. Trust the Bulldog.' My father professed to misunderstand the man, though the unedifying implications were plain.

" 'I wish all of your maps, at once, particularly of this coast' was Verner's next remark. "I have not been in these waters at all. I need the very best charts you possess.'

"My father bustled about, found all the maps he had, and as he had made something of a study of the area, he had all the best Dutch naval charts and whatnot. He brought them down into the big stern cabin. There, he found that in his absence, there had been a palace revolution of sorts. His captain, Dato Ali Burung, was on his knees before Mr. Verner, beating his head on the carpet, or rather, the straw matting.

"When the Asian arose, sensing my father's arrival, he had no shame on his flat features. 'We are going to help the Tuan Vanah, Tuan, are we not?' was what the chap said. Really, as my father put it, it wasn't enough that the strange traveler had seduced him: he had also somehow had the same effect on the toughest native skipper in the South China Sea! Whoever and whatever he was, Mr. Verner had, as you fellows put it, 'control.'

" 'I am tentatively prepared to assist you in your quest, Mr. Verner,' My Old Man had given his commitment, and beyond 'unbelievable, but utterly true to type', he heard no further particulars from his uninvited guest, who relapsed into silence.

"The next morning, they stood in to the coast. Western Sumatra in those days was much as it is today, I expect. They were well north of the Mentawi isles at the time, and just a bit south of the Batus. In there were, and no doubt still are, a thousand little anchorages. My father, or rather, old Dato Burung, found one of them. It was a tiny river, flowing into the sea under nipa palms, which almost arched over the entrance. It was the sort of place a Westerner wouldn't expect to launch a log canoe, but from which they had been turning out big seagoing vessels since well before the Christian era.

"There was even a small village, a kampong, as they say in those parts. The people thought they were pirates, my father said, and turned out the town for the ship. But Mr. Verner wanted nothing from them. He had ascertained that my father had a number of Martini-Henry rifles aboard, perhaps from old Burung. Even in those days, this was hardly the latest thing, but in any of the backwaters of Asia, a breech-loading rifle, even the old Martini, was a thing of rare worth. At any rate, Verner had taken control of the arms locker and twelve of the skipper's prize thugs were armed and standing guard on the beach.

"I daresay you wonder what my father was doing, to let himself and his ship be commandeered in this casual way. All I can give you is the story he told me. Verner, whoever he was, had simply 'taken over.' Dad told me that he violently resented everything the man suggested, but could not raise any objection, at least beyond commonplaces. He simply was no longer in charge, and somehow he had come to accept it.

" 'Where are we going?' said Verner in answer to a question. 'Where I tell you, which is, as the crow is supposed to reckon matters, some twenty miles due north. There, hopefully, we will find a certain ship. This latter, we may or may not board. In any case, my orders are final. Is that quite understood?'

"The fellow's commands to the natives were delivered, I may say, in excellent Coast Malay. The timid folk of the local village came out and gave everyone garlands of flowers. No doubt, it was not the first time it had happened, but invaders who wanted nothing beyond food, and even paid for that, were something new. Yet, in retrospect, there may have been other reasons ...

" Verner, as if he had nothing to do with it at all, stood on the beach among the mangroves, waiting for my father to give all the orders. Finally, Dad asked him what he wanted next. He confessed to me in after years, that the man was so much in charge, that if he had said 'jump in the river,' the crew would have done so despite the abundant knobs of salt-water crocodiles, imitating tree stumps on every shallow bank and bar.

"The guest of the sea was now wearing one of my father's linen suits although he refused a Solah Topee and went hatless. His ruined boots had been replaced by sandals, but the fact was, as Dad put it, Verner could have worn a loincloth, or some sort of sarong, and still have been as much in charge as if he had been the supreme Rajah of Bandung. One simply gave up arguing when around him. You tolerated his presence because the only alternative was killing him!

" 'We must have food for two days and two nights,' said Verner to my father. 'We shall be going north along the coast for about that distance. Would you be good enough to order your remaining ship's people to remain in these parts for some four days. No, better five. Some mischance may delay us. After that, they may head north, until they either meet us or do not.'

"Since the orders appeared already to have been given, and since the twelve toughest members of the crew of my father's prau, all armed to the teeth with not only their native cutlery but with rifles from my father's arms locker as well, were waiting, this latter would appear to have been only courtesy. But it was not. Verner himself made that plain.

" 'Captain Ffellowes, I much regret the outward appearance of these matters,' he told my father. 'While I personally have no doubt of your trustworthiness, the simple folk you command feel rather more strongly concerning my mission. In fact, though you might attempt to divert them from their purpose, and, be it said, mine as well, you would do little more than present them with your carcass as a species of local signpost. Possibly, indeed, probably, impaled as well, on bamboo shoots. Should you desire this new impalement on your coat of arms (ghastly pun, really), you have only to urge my immediate arrest.'

"Frankly, as my father put it to me, the man was becoming an incubus, and he seemed to have no sense at all of what was due a fellow Englishman. Although my father was allowed his pistols, Colt's matched Bisleys as it happens, on his belt, two of the twelve hearties from the crew flanked him at all times. It was more than clear that he was along on sufferance. Twice, Verner came to a halt as they crawled through the vile coastal scrub behind the mangroves, but it was not my father whom he consulted, but rather old Burung, the skipper of the prau. The man himself seemed to feel somewhat abashed by this insolent favoritism of a native, and at one of the rest stops, he actually spoke to my father in some terms of apology. 'See here, Captain,' he said, 'it is a capital mistake not to accept the best local information one can get.' My father was by this time too affronted by Verner's behavior to pay him much heed. Yet the man, by his very presence, somehow brooked no interference. Dad simply nodded. He felt, he told me later, it was as if he were in a dream, or suspended in space. The whole thing, from the arrival on board his vessel of Verner and all that had happened subsequently, seemed to be a walking nightmare. He wondered, how could all this be happening? The only rock in a failing world was his personal man, Umpa, who trudged sturdily along beside him. He, at least, seemed faithful to his master.

"Have I failed to mention the heat? It was bad enough at sea, off the coast, but here it was almost unbearable. The party was following a winding trail along the shore, though somewhat back from it, which wound through green coco palms, jackfruit plantations gone wild, rambutan and pure jungle. Sometimes they were under dank shade, with great tropical hardwoods towering overhead, shutting off the sun; the next moment they would break out into heavy yellowish rattan and lantana brush growth and the saber-edged grasses of the coast. This would be hacked through by the advance guard with their myriad steel weapons. The next instant they would be in slippery mud under the giant trees again. Leeches and ticks fell upon their necks at every instant; gnats and mosquitoes assaulted them continuously, but they kept moving through innumerable muddy bogs and across many small tidal creeks as well.

"As if this were not bad enough, Burung, as well as some of the other natives and Verner too, were constantly stooping over patches of mud, in order to see what appeared to be quite ordinary traces of game. Once, late in the afternoon, they called my father over and showed him, in high glee, some daub or other which seemed important to them.

" 'Look here, Captain,' said Verner. 'This can hardly fail to interest an old shikari, such as yourself!'

"My father looked and saw some spoor or other of an animal large enough to be sure, in the bank mud of one of the many small estuaries through which they had just stumbled. The trace had four clawed footprints and was otherwise without meaning. It was indeed wet, that is, recent, with the water oozing in around the rim of the track, but beyond being the trace of some no doubt harmless creature, probably distorted by expansion, it appeared to have no significance whatever.

"My father's attitude seemed to annoy Verner a great deal, and without any further argument the man signaled to the others that they must press on. As they did so, Dad heard Verner say, as if to himself, 'Microcephalous! A case of simian survival!' The meaning of these phrases escaped him.

"At length, even Verner, who seemed made of iron, had to call a halt. He spoke to Dato Burung in low tones, and a camp was set up. My father, now stumbling with fatigue and insect-bitten to the limit, was gently passed along the line of marchers, until placed in the circle formed around the tiny fire they had lit. At this point, he related, he would not have cared much if they had told him that he was the main course in the evening meal.

"He roused himself, though, when he saw Verner seated next to him on the same rotting log. The fellow was almost as cool-looking as he had been on the prau after his recovery and, to my father's amazement, was in the act of fitting a clean paper collar to his very tattered shirt. God knows where he got it.

"At my father's gaze, something must have penetrated this strange person's subconscious mind. He finished dealing with his collar and without any affectation laid his hand on my father's knee.

"I fear that you are still in doubt, My dear chap,' he said in vibrant tones. 'We are now far enough from the hue and cry so that one may elaborate without any fear of indiscretion. Pray tell me how I can serve you. Is there any matter on your mind?' The tones were as soft and caressing as those of a woman, and the man's whole attitude so charged with sympathy that my father almost wept. Exhausted and bemused as he was by what had transpired around him in the last twenty-four hours, he nevertheless retained enough energy to ask why this extraordinary jaunt through a trackless wilderness was necessary?

" 'The matter is quite plain,' returned his singular congener. 'We are going to call upon a local ruler who is apparently dead, a native people who, though certainly native, are not people, and a ship due to be charged with more misery than any vessel that ever floated on this planet's seas. Finally we shall, I trust, destroy the scientific works of one Van Ouisthoven, who has been seemingly dead for fifteen years.'

"This flood of lunacy was too much for my father, who had been both physically and mentally taxed almost beyond endurance. He fell asleep, slumped over his own rotting log, even as he heard the final words of Verner's explanation. Yet the words stayed in his memory, so much so that even at his life's end, he could still recite them to me.

"It was not, however, to be a sleepless night. The noises of the great tropical rain forest were no doubt designed to make newcomers uncomfortable, but my father was an old stager at this sort of thing. Yet the cries of the civet cats, the hooting of the fish owls, the usual noises of insect and tree frog, none of these would have been sufficient to wake Dad. Suddenly, as he recollected, about 1 a.m., Verner and old Burung shook him awake. 'Listen,' hissed Verner, who actually grasped him by the collar.

"At first, my father heard nothing. There were the normal tropic sounds, the night wind in the great trees, the innumerable insects, locusts and such, the faraway cry of a sleepy gibbon, and that was all. But Verner's grip remained tight on his collar, and so he listened. He could smell the reek of old Burung on the other side, full of garlic and menace, but the silence and the attention of the two finally got to him as well.

"Then he heard it. Over all the normal night noises, he heard the chatter of a squirrel. No one can mistake that nasty, scolding sound, and it came first from one side of the camp and then the other. The sound is the same in the Temperate Zone as it is in the tropics. But and mind you, my father was an old tropic hand and a noted shikari squirrels are not animals of the night. No scientist to this day has found anything but the flying squirrels active at night. And they are silent, or almost so. Also, this was deeper in pitch.

"Mixed with the chattering was a gruff, snarling bark, though that seemed to come only at intervals. Anything else he might have thought was shaken out of him by Verner. 'That is the enemy, Captain. They have already taken one sentry. Do you now feel my precautions to be unnecessary?'

"If this were not enough, the next thing was a sort of strangled choking noise from the other side of camp. Verner darted off like a flash, and came back almost as quickly. 'Another gone,' he said. 'We must move on in the morning, or they will pick us off like so many flies on a side of beef.' My father roused himself long enough to see that two more of the crew were detailed to stand sentry go, and then he relapsed once more into exhausted slumber. But, as he lay down, he was very conscious that something out in the great black forest was a hideous danger, clear and present. He fell asleep with dread on his soul.

"My father remembered nothing until he was roughly shaken in the first light of morning. He felt, and was, filthy, as well as being still tired, confused and angry at the way Verner had somehow pirated the loyalty of his men. Then he remembered the incidents of the night. He looked over and saw the very man himself, bent over a log which he was using as a table, in deep converse with my father's, or Rajah Brooke's, own captain, Burung. Ignoring the native crewman who was trying to give him sustenance in the form of cold rice, my father lurched over to the duo, who were his captors as he then felt.

"Verner looked up coldly at first, then seeing who had caused the interruption, smiled. It was the same glacial smile, to be sure, a mere rictus, but the strange man actually rose from his seat, and, as if by osmosis, so did Dato Burung.

" 'Just the man we wanted,' said Verner. 'My dear chap, do come and look at this map. It purports to be the mouth of the river Lubuk Rajah. I fear you will be disappointed to learn that it was once considered by some to be the Biblical Ophir. The whole idea is, of course, beyond any reasoned belief. I, myself, when in the Mekran, found that ... Still, a most interesting and primitive area, geologically speaking: There is a young Dutch physician in these islands, Dubois, I believe, who is laying the ground for some splendid work on human origins. He is unknown to you? Strange how the body controls the mind, in terms of limitation, that is.'

"My father, who was, on his own admission to me given many years later on, only half awake, ignored this rambling and stared out on the rude table before him. There was indeed a river mouth and a small harbor. As an officer of the British Army, he was familiar with planes and gradients of the landscape, but here were other things on this map. There were lines, in various colors, extending around a central area. This central part appeared to be a settlement of some sort. In short, it looked like any typical village on any Southeast Asian coast, as observed and recorded by a European cartographer. Except for the odd lines, that is.

"He next heard his mentor, for so Verner had come to seem, in the same tone, but in excellent Malay, state the following: 'Those are their lines. They have an inner and an outer defensive circuit. We shall have to somehow go between them. Do you have any suggestions?'

" 'Look here, Verner,' said my father. 'What the Hell are you planning to do?' Nothing but fatigue, he told me, would have made him use language of this degree of coarseness.

" 'I had thought it would have been apparent to any child with even a board school education,' said Verner, turning back to stare at him with those strange eyes. 'I propose to destroy this entire village, root and branch, females, young, the whole as our American cousins put it shebang. All at once. And I fear that I am compelled to ask for your direct assistance in the matter.'

"My father stared at him. He was, after all, a British officer, charged with spreading our native virtues, Pax Britannica and all that it implied in those days. He was told now that he was to assist in totally obliterating some native village in a foreign colonial possession! It was fantastic! Do please remember this was long before genocide became a word in the English language.

"Dato Burung said something to Verner in Malay, but so fast and low that my father totally failed to grasp it.

" 'Quite so,' said Verner, 'but we have none and should we seek a prisoner, we stand the risk of further alerting all the others. No, I think the Tuan, captain, will have to sleep. Then, perhaps he and I may make the trail together, and once and for all see what Van Ouisthoven's work has come to. Strange that this whole matter should have grown from a simple assessment of mining machinery.' This last sentence was in English.

"My father was at this point, utterly out of his wits, strength, and did indeed fall silent. His next memories as he listened were those of hearing Verner say, in his clipped tones, and musingly in English, 'There are strange rhythms in world events, yet none stranger than that of unpaid businessmen!'

"They were now on the march in the usual blazing dawn. They had wound, in the previous day's journey, much closer to the coast than he had thought. Only a few mangroves and giant Java plums kept them from the glare of light, which now burst over the hills to the east. The day brought with it the inevitable cloud of insect horrors to replace the night's mosquitoes. His face puffed up and his eyes swollen, my father faced Verner the man had the same catlike neatness, despite their march at a trail fork and demanded to know who was in charge.

"He looked at my father coolly enough. His first words cut off anything my father was impelled to say, quite short.

" 'Do you know, Captain, anything about general assurance companies? No? I rather thought not. Then you will have heard nothing of Messrs. Morrison, Morrison and Dodd. You will be pleased to know that a highly respectable firm, of Mincing Lane, no less, is the cause of your present discomfort.' On receiving nothing but the blankest of looks from Dad, he continued in the same light, jocular vein, obviously amused to make some mystery of his remarks, as though, Dad said, they were not mysterious enough already.

" 'All I know, Sir,' interrupted my father, 'is that you have mishandled me in the most outrageous fashion, suborned and subverted my officers and men, the employees of His Highness, the Rajah of Sarawak, and finally taken us away on some dubious journey for an unnamed purpose. I insist, sir, that you tell me what—' At this point my father fell silent, for as his voice rose, a wave of Verner's hand had caused a cloth to be thrown over his mouth by one of the burliest of his own crewmen, and despite his struggles, he was flung back upon a nearby tree trunk in the most compelling way. During all this, Verner continued to regard him in the most placid manner. When he had waited, as my father was compelled to admit, for his struggles to cease, he again waved his hand and the swaddling was removed. Meanwhile, Dad had seen old Umpa, his faithful servant, sworn to guard him with his life, quietly picking his teeth across the way!

" 'Captain,' said Verner, leaning forward and staring into my father's eyes, 'behave yourself!'

"It was the rebuke one gives a child, and, my father was free to state, entirely successful. He sat quietly; the gag was withdrawn, and he stood in silence while listening to his interlocutor.

" 'In a short time, Captain,' said the cold voice, 'we are going to carry out a murderous assault, by stealth, upon what appears to be a peaceful village. I cannot, even at this date, take you entirely into my confidence. However, I give you a few morsels of thought to mull over. Your men, starting with the captain, are the picked officers of the Rajah Muda of Sarawak. Think, man! Would they be likely to go over to a complete stranger such as myself, a castaway of no known antecedents, without the most compelling of reasons? Your own servant, that Moro savage, is with us. Do you dare exclude yourself?' "

There was a silence in the club library at this, and Ffellowes, who had lit a cigar, pulled on it gently before resuming. We were all so caught up that he could have said almost anything, but, even so, this was a point most of us had missed. Why indeed had the faithful crew of his Rajah's vessel turned coat so fast over to this wandering stranger?

" 'The answer is simple, as are indeed most answers,' resumed Verner to my father. 'They believe most strongly in what I am doing. Why do you not ask them?'

" 'Dato Burung,' said Dad to the old Bajau skipper. 'Why do you obey the strange Tuan? Why do you guard me as a prisoner?' He looked into the old man's jet eyes for the first time, seeing him not as a part of the ship, but as a man.

" 'Tuan,' the old man spoke most respectfully. 'We have heard in the islands for many moons, and some few suns, that there will come a time when we will all rule ourselves. But, Tuan, not through those who are Not-men. We go now, under this strange Tuan's orders, to kill the Not-men. Only men should rule men. The Orang Blanda, even the great ones, are silly, but you are men, of whatever strange, mad country. But never Not-men, this is against the Law of the Prophet. These are Efreets, something not to be born. They must be killed.' The old pirate sighed and caressed his long drooping mustaches. 'It is quite simple, really.'

"This last piece of lunacy, as Dad told me, should have convinced any sane man that he had no chance. Instead, maddeningly, it swung him completely over to the other side. You see, he knew old Burung, and trusted him; had now for over a year served with him and his crew. Then there was Umpa, his Moro servant. He had been saved from execution by Dad's personal intervention. And he was a Hadji, had made the Mecca pilgrimage. He now stared at my father and nodded his head. If these men believed ...

"My father's response rather startled Verner in fact, if anything could startle a man as much in control of himself as that cold fish.

" 'I'm your man,' Dad said simply, stretching out his hand. 'What do we do next?'

"Verner stared at him for a moment, then a lean hand clasped his. 'Thank you, Captain,' he said, and nothing more. 'Now I badly need your help. The innermost grounds of this place are unknown to me. I escaped, more by luck than anything else, from what seems to be the outer perimeter. As you must have guessed, we are not too far from the place off which I was so fortunate as to have you encounter me. There is a ship in the harbor there which must at any hazard be prevented from leaving. She must in fact be destroyed. She is the Matilda Briggs, of American registry, out of Tampa in the state of Florida, I think. Her charter is under grave suspicion. A bark of some 700 tons. No ship in the world has ever carried such a cargo of future misery in the history of the human race. I repeat, she must be destroyed, at all costs.'

" 'Of what does this cargo consist?' my father asked.

" 'Females and infants in arms, in all probability,' was the cool answer. The man's face was grave, however, and it was evident that he was not in jest. My father could say no more. He was now committed, on the sole basis of common trust.

" 'Now,' continued Verner, in his usual icy manner, but speaking Malay. 'Let us plan our next move.' The six remaining crewmen moved in closer. They obviously knew something portended. The other two had been made guards, to watch both trails north and south.

" 'See here,' cried Verner, pointing to the map. 'This is the weak point, here at this juncture of slopes. It is very plain that here is where we must strike.' Then he said a curious thing, almost an aside, a remark baffling to my father. 'May God defend the right. If it is the right.' The comment was so unlike Verner's usual detached attitude that it stuck in Dad's memory.

" 'We shall be well off enough if the Dolfjin does not play us false,' continued the master of the expedition. He seemed to be talking to himself as much as anyone else. 'She's only 250 tons, but she carries two 12 pounders. And yet my last message may not have got through.'

"With no more remarks, Verner proceeded to dispose of the whole party. Two men, the crewmen with the best edged weapons, were sent on ahead to act as an advanced guard. The two sentries were called in and made a rear party. The remaining four, including old Burung, plus my father and Verner, made up the central column. Dad loosened his revolvers in their holsters. He had been in some rough work more than once; yet he felt somehow that this business would take rank with the best of them. Verner seemed to carry no weapon at all, beyond a straight stick of some heavy wood he had cut.

"They were now on an obvious trail. It was early morning and the light was fair, despite the oppressive heat, even under the dark overhang of the giant trees. Moreover, the party was now heading inland, a bit away from the sea, in a northeasterly direction. Suddenly, as if by some species of legerdemain, they were confronted with an open area. The jungle simply stopped, and before them lay, in the morning light, a European village. Allowing for the tropics, there were fenced, brush-bordered fields, low peak-roof houses, chimneys curling with smoke, and in the middle distance a larger structure, hard to see through the morning mist, but also peak-roofed, which might have served as the headquarters of the squire, or what have you, with no trouble. Anything less likely on the Sumatran coast than this rustic view would be hard to imagine. It was as if a segment of Bavaria, or perhaps Switzerland, had been removed bodily to the tropics. To make the scene complete, off to the left was a tiny harbor, empty save for a three-masted bark at anchor. She was surrounded by boats.

" 'They have learned well,' said Verner in cryptic tones. 'Come on, you men. We should have had some opposition by now. They must be leaving and we can afford no wait. There lies the Matilda Briggs.'

"Even as he spoke, they were surrounded. My father was a man of few words at the best of times, and in this description (I may say," said Ffellowes at this point, "I was a child of my father's old age) he always became somewhat incoherent.

"There were many of them, all larger than man-size. Their pointed faces were drawn back from the great yellow chisel teeth, which snapped and chattered as they came on. They barked, too, like giant dogs. They had been hiding in the growth at the edge of the fields, and now they rushed in upon the small party, their clawed hands, yes, hands, clutching great crooked knives and other edged tools. The early morning air was still, no wind or even a shadow of a breath; and as my father put it, their stink, an acrid bitter reek, came on before them. It was inconceivable, but it was happening. Even the stumpy, naked tails that flailed the air behind them as they scuttered forward on their hind legs seemed to add no more unbelievability to the whole scene. It was monstrous, incredible, impossible and it was happening!

"Then, the Nineteenth Century, as my father put it, justified itself. All of the crew, as any of Brooke's men had to, knew how to shoot. The sharp crack of the Martinis rang out in the muggy air.

"The men could see the harbor, even as they fought. There was a stream of small boats putting out to the ship at anchor, shuttling back and forth. In between pauses in the fighting, each side drew breath, so to speak. Had they not had the advantage of firearms, my father told me, I venture to say that the small party of ten would have been overwhelmed in an instant. Even so, the courage of the creatures, or ferocity, rather, was astonishing. They removed their dead and wounded after each onslaught, and as fast as this was done, returned to the attack. Automatically, Verner took one flank and my father the other. Dato Burung, the old scoundrel, stayed with the center. Between them, somehow or other, they managed to hold the tiny line. More than once the monsters came to close quarters, but each time they were beaten back with cold steel. Verner, using only his heavy stick, disabled at least two of them personally, the stick revolving in a curious pinwheel manner, of point and side, that my father declared to be miraculous in its effect. But the attacks never ceased. There was, even though my father could not grasp the whole of the matter, an element of desperation about the way the creatures behaved, which was almost suicidal. Despite their immense strength, and the fact that their bulk much exceeded that of a man, they were clumsy with their weapons, and not only unskillful, but seemingly untrained in their usage. Save for a few barks and snarls at the outset, they were utterly silent.

"The whole affair could not have exceeded a quarter hour, but when it was over, my father felt that it had been going on for most of the morning. As suddenly as they had come, the monstrous enemy vanished, drawing off into the rice fields and the scrub which lined them. He was astonished to note the same placid harbor below and the small craft plying busily to and from the ship at anchor, so quick had been the onslaught.

" 'Now,' said Verner, breaking in on his thoughts abruptly. 'We have two objectives, Captain. Yonder largish building, which abuts on the hill slope, is surely the central situation of these inimical creatures and must have been Van Ouisthoven's headquarters. As you can see, there are open-faced mine workings behind it, and a conduit as well. This it indeed must be, the point d'appui, of your section. I, on the other hand, will have to deal with the vessel in the harbor and attempt to ensure its total destruction. Am I clear?'

"If he was not clear, he had at least given orders; and a British officer, once he has accepted a superior, obeys orders, or did in those benighted days, before all this crapulous nonsense about morality came into the picture." (I have got to say here that this is the only time I ever heard Ffellowes do any "bitching," and he told me afterward that he simply was repeating what his father had said.)

"The idea of a 'section', which in the British Army implied the use of a company or more, was laughable. My father," said Ffellowes, "found his first amusement at Verner's misuse of military language somehow consoling. The man was not God, after all, and did not know everything. This was a military operation and had best be run on military lines. Of the eight 'lower ranks' who had begun the fight, three were incapacitated, one being in point of fact dead; the other two, badly wounded and in no condition to move at all. Of the remainder, all had cuts and bruises, including both Umpa and old Burung, who had bound a great flap of cut skin, blood and all, back under his turban. But they could go on.

"In the upshot, my father took three men, Verner two.

" 'Should we not meet again, my thanks for your support,' said Verner in his chilly manner. 'It may comfort you to know that you have been involved in a matter far beyond the normal purlieu of the average Indian Army officer.' A cheery farewell, indeed! In addition, ammunition was running low. Each man had no more than twenty-five rounds for his rifle, and my father no more than that for his two revolvers. He mentioned this latter to Verner and was dismissed with a wave of the hand.

" 'Pray rendezvous at the harbor, My dear Ffellowes,' was all he got in response. With that, the man was off, his grubby white suit soon vanishing around the lower end of the forest. To do the man justice, my father never thought him a coward. And he still carried only his heavy stick.

"There was nothing left to do but head for the central building, the transplanted seat of the local squirearchy, or whatever. It seemed, through the morning haze, to sit in the center of the fields, against the hill behind; and as Verner had said, there was the scar on the green slope beyond it, the red earth visible in the morning sun, which clearly showed that something or other was being worked. Indeed, there was even a glitter of twin rails. My father was in the infantry, not the engineers, but he could see a railway if it were thrust at him. Some dim meaning of the horror that Verner had hinted at now came upon him. Something monstrous and inchoate, in terms of the world at large, lay before him. The busy little boats, shuttling out to the ship, the placid harbor, the frenzied attack by the great, tool-wielding beasts, all began to fall into a dreadful pattern. The sight of those shining rails, leading from the central building to the mine on the hill, crystallized it, into a fear which must at some time haunt the dreams of every thinking person.

"When I tell you that my father was a convinced antievolutionist, who thought Darwin a moral degenerate, the matter may become clearer still. Or may not.

"A narrow path led downslope through the fields, or rather paddies, for rice seemed to be the crop grown. Dense brush of the usual rattan and other thorny plants lined it, and the party tensed themselves for an attack. But none came. In the morning heat, so hot that a mist obscured the hills in the distance, only faint chittering cries and barks came from far away. Each moment the little party of blood-stained, ragged men tensed as they rounded a curve between banks of thick scrub. The men could no longer see the harbor and sometimes could see no more than a few feet ahead. Yet the hideous things appeared to have withdrawn, at least for the time.

"Nevertheless, the trace they followed seemed to lead in the direction of the large building, and once or twice they caught a glimpse of the raw face of the hill which lay behind it, over the tops of the fringing shrubbery.

"At length, when my father estimated that they must have covered a mile or more, Umpa, his old servant, who was in the lead, held up a hand in warning. They froze, and then Umpa signaled to my father to join them. As Dad stole up and as he crouched beside the old savage, an amazing sight met his eyes.

"Before them rose a gentle slope, of clipped grass, rising for a hundred yards to the veranda of the large building they had seen in the distance. The path, which was almost a tunnel under the overhanging scrub, debouched onto this lawn, for it was nothing less, quite abruptly; and as my father looked about, he could see other openings of a similar nature all around the fringe of the brush.

"But the building itself was even more startling. Minus the broad veranda, it was nothing more than a Dutch farmhouse, of the sort one can still see in Zeeland, though much larger than most. There was the peaked roof, the stuccoed walls, with wooden beams set between the stucco as facing, and even wooden shutters on the high-arched windows. Small balconies held massive urns full of bright flowers, and near the door were set large geometric flower beds, also bright with scarlet blooms. The only thing missing was a blonde maid in starched cap and wooden shoes, chevying hens away from the stoop. A more unlikely edifice under the circumstances would be hard to envisage.

"No smoke curled from the high brick chimneys though, and there was no sign of life. My father could make nothing of this, but he had his orders, and he waved to the men to follow him. Half crouching, half running, they raced across the lawn, all of them trying to see in every direction at once, waiting for an attack from any or all sides to overwhelm them. They were a little more than halfway when the big front door opened suddenly. Every weapon went up as one, and they all halted in their tracks. Yet no one fired.

"Before them stood an old bearded gentleman, his ruddy face and snowy hair making him look like a tropical version of Saint Nick, a conceit not much accentuated by his costume, which consisted of a rather soiled duck jacket and equally dirty sarong. Old as he obviously was, there was no mistaking his urgency. His sharp blue eyes had nothing senile about them, and he waved them forward to him with a gesture of both command and urgency, peering about as he did so in a way that made his meaning plain, as plain indeed as his silence. My father also waved the others on, and in an instant they were in the hall of the house and the heavy door was shut and bolted behind them.

"The old chap addressed my father in sharp tones. When he saw that his Dutch gutturals were unintelligible, he switched to good, though accented, English. 'Are there no more of you? This is madness! We need at least a regiment to deal with my Folk. Did not my messages make this plain? And now they are leaving! You are too late!' His despair would have been comic had my father not seen what he had just seen.

" 'Who the deuce are you, old chap,' he asked, 'and what on earth are you doing here?' He wanted to know much more, such as how the old man was still alive and a few other obvious things like that.

"His question seemed to stun the old gentleman. 'Who am I? I am Van Ouisthoven. This is my place, KampongDe Kan, my house, my laboratory. Who else should I be?'

"My father had an excellent memory. This was the name Verner had twice mentioned, that of a man 'dead for fifteen years'. Verner then, did not possess the key to all knowledge, despite his air of omniscience. But the old man was clutching my father's sleeve.

" 'Did you not come in answer to my messages? Don't you know what has been happening? You have been fighting you have met the Folk, that is obvious. Why are you here, then, if not to stop them? And, God help us, why so few?'

"In a few sentences, my father told the history of the past few days. The old chap was sharp as a needle, and he listened intently.

" 'So I see. Maybe a message did get through, maybe not. But, anyway, this other Englishman comes and he knows or guesses something. There was a disturbance some four days ago, and Grixchox (or something like that) would tell me nothing. So he gets away from them then; a brave man to come here alone to face the Folk! And you find him, and he, how to put it, takes over you and your ship.' His eyes grew thoughtful, then focused.

" 'Listen. Everything rests on that ship out there. It must not get out, you understand me! I have been a prisoner here for a long while. But they do not kill me. They still remember that I taught them! But they do not know all my secrets. When they begin to learn, they scare me; I get just a few things in. But them they are clever, they made me not nervous, they make me think I am their God, and all the time among themselves they plot. When the day comes, they kill all my Javanese boys quickly, yes, and their women and the little ones too. Only me they save. I can still teach them something, and they do not forget that without me, they never be! Now, come fast. We have things to get. They are all down at the boat; that is why you got here alive, my friend. Come.'

"With no more words, he led them to the interior of the house, which went way back into the hill and was far larger than it appeared from the outside. The place was beautifully kept, by the way, old pictures on the walls, the floor spotless, rattan carpets here and there, and so on.

"Finally, Van Ouisthoven stopped at what was to outward appearances a blank section of wall between two large doors. Murmuring to himself in soft tones, the old man ran his fingers over the wall, an inlaid one of varicolored native woods. Then he gave a gasp of satisfaction and pressed hard. Silently, a great panel slid aside, and there before them lay a snug closet, perhaps ten feet deep and as much high and wide. In it were various shapes, covered with heavy canvas. The old Hollander flung this aside, and from my father and the others came gasps in their turn.

"Oiled and gleaming on its tripod base, funnel hopper feed mechanism seated in place, sat the fat brass cylinder of a Gatling gun! It was the small model, invented for the use of your New York police, I believe; but there were enough of them in service in the British and Indian Army that my father was fully conversant with its operation. Behind lay a stack of boxes, wrapped in brown oilskin, which could be nothing but its ammunition. A stand of Martini rifles and more ammunition stood next to it.

" 'Get it out, at once,' shouted Van Ouisthoven, 'we get it down to the harbor and those ungrateful schelms learn something they didn't learn yet. But hurry! That crook Yankee what skippers the Matilda Briggs, he'll take them all off yet if we don't hurry! They have been giving him my gold for years!'

"In a few words, my father told the others what he wanted. One man carried four boxes of ammunition for the gun. The other two took the weapon itself, one being Umpa, who carried the tripod and another box. My father slung two rifles and gave the old Dutchman another, at the same time taking a pouch of rifle cartridges. They were all laden, but not so much so that they could not make good time. The urgency of what they were doing though, to be sure, even my father only half understood it somehow communicated itself to all of them.

"As they left the front door, my father was amazed to see the old man take a large box of wax vestas from his jacket pocket and calmly light a tall bamboo screen just inside the door. As it took fire, Van Ouisthoven turned to my father and said sadly, 'It must go. The whole thing. If some should survive, they must have nothing to come back to. All must go. And it is suitable. Here it started.' There was nothing in his eyes as he spoke but grim determination, and Dad could only begin to grasp what it must have cost the old chap. But he knew his history, and remembered the men who cheerfully flooded their Dutch countryside in 1587 to turn back the Prince of Parma's Spanish Army.

"With no more words, the five of them set off down across the lawn and into another trail, this time headed for the harbor. Behind them a plume of black smoke came out the open door and began to rise in the heat of the steaming tropic mists.

"As they entered the new track, clear through the morning air, came the distant sound of a rifle shot, followed by others. With no word spoken, they all began to run, their various loads seeming light as they did. Van Ouisthoven's age was a mystery to my father, but he kept up gamely, his white beard jutting forward and his rifle at the ready.

"The trail they were on was a goodish bit broader than the narrow trace on which they had first approached the house, beaten smooth with much use, and presenting no obstruction to movement. They kept alert, the two Europeans guarding the flanks and moving first. The rifle fire continued in the distance, and grew louder as they advanced. How long they ran would be impossible to estimate, but suddenly they came into the open and saw a panorama which stayed riveted in their memories. My father could describe it, after a fifth glass of port, as if it had been only the day before.

"The tiny bay lay before them, a broad stretch of yellow sand skirting a calm blue lagoon. Some hundreds of yards offshore lay the bark at anchor, a shabby enough craft, her brown hull paint peeling, patched sails half up but idle in the almost windless air. Between her and the shore, boats, three of them, none large, plied steadily with paddles, all heading for the ship.

"Directly in front of my father and his group, Verner and his three seamen fronted the monsters. It was a curious situation. The three seamen, including Burung, were prone, firing at intervals, in unison, and only when there was a rush. Their ammunition must have been almost exhausted. Behind them, Verner leaned on his crude cane, somehow conveying an air of casual urbanity, as if bored by the whole proceedings, his shabby garments even now appearing neat, despite their rips and tatters. My father, who disliked the man intensely, was always careful to aver, nevertheless, that he carried himself in a very gentlemanly manner at all times.

"There were bodies on the sand between Verner's people and the Folk. Huge bodies covered with yellow-brown fur, great ivory chisel teeth fixed in death grimaces, strange hairy hands still clutching their crude knives. Behind them, in turn, were the rest of the Folk, the great males, in a circle, their horrid faces turned toward their enemies, their gruff barking notes and shriller chatter filling the air. Even as my father saw them, they were massing for another rush. In back of the ring of raging creatures were a mass of smaller brutes, many of them no larger than children. The Folk, or at least some of them, had been brought to bay, and their females and young were the cause."

As we heard this story, those of us who knew Ffellowes saw something we had seldom seen, I mean the man was feeling! As he told the final moments of this tale, the man was really moved. He illustrated his story with jerky hand motions, and there was actual sweat on his forehead! Whatever the truth of his yarns, and I have long since suspended judgment on them, there is no doubt about one thing, in this one anyway. The guy felt it! And it was supposed to have happened to his father back long before any of us were born!

He went on. "My father wasted no time. Several crisp orders and the Gatling was set up, with Dad holding the yoke bars. Old Umpa was the ammunition loader and emptied the first box of shells into the hopper feed.

" 'Get down, Verner, get down flat!' Dad bellowed. Verner, whose back was to them, fell as if struck dead. The others being prone already, a clear field of fire was possible. Dad began to turn the crank.

"The bellow of the Gatling drowned out all other noises, and my father traversed it back and forth as coldly as if he had been on a target range. Old Umpa, his dark, scarred visage expressionless, broke open the boxes and emptied cartridges into the hopper as calmly as if he were shelling nuts. The result was appalling. The great furry brutes went down like nine-pins, and as fast as those in front fell, the others behind followed. It was over in five minutes.

"My father stopped firing and the bluish smoke drifted in the faint breeze. The water at the beach edge was red, and so too were the sands. It looked like a slaughter-house. The bulky carcasses lay in their gory death like so many shot muskrats, which indeed they resembled, save in size.

"Verner rose from the sand and dusted himself off in a precise, almost mincing way. His three trusties also got up, old Burung in the lead, and walked over to us.

" 'You have justified my belief in you, Captain,' he said in his usual icy tones. 'These dangerous vermin were tolerably close to terminating a career which has not been without some small distinction. And who is this, pray tell?'

"It was a considerable pleasure for my father to introduce Van Ouisthoven to Mr. Verner, though the latter was, to be sure, as imperturbable as usual.

" 'I see that the reports of your death, Mynjheer, have been considerably exaggerated.' Verner's voice was even chiller than its normal wont 'You have much to answer for, sir. You have imperiled the entire human race by your meddling in matters better left to Providence.'

"His rebuke, however, went unnoticed. For even Verner had forgotten the ship. Now, with a cry, the old Hollander pointed, and we all remembered her. Under easy sail, square sails set on the two foremasts, and gaff on the mizzen, the Matilda Briggs was standing out to sea. The three small boats which had been plying to and from shore drifted on the tide.

"It was a beautiful scene, really. There was the brown ship, as lovely as only a sailing vessel can be, the azure waters, the fringe of nipa and coco palms on the shore, and then the open sea beyond the harbor's mouth. But it was horror! One thing had been made plain to my father; that the ship must not escape. And here she was, stealing out to sea, and they were helpless. The Gatling, though unparalleled at close range, was useless beyond two hundred yards, and the ship was thrice that already. Everyone stood in numb silence, and simply watched her go. And saw her end.

"Around the corner of the northern point of the bay came the bow of a small black steamer with white upper works. And as she appeared, she began to fire, first the bow gun and then the stern, as soon as they could bear upon the target. She was not large, but on her staff she wore the blue, red and white of the navy of Holland. In silence the little crowd on the beach watched the annihilation of the Matilda Briggs. The two guns the gunboat used were not of great caliber, but the bark was a fragile thing, wood-built, old and hard-used. Her masts fell in seconds, and the fires kindled by the exploding shells were all over her in another instant. Ceaselessly, remorselessly, the warship fired. When she stopped and the echoes of her guns no longer resounded in one's ears, there was nothing on the surface of the lagoon, nothing but a smear of oily muck, some oily smoke, a litter of wood scraps, and the dark fins of countless sharks.

" 'The Dolfjin has justified the Dutch naval estimates, indeed those of the entire mass of all the world's navies,' came the didactic comment of Verner over my father's shoulder. 'A curious reflection on the rise of modern fleets, that one minute gunboat should prove the probable savior of the human race. She came only just in time,' he added.

"But my father was not really listening to Verner. He was watching Van Ouisthoven instead. The old man was walking slowly down the beach to the pile of bodies where the Folk lay, the males in front of their females and young. For some reason, my father followed him as he skirted the fringe of the mass of dead creatures and advanced slowly and with head bent on the last heap at the water's edge.

"While my father stood silent behind him, the old fellow began to pull the bodies apart in the last heap, the one nearest the water, ignoring the warm blood that stained his arms and clothing. Persistently, he tugged and hauled, shoving the great carcasses aside, until at last he was rewarded.

"Something moved under his hands, and his motions grew more excited. My father drew one of his revolvers and stood waiting, poised for any eventuality.

"A blunt-nosed head appeared from under one of the larger shapes, and into the bright sun of noon wiggled a small furry creature, no more than three feet high. In one arm it clutched something flat, but the other hand it held out to Van Ouisthoven, squeaking plaintively as it did so. The man whom it addressed stood silent, his shoulders seeming to stoop even more, if possible. Then in the same absence of sound, Van Ouisthoven held out one hand to my father. In the same bleak silence, as if no other noise could be allowed, my father handed over the revolver he held. He saw tears pouring down Van Ouisthoven's face. There was a shot. My father confessed he had his eyes close at this juncture. Then a second shot.

"When Dad could bear to look again, two figures were clasped together. The old Hollander lay hugging the small shape of the last of the Folk, a bullet in his own brain. Beside them on the sand lay the object which the little thing had been holding so tightly. My father stirred it with his foot. It was a Dutch primer, brightly illustrated in color, with pictures of children in Holland at play.

"The next scene of the drama, or what have you, took place in the captain's cabin of His Netherlandish Majesty's ship, the Dolfjin. They were headed down the coast to pick up my father's prau. The Dutch naval officer had ceased his questions, and the interminable voice of Verner had taken up the tale. Through a fog of fatigue blended with irritation, my father tried to follow what the man was saying. His comprehensive dislike of the fellow's personality was palliated only by a genuine admiration of the man's attainments and perseverance.

" 'It becomes quite clear, I think, to all present, that no report of this affair must reach any but the few constituted authorities, those who are cognizant to some extent, that is, of the problem. Were the facts to be made plain, I fear, some scientific rascals would be able to reproduce the late Van Ouisthoven's work. While he had a good degree from Leyden, he was hardly, save in sheer persistence, a genius, and it is highly possible ...'

"Here, my father, who could not forget the old man's death, made some ejaculation or even swore, though this was most unlike him.

" 'My dear Ffellowes,' said Verner, his voice losing some of its habitual sang-froid. 'No one is more cognizant than myself of that unfortunate man's dilemma. He must, perforce, destroy the very thing he had created. His last moments, which I also observed, were charged with remorse and grief. Yet, what choice had he? Or indeed, any of us? His final actions, awful though they may appear to an observer, gave him rank with the leaders of the human race. He raised Caliban from the depths and to the depths he dispatched him.'

"My father said nothing. He was too sunk in weariness and sadness to venture further. Yet for one moment, Verner's wiry hand had pressed his shoulder, and he felt the unspoken sympathy which the other could not express in any other way, both to the dead, and to himself. There was a silence.

" 'To resume,' Verner continued, his high querulous voice cutting off any debate, 'the facts are indeed singular. They stem, in fact, from the unpaid bills of a Manchester firm of machinery manufacturers. These people, whose name is in the highest degree inconsequential to this story, retained in turn, my employers, Messrs. Morrison, Morrison and Dodd, who act only as appraisers of various mechanical artifices and manufacturers, but also, in a subsidiary vein, as assurers of the same. Thus are great affairs put in train! The bills of the original company were not being paid! A steady and reliable account had ceased payment, without prior notice! An outrage, in the ordered community of business! What transpired? Morrison, Morrison and Dodd were called in and found themselves at sea, literally and figuratively. The account was in the great Dutch island of Sumatra. Some ten thousands of pounds sterling were owed. The Dutch, when appealed to, could give no assistance.

" 'The area in question was remote and feverish, on the so-called Tapanuli coast. Few ships called there. In any case, the Holland Government could hardly prosecute a bankrupt on behalf of an English firm. They declined action. So the matter stood. But do not undervalue the persistence of the English man of business. He will follow a bad debt to the end. Hence my appearance in this matter, brought about by devious means and my own desires, let it be said.

" 'When the matter was first put to me, I was at first totally disinterested. It seemed to have little of consequence, and less of any noteworthy quality about it. I was resistant to the idea of my services being engaged. Yet, I made a few preliminary moves. One of these was to frequent the numerous haunts in the areas of the London docks, where information on this part of the world might be ascertained, if patience were applied.

" 'My patience was rewarded. Some mouthings of a dying lascar seaman in a den of the vilest description caused me to accept the commission. What the fellow said was vague and in the highest degree inconclusive. Nevertheless, it brought me out here to the East. For, in speaking of the very area of coast in which we now find ourselves, he said something of great interest.

" 'Do not go there,' he choked out 'That is the land of Not-men. Men like you and me, we are killed on sight!'

" 'So, by strange methods, including enlisting persons so lofty in stature they may not be mentioned on this vessel, through a previous indebtedness to my humble person, I secured the right to anywhere in these islands. And also to ask for the aid of such Dutch naval craft as might be available. In fact, I could tell my colleague here to sink anything he saw moving on this coast.

" 'And so by circuitous means,' continued Verner, 'I came to one Cornelius Van Ouisthoven, the original bad debtor of my employers. The man was presumed dead. Not one relative in his family had heard from him for many years. But and a large BUT it was he had ordered mining machinery, railway machinery, all sorts of machinery, and had not paid for it, that is, after a certain point in time.

" 'I found myself with a curious and unsolvable equation, involving this hitherto unknown Dutch gentleman, whose background I was at some pains to look into. Added to him there was some unpaid-for machinery, and finally, as I drew closer to the area in question, more and more rumors about a land where men were not welcome!

" 'So curious were all these circumstances that I felt I must investigate in person. I did so, and the results were as you know. I found myself the prisoner of these creatures the old gentleman chose to call "the Folk."

" 'I managed to escape and even flee the harbor in one of the native craft whose previous owners, no doubt innocent fishermen, the Folk had slain. These vessels, which were beyond their management, were left drawn up on the beach.

" 'I have not been so fortunate as to secure Van Ouisthoven's notes, but I rather fancy I can piece together the main membra.

" 'Briefly, the old man was a biologist, and one of extraordinary patience. He bred some native rodent, almost certainly Rhizomys sumatrensis, the local so-called, "bamboo rat" to extraordinary size. In my dissecting days at Barts, various genera of the Rodentia were exposed to me, and I well remember noting that this particular species had very well-developed paws, quite resembling hands, in fact.

" 'Hands come before brains, you know. This is the most recent opinion. Without grasping organs, our peculiar human brains would be worthless. So, the old recluse went on with his work. And, from what you tell me, Ffellowes, he succeeded.

" 'Brain is an inevitable increment of size at this rate. These vermin are quite clever enough as it is. Someone at the British Museum has deduced that there are four thousand species of rodents on the planet already. But if we are to be supplanted, let it be in due course. Even the old man agreed with that at the end.'

"And there," said Ffellowes, extinguishing his cigar, "my story, or 'tale' if you like, Williams, ends. My father was returned to his own vessel, he continued his cruise through the islands, and no report of any of this exists anywhere, unless it be in some hidden archives of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. That is all."

There was a longer silence this time. It was broken by the younger member who had brought on the whole business in the first place.

"But, Brigadier, with all respect, sir, there is something vaguely familiar about all this. Who was this man, Verner, or whatever he called himself? He sounds like some creature of fiction himself."

Ffellowes' answer was well typical. He stared at the young man coldly, but not in anger.

"Possible, no doubt. Since I never read sensational literature, I fear that I am in no position to give an answer. I have nothing to go on, you understand, but my father's unsupported word. I have always felt that sufficient!"

After a much longer silence, the brigadier was found to have gone, as silently as always. And, as usual, no one else seemed to have anything to say.

COMMANDER IN THE MIST

It was a rather normal day, or actually, afternoon, for New York. In November, that is. Crowds were moving along Fifth Avenue in a cold sleeting rain. Traffic was blaring horns and cab drivers were yelling obscenities at jaywalkers, other hapless motorists and each other. The brown-uniformed Traffic Police, including a few women, with the aid of the standard men in blue, were trying to make sense out of it all and, true to the reputation of New York's police over the Earth, were doing so, with terse, barking commands of "Move along there" and "Can't you see the color of a stop light, goddamnit?"

I was standing against the solid stone wall of Central Park, in the low Sixties, which was some protection against the cold wind and wet. The wind was out of the west, over the Hudson River and coming over the few leaves on the park trees with some force. The thin, cold drops of water were apt to be driven down one's neck while walking. Still, I had only two blocks to go. Then the park would end and I could easily cross to my destination.

I was looking downtown and about to move on when I was startled by a voice from my other flank.

"Like the thunder of the city, old chap?" A man stood beside me, his Burberry belted and his slouch hat, some natty Italian make, maybe a Borsalino, slanted over one blue eye. A grin cut across the ruddy, smooth-shaven face, and I wondered again at the absence of lines on it. The Brigadier, as Ffellowes preferred to be called, had been everywhere in the world and not only done most known things, but seemed to have been mixed up in a whole bunch of things no one else had not only never done, most people had never conceived of them being remotely possible. His years of service to the British Crown had dumped him in every branch of their army I had ever heard of, and then some! If he's truthful, and I think he is, it would hardly take me by surprise to have him state calmly that he had commanded a battle-cruiser at Jutland or been leader of the much later air strike on Dresden. What a man, and how quietly and unobtrusively he could move! A long period in some intelligence branch or branches, that had taught him this trick, or so he claimed. Now he spoke again, the clipped, even tones cutting through street noise like a knife through butter.

"Don't recognize the quote, do you?" His smile broadened. "It was said to, or thought by, a hero, if you like. Fictional, I'm afraid." He saw from my puzzled look that I had no idea what he was talking about, which was not rare, and went on with his joke. "It was said about this town to one Simon Templar. That ring a bell? Said by or inspired by a lovely girl though, not an aging hack of the Empire."

My memory raced and finally came up with reading long past but still memorable. "For Christ's sake! The Saint! Didn't know you liked that kind of thing, Brigadier. What's the story called?"

"If my recollection serves, very simple. The Saint in New York, by that chap, Leslie Charteris. Damned good book, too. You ought to try it. Maybe it's in the club library, hmm?"

"Let's go and look. I was headed there anyway. There's no sun, to put it mildly, and it's getting dark. This park has muggers, you know."

My answer didn't make him turn a hair. As a matter of fact, I would have feared for any mugger who tried on Ffellowes, unless he had a team headed by a large tank, to help him.

He was going to the same place I was, and we strolled quickly along the rain-swept street in the growing dark, chatting away together. In no time we were in our club and had shucked our coats and settled down with drinks in the library. He had, not tea, which might have been what he was raised on, but a large cup of black coffee, fresh-ground as the club does it.

There were three or four of our acquaintances in the big room, and they quickly stopped whatever they were gabbing about and drew near to us and around the fire. I knew what they were hoping for, but I could hardly blame them. Any time I got Ffellowes at his ease by a fire, or just relaxed, I hoped for one of his incredible stories. They were rare but fantastic. We all felt the same way, but none of us wanted to beg or put the man at a disadvantage. If we had, we all felt, he might stop coming around at all. Better an occasional tale from the Brigadier, than none at all.

We were simply having a chat, about nothing in particular though, and I was about to give up hope of any of his bizarre reminiscences, when we were saved and by a most unlikely person, not to say an improbable one.

A voice like a rusty foghorn sounded from the stairs, and the sound of heavy, clumping shoes. We all straightened in our chairs and even Ffellowes stopped talking. "This Godawful town! I ought to go down to Florida and check on my horses at that stud place, north of Tampa. I got a lot of dough in them things, and IRS ought to be easy on my trips down there. Nobody knows what a real horse-lover has to put out and the work he's got to do. Besides, any excuse to get the hell outta this shit-hole of a town and this weather, will do me." Mason Williams was in full cry and sounded as unpleasant as ever. So much for peace and quiet in the library, was my thought as I watched his bulky shape thudding over our way, red face and bulbous nose under a thinning mop of greying hair. I had forgot our secret weapon, and the incisive syllables stirred me as they always did.

"You seem a trifle out of shape, Williams. Going to put in some time as an exercise-boy? Nothing like it for a horse-lover such as yourself, is there?"

Williams' nasty face turned an even redder hue and verged on the purple in places. He hated Ffellowes anyway and was maddened by the cold contempt which was all he ever got from him. The Englishman fascinated him, more or less the way a cobra is supposed to petrify a bird, though, and he could never stay away from those cold eyes and the gelid tones, when they were about. Now he slouched into one vacant leather armchair and scowled in anger.

"I suppose you British know all about horses, pal," was his opening gun. "No crummy Yank can hold a candle to you jerks and your Grando National jazz. Jeez, why don't you give us a break, Genarul (he knew well that Ffellowes did not care for this title) and let the Amurrican peasants play with their toys in a back room, huh?"

As often he had done before, Brigadier Ffellowes smiled politely. It might have been a parrot squawking or a dog yapping at him. Williams could say nothing that even slightly ruffled him, then or ever. But the next words made us all, and that includes the unspeakable Williams, sit up straighter and also, shut up.

"Why I'm only a fair rider, old man. Hardly know one end of a filly from another. Equine, that is." He smiled gently, and I cast my mind back to other stories which gave the lie to this statement. I held my breath.

"Frankly, I think there may be too much trouble, hunting for horses, you know. Can be fraught with peril and all that sort of thing. To say nothing of experiences that one really doesn't care to recall. I remember the banks of the Danube in '45, now. Very odd and, d'you know, men, rather unsettling. Not at this time of year but just this sort of weather. Colder perhaps. No heat pipes running along the Donau banks, though once there was some decent heating. In Palaestrum, that is. Any of you know it?"

We shook our heads in silence and no one opened his mouth. I don't know about the others, but for me the windy and wet eve of outside Manhattan was totally gone. I wanted to hear this one as I always did, more than anything I could think of. The high, curtained windows of the club library made a good sound barrier and the roar of the city outside was dim and far away.

Ffellowes smiled gently and looked up and off into space for a second. No one opened his yap, and the Brigadier knew, I think, that we were waiting.

"Well, if it would not bore you, it's a vaguely interesting tale. Palaestrum is, or was, one of the old Roman bases on the Danube frontier. Got Roman cemeteries and the remains of amphitheaters, even a broken-down HQ or something, which might have had the structure of a palace. I think they're still rooting about there and even finding things now and again. Off in a field, there's some sort of big triumphal arch or something. The Russkies left it alone, though it was in their zone, which seems odd, but perhaps they had other things on their mind. More complexity in the Slav mentality than they often get credit for, you know."

This was more than Williams could take. His anger overcame his fascination, but it did no harm. "Very funny, my dear Genarul. All them Romans and their lousy Empire. Like you Limeys, they ain't around no more, are they? So what has any of this got to do with your Grando National winners? Nothing, right?"

We all held our breath, and I vowed once again to try and find out how Williams had ever got by the Election Committee. But it did no harm.

"Quite right, my dear man. Nothing at all to do with Aintree. But there are other steeds in the world, you know. And I was looking for some. Never found 'em though, To find these horses, it took an old cavalryman. I suppose you've heard of George Patton? Ever hear of the Lippizaners?"

We were all mute again. At the mention of a great American general, even Williams had to clam up. It was very deft, as it always was. And it went calmly on, with no more interruptions.

"As I say, we were looking for horses. At the time, they were far north and east of our location. The Allies, all of us, had swung wide of Vienna and Austria and kept driving north into Germany, quickly, with a sharp lookout being kept. Plenty of Kraut stragglers and broken units about. A lot of 'em wanted to surrender, but not all, not by any means. Several die-hard SS units were in our neighborhood, and God knows what else. The main army, ours, was U.S. and French.

"We ourselves were a special small unit. We had three American half-tracks though and more than a few bazookas. I was in command and had three officers and a half-company of other ranks. All volunteers and good men. Let me see, I seem to think they were Gloucesters. All combat-proofed and veterans. Some of them went back a long time, to the Western Desert and similar places.

"My Second was a Major Broke, and there were two lieutenants, named Garvin and Embey. A couple of good sergeants, too. All in all, a good, self-contained group.

"We'd been sent south, alone, to find the whereabouts of the famous Spanish Riding School of Vienna and above all, its mounts, the Lippizaners. What, or who, they were destined for, I have no idea. They're back in Austria now, of course, or their descendants are. Your Third Army leader saw to that. As I said, an old cavalryman. Ever know he designed the last saber ever thought of for issue to your mounted troops? Never used, but I've got one somewhere. Very good design, I always thought.

"Anyhow, some Intelligence wallah, probably in London, thought or heard that the damn horses had or were coming by a certain route. We were going to place ourselves, a lost company, on or across said route. Snaffle the animals and bring off a great coup for the British Army. It was all wrong, but so were a lot of efforts of that sort and many a lot more important. Not the intention, that was all right. But the dope we'd been given was very late and way off anyway.

We were miles from any of our own troops, let alone allies.

"So, as it happens, we found ourselves very close to the Blue Danube. Well, it may have been blue to Strauss, but I've seen a lot of it at one time or another, and it always looked brown and turgid as hell to me. Especially on a cold, spring afternoon, with the bare trees dripping with rain and patches of fog at low points. That, my friends, is how we got to Palaestrum. There's a town there, built in the 16th Century or so, just about the time that Spanish School got going, or even earlier. Called Sankt Udo or close to it, as I recall. There was a ruined baroque Schloss, or castle, the seat of a family named Antenstein, I think. We avoided the town altogether, which was common sense. Anyone or anything could have been in those old houses. But by the castle, which seemed more or less gutted and empty, there ran a narrow dirt track, which, if our info was correct, actually ran down to the river itself. Here, the horses were supposed to cross, on makeshift barges or some gear of that sort or other. And there, if all went well, we would nab them."

He paused and again his eyes went far away. "Wish you all could have seen what we did. Might even put Williams off on his devotion to rare equines. As we went left off a battered main highway, with gutted vehicles and ruins all about, it was around fourish in the afternoon of very early spring. The lines of tall trees on either side of our dirt track were bare and dripping wet. There was no wind and only that dank and sodden sound of water dripping. One could hear nothing else when our vehicles had to break their progress and the rumble of their engines fell silent.

"Then, there was a break in the trees. We stopped, for the road or excuse for a road, led out into an open space, largish, with more trees on the far side. All the while the track, by the way, had been running downhill at a slight angle.

"It was Broke, sitting beside me in the back of the lead vehicle, who put a thought into speech. 'Someone destroyed something here, by God. Looks as if it had happened a long time ago, though.'

"Before us, through the thin rain, we could see a vast hole in the ground, bowl-shaped and shallow, grading down to a level and rounded center. There were serrated lines sort of cut all around the rim, actually cut level, into the earth. Here and there, other, deeper cuts made what seemed to be openings or even entrances, which led down ramped earth into the level at the bottom. At a couple of the gaps, battered columns of greyish stone lifted themselves out of the dark soil to about ten or so feet. It brought some memories back, of jaunts in southern Europe long before.

"I laughed, for all our men were swiveling their rocket launchers and machine guns about as they peered off into the obscurity. 'It was a long time ago, Major,' I said. 'I had a briefing by some of the Intell. brass that you missed. But tell the men not to worry, though not to relax. You're looking at some remnants of an old war indeed. We're at Palaestrum, friend, and this is a dug-up Roman amphitheater in front of us. Lions and Christians might have come through those gates, or chariots. But the last time troops had to be alerted here was against the Marcomanni or some other beginners at the Volkerwanderung. It's their descendants, and remote ones, we have to guard ourselves from. Especially if they have SS badges on the collar.'

"Word was passed through the line back to the other two vehicles, and I could hear a refreshing ripple of amusement when they heard what they were goggling at. But they were too much on the alert to relax entirely. Before I could order it, three men with Stens were out in front of us on foot, just in case something modern was lying in wait somewhere in the ruins of the past. We all waited patiently for an 'All Clear' signal. Far off, through the silence, I now could hear the drone of planes, either ours or Russian we felt sure. The Luftwaffe was mostly gone by now. Presently, our scouts came back to my half-track. But they had a surprise with them, our first prisoner. She was not very menacing.

"She must have been seventy at least and was a nice-looking old thing, though in ragged and much patched clothes with a ratty old scarf covering grey locks from the cold and wet. She was gabbling away at a great rate, her squint orbs darting from one to the other of us in fright. My German is passable, but I could only make out an occasional word or two. I had had an instructor of the Potsdam variety, and the slurred patois of Austrian peasants was beyond me. But, my luck was in, as usual. From beside me, Broke took over. Turned out he'd spent summers in Austria as a boy, and it was nothing to him. He told the men to let go of the poor old thing and was soon chattering away happily with her, while she began to smile and wave her arthritic paws as she prattled at him. He turned to me at length with a smile on his face.

" 'Can I tell the men to let her go, sir? She lives not far away and was only gathering herbs. She knows what we are and has no use for Germans or even her own folk in the German ranks. I think she'll keep her mouth shut'

"I had a few questions, which he put and she was prompt to answer. She had seen no sign of armor, wagons, horses or uniformed men, save for occasional stragglers in the past weeks. She was delighted to see us, as a matter of fact, since we were not what she was dreading from over the Volga. But as I waved her politely away and the men all smiled at her kindly, she burst out in a torrent of expostulations, pointing ahead in the direction we were going.

"I turned to Broke and he was smiling even more broadly. He bowed and waved the poor thing off and she went, often looking back at us, until she disappeared into the side woods and the gathering mist. Then she was gone and I turned to my companion.

" 'Well, sir,' he explained, his teeth showing, 'seems we are still in danger, at least if we push on to the river. There are dread spirits down there, 'on my word, hexerei of the most nasty sort. They've always been there by the river, and she meant that too, having been warned by a great-grandfather or somesuch, when a kid herself. Think we dare risk it? We mustn't camp there at night, was an emphasis in that chatter.'

"I laughed. I told him I thought that we could manage that sort of thing, and the men near us laughed as well. So we signaled the others and all of us in our truncated column started engines and we went on past the amphitheater of a lost empire and entered the woods again at the other side. I had sent word that no one was to slack off and all were quite on the qui vive.

"It was now getting very dark and gloomy, though we could still hold the track without lights, though just. The rain had stopped and we went on through a cold and windless dark under the tall shining dark tree trunks, still down a long and gentle slope.

"The man sitting by the driver up front gave us a hand signal then and we all saw it. We had come to great willows, whose dripping branches, still with many small leaves, hung down all about us. But this was not why we had stopped. There in front was dark water, smooth and almost silent in the gathering night, save for a chuckle where a log broke the surface and caused the great river to ripple about it. We were on the Danube, that ancient waterway of races since time began.

"Swirling mists lay on the water's surface also, but not constant any more than they had been in the woods on the slope above. They veiled the waters but only in patches and shifted slowly to reveal new and shadowy vistas and then closed again and reformed anon some way off. In one opening of the white fog, I had seen a thing quite close to us and only a little way upstream, a couple of hundred feet. It had intrigued me for very obvious reasons, since dark was now coming fast I gave orders and the wagons, all three, were put in a half-circle with the water at our backs. Sentries were posted at good points and silence imposed. I told the men to eat their combat rations cold and keep mum and lightless. Then I took Broke and a couple of well-armed men and all went to what I had spotted. When we got there, I got out a hooded flash and used it on what lay on the ground and also went out into the water.

"It was nothing more than a broad jetty or the shore portion of one. I looked it over carefully and so did the other three. A very thin layer of soil and leaves did not hide what lay underneath. I was struck silent by it. There were massive blocks of some stone or other, rough and worn yet still strong and solid. The chief wear was logically on our left side, the upstream side. The whole mass thrust out into the Danube for some fifty or so feet and then came to a stop.

" 'Not built yesterday, men,' I said at length. 'This is part of ancient Rome, if I'm not wrong, and was one of their piers. Probably been used by fishers and such, since the 4th Century, and still has uses. I rather think that what we're looking for will be coming this way. Good place to tie up to, and a riverman, coming from the other side, would not have too much trouble finding it. Even at night and a night like this one.'

"So that was all. We went back and sent the same two men with one of the veteran sergeants back to the pier we had found. They were to stay low and keep a sharp lookout. We were deep in enemy country. We were winning but not here or yet.

"The rest of us, having arranged watches and checked all the posts where the inland advance guard was to keep watch, ate and turned in. I chatted for a bit with the three officers and then curled up in my waterproof under a blanket on one of the half-tracks. The night was very silent, save for the burble of the river and the steady drip from the trees, which blended with it. Every so often, planes would hum in the distance and once I heard a far-off thud which may have been a major explosion. But that was all, and I soon fell into an easy slumber, having satisfied myself that I had taken all precautions and done the best I could. I had a quiet smile as I dropped off. Even the ghosts the old girl had been so afraid of, wherever they were, were good and quiet."

Outside the big, high-ceilinged room, the thunder of one of man's great cities seemed very far away. Save for our breathing and an occasional crackle from the fire, all was silent about us. I saw more than one mouth stay open as we waited for the next words of that silent, far-off night in an alien land.

"It was one of the younger officers who woke me up. I flicked a glance at my watch and it was two a.m. on a very dark morning. I could hear nothing and the night was silent, save for the splash of water and the fainter drip of that on the trees.

" 'Don't know what's up, sir,' was the low-voiced message. 'The sergeant sent one of his watch back a second ago, from the bridgehead you found. They've heard some sound they don't like, I gather.'

"I was on my feet quickly. I hissed at him to alert all hands and that I would go over and check myself on whatever it was. I drew my Webley from its holster and, at a crouch, eeled over to where the sergeant was waiting for me, in the shadow of a willow trunk by the ancient pier. I could feel his tension, even in the dark, and I could not even see his face clearly. The fog was heavier now and, with the night as well, we were in a lightless shroud.

" 'We have heard something, sir,' came his hoarse whisper. 'Maybe it's what we're expecting. Very quiet and the sound of a few men marching. But I heard metal clink and so did the other three.' He paused. 'Something else, too. What might have been a couple of horses, maybe unshod or walking on them leaves and stuff. That could be for us, now, right, sir?"

" 'I patted his arm and we listened intently. For some time, I heard only the usual night noise and the river. Once an owl hooted, faintly and a long piece off. Then when I was beginning to wonder if the men had bad dreams, I heard it myself.

"It was the sound of soft but regular footsteps, more than one, as if in that utter dark, some folk could actually keep in step. Too, just as the man had said, there came a clink of metal and now a creaking as well, which might have been leather or something like that. I held my breath and sure enough, there came the other sound. It was heavy and caused by some weight, but even muffled and hard to make out, it was quite close and the sound of more than two feet.

"I told him to get his men facing out and stay with them. I would stay hid at the pier's foot and meet whatever it was. The others were on alert and ready to chip in if needed. He faded from my side and I crept over to a tree bole where I had said. Then we all waited in that dark and soggy night. Not even the hum of a plane was heard, as we all faced away from the river to the black wall of the wood.

"The sound of the muffled but regular pace, of both man and beast, came even closer. And, suddenly, I saw what I was listening to, or at least part of it. And what a sight it was!

"There in front of me, perhaps ten yards off, was a man and he held in one hand a kind of rude torch. I had heard no sound of its being lit; it was suddenly on and illumined what lay under it to my startled eye. I stood up and stepped forward, and a voice, that of the man in front of me, cried out something. I held up my empty left hand, palm outward, so he could see it. He stared at me, his jaw set, and then he spoke to me.

" 'Who are you?' he began, 'and what do you here on our side. You are on the lands of the Empire, Barbarian, and what do you here at night? It is death to be here and a ban exists. Do you understand me?'

"He was a short swarthy man, smooth-faced, and must have been given a short haircut, for none showed below his helmet. But he was no youth and his strong jaw had white scar lines. The eyes were dark and sharp and there were many wrinkles at the corners. I stood, frozen by a paralysis strong enough to melt bones. And suddenly the cold of the night went through my very soul, as if the wavering aura of torchlight around the figure before me had some malign and invisible miasma of its own. I could stare, mouth wide open at what I saw.

"First, there was the helmet, of what looked like battered brass, dented and with verdigris over some of it. It was rounded, with a tail coming down the back of the neck and flaring around the sides. A ridge of smooth metal crowned it, also dented. He wore a tunic of stained leather, and on his breast was the brass of a perforate which screened the chest. His brownish kilt came to his knees, and his boots were soft leather but with greave armor on their fronts. The gladius, the two-edged Spanish or Celtiberian short sword, was hung from a shoulder belt. Tucked into this belt was what looked like a switch or crop.

"Then and for the first time I realized what tongue I had been hearing. My Sixth Form at school came back with a rush to me. The barking voice was in Latin! I could understand it perfectly well, save for an occasional word. But something old and cold had come into my spirit. Time had stood still and all thought of the present was gone, as if it were some ephemeral cloud.

"I heard the voice of the sergeant over my shoulder and close by as if it were from another world. All I heard was, 'Are you all right ...' and then the figure in front of me barked a command.

"There was a sudden movement in the dark behind him, and something whizzed past my head. There was a sharp sound like a branch being broken, and I felt, rather than saw, a figure slump to the ground on my right and rear.

" 'Tell those Massagetae of yours to stay back,' rapped the voice from the front, 'and stand still yourself, even if you are their Prince!'

"I did not move and it was not voluntary. My hand was still raised and now even higher. Had Adolf seen me, he would have been proud, save that it was the wrong hand. I knew why that open hand was raised too, and terror crept through me. Was this a bad dream or the end of the world? The silent, fog-ensorcelled night had eaten all sounds but what I heard, and now I heard a new sound.

"It was the earthy sound of a horse pacing and it was coming out of the blackness behind the man before me, straight for us. Its head appeared in the light and I saw the gleam of silvery and gilt chains across its brow. A man, a very dark man, whose eyeballs flashed in the torchlight, was leading it. I hardly looked at him, but got the idea that he was swathed in white robes and had a hood pulled back of the same hue.

"It was the mounted man, whose mount he was leading; it was he whom I watched as my arm grew even stiffer. I could no longer even feel the Webley in my right fist.

"This new appearance was striking. His lorica, the cuirass on his chest, gleamed with a yellow light and I knew gold when I saw it. It was ornate, too, and I saw scrollwork and the glitter of gems on his breast. He too wore a helmet but his was of finely wrought gold, and surmounting its gleaming ridge was a higher, great ridge of scarlet running from the front to the rear, upright and narrow. The helmet had a slight bill over the dark eyes, and oh, yes thrown back over his shoulders was a heavy and shimmering cloak, whose golden fringe accented the deeper purple of the main body of the garment.

"His face, that of a mature and stern man, as hairless as the first man's, gripped my gaze. It was commanding, that face, and yet somehow, it was weary, with an unutterable tiredness. A thrill of ice went through me as I met those dark, weary eyes. Then he spoke, though not to me, and I flinched inside as I heard the voice of a doomed and mighty shade, for it contained all the weariness of the ages, mingled with its great authority. Tears came unbidden to my eyes and yet I stood frozen, held in that fog and dark by some mind-bending, tragic power.

" 'What have we here, Legate? More incursions of the hordes of the East? They look strange enough to have come from the far, strange land of silks, on which our women will always waste our substance.' His horse turned slightly and he addressed me, myself.

"His speech was plain, his voice of a deep timbre. 'Principes Barbarii, this place and this river are forbid when Noctens rules. Not even the Foederati in my pay can come here then, not if they wish to live. My priests and some of ancient Set from the far-off Nilus, they have all laid this ban, and the dark powers will enforce it as did my own slinger from Balearica. Should you wish to take service, this is done only when Apollo himself is high in the Heavens. Otherwise, get you gone or the Powers of Darkness will hold you forever. I guard Vindobonum yet and always will and these are approaches that no one can cross the mighty river upon and live without an eternal price upon them.' "

Ffellowes fell silent and the room stayed that way too. The thunder of New York was a far-distant murmur, and only a glow of remaining coals lit the high, dark of the big room. We were all a long way off, in time and space and only breathing was audible. At length, he spoke once more and finished his tale.

"We were, you fellows see, trapped by a thing that had emerged from the ages and the mists, not only of the river but the mists of time. In the next morning, after I had quietly nursed the sergeant, whose skull, for he'd taken off his helmet, was not cracked but badly gashed, I told everyone else that I had seen two stray nags, lost from some farm, and nothing else. The sergeant, who was concussed, looked at me but did not give me the lie. No one else had seen anything but the flicker of a light, which I explained as St. Elmo's fire and quite natural. Before we went back to work and retraced our steps northwest, I gave the sergeant a smooth black pebble. It was apparently lava, and I have seen thousands on the Majorca or Ibizan beaches before and since.

"When I came back to myself lying on the ground in the still, cold glimmer of early day and amid the first piping of birds, I had a great deal of thought pass through my dazed head. Was Vindobonum which is the ancient name for Vienna, still sacrosanct and if so, how? Well, if it were, I knew how, deep in my heart. The last of the great stoic emperors, the Divine Marcus Aurelius, had died there. You'll find his maxims in this room if you care to look for them. We two had seen and one had felt the effect of a Balearic slinger, a picked man from one of what amounted to the machine-gun units of the oldest army to ever guard the Danube frontier.

"And who was the man who had spoken to me from the back of his own charger. Well, I just gave you his name, my friends."

The room was so silent that no breath could be heard as Ffellowes spoke his last words. I can hear them still.

"The mists were all about us, gentlemen. In the forest, out on the river, and I had them forever in my mind. For I had spoken to something awesome and of great and unconquerable dignity, from a far-away past and a duty unflagging through the mists of time. For, you see, in search of those rare horses, I had found something rare and far more tragic and yet, you know, still mighty. I had heard the voice of a self-imposed guard to all he held sacred. I had heard the Commander in the Mist"

The vast room was silent as seldom before. We had all been given a glimpse into the long-lost ages. We too had heard the words of ... the Commander in the Mist.

THINKING OF THE UNTHINKABLE

"Well," said a new member, "from what you guys tell me, he's either a total fraud or just maybe one of those odd types who attract things, a man to whom things just happen. There doesn't seem to be any thing, or any place, that he hasn't seen or visited. I once knew a man in the war, World War II, who managed to get transferred to every invasion point; just by sheer bad luck, no finagling. He'd get shot up and leave the hospital to find he was in the first wave at Omaha Beach or something. Happened about six times. So maybe your Brigadier has that to him, a magnetism for weird events."

We were in the club library and, of course, discussing Ffellowes. It was cold as hell out, and he hadn't been around for a week or so. Our British member didn't like cold weather; despite his implausible adventures all over the globe, in every branch of Her Majesty's Services, he stayed home, wherever it was, and warm when the New York streets got icy. No one ever asked him where he lived, and his mail came to the club, where it was kept for him.

"He's not home, because I saw him in Washington yesterday," The voice was that of a man named Onderdonk, who had something diplomatic to do with NATO and flew back and forth to Europe regularly. He was a regular in Ffellowes' circle of listeners, and a nice guy, in a quiet way. "I saw him coming out of the Pentagon and he was walking along with an American rear admiral. I don't know the admiral personally, but I do know he's a hush-hush type, something to do with advanced research."

There was a period of silence while we thought this one over. We had all heard Ffellowes say many times that he was fully retired. But why should he be? Another layer was added to our mystery member.

"If Williams were here, which, Thank God, he is not," said Onderdonk, "he'd say Ffellowes went down to buy cheap booze and cadge meals at the Pentagon restaurants."

Since this was so like Williams, it took a long time for the laughter to die down.

The new member, who was not so new as to have missed Mason Williams, or found him anything but unlovable, still wanted to pursue the subject.

"Did you guys ever run a test on this Ffellowes?" was his next tack. "It seems to me you could pick a subject, like say conditions on the Moon, or a famous haunted house, anything like that. If he's a fake, he'll be a pretty good bet to rise to it, and claim to have been there. I know he's a friend of yours, but don't you ever wonder ...?"

Since we all, separately and collectively, had wondered, and often, about Ffellowes' stories, there was a further silence. We all liked him, except Williams, of course, but was he the best liar on record? Or was he something else?

"Something for which there is no logical explanation, would be a good bet," mused another man, "but it would have to be something well-known at the same time, I mean something people had puzzled about, had given a lot of thought to."

The new member had been thinking hard. He slammed his palm down on his knee with a crack. "What about the Loch Ness Monster?"

We all looked at each other. The damned thing was in the papers at least six times a year or more. A regular, organized group had been trying to get pictures of it for ten years. It was supposed to have been tracked on sonar. Why, questions about it were even asked in England's Parliament.

A babble of approval went around the circle. It was perfect, and best of all, there was no harm in it. If Ffellowes denied any knowledge of the thing, no harm was done, no feelings could be hurt. We lifted our glasses, still laughing, and gave a ringing toast: "To the Loch Ness Monster!"

We had forgotten that our absent member, Ffellowes, liked the back staircase, which opens into an alcove of the library; and he moved like a ghost, out of habit, he said. We still had our glasses lifted when there he was, dropping into a vacant seat and pressing the bell for a waiter, the faint, quizzical smile on his face as he looked around.

"What's the Scottish Enigma done now, to be so praised, eh? Must have et a Russian sub, to have all you chaps applauding."

Onderdonk was quick. "Glad to see you, Ffellowes. We were applauding the fact that a few mysteries still remain in the world, to make us humble. The monster seemed to symbolize them, so to speak." He then introduced Ffellowes to the new member, while the rest of us caught our breaths.

The Brigadier shook hands politely, but absently. To the old hands, the silence in the book-lined room was deafening. We knew the look. There was, or might be, a story. Something was on his mind.

He got his drink, sipped it reflectively, then looked around at us. "I see what you chaps mean, about the symbol of the Unknown, that is, keeping us human, as it were, and even 'Humble before the Lord.' A zoologist of my acquaintance once advocated, in all seriousness, mind you, loosing every variety of poisonous vermin, snakes, scorpions and all that, plus all known breeds of man-eating cat, on all the civilized countries. The idea was not dissimilar, don't you know. Keep the people humble and in fear of externals over which they had no control. Keep them from feeling they were not either gods or God. One would think that earthquakes, famine, typhoons and such would be enough, but when I mentioned this, the chap said 'No.' It has to be more personal, more intimate. People are terrified of man-eating sharks, for example, though the chances of being bit by one are minuscule compared to crossing a village street in one of your suburbs, one of mine, for that matter, without being mashed by a carelessly driven van." He sipped and we still waited.

"Still and all, I don't feel much like joining your particular toast. The casual references in the newspapers to Loch Ness frankly give me the grue." He paused. "I know a trifle too much about that phenomenon to be even relaxed, you see. In fact, it doesn't really bear thinking about at all."

There was a sigh from the new member, but Ffellowes either missed or ignored it.

"I suppose you'd be annoyed at my stopping there, after being so mysterious?" Once again the faint smile was visible. "I don't mind telling it now, though, before I'm through, you may all regret it.

"It would have been in the summer of '43. I had come home from a rather shaky thing in North Africa and was given some leave. I chose to spend it at a small inn near Inverness, owned by a delightful old Scot of ancient lineage named George Smith. We used to tour the neighboring distilleries, all run by chums of his, and even in wartime, the uncut Scotch, about 120 proof before watering, mind you, was always somehow available. Between such visits, we found time to visit sites like Culloden, Bannockburn, and Flodden. The drink helped to re-enact old battles. All glorious fun, quite illegal, including the petrol for our car, and essentially harmless. That is, until we got to Innisdracht. And there we met, George and I, Professor Randolf Hafstad.

"We had come in for a drink, it being a dampish evening, to The Old Pretender. This was a rather natty pub, though cramped by wartime, on the east shore of Loch Ness. It was a nasty night. The bar was empty, but in the private, so-called, a hunched figure crouched over a glass. George and I got our drinks, not really needed, I may say; it had been a wet afternoon at a local distillery, and we were in a jovial mood. We seated ourselves near the stranger, and when he looked around, we raised our glasses. To my surprise, he raised his tankard, which contained beer, and then moved over to join us. 'Obviously not English,' was my first reaction.

"He was a big, elderly man, clean-shaven, with huge hands, clear blue eyes and a long, hooked nose. His face was long and also solid and supported the nose well. His hair was black, flecked with grey and combed neatly backward. His massive shoulders were masked by a sort of boat cloak, something like the old caped overcoats of my father's day, and he carried a heavy wool hat in his free hand. His first words were somewhat disconcerting.

" 'So, gentlemen, you have come to see the destruction of Europe?' His English was very fluent, with a faint trace of two things, one being an American accent (he had been at college there, it transpired), the other thing being the curious sing-song of the Norse peoples, with a rise and fall in every sentence.

" 'Wha's that, man?' said George, in his thickest Scots accent, which I will not attempt to imitate.

"The man smiled, not at all unpleasantly, and introduced himself. He had been a professor at some tiny Norwegian university, Stavanger, I think, or was until Quisling, Hitler, etal. had turned him out and into a refugee. His wife was dead, as was one son. The other was in the forces somewhere. Meanwhile, Dr. Hafstad was billeted in this Scottish backwater and pursuing his avocation as a hobby. He was, in fact, a geologist. When he paused, George, who had caught his first odd remark and was brooding over it, returned to the attack.

" 'Wha's the business about the destruction of Europe?' George had taken just enough to make him argumentative. Not combative, mind you. But he had seized a subject and would not let go.

" 'What do you know of the geology of Europe?' was the somewhat enigmatic answer. It turned out we neither of us knew anything, so he told us, in a sonorous drone that must have put his students to sleep in buckets in the past.

"We heard all about varves, thermoclines, Pleistocene recessions, gneiss, schist, continental shelves, faults, the Riss, Mindel and Wurm Glaciations; the man missed nothing. And yet, somehow, he kept us interested. For one thing, he kept interspersing the most peculiar remarks into his lecture. There would be a longish strip on cave faults or something and then, 'If Hitler knew; seven bombers on the right incline.' Now, then, I began to prick up my ears. I had taken a fair load of spirits, but a confused idiot or an Axis sympathizer?

"The learned rigmarole went on, and so did the baffling interjections. 'If there is a Wakening, what then? Ragnarok?' While I was mulling over this, we were back in cave faults, conterminous flaws in Welsh Sandstone, the unnoticed work of one Sergius of the University of Uppsala, some obscure savant of his acquaintance apparently. The whole thing was at one time a conversation, or rather monologue, from a pedantic bore, and then again a refreshing change from the casual chats with distillery officials, procurators fiscal, Gaelic revivalists and other types with whom George had tried to enliven my leave. Yet ... there was something else. I tried to focus upon it, 'nail it down,' as you chaps say.

"Suddenly, as these things came upon one after a few glasses, I found my clue. The man was dreadfully in earnest. He was also frightened, and trying to conceal it. Underneath all this learned gibberish, was an appeal. In the only way he could, the retired professor was asking somehow for help, for comfort, for succor in some form or other.

"George, who had been quite as silent as I for many long minutes, caught it too. He was George, I mean a short, broad Scot, who did not care to discuss his income, or indeed anything, with strangers, save for the iniquities of the firm conviction that Smith was a Scottish name, rudely captured by the Sassenach invaders. He owned, in fee simple, four fishing villages, had twice refused a peerage. He had three sons in the British army. Two others were dead, one of them a pilot in the Battle of Britain. In a locked drawer was his own D.S.C. from the First War. He was, in many ways, a typical Scot. Now he drained his glass and looked fixedly at Hafstad, who had momentarily withdrawn into his tankard. " 'Man, wha's amiss with ye? You're black with fear of somm'at. Do you need help?'

"The clear blue eyes appeared over the tankard and inspected both of us. 'You do not laugh? You do not think here is a crazy old Norwegian who should be shut in a house for the mad?'

"I was personally out of this, you understand. I could see that George had got on our strange friend's wavelength, though, and I shut up. The intensity, for want of a better term, that the man projected had touched me, however.

"His inspection seemed to ease his mind. Abruptly, he stood up, and he was a big chap, over six foot and broad. When he put on his hat, which had a droopy brim, I thought of Odin and wondered if two ravens were hid on the premises.

" 'Come,' he said. 'I have made calculations for over a year now. I will show you the end of the world, the world as you now know it I will show you the Abomination of Desolation as the Israelites knew it, and as my own ancestors knew it even better. This is why I have come tonight to this place.'

"We got up, paid our score, collected our hats and coats and went out after him. It was not until I had seen the loch, gleaming in the summer moonlight; no more than a few hundred yards away below us that I realized where we were heading. George was silent, his head bowed, and his hat jammed down on his big head. We simply stumped along, following our leader down the slope from the inn, across the road and through the heather and gorse on the other side, down, down to the shores of the cold lake itself.

"And all the while Hafstad was talking. The talk was still the same, all about geology, the interconnected, underground linkages through Scandinavia and Great Britain, the Irish lakes, the Swedish lakes, the confluence of currents, the intermeshing of tides, the rocks and their characteristics, the underlying faults. But there was more. In between the other stuff kept coming one word.

"Appearances. There had been few Appearances in Sweden lately, but many in Scotland. Appearances were down, it seemed in Norway, but the war might have had an effect; reporting might be out. Irish Appearances were well up to the mark, however, so far as one could judge, and realizing that the Free State was neutral. This was mixed up with more of the geology lecture, but I found myself nodding my head gravely, wondering when the next Appearance would occur. It seemed important somehow, since the old visionary who was leading us thought it must be so.

"No doubt you chaps will think I was naive. Yet I dare swear that until the three of us were standing on a sort of rock shelf at the water's edge, no more, even later, I had no idea what all this was leading up to.

"Our guide took up his stand at the very lip of the stone and turned now to face us. He was very impressive in his cape and his droopy hat, especially as he gestured toward the glassy mere behind him.

" 'Watch, you two! You will see something others have seen before, and made themselves the scorn of their equals. But you are the first besides myself to understand!' "

Ffellowes stopped talking, and there was the silence that falls on all of his stories. I did notice the new member, out of the corner of my eye. His mouth was slightly open and an unlit cigarette was in his hand. The night noises of the winter city, coming through the closed drapes over the windows, sounded far off and in another time.

"Professor Hafstad reached into his inside pocket and produced a large old-fashioned watch, which he inspected and restored to its recess," the brigadier continued, his even voice leaving every clipped syllable flawless and perfectly clear. "George and I stood, immobile, while he turned and waved at the placid water behind him, whose tiny wavelets lapped almost at his feet. All was still under the moon, and the wisps of cold fog rising off the dark surface did not hide, but rather revealed the far expanse of the loch, though hiding the distant shore.

"We watched and suddenly there was indeed an Appearance. Without warning, the loch was in motion. Something arose, grew in size and moved. It was not far offshore. What did it resemble? At first blush, something very thick and rather flexible, not unlike hose, garden hose. It waved. There was a thin part, near the tip, then a broadening at the tip itself. It grew larger or perhaps longer, as it extended itself.

" There! Now you see the peril! Now you at least understand!' It was our new leader and his voice was far louder and more ringing than it had been in the inn. A trifle too loud, I fancy.

"I have said the Appearance was not far offshore. In fact, it was very close. Too close. In one fluid motion, it bent, like the trunk of some quadruple-magnified and quite improbable elephant. One moment had the professor with us. The next did not. I had a close look, a rather closer look than I needed, at something rippling down upon us.

"I next saw the loch rippling under the moon and the swirls of mist rising again. The small waves were now much larger and swirled up almost to my boots.

"George, who like myself had stood in silence during this visitation now looked up, and I saw his face in the moonlight. He was nodding his head gravely. 'Ah, Nessie,' he said. 'Ye're a bad, bad gurrl. Why for did ye do that?'

"I must have made some sort of strangled noise at this point, for he turned and looked calmly at me. 'Donald, man, he called it and it tuk him. Now we'd best awa', you and me. The procurator fiscal in this parish is a devil for asking questions. We'll go the noo, and avoid all the trouble.'

"Since I was totally blank, had no understanding of what had happened and was in fact stunned, I suffered myself to be led away. We climbed the gentle slope again, found our battered Morris van in front of the inn, which was now dark by the bye, and drove off. We had gone some miles on our way home across the quiet moorland before George took one hand off the wheel and patted my shoulder in a rough way.

" 'Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach. He was a nice man, but Nessie doesna' ken these fine distinctions. It happens now and again. Saint Columba was the last man to argue wi' her, and he was a very holy man. Puir mortals like us can hardly make the pace.' He resumed driving, and the next morning, when I tried to raise the subject, stared me into silence."

Ffellowes put down his empty glass and stretched. Then he looked at us. "Having seen that, you will understand why I find drinking a bumper to the dear old Scottish pet rather hard to do."

The new member stuck his neck out "Excuse me, Sir, but I don't quite get it. Why, other than the obvious, were you so appalled?"

The brigadier stared past him at the unlit fireplace, as if he were thinking, or perhaps remembering.

"My dear man. Possibly you suffer from deafness. Perhaps, though I doubt it, I may have been obscure. When the thing, or Appearance, swung down, I saw certain vast circular marks, cicatrices, or what have you, on its surface. Disks, if that makes it plainer. In other words, chum, a single, colossal tentacle. I do not personally care to speculate on its point of origin."

No one said anything. The new member stared at the empty fireplace. When I looked up, the brigadier had gone.

THE BRIGADIER IN CHECK AND MATE

FIRST MOVE

It was a windy and wild March evening in lower Manhattan. As I went along the canyons of what was once a familiar Greenwich village area, or its western fringe, I looked despairingly for any sign of a vacant taxi. The few that passed were always full and their lights were smudged by the wind-blown dirt and water. I had come from a meeting of major shareholders near 12th St and had tried then to walk to Fifth Ave. It grew very dark quickly and began both to rain and blow together as it did. It was not a part of New York I'd been in for years, and though I had a hat and light raincoat, I soon became half-lost and thoroughly miserable. It was not really cold, being in the mid-forties Fahrenheit, but it was the classic English term for a Winter's day, or "short, dark and dirty."

As I groped futilely along the sloshy streets, I cursed my own stupidity for not having arranged some kind of a car pick-up. There were few people about and that made me feel a little safer, since this was a known haunt of drug addicts and the nastier lunatic fringe of the once-famous Art World of the old Greenwich Village. I kept well out toward the curb and the running gutters anyway, and avoided the dark alley mouths which gaped like black funnel vents between the dirty and narrow house fronts. I glanced at my wrist watch and saw that it was after 6:30 already. While the dirty rain blew in my face, I wondered if I ought to try one of the local bars, if I could find one, and risk being mugged or poisoned, just to get out of this blowing murk and trying to find out exactly where I was, as well as how to leave it as quickly as possible.

I skirted a pile of soaked paper bags, crammed with filth and garbage, then almost tripped over what might still be live garbage, a ragged body coiled around the far side of the trash mountain on the wet pavement. Its bearded mouth was open and moved faintly so I guess it was still alive.

Half a block further on, the blurred light of a passing car suddenly showed me a possible shelter, at least of a sort, quite close to me.

It was a larger opening, between two narrow houses, each of at least six-story height. This opening was not an alley, though quite dark, but had a smooth pavement with a worn, brick walk running down its center. I had heard that a few, old, set-back houses of the 1840 period, or what the English still call "mews," still existed in lower Manhattan, though I'd never seen one. I turned left into this one, hopefully as well as carefully, keeping my left arm up before my eyes and my body bent as well, in case a blow should come out at me suddenly. The rain still fell steadily but at least I was out of that lousy, gale wind.

Ahead of me, down the path, I could see a faint light, though it came from one side rather than straight ahead. As I walked slowly and carefully forward, I saw that the little walkway curved to the right around one of the two flanking houses, and that the dim light came from around this corner. Keeping to the exact center of the brick strip, I moved cautiously around the curve, wondering what I would find.

There before me was a little house! It was about fifty feet away and the light came from a couple of curtained windows on the ground floor, for it had two floors under a low, peaked roof. There was even a minute garden or at least two tiny plots with some plants in them, one on each side of the front step and guarded by wooden fencelets a foot high. I gaped at this refugee from Grim's fairy tales in astonishment. A thing like this buried in the canyons of lower New York City was indeed a thing to gape at.

My surprise and amusement got a quick ending and a scary one, too. One corner of my right eye suddenly picked up movement and my head swivelled to focus while my knees bent as well. Not ten feet away, in a darker angle of tall building was a metal fence, which I guessed was iron. Against this stood two tall, shrouded figures, silent and yet poised. They made no move, though one must have done so earlier to catch my attention, and simply watched me steadily. They were at least as tall as I am and I'm just under six feet. They made no forward movement, just watched, but in a way that somehow conveyed menace.

While the water ran down my hat brim and the moaning of the wind yowled far overhead and the faint noises of intermittent traffic barely pierced the noises of the natural world, I stared at the two silent shapes through the rainy gloom and they stared back at me. The only light, that of the shaded windows, made it possible to see only that two dim figures were watching one. At last, my nerve broke, which, in my own defense, is something it had never done under night attacks in Korea.

"I beg your pardon," I called out "I'm afraid I got lost and came in here looking for a phone and directions." I kept my voice from cracking, but it was an effort. The response was startling. One of the two stepped forward instantly, revealing itself as a man my size and also wearing a slouch hat and belted raincoat, a man who held out his right hand in welcome. When he spoke, my tight control of my nerves almost dissolved at the shock.

"My dear Parker," said a very familiar voice, "I fear we appeared a bit dangerous. There are folk in your city, and not far off either, whom one would rather not meet at night, eh? Well, Old man, you've found my private digs which is more than anyone else has done, at least so far."

"By this time, my rather limp hand was being firmly clasped by that of Donald Ffellowes, lately a Brigadier General of the British Army and, at this range, I could see the glitter of his blue eyes and the grin on his smooth face.

"My God, Sir," I stammered, "I thought you stayed in hotels and we all know you like privacy and I assure you that I never, I mean I really am lost and I ..."

The Brigadier laughed out loud or rather, gave a deep chuckle. He pointed at the tiny house and said, "I own that place and have for some years. I want your word that you'll tell no one else of it and (here, he paused a second) about anything else, right?" I could do nothing but nod my spinning head in response.

"Good man. My wife and I were getting a breath of fresh air and then I was going up town to the club. Come and meet her."

Another jolt to my already dazed brain! "My wife!" None of us at the club had ever known Ffellowes was married! He had never so much as mentioned a wife, past or present, any more than he'd mentioned owning a very old house in the labyrinths of lower Manhattan! I'm not a money-minded person as a rule but I was a bit staggered by another idea. Every surface foot of the Brigadier's property could have been layered in platinum and even then the land itself would have been worth more!

As we walked forward together, the second figure never moved to meet us but remained tall and silent in the shadows. Tall indeed. In the bad and angled light and through the screen of falling water, I could see her head was bare and the glint of a copper color. She wore a long cloak, of something dark and almost ankle-length. A ray of light caught the shine of ordinary rubbers and a hint of wooly socks, heavy ones.

Ffellowes' hand stopped us both when we were about six feet away from the lady but I am not sure that had I been alone, I would have come even that close. I saw great eyes, lambent and fiery, which seemed to have a luminescence of their own and broad cheekbones. The mouth too was broad but closed and there was another strange feature. The facial skin was not pale but a strange neutral hue and it was not shining from the rain but somehow, well, dull and sombre. But these thoughts came late. Just then, all I could think of were those great, burning eyes, wide apart and fixed on a level with my own or even above my own, in a steady, unwinking stare that was almost hypnotic. They were not the so-called "cat eyes" and had normal pupils but there was a glowing lambency about them, so that even in the murk and shadow, they seemed to glow with a sort of brown heat. Imagine a mildly luminous, chocolate milk shake and you'll get some idea how it affected me.

Ffellowes' voice shook me out of my paralysis, or, to use a better phrase, in its older and better meaning, Glamour. "This is Jim Parker, Love. You've heard me speak of him often. A good friend, remember?"

His wife bowed her head in a way that was both casual and somehow condescending, and even almost disdainful. I was damn glad to be free of those strange, flowing eyes but found myself just a little bit irritated, both at that regal head movement and the failure to even try to shake hands. Grand Duchess meets loathsome peasant to whom she must be polite, was the thought that flickered through my brain at that point.

The Brigadier either saw something he didn't like or used some ESP. One never knew what he was capable of or what he saw. "My dear Parker, my wife's a foreigner. Doesn't grip hands, you know. Just as bad as the British in that respect"

Then for the first time, I heard her voice. Never had I heard anything like it before and what with my surprise, the wild evening and this very odd meeting, well, it was really one more shock!

"I know very well, My Dear, who Mr. Parker is. He writes those tales for magazines. Those stories about you, he writes and then calls you by a name that is not yours in them, so that no one will ever know your real name or what your real family is." If it were possible to contemplate a very large cat's purr, mingled with a deep contralto, that would give one a vague idea. My own thought as she spoke conveyed my instant feeling: Lioness Diva; just those two words.

Ffellowes (which he will remain, now and in the future) was not a bit embarrassed. He grinned at me and stepped back just a little, anticipating his wife's next move.

She stepped forward, her right hand out now, and I instinctively shook it. It was as large as mine, with a smooth-palmed, tight-glove, as warm as flesh, though I could feel the edge of the furry backing. Those feelings came later for then I could only stare into the broad-cheeked face and the great, glowing eyes.

"You two go on away now, Donald. Take Mr. Parker up to your club and tell him some other histories of your past that he can write about." With that, she nodded to me, her wide, full-lipped mouth pleasant but with no trace of a smile, turned on her heel and headed up the path. In seconds the cottage door of the fabulous little house had opened and shut behind her stately back. I was left with the Brigadier in the shadowed court, frankly struck dumb and trying as hard as I could to keep my mouth tight shut so that it wouldn't fall open and leave me gaping.

The Brigadier's chuckle helped somewhat. "We'll take her at her word, Parker, Old fellow. Don't look so staggered. Few folk meet my Phaona but those who have were all a bit numbed by it Frankly, I am at times myself. She takes one that way and it makes no mind whether it's Manhattan or a remote hamlet in the woods." He turned and led me along the far side of the alley to where a recessed door stood open just enough to show it was a hidden garage. In three minutes we were out on the murky street in his beautiful old Lagonda and humming our way uptown.

Before we had parked two blocks away from the club's front door, he said only one more thing.

"I've known those printed stories of yours since the first one came out, Parker. Very good, too. As long as you kept my title and real name and rank out of 'em and scramble the dates and areas as you do so neatly, I haven't the slightest objection." His head turned and the blue eyes fixed on mine for just one second only. They were utterly cold and frozen. "You're a gentleman and a man of honor. Please remain so."

It took a real effort to get out of the car but I managed it and in five minutes we were alone in a corner of the Club Library.

The Brigadier called for hot coffee and when we'd been served he leaned back in his leather chair and looked at me with his old smile.

"Parker, I'm going to tell you and you alone, the story of my wife. It should interest you, I think. And I, My dear fellow, will be most intrigued indeed to see how you deal with this tale in one of your charming romances." Again the deep chuckle.

COUNTER MOVE

It was a windy March afternoon in the Club. I had got out of my office a trifle earlier than I should, simply out of restlessness. Maybe it was a sign of Spring but the gloomy, windy, cold city sure didn't look it.

I wandered into the library with a drink, thinking I might find an entertaining foreign journal or something, just to kill an hour with. I found something better. Much better.

The big room was empty except for one reading alcove where a small light illumined a bent-over shape I knew well and had missed for months.

"Brigadier!" I let out a joyful yelp. "Where you been, Sir? We were afraid you'd gone abroad for good or something. How are you, anyway?"

Brigadier Donald Ffellowes' cold, blue eyes took me in and I thought or maybe hoped, warmed a bit. His smooth reddish face had no lines but it never did and his short-cut, white hair was neatly combed as always. He had a pile of battered-looking books next to him and had one open on his lap which he'd just been leafing through.

"Hullo, Parker. Nice to see you too. Just been havin' a dekko at some oldish stuff, mostly fiction here. I picked up a batch of things I wanted down in one of those caves on, where is it? Oh yes, 4th Ave. Take a look, My lad. Sort of thing I expect would interest you perhaps."

By the desk lamp on the small table in the alcove, I could indeed see familiar names on the covers, though most of the tides were unknown to me. There was, for God's sake, Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar! Next to Burroughs lay a Rider Haggard I'd never seen, titled Heu-Heu or the Monster. Finally, there was something by one McNeile, whom I didn't know, called Island of Terror. Just a collection of old time thrillers, that was all.

The Brigadier smiled at the perplexity in my face, and shut the rather massive tome in his lap. He then held that one up for me to see the somewhat lurid jacket plainly. I read Abominable Snowmen; legend come to life.

Ffellowes laughed gently. "It's all right, Parker. I'm not zany yet. Let's say I am doing a spot of research and using some rather odd sources for my digging at, eh?"

Behind me, I heard movement and then before I could even turn, a cry or several cries of delight "He's back, you guys! The Brigadier's come back. Come on over, come on up and let's see what he's been doing. Parker's got to him but so can the rest. Come on!"

I was happy to see that Mason Williams was not in the crowd. It was just the gang of four or five of the "regulars," the fans who would have walked fifty miles and back for a chance at one of Ffellowes' stories. Some were very important men, in finance, law and medicine but around the Brigadier they were a gang of eager kids, tongues hanging out, waiting, hoping, ready to beg, just anything, if only to hear one of his quietly-told tales of strange and lurid adventure. In his years in the service of the British Crown, the Brigadier had been damned near everywhere and it seemed, had been attached to every branch of the British Services or if not attached, then loaned to them, or maybe "it".

"Hullo, hullo, Chaps. Nice to see you all again" was the greeting they got as they pulled up chairs and formed a circle around his bay. "Parker here was wonderin' what I was doin' with these books, which are the rankest kind of escape literature, eh? Well," he went on, "I was doing a bit of pseudo-research. Frankly, I was wondering if any of these authors had any real idea of what they were writing about, you know, any actual facts on which to base these bits of wild and wooly fiction."

The others had all been looking as hard as they could at the books he had started to show me and now Westcott spoke up. He was a very top lawyer in one of the big firms, I think maybe Silliman & Cramwell, but I knew he had once been a very sharp D. A. as well and his question proved the point.

"There must be some connecting link, I should think, Sir, between those old novels and your own life. Maybe that big book in your lap is another?"

"Very quick, Mr. Westcott," smiled Ffellowes. "Good, shrewd thinking you attorneys have." Ffellowes never forgot a thing about anyone he'd ever met, no matter how minor it was. Now he looked at the last book again for a second, before continuing.

"Have any of you chaps read much of this sort of thing? This one," and he tapped the fat book about Abominable Snowmen, "is not fiction at all. The man who wrote it, who's now dead, was a scientist himself, though he had imagination. He was trying to gather all the legends from every place on the planet, plus any facts he could find, and make an amalgam. These creatures, these hairy, ape-like, primitive things, are reported from damn near every place on Earth. Did you fellows know that? They are not just glimpsed or rumored in the Himalayas. No indeed! This man Sanderson in this book I have has Russian reports, Chinese reports, African reports and South American sightings. Oh yes, and the most reportage of all comes from of all places, this country we are sitting in." There was a brief silence in the big room and the Fifth Ave. traffic outside provided the only sound. For several moments no one spoke.

Then a man on the other side of the group, a new member of the club, said something. "Isn't there that thing out in California or maybe it was Oregon. They call it 'Bigfoot' and I think it has other names. All they find is footprints and they fake pictures and claim they took them of a real animal."

"Quite possibly correct," said Ffellowes. "Another name out there is 'Sasquatch.' American Indian dialect, one supposes."

"But Brigadier Ffellowes," said Westcott, "what has this idea of some actual ape thing in the woods, this, well this monkey version of Loch Ness or supposed dinosaurs alive, what has any of it got to do with those old novels you were reading? Didn't Burroughs write Tarzan and that man Haggard, King Solomon's Mines?"

"Yes indeed to both," said Ffellowes. "But consider this. In Tarzan, there are tribes of intelligent giant apes, creatures which don't exist in reality. This novel of Rider Haggard's is called Heu-Heu or the Monster. Same thing again, intelligent, man-sized, ape things. This last one is by the chap who wrote those old detective thrillers about Bulldog Drummond. Stuff I grew up on, myself. But this one's about an island off South America, and guess what? On that remote, little islet lives a mob of nasty, giant apemen. D'you begin to see why I'm interested?"

I seldom talk when the Brigadier's around but I had a great idea and I had to speak. "What about Conan Doyle's adventure novel, Brigadier? What about the tropical tribe of apemen in the Matto Grosso in The Lost World?" I felt I had made a score, had finally caught the Brigadier out in a bit of arcane and useless knowledge.

He smiled gently. "My dear fellow, I know the book by heart. I used it long ago on this pursuit of the nonsensical." Seeing my face fall, he went on. "Not to feel badly though. That book may have started all the other ideas and I've had it on my own mind for years."

He put all the books away on the side table and shoved that aside as well. "Sun's over the Yardarm, Gentlemen. Let's have a small dose of the usual medicine. Then, if you're interested at all, I'll tell you why I have such a personal interest in this problem."

If we'd all been dogs, you could have heard the sound of panting and slavering, felt the eagerness and the electricity that his words had released. We are going to get a story, a Ffellowes story and the Brigadier never told the same one twice!

After the club waiter had brought the tray of cocktails and then gone away, we all started sipping, smoking and waiting. Ffellowes, who was having a glass of ale, gave us all a thoughtful stare and then began.

"Haven't been down that way in years. Any of you fellows know the little colony that used to be British Honduras? It's called Belize now but that was only the name of the capital and the one town of any size in the whole place then. Just a flyspeck colony of ours, which never paid for itself and which the neighboring country of Guatemala wanted. Still does I think, but it was never theirs or even really Spanish before them. It was settled by a bunch of ex-and not so ex-pirates and judicially run from Jamaica for a couple of centuries. Sole export was mahogany. No oil, no minerals, no nothing. Now that it's allegedly independent. I wonder how it supports itself? Just north of it is that Quintana Roo place of Mexico's. Currently a big resort area now with Can Cun and all that—" He took a sip of his ale and went on.

"It was in '47 I was sent there. It was an odd sort of job but the big war was over and I did often get the odd ones. I was technically or officially under the Foreign Office, if anyone really cared.

"It seems that during the war, there was a lot of murmur about the locals selling food and drummed petrol to German subs. Nothing ever came of it and I think that fellow Stevenson, the one now called Intrepid, had some of his folk there, checking up and keeping an eye on matters for the Crown and its allies. In fact, this author, that chap Sanderson once was one of 'em.

"Well, it seems a new message had come out of the place and it was this message that got me sent there. The message itself was very odd. It was in an obsolete code form, addressed to a man in MI-6 who'd been dead for three years and it didn't come through any channels at all. What happened was this:

"A local skipper of a coasting schooner had got the message. He, the skipper, was a Bayman, as they're called down there. A big black, and I mean big, because I saw the man later. These folk, the Baymen, are very loyal to the idea of being 'British.' They once helped fight a whole Spanish fleet off, back in the 18th Century. I think myself they're the descendants of runaway slaves from the islands or maybe Spanish territory, but they don't like mestizos or Latins of any sort much. They speak good, if jumbled, English, though most can get along in some Spanish too. They usually live by or near the sea and are fine swimmers, boatmen and water people. The remaining inhabitants of the country are simply a straggle of southern Mayans, Maya Indians that is, just like the same folk over the border in Mexico but poorer and more spread out. There are a couple of modest Mayan temples in the back country but nothing very grand, like the ones in Mexico. Don't think anyone from a university ever bothered to do much digging, though a few gave the area a looksee on occasion.

"Well, this skipper, whose name was Ambrose Hooper, had come up the coast in his old piece of floating junk and did a lot of small-time trading as he came. He could have started in Panama for all I know. Many of them did and paid small attention to customs, port duties or any other regulation. The whole coast of Central America was like that once. His story was this:

"One night, while at anchor off the Monkey River, down off the mangroves in the south of the colony, he heard someone swimming out to him from the local mangrove belt. He quietly roused the crew, which meant one son and two nephews and they got their cane knives ready. That's what they call machetes and they all wear them, or used to.

"It was a dark, overcast night and they could see little or nothing. The sound of someone swimming and they had good ears was that of a man, not an animal, and they finally called out, asking who and what it was.

"For answer, they got something thrown neatly at them, right into the old schooner, barely missing Captain Hooper's head. They ducked and waited but that was all. Except that in the following quiet they heard the same sound of someone swimming, only this time it was away, back to the hot, black shoreline, the steaming mangrove coast from which it had come in the first place. Slowly, it seemed to them, the sound faded into the fetid night, until once more only the hum of countless mosquitoes and sandflies was audible.

"When they could hear nothing more, Captain Hooper used a flashlight and they looked for whatever had been thrown into their vessel. They found it finally in the bilges and it was a small package, tied with twine, and wrapped in a filthy scrap of oilskin, which had kept the interior almost completely dry. In it was a scruffy pack of crude papers of some kind, very coarse stuff with frayed edges. On the paper was writing, blurred and in some brownish, dark ink of some sort.

"Now what got the men excited was this. On the outside of the bundle, in the same ink, but printed, not written, was the following: 'On His Majesty's Service. Take to English Consul at once!' Oh yes, and below that was printed equally bold, 'MOST SECRET.'

"Well, I've told you how loyal to England these Baymen were and for all I know, still are. The Captain rewrapped the package and tied it up again and then swore his crew of relatives to silence. Nothing more was said and at daybreak they sailed north again but with not a stop until they made the port town and/or capital of Belize. Remember, that was only a town name then and the whole dinky colony was called British Honduras or 'B.H.' locally. Captain Hooper took the package himself to the Consul and insisted on giving it to him in person and not to his one secretary. Then he left, his duty to the Crown accomplished.

"The Consul thought it was some sort of joke induced by tropical fever, but he looked carefully at it and he found a London address clearly printed. The rest of the scrawled pages were in English but in some sort of code, and no sort he had ever seen."

The Brigadier took a pull of his ale and stared past or through us at the library wall. Outside the street noises penetrated faintly but in the big room, empty save for our small group, there was only silence. We all knew that he was seeing something none of us ever would or could see and that he was far away mentally, lost in some vision of the past, in some "lost world" of his own. Then he straightened again and his cold blue eyes flickered over us in casual appraisal, before he started to talk and to resume his tale.

"I'll cut a few corners here, Gentlemen. The bundle of papers got to first, the Foreign Office and then trickled through several others in turn. They finally ended up in the place they were meant to go and there they caused both laughter and incredulity. Let's call that last depository one or another HQ of a foreign-related intelligence division, eh? That tells you all you need to know." He didn't add "or ever will," but it didn't need adding.

"The papers were in a code, but a long-expired one. It was one of the codes given to agents in the field at a time of confusion, early in World War II. It had a use then, for it was easy to memorize, and even at that was only given to chaps who were considered of small importance and whose work was largely routine. A typical type would be some "small-timer" whose job was reporting shipping movements from obscure Portugese coastal areas of Africa, say. Once in a great while, these men and/or women in a few cases, would come up with something arresting, such as news of a Kraut surface raider or submarine, but this was not normal."

The Brigadier lifted his eyes and stared at the ceiling. A faint but audible sigh came from his lips. Then he went on.

"The agent who had signed this package was interesting to the bureau involved for a couple of reasons. First, he was low on the scale, having been nothing but a very modest coastal trader along the Caribbean littoral for five years before WW II. But, long before a misspent life had commenced, he'd been a, well, to be a bit obsolete, a "gentleman." He was, in fact, a latterday survival of an old Victorian custom, being a 'Remittance Man' of sorts, who had left his family, his country and all that when he got a bit embarrassing. His family, which we'll call 'Jones,' heard little from him but sent him small sums of money through a lawyer at intervals, with the unspoken agreement that he would stay away, far away, and not bother them. One found these oddities here and there, mostly in the Tropics, to a much later date than is generally realized. Their offenses ranged from drink and women to actual criminality, though that was the rarest—"

Ffellowes paused here, and reaching down beside his leather armchair, pulled up another book, a very long and very thick book, which looked both used and used hard, being scuffed and with tiny holes in it. He held it up, facing outward, so that with a leaning from those on the edge, we could all read the words printed under the stained crown on the cover. They were simple, being Atlas of British Honduras and the date, 1939.

"Here's the old official map book," he said. "It was all we had until quite a while after. If I refer to something, it might make it easier on you fellows for me to indicate it on this thing than something more up-to-date, which I don't have anyway, at least here."

He eyed the book with amusement and affection for a moment "Full of rot and a few wormholes, this one. Any book carried into real tropical bush doesn't last long." He flicked it open and held it up and rotated it for us to see a map of the entire tiny country, which looked a bit like a shortened, bent version of the state of Vermont. Then, with his forefinger, he indicated a certain area, a largely blank area, two thirds of the way down or South and also in the center.

"This patch is all hills, covered with limestone crags, domes and heavy bush. There are bits of real tropical rain forest in places but a lot of it's scrub jungle. Full of ravines and also streams, being quite well watered. There are swamps also in places in depressions in the hills or where the ravines broaden. The area's known, or was known then, as 'The Maya Mountain'. Well, the whole country inland was full of Amerindians of Mayan stock and probably still is. They have strong kinship systems, and now and again will leave their milpas, their corn patches, and go off visiting relatives on foot, some of whom are a long way off, such as due North up in Mexican Quintana Roo where famous ancient Mayans lived. You men have heard about Chichen Itza and all that. Or, they might drift due South or Southwest and end up in Guatemala with still other relatives. Made little of borders they did, and as the news tells us, they have not changed since the place became independent around 1971." He sipped his ale and went on, a reflective tone now in his voice.

"An odd folk and keep very much to themselves, unless they've changed a lot. In B.H. very few spoke any English and their Spanish was archaic and full of loan words of Mayan. They preferred that and didn't care much for anyone who was not Mayan. A dour, silent people, hardworking and living on tiny corn patches and a little hunting and fishing. They did not live on or even near the coast, leaving that to the negro Baymen and mestizo mixed-blood and the few Caucasians who were there, either for official reasons or for private ones.

"Now this brings us back to the mysterious message thrown on the boat by that unknown swimmer. Look at this map and see a lot of creeks hitting the sea almost due East of the Maya Mountains? See that area marked Seine Bight? All heavy swamp on that stretch and that's where the Baymen's coaster was moored when that message arrived.

"So then, we can get back to the message itself and to Jones, the supposedly dead and certainly vanished agent of the British Government, who had sent it, or at least had signed it with his long-defunct, assigned number. His first name was really Percy, I mean really. Sticks in my mind, it does, being rather effete for a man of this sort.

"The message was scrawled with some very crude sort of implement, perhaps a split piece of reed, it was, to put it mildly, confused as well as confusing, that is, to those who had to decipher and make what sense they could out of it—" The Brigadier stared away again, obviously trying to coax his memory.

"Well it went something like this, and I'm giving you a digest of what I can recall: 'Send Troops to B.H. in secret! Send at least one half Batt, well-trained in Bush Fighting, artillery not needed. Send at once! Send to compass bearing XYZ, in the heart of Maya Mountains.' "

Ffellowes chuckled grimly at this point "Good thing he thought to put in the country involved and the Maya Mountains. The compass bearing was wildly askew and the latitude-longitude readings were someplace off Cape Horn in the sea. The whole thing seemed to indicate a very sick man, probably writing in the grip of some fever or other, or perhaps wounded or maybe both.

"There was a bit more to come and the next and last bit was the wildest and most weird of the lot. It went on in this way, all broken up, you know and not consecutive, like shorthand taken by a drunk stenographer. Here are enough pieces to give you some indication of what it was like: 'Devils! They hate us and all like us! If the scientists are correct, though, they are us! Us as we were and they know it, by God!' " A strange smile flickered briefly over the Brigadier's smooth face. "I'm not gassing you people when I use points of emphasis, that is verbal exclamation points and such. There are ways in a code of doing just that, to mean something's most important and/or vital. Well, poor Percy Jones used that mark on every line, every scratched sentence, in fact on every place he could fit it in at all." He sighed again, sadly, and we all felt his sympathy in our own minds as well for that poor lost man and his strange plight.

"Not too much more," went on Ffellowes. "A few bits like this though: 'They can see in the dark, better than cats; they have keen noses and can hear an ant crawling; they eat meat whenever they can get it and they don't care what sort; they eat green stuff mostly, all kinds of plants; I think they raid a few lonely farms for corn and for other purposes; they must do that! How else could they get those other blank-blank?' Now here," the Brigadier went on, "one word was very hard to get straight. The best opinions seemed to be a mix. Some of the backroom boys thought it was 'female,' either singular or plural. Other opinions give it as 'rulers' or even 'female rulers.' Then there was another word that cropped up all the time and that was often blurred or run. This was something or appeared to be, olfactory. It was translated as 'stench,' 'smelling' and even 'perfume'. There were continued references to 'night,' to 'dark' and to the apparent proclivities of 'them', whoever 'they' might be for darkness or the dark hours."

He looked down at the open map book for a second and then up again quickly. "Oh yes, there was or were, still other repeated phrases of some sort. One was to 'breeding' and also 'trying to breed'. That came in a lot rather at random. With it were words like 'peril' and 'danger'/ 'War' and 'revolution' were not absent. And finally, there were constant references to some sort of hirsuteness. 'Hair' and 'fur' appeared a lot and also 'pelt'—

"It didn't really come to an end at all. There was some scribble about 'Danger!' and mixed in was 'Hurry!' and 'Act at once!' and more like that all with the emphasis on Now, Urgent, Instantly, and in general, 'Hurry Up' plus 'Move!' "

He stopped talking for a moment and there was silence in the big room. The noise of traffic was audible through the curtained windows, the roar of New York that never stops. But no one felt like talking and we simply waited. The Brig, didn't like being interrupted at any time but it was more than that. We were all far away, trying to hear a strange message in our minds from a lost soul.

"At any rate," he finally went on, "Certain powers that be, or were then, got mildly intrigued. The bloody place was still a sort of dubious possession of the Crown. Somewhere in it a long-lost man had tried to communicate. It ought to get a quick look, if no more." He chuckled quietly. "I had always been noted as an oddity, if no more and I happened to have no current job. So, to make a long story one inch longer, I was off to Belize, the then capital and only sizeable town in all B.H.

"I found it dismal enough when I got there. Built at sea level, it had little paving and open sewers that emptied into a sluggish little river also called 'Belize'. The sewers and the river were both full of rubbish, including dead cats, pigs, dogs and possibly people. It all went out to sea but slowly and not much to sea, with each tiny tide. There were few if any decent buildings and fewer Caucasians, though that meant little to me. I had chats with the Governor, the Consul and the local police chief, saying little myself but learning a lot about the country. I had impressive but vague papers, which said I was from the Foreign Office on inspection duty. What I really wanted I kept to myself. I had to tell one chap only, and I chose the policeman. Like a lot of Colonial Cops, he was a splendid chap and had started long before as a London Bobby. I told him the whole thing, except for the meaningless bits of message, the stuff about 'hair' and such. And I had him arrange a meeting with Captain Hooper, the skipper who'd got the actual message so strangely. The police chief was the only one in the country who knew even vaguely what my job really was and he'd been cleared by my own H.Q.

"We ended up by having a very quiet meeting one evening, Captain Hooper, his oldest son, George, and I. Over vast glasses of appalling beer, which did not help much with the tropic stench in the still air, but some, we talked. Police Chief Plover, by agreement, kept watch outside the little hut on the town's edge where we met.

"I got the whole story from Hooper and his son, the latter a big, really big, young Black. His rippling muscles were impressive but the steady eyes over the high cheekbones and the soft, deep voice were more so. The father had both and only a little grey in his cropped curls. They were far better material than I'd hoped for. I noticed their cheap clothes were clean and that they were also.

"I told them what I wanted and they promptly agreed with enthusiasm. They and the rest of the crew had been back from a trip down the Coast for over a week and were loading goods on their schooner, named Windsor incidentally (they pronounced it'Weensore' in their deep tones) for another. Whatever I wanted was mine and they even argued about my offer to pay a price for charter! This was 'Guvmint Wuhk' and they wanted no pay. A refreshing note of loyalty for the battered Empire in those Post-War days but I'd found it elsewhere in the world before this and later as well. They were clever men and they could reason. When I'd sketched what my plans were, they had thought of some helpful ideas of their own and I do mean helpful.

"Captain Hooper summed it up and I'll give it to you in his words. 'You wanna go inshore to where that man swim out wit that lettah. Then, Cap'n, (I was that rank) you wanna go afta that mon all the way in to them Mayan Mountain, where you feel he come from? Okeh, gettin you theyah, thass easy. You come on wit us in the dahk and none know this. But when you go ashoah, thass vurry difficult. Bad country, fulla bugs, snake and sickness. If you goes through to them hills, mebbe it get worse. No one go up there, cep' a few hunter now and then. Clean air, plenty watah, good ground and animals too, mebbe even a few 'Panther cats' or even 'Tygrees.' (He meant Puma and Jaguar, the latter being Tigre to Spanish speakers.) But, Sah, they ain't why I'm worried, nor Jawge neither. Nobody like the inside of them hills and nobody, not the lousiest' Injun' corn digger, go there for mor'n a day or two. No one live theah! That Baaad Place and it always been so. A littul huntin, thass OK, but some folks won't even go in there foh just that even.' Captain Hooper stopped here and looked at his son. I could see them both clearly in the light of the paraffin or kerosene lamp.

"George was ready for the pause. 'You'se watched, is what I heah,' came his own deep tones. 'Somfin's in theah that watches folks. If they stays on the edges like and don' stay long, then's all right. If should be they goes in deep or mebbe tries to live there permanent, thass a diffrunt thing, Cap'n. They just vanish, like a Duppy got'm. Whoosh!'

"His father took a giant gulp of beer, emptied the bottle in fact, and nodded to me. 'He say right, Cap'n. Thass no place to go, not nobody. And nevah alone, Suh. Too easy foh the Duppies, one puhson all by hisself!' "

Ffellowes leaned back and his blue eyes twinkled at us. "A 'Duppy,' my friends, is an evil spirit. It's simply Anglic dialect for what the Haitians call a 'Zombie' or one of their own spirit terrors. Cheery news, eh, in that smoky hut?" Then the humor left his eyes and he continued. "I was making mental notes over what I heard when George spoke again.

" 'I go wit the Cap'n, Dadee. I ain't no Bushman, jus' a sayluh boy but I got good legs. An' we take Lucas Payrfit. He part Spaniol, mebbe part Injun, but he my fren' also. An' he do know the Bush. He hunt evr'thin they is an' he know to live theyah an' go quiet-like. Wit us two, mebbe they's a chanct. Lemme ask Lucas to come ovah and talk wit usn's.'

"I strongly suspect," Ffellowes continued, "that all this had been pre-talked over before we met. I feel that George had already got his father's permission to escort me and that the mysterious Lucas had already been sounded and had agreed."

He fell silent, gazing at the rug and we stayed immobile in our circle. Once again Ffellowes had captured our spirits and we all were far away and long ago with him in that steamy, tropical hut, planning a venture into the unknown. The street noises and the faint sounds from the other parts of the Club were mentally shut out and meaningless, not registering on our tensed-up sense patterns. We also saw and heard the two black giants as they calmly offered to risk their lives for Ffellowes and that sacred (to them) intangible, the British Government.

The Brigadier gave a sigh and then resumed. "Well, at Dawn, two days later, we cast off from a battered, mooring post and were off to the South. All had been taken care of that could be. I'd left a complete report of my findings, which were largely speculative and also my intentions, possibly even more so. All that was with Plover the Top Cop. A good chap and he'd served a term not long before in the police of one of the Malay States, in Borneo I believe. He knew something thus of both traveling and looking for trouble in uncharted rain forests.

"As the Windsor chugged out, sails down, on her battered auxiliary, there were two of us below decks, sweating in the still heat and stench. We'd come on board in the thick dark at 3:00 A.M. and with us a lot of equipment we needed. The other man was the mysterious 'Lucas Pairfit' His name was really of French derivation and spelled correctly, was 'Peyrefitte.' The Hoopers had summoned him quietly at dusk on the previous day and he'd just appeared, equally silent.

"I had given him the once over, since we were to be companions and I was rather impressed. He too was tall, perhaps 6'2" but lean and not burly. He had a hawk face and bronzy-red skin. There was some negroid strain, as evinced by the close-cut tight curls, but the rest? At a guess, French and Amerindian. He moved like a great cat and he had piercing black eyes. His voice was a purring growl, very sinister at first but his grip was firm and hard. We chatted while trying to breathe as the schooner cleared the river with me putting the questions and him the answers. George Hooper was on deck with his father and two husky cousins, but that was the normal thing and thus not worth disguising.

"Lucas had guided more than one hunting party into the edge of the Maya Mountain country but as he put it 'I don' stay long. I keep the white folks who hire me movin' fast and when they want rest I always tell 'em this Bad Place. Sometime I say fevah, sometime bad watah, sometime no animal to hunt sometime too many buggses. But mos' imphtant we keep on the move.'

"When I asked him about the feelings the others had told me of, those of being watched, I could see the whites of his eyes flicker, even in the fetid dark of the little cargo space.

" 'Oh yes,' he said, this time with a real snarl. 'They is somethin' that see you. You don' notice much in the day time, jus' now an then. But aftah dark, then it get bad. You look to me Sah like a man what's done a bit of huntin', right?' At my grunt of assent, he went on. 'Then maybe you have feel this thing too. All huntah have. But, lookee, Cap'n, did you evah have this feelin', that a smaht tigre watch you, one that don' like you and can think about it, like a man think?'

"When he'd finished that particular comment, there was silence between us, broken only by creaking timbers and our breathing. His next comment anticipated my next question but was quite logical in so doing. 'I nevah find any tracks, not a one. But I do fin' where a place where something heavy, maybe man size, squat down. An in sof' groun' close by, I find where a branch been use to rub out track. Jus' like you or me would if we don' wanna be seen or notice we been theyah at all.'

"Again there was a brief pause and again he went on, but doing no thought reading this time. 'Theah was also a stink. Vurry light and not one I evah smell. If it were people, then they got a very nasty smell to 'em. They got that smell, like somethin' that live in the woods, some wil' animal, d'you see an' they got a lot of weight, more than us and they like the dahk, jus' like a cat do.'

"Once more there was silence and I noticed the engine was off and that we were heeling a little, obviously under sail. He pulled his thought-reading trick again. 'I speak pretty fayuh Maya, Cap'n. They tell me I mus' be part Maya and mebbe so. I don' look like the Hooper men and that help, not lookin' so much like a Bayman, wit' this thin nose and mouth and all. Anyhow, they talk to me, some of 'em do. I ask a lot about these Maya Mountains and the things I notice. Man, do they freeze up! That's bad country in the inside, fulla devils! They are bad devils and they steal Maya girls mebbe to eat. They ain't nevah seen again, not evah! They's a vurry few ol' men, who can remembah times they was told of befoh the whites come here. Any whites at all, Spanish, English or any and that mean any black men too, cause they had black men as slaves. An' these ol' mens, onect in a while, but rare, they would tell me a few things they been tol' by their ol' men when they little kids. This place we headed now was always the bad place! Them ol' injuns they always stay out too even back when they was the bossmen of this whole country and the other countries round about like Guatemala an' Mexico too. So what do that tell us, Cap'n?' He was silent and waiting and my answer was obvious, as obvious as it must be now to you fellows. 'Old,' I said, 'very old. Whatever makes them afraid of that country has been there a long time indeed, Lucas.' His grunt of assent was loud and clear.

"At this point, a bolted hatch on the foredeck was slid open and we both took deep breaths of the gust of fresh air. Whatever the Hooper clan had carried in that little ship, including partly-cured hides, it didn't make for easy breathing with the hatches shut.

"Young George Hooper's head appeared and he hailed us with a smile and told us to come up and relax. We were well out of the river now and sailing South under a gentle breeze, with not another craft of any sort in sight, not even a canoe. So we climbed out and went aft in the sun to the after cockpit. There we settled down with Captain Hooper and the two other cousins ran the boat. We began to plan our own moves and coordinate them.

"It was obvious that we could not plan too much, since there were so many unknowns in the whole thing. But we did the best we could and as carefully as possible. Then, we simply ran South, aiming for the area where the strange message had been thrown aboard ship in the steaming night.

"For two days and nights we dawdled on, following the coastline and well inside the fringing reefs that lie up to ten miles off that same coast. It was work for experts only, since there were plenty of local obstacles, from bars of mud and sand to clumps of local coral heads, floating logs out of the forest and occasional fishing boats without lights, the latter probably smuggling something. The Hoopers had done this trip many many times before though and laughed uproariously when I joshed them about their varied cargoes and His Majesty's Revenue Inspectors.

"As a cruise for honeymooners, I would fault it. The breeze was erratic and never strong and we were close enough to shore for sand flies and mosquitoes to pick us up with ease. We slapped, swore and smoked steadily. There was nothing else to do.

"Eventually at dawn, we arrived, having passed Stann Creek in the night where there's a small port whose lights we could see at a distance. When the Windsor was anchored, close to where the older man said the message had come, young George Hooper, Lucas Peyrefitte and I collected our gear, prepared a spare dinghy which we'd towed for this purpose, and went ashore if you call a healthy mangrove swamp 'shore', which I don't. The skipper and the other two were to call back at this point in two days and then in two more days, a job to be repeated until they saw us or a signal from us. Very simple arrangement compared to jobs I had during the war, off the Norwegian coast, say, but it was the best we could do.

"We got the dinghy as far up a muddy creek as we could and then had to slog through a lot more mud, plus clouds of stinging bugs, until we finally hit solid ground and collapsed. We had blazed mangrove trees with our machetes as a backtrail guide. Now we spit out bugs, wiped the worst mud off with leaves and looked at each other ruefully.

"We all had Winchester carbines slung on our shoulders and ammo, in pouches, plus oil and cleaning stuff. All three also had Webley .455 revolvers in flap holsters and full belts as well plus heavy hunting knives and the local machetes. We had full canteens as well and light packs, also shoulder-slung. In the packs were mosquito nets and food, charqui which is dried beef and crude tortillas baked to iron hardness. Most folk who know nothing of the tropics think being lost is the problem. It's one, but the least thought-of is more dangerous yet. Quite simply, thirst. Just because you have tons of greenery, that doesn't always mean water, reachable water. In this country, a mixture of sand, dirt limestone and granite, it was even more chancy. Little streams and brooks are there and lots of them. But they take finding. Rain is common and heavy as well but it can hold off for weeks at the wrong season, always when you most want it.

"I looked at my team and felt pretty good. George, to my delight had once done a short term in the local 'Territorials', a mob we raised during the war for local defense. Lucas was a hunter and a 'bushman'. We were all in tough khaki trousers and shirts, commandeered from the Belize cops by Inspector Plover, my 'link' to the Crown. He had got Army laced boots for us too, just now soaking wet but we had grease to reproof 'em and keep them from cracking. I had a slouch hat. my own shikari hat from India, but the other two didn't want any or ever wear them. We all had compasses and they could read theirs as well as I. I had what local maps the Crown had had done, but these were vague and not much use.

"Looking at mine, I found that we were, or thought we were, south of a maze of creeks, the largest of which was labelled 'Jenkins,' named after God knows who. I discussed our position with the others and we set off, bearing West by NW.

"There were no trails in this country and Lucas went first me next and George last. It was up-and-down trekking, with lots of low ridges, some with bare rock spines protruding. The trees, Waha palms, tropical pines and a few mahoganys, weren't too tall, except for a rare one but there was lots of low stuff under many of them and a lot was spiny and nasty. Lucas, who knew this stuff best was simply to hold course and pick the clearest path possible.

"We soon ran into another blight, one they had warned me of many times. It was tick country and several sizes and types were plentiful, from big black ones to minute red pests. We ignored them mostly, and when we stopped for breaks, scraped them off or held lit smokes to the most bloated until they popped bloodily. Mosquitoes were rare, save near water in the low bits, that is, rare by our standards here only. To reinforce them came a nasty group of large, biting flies. I was the chief sufferer, since the two young men seemed to ignore the damn things. Still, I've been in a lot of tropical bush and/or jungle and some was worse. There were at least no leeches.

"Actually, had we not been pressing on fast, the country was lovely. On top of sandy ridges, where the pines predominated, one could see a lot, especially as we were climbing steadily as we went inland in our torturous, up-and-down path. We saw few animals, save for a rare glimpse of an armadillo and once a tapir clumping away up a wet ravine. Birds were everywhere though, vultures or zopilotes sailing over us and lots of little things warbling and chirping below, some with very bright colors, other as drab as sparrows.

"On one of these ridges, Lucas called a halt and pointed. Far down a series of tangled ridges we could see patches of small corn fields spread over flat country and out of the heavy bush. This was to the North.

"Then, he whirled and we looked West. Here the summits of much higher, though rounded hills capped the view. 'Maya Mountains', he growled. 'None of these Injun live any closer than those field we jus' look over. We in the bad country right now, the land where no one go except to hunt and for not long even then. We mus' be careful from now on, Cap'n. Already we might be seen.' He paused then and added, 'by sump'n, sump'n bad.'

"When night came, which meant less heat but only a different variety of biting bugs, we camped in a little gully, having found a niche on one side where three smooth rock walls twenty feet high gave us some feeling of protection. There was a tiny stream trickling down the ravine bed so we had water. We grilled our charaqui, very good but tough, over one of the cans of American Sterno, a thought of mine to bring. It weighed little and though there was a smell of meat perceptible, there was no fire and no woodsmoke. The latter can be detected miles away by sensitive noses.

"We picked off all the ticks we could find and George and I spread our one-man mosquito nets. We were keeping what the navy calls 'watch on watch' and Lucas had the first round. Then, after four hours, he'd wake me and after my four, I'd get George up. None of us wanted there to be no sentry at any time.

"Next day, after a quick meal, varied by an anti-scorbutic, what you men pay for as 'Heart of Palm salad,' or the little growing heads of some small palm trees, we set off West again. It was much the same going, into ravines and up tangled slopes, with breaks only where the pines, now getting fewer, dominated on the sandy ridge tops. Lucas used his machete with great skill and also his experience, and we seldom had to cut any tangles away from in front. He was a real bushman, with a keen eye for selecting the best track both for footing and also for the fewest tangles of vegetation.

"All day we went on in our usual way, which might be described as being alternate verticals or half verticals, mixed with spirals and right angle shifts. The only constant in the whole mess was the gradual but never-ceasing upward slant. In one way and another, we climbed steadily to higher ground. As we paused in the later afternoon for some de-ticking and a rest on a lofty ridge, I was amazed by a Westward glance. Through the taller and heavier trees, I could see rounded summits, little higher than our own position, though far larger and looking quite close. I mentioned it to the others and they seemed surprised I had just noticed.

"Lucas did not look elated and he continually darted his sharp eyes in every direction, up, down and sideways. 'We is deep in the bad country now, Suh, and well in it. We keep a good lookout or we never come out. Now we be real quiet and we look for a good place to camp, some kin' of place we can't be jump on by dem thing what live here.' His voice had lost all of the growl and was now a low, hissing purr. George Hooper, usually a cheery lad, quick to laugh and talk, was also suddenly silent and his seaman's eyes were as wary as the hunter's.

"Lucas shortly found the place he wanted, but he told me he had been on the watch for such a site for two hours past I checked my compass and got rough bearings, using the map, the setting sun and my own skill. We were about 16-1/2 degrees North and maybe 88-2/3 West. This certainly put us in the Maya Mountains, all totally unmarked territory.

"Lucas' find for a campsite was another notch in a cliff, with bare or mossy rock behind and no big trees close. It was only a gap and about ten feet square. The rock walls for it arced out on each side, went up into darkness and there were no vines running down them. In front we had a clear view in daylight of 30 feet of open space, being rock slabs and shale with nothing higher than low bunches of grass. It made us all feel better when we got in and faced out.

"If any of you know the Tropics, you know there is no real 'evening'. The dark fell like a cloud and we could hardly see one another save with our flashes, which we were careful not to use at more than three feet.

"The usual night noises rang out as we quietly used our Sterno and did not talk as we ate. Lots of bird calls, an insect vibrato and now and then the cry of some mammal. I heard a distant scream once and nudged Lucas. He nudged back and muttered Tigre under his breath. It had been a jaguar after all. There must have been a stream in the gully below us and to our left for the chorus of frog voices grew steadily louder during our meal, until it had almost blanketed the birds and the bugs through sheer volume.

"Suddenly, as we sat silent and listening, the batrachian calls stopped. It was an instant cut-off. So did the birds and even the insects seemed muted. In this silence came a new sound. It was not near or seemed not near but, oh how it carried! It was a strange cross between a moan and a roar. It gave the impression of immense volume somehow and more, for intermingled was a savagery, a terrible wild and forsaken anger, which rather chilled the blood. Quite unconsciously, I found myself huddling close to young Hooper, who sat to my left. His great body was trembling like a leaf and I could smell his sweat as no doubt he could smell mine.

"Finally that appalling sound died away in a series of rumbling grunts whose volume was not lessened much from that of the roaring wail which had begun the whole thing. There was silence and then the frogs took up their chorus again, with new members joining in until the night was once more echoing with croaks and trills in which insect stridulation was mixed again.

"The voice of Lucas Peyrefitte struck George and myself, though it was soft, so that we started and almost jumped away from one another. 'Not too clost,' it came. 'Jus' set still now an' don't talk nor move.' He said no more for a second, and then continued. 'Someone far off, he think that that noise come from them Howly Monkey. But it don', not that. This come from somethin' much bigger and meaner.'

"I had forgot, d'you fellows know, that Howler Monkeys were found in these parts. Never heard a Howler and I understand they can make a good, loud racket but I never thought they'd give one a chill to the marrow.

"Mind you, as some of you know, I'm not exactly inexperienced in living in the Tropics. I've heard leopards cough and grunt many times and the same with tigers and lions roaring. I'd picked up that jaguar scream back earlier and identified it by an educated guess. This was something I'd never heard before or wanted to hear again.

"Then Lucas spoke once more before falling silent. 'Set still and use your ear an' your nose till I say it OK. And keep you pistol handy too.' I got my Webley cautiously in my grip and could feel George Hooper doing the same. Then we simply obeyed orders and sat listening. I'd forgot part of the order until I heard George sniffing deeply at intervals. I did the same without even thinking about it. And, deep in my subconscious memory, an alarm was triggered. Had there not been something about 'smells' or 'stinks' in that weird report signed by the man I call 'Jones'? In fact, in the very report that had got me here in this wilderness in the first place?

"Well, gentlemen, God knows how long we three sat there, as relaxed as possible but more than alert. I checked my luminous watch hand at intervals and at least one hour had passed when something else began to happen.

"I'd given up sniffing the jungle air which was lovely but so full of bugs that I'd inhaled several gnats without meaning to. But the other two were tougher and they had not I heard and almost felt my neighbor George increase his sniffs and I started to do so too. One deep breath was enough.

"It was a most unpleasant odor that now wafted our way. It was wild, feral if you like, but mainly a sort of concentrated garbage sort of reek. There was none of the ammonia smell of the big cats; what you can get in any zoo, though I've had it close to in the bush myself. Oh no, this was another new one for me. Mix a filthy athletic locker room with the stench of uncleaned dog kennels and add rotten garbage. That's the best I can do to describe it.

"And with this foul effluvium there was something else. This was more of a feeling than anything else. We were under intent and malign observation, that was it. Someone or something was looking at us and it was the look of a predator. You'll recall that Lucas and I'd had a conversation on this point before we started. Well, as any real hunter knows, one can feel this sort of thing, if one's lucky that is. Not very pleasant in that hot, damp dark, to feel that some 'presence', something deadly and predatory had one under observation!

"It was Lucas's voice that broke the dead hush. And it was no whisper but a shout 'Look up,' he yelled, almost in my ear. 'That stink come from up, down the rock behin' us!'

"Well, the three of us whirled as one man and young Hooper, God bless him, flicked on his torch as he did. And so we weren't taken too much by surprise." The Brigadier paused for thought but there wasn't a breath expelled in the Club library. We were all rivetted by the imagined horror of his tale and all mentally in that black, steaming forest, long ago in an unknown land, holding our breath and with racing pulses, all desperate to find out what followed.

The silence grew unbearable and Ffellowes' smooth pink cheeks finally loosened and he resumed his tale.

"Something huge and covered with matted hair was dropping down that cliff face behind us, on what we'd all thought was the one safe side. How it found grip, I'll never know, and it was half-falling and half-climbing, I think, now.

"I saw its turned head in the torchlight, the great fangs and the red, glaring eyes between the mighty shoulders and the vast arms and crook-clawed hands, the huge straight legs and the claws on the toes as well. It was an instant, glaring picture of primal terror, caught as one catches a flash bulb photo, all in a split second.

"The oddest thoughts tend always to surface in a time of crisis. No doubt those of you who've seen combat in a war have noticed the phenomena. I had the weirdest flash then and it went like this: 'There are no reddish-blond gorillas in Central America. And its legs are much too long anyway!

"For the matted pelt that covered the hide of this monster was the color I've just used, a sort of reddish yellow and it was short, not like the longer hair of a gorilla or chimp you know.

"I had my gun drawn but frankly not levelled. It was Lucas, that trained hunter, who was ready, not I. His Webley .455 went off with a roar and young Hooper's was not much behind. It was I, the supposedly trained soldier and the leader of the group, who finally fired third. I will say that I fired at the demon head, just in my own defense, you know and to demonstrate to you fellows that I wasn't totally panicked. Damned lucky I finally came to, I might add.

"That huge, ghastly vision never let out one cough or even a grunt. It simply collapsed and fell, from perhaps eight feet up on that rock wall. One moment it was alive and about to leap on us, the next it was a huddled pile of reeking, bloody fur, clearly seen in the torch light for all three of us now had our flash buttons out and down. It was odd that the frog orchestra never stopped even for those three shots. The night was returned in an instant to the sounds of its normal voices while the three of us just stood frozen, staring at what we'd killed. I holstered my gun and started swatting mosquitoes without even thinking about it I felt like a moron later when I thought of what might have happened had there been more than one of those things!

"Now we come to more of my stupidity. It was not the trained Intelligence wallah who spotted the next piece of evidence but young Hooper who at this moment had both sharper eyes and quicker wits. He bent and held his light close to the outflung right hand, for claws, size and all, it was a hand, of the dead thing. I almost choked when I saw what he'd noticed. To prove it was a 'hand' and not a paw, it was clenched tight in a death spasm and clenched around the shaft of a weapon too. That dead grip was around the wood of a short and incredibly massive spear! A further glance along the shaft showed the glittering, broad point, which gleamed black in the torch light. As heavy and broad as the wood was massive, so too was the obsidian blade, sharpened by clearly-seen chipping and flaking to razor edges!

"Well, that chap Lucas read my mind at this point 'I listen good,' he said, almost casually. 'Dis the onliest one around. Maybe more come but I think this one find us alone by himself and try kill us quick.'

While Lucas spoke, though I heard him clearly, I was looking hard at other things, details that fit nothing I'd ever dreamt of, let alone heard about. The hairy hand that retained its weapon had a thumb as long and human in shape as mine. I'm sure you men know that no ape, gorilla or other, has anything but a short peg, a stump that can't grip or even bend. That dispelled any thought of the lower primates on the spot. You could, I suppose, teach a trained ape to carry a weapon but you can't train him into growing a thumb!

"Next I carefully examined the head, which happened to lie face up so that I didn't have to move anything or touch the foul-smelling bulk. Oh, did it stink, a feral reek of everything wild, mixed with rank garbage! But I breathed through my mouth and carefully looked at that head. Oddly, the more I looked, the less horrid it got. Here's why.

"Under that curious pelt which was longer on the top just like a man's hair, was a large, but not abnormally-shaped skull. There was a big hole in it where my bullet had gone home and I hate to think what would have happened if I'd missed. One of the other shots had hit an arm and only by a narrow margin, while the third had gone high and to the right in the chest If that thing had been given a few seconds in that little rock bay with that great spear, well, I think the whole party would have lost a few guests.

"The head of this creature grew more interesting every second I was staring at it. It had a small but adequate nose. The canines were very large and pointed, easy to see since the mouth gaped open in death. But and this interested me even more, there was a highish forehead, a well-rounded chin, such as no ape or monkey possesses, and glimpsed through the dirty head hair, ears not unlike those of, say Parker here," and he nodded at me.

I must have turned purple or something because they all laughed but the Brigadier held up one hand and the laughter died. "I only meant," he said, "that they were quite normal ears, that's all, but you don't see yet, any of you, what I'm getting at, nor should you, I suppose." He paused to collect his thoughts and then continued.

"There was a frontal brow ridge on this thing's forehead, which I think now nothing more than the Neanderthal Man had. But it was a high forehead, not ape-like. And there was a goodish bump at the skull's back, which I believe is the occiput—"

He paused again and then came out with his full thought, one he'd apparently been skirting for some reason. "What I'm driving at is this: Aside from the enormous size, for the creature was seven foot tall at least, and the massive bulk and the pelt of course, what I was looking at was no ape at all but a crudish sort of very large man, a giant man with fur all over him."

I must have been brooding subconsciously about my own ears and Ffellowes' remark, because I saw a point or two I thought he'd missed and that made me bold, bold enough to interrupt, something I had seldom dared as did few others when one of the Brigadier's stories was in progress.

"Excuse me, Sir," I said quickly, "but what about those great claws you said you'd seen. Claws on both toes and fingers, wasn't it?"

I was afraid I'd made the greatest tale-teller I ever knew angry when those blue eyes hit mine as he was about to speak. He only smiled a little though and just kept talking.

"Parker has a point there," he said to all of us. "Glad he made me think and remember. They weren't claws, they were immense, crooked fingernails, uncut, sharp and filthy." He ruminated a moment and then went on. "I may be wrong but they looked as if they'd been filed sharp, you know and I looked carefully. Yet, that wasn't the main reason I looked so long at those great hairy hands. On the right middle finger, clenched in that death grip around the spear handle, I saw a glint of something bright. I parted the fur with my pistol barrel and there it was, a huge gold ring!

"It was quite smooth, though very large and had a big green stone in the center, a dull circle of what looked to me like jade. It made me catch my breath to see it on the hand of this awful brute and I turned to point it out to Lucas and George.

"Neither one seemed much surprised. I guess they had lived too long with the thought of marvels to be as impressed as I was. Lucas gave a purring chuckle and then said, 'These bad place thing, these killer men of the mountain dark, they rich. They got gol' and jewel to hide, mebbe an' that why then don' come out and kill whoever try come in here.' What it was that stuck in my throat about his comment was not the idea of a hidden treasure. No, it was the way both he and the younger chap quietly and directly took the thing I had killed to be ... a man!

"I mentioned this, commenting on the fur and the lack of any clothes as well. They were not impressed, either of them, by these arguments. 'They wild things, bad things, these men,' said Hooper. 'Try to kill us or anyone that come here, Cap'n. Look hard at that shape, the head, that shahp speeah he got. An' the fingah ring too. That ain't no animal, Sah. No way. In ol' time, the Bible say these men live an' whatever live in his mountain, it very ol'. Remember, Cap'n, it tell in the Book "an' Esau were a hairy man"?'

"That remark finished the argument for me. I'd come to much the same conclusion anyway, and if the Bible were going to be quoted against me, I'd better keep my trap shut. Frankly, you chaps, I thought I'd found a member of some lost race of what used to be called Missing Links, some creatures that had survived in a lost wilderness long after Homo sapiens had risen and cleared the Earth of his more brutish relatives, save for the few lingering colonies of great apes like the gorillas. The thought of what a great discovery we'd made danced through my brain but Lucas' next words drove the idea far away.

"He wasted little time. 'We got to get rid of this 'un,' he said bluntly. 'Mebbe other ones come aftah him and follow he tracks. Bury him quick, that what did ought to be did!'

"I had no argument with this remark either. Guns or no guns, we'd stand no chance against a mob of these creatures even in daylight, not in this thick bush, while at night they'd smother us.

"Working by the light of our torches, always kept pointed down, we scratched up the soft earth and moved the rocks in it until we had a pit three feet deep cleared. Before we shoved the reeking body into it, I used my big knife, of which more later, and hacked off that ring, throwing the severed finger into the pit I pocketed the ring. I was going to have some evidence of something, anyway. The other two said nothing and for all I know, assumed I had just used the rank I had as leader to grab a piece of loot first.

"When we'd finally got that enormous body dumped in and wiped our hands on leaves and grass, we simply stamped the earth hard and flat for we'd shoved the loose dirt and rocks back in and covered our work as thoroughly as we could.

"It wouldn't have deceived a policeman or even a skilled woodsman, not for long, but in a jungle where rot works fast and growth faster, both Lucas and I knew it would soon be quite unfindable.

"Then, I raised another point I had overlooked in the excitement and which I'm sure all of you have been puzzling over. I asked Lucas, the skilled woodsman, what he thought about the sound of our three shots.

"He didn't seem concerned or even much worried. 'Remembah, Captain, what I tell you about hunting along the edge of this bad place? Lots of them Injun down in the low country got guns. Here in this little hole, wit all those frog an' bug sounds, if anyone, even us like, heah a shot or two, it soun' far off and not clost—' He thought for a minute and then added a word. 'Somehow, I feel shuah this killer man come alone an' he won' be missed by them other things till day come or mebbe longer.'

"We were all silent then and deep in thought. My own ideas were simple for the hunter's last words had brought out another thing I'd managed not to consider.

"Whatever we had killed, it could not be alone. To keep a whole area inviolate and under a blanket of fear and avoidance for countless years, perhaps countless centuries, there had indeed to be more than once specimen of whatever he had been. I was now thinking of he and not it myself, you see.

"Well, dawn finally came, as it does in the Tropics, as fast as the dark falls. A red glow in the East changed to bright morning sunlight in a few seconds. We packed our stuff and set off again, but I had them both do as I did and unfasten and tuck back the flaps on their pistol holsters, for a quick draw if needed.

"We climbed slowly and watchfully for three hours and I then called Lucas back and George up from the rear. I explained that we needed two things, a rest and a 'cleanoff'. The ticks and crawling bugs had got all over me during the night and were driving me wild. Also, we'd had no morning grub, having decamped in a hurry from our haunted lair under the cliff.

"We were following up a fair-sized stream at the time and Lucas looked at the water thoughtfully. Suddenly his face lit up and he slapped his leg. He said only one word, unintelligible to me and that was 'Billums!' I had no idea what he meant but dutifully followed as he set off at a tremendous pace, still following the noisy brook up and over the rocks and screens and ducking under tree branches and vines as we did so.

"About 10:00 A.M. we suddenly hit the top of the biggest rise we had yet seen. Lucas waved us down flat on our stomachs and we all peered over the rim of sharp rock. The stream, now icy-cold and ten feet across, was pouring over the cliff or hill edge very close on our right.

"There before us lay a broad stretch of savannah, mostly tall grasses and a few scrub trees. On the far side, almost half a mile away, a belt of tall forest began again. But what Lucas was looking for lay much closer, no more than a hundred yards off. It was a long, crystalline pool, fringed by ferns and aquatic shrubs, all low except at the upper end where the stream entered and the lower where it left to flow over the hill. But we were at an angle and could see it clearly, all sixty feet or so of its length. At a signal from Lucas we sneaked over to the taller shrubs near us and then to the lower edge of this lovely water.

"Lucas said he would take first watch and told both George, who was equally at a loss, and I to take off everything and lie in the pool with only our heads out. We were not to move, even though things tickled us! We would come to no harm and we would have no bugs left in a minute, or even less. While on watch, he, Lucas would debug our clothes and then we would watch while he immersed himself in turn.

"Ye Gods that water was cold! Not icy but we were hot and sweaty and plain filthy as well. After a second shock, it felt heavenly and I lay back to watch a pair of hummingbirds, flickering close by over some arum plants growing from the water. Then, suddenly I felt a series of tugs all over, as if someone were pulling my body hairs in six different places.

"Both George and I jumped with a start, for he'd felt the same thing! I looked at Lucas on the bank above me and he was grinning widely, a thing I seldom saw that impassive chap do. Then I looked down at my body, all visible in the utterly clear water. I was surrounded by little fishes, some very brightly colored. They were darting in and out all over me and pulling off every tick, ant or bug on my body.

Sometimes, they would grab a hair by mistake and that was the 'tickling.' Lucas murmured his word again and I had my first experience with the 'Billums', the tiny, tropical fish he had been looking for to get us all clean. I relaxed again for I knew the piranhas of the Amazon did not come this far to the North.

"Well, he was right again. In five minutes we were quite clean and we climbed out and traded places while he went in himself. Once in our now debugged clothes again, we felt wonderful, being clean as well. Lucas had not been in the water a minute and I was searching out food with George when we heard an acid hiss like that of a huge snake. It was Lucas and his immobile head was facing the other end of the pool. We had slacked on our sentry job but he had not.

"We flattened ourselves behind a bank of foot-long, giant arum leaves and slid our Enfields forward. I saw nothing at first but soon noticed a waving of leaves coming our way down from where the upper stream entered the pool. The motion stopped near the water and we waited, ready, we thought, for anything.

"We were wrong. No one was ready for the most wonderful sight I ever saw. The bushes parted suddenly and out stepped a woman, the most glorious sight of my not too hum-drum life.

"She was nearly nude and very tall. She wore golden breastplates and a broad golden belt, all set with pieces of jade and what looked like dark shining stones, not the dull glint of jade. When I say she was nude, I felt for a moment I had made a mistake. Mind you, she was no more than seventy-five feet from my hiding place and I could see every detail plainly. Was she wearing a fur suit of a golden red colour? Her face, both broad and high-cheekboned, was an ochre or red tinted with bronze and as smooth as any baby's. Only then did I see the fur 'suit' was nothing but her own lovely pelt, of a dense but close-clipped hair, body hair, you know. I could see her glorious eyes plainly as she faced the Sun; narrow and long though they were, they were a blazing brownish tint."

The Brigadier paused here and looked off across the big room. He was plainly lost in memories and we all sat waiting. Then he took a deep breath and went on.

"Her hair, combed back straight, was straight itself and went to just above her waist. It was a reddish gold and shimmered in the sun. With her size and blazing good looks and coloring, she looked like the living figurehead of some ancient, royal ship, absolutely staggering!

"That, gentlemen, was my first sight of Fayuna, the glorious, lost queen of Conhung-At'lantz, and mind the last half of that place name.

"But though George Hooper and I had been simply gawping in total amazement, the real hunter among us had been thinking and moving. Lucas' head popped up right under my nose, silently as an eel's. 'Watch all behind her,' he purred. 'I think she take bath. In the watah, I get her quiet like and bring her here.'

"I could only nod and he vanished again under overhanging leaves while George and I took up our watch, though I don't think we'd have noticed anything short of a mad, pink elephant. Our male eyes were set hard on one thing only.

"Surely enough, the glorious young avatar of womanhood, and I could see by many indications, including her movements, that she was young, had come for a bathe. She only took one thing off. That gold belt and the jewel-studded gold bra were hardly clothing, but she unhooked the breast plates, laid them on the bank and stepped into the shallows, waded deeper and began to swim in our direction as it got deeper. She wasn't much of a swimmer and it was nothing but what we'd call a 'dog paddle', but it was slow and graceful even so.

"As she swam, her deep husky voice sounded for the first time in a sort of gentle song. I couldn't get a word but they were words nevertheless. It was kind of a chant and I could even catch sounds that seemed to rhyme, though not in any tongue that sounded even vaguely familiar and I've heard quite a few.

"Closer and closer she came and now she was on the edge of a tall patch of some reed which threw a shadow over the water below them. I was holding my breath for I'd seen one of those reeds move just a second earlier.

"Then, Lucas struck! He'd got in front of the reeds and slid under water until he was behind that great, red-gold shape and then he rose like a dark copper eel, suddenly and smoothly at her back. His long, strong arms locked about her upper torso, sliding under her arms and up behind her neck, a lovely neck but large, suiting the rest of her more-than-normal female proportions. They were so close now that as we waited breathless, her young, pointed breasts thrust at us and I saw the pink of the nipples rising out of that sleek, golden pelt which garbed her body. In a split second Lucas had the woman in the hold Americans call 'Full Nelson,' his hands locked at the back of her neck, holding her pinned fast to his own body, unable to even move.

As her wide and full-lipped mouth opened, I saw the white teeth, and they looked sharp, the canines almost those of a carnivore. Her great eyes, as strange as a cat's but smokier looking, were wide in shock and surprise. I knew a yell was coming and I determined to try and prevent it. I rose from the cover of leaves and leapt forward into the water. It was not deep and the two in front of me were waist deep only. At the sight of me, her huge, lovely eyes widened even further and almost rolled upward in shock. I had one hand raised, palm out and up, and I hissed 'Quiet' at the frozen face before me.

"Lucas's voice came from behind her shoulders. 'Don' worry, Sah, I got her good! She don't move unless I let go.' The woman's, or rather girl's for that was what she was, despite her size, a great girl mouth closed in despair. I had my finger at my own closed lips now and it took no knowledge of English to know that I wanted silence from her. In another instant I had one of her upper arms in one of mine and Lucas and I began to push and pull her into the shallows and up on our bank. George came down to help and we soon had her in the ferns where we had been hidden, concealed from sight by greenery from all but a careful search.

"She stared wildly at first from George to myself and back. Lucas had never slackened his firm grip but had allowed her head to come erect so that it was not bent over, and since he was still crouched behind her, she could see nothing of him.

"I decided to try my crude Spanish on her. I spoke no Indian tongues and the local Mayas all spoke a crude Spanish, when they felt like it, that is. 'Amigos,' I said, trying to keep my eyes fixed on hers. It wasn't easy. That great, female body, lean-hipped and long-legged and all covered with that extraordinary pelt, like a close-furred golden cat's but even shorter, the amazing hair, the oval face and the full lips, now slightly parted as she panted softly. But the fear and horror were gone from the eyes now and they were sharp eyes, studying us, though still surprised. And, when I'd said 'Friends' in Spanish, they flickered and she stopped twisting her neck and focussed on me alone. At this point, so odd is the human mind, I registered in my mind that below the massive golden belt, the lady wore a smooth leather loin cloth, which was tucked under and up again over her rounded rump. For some reason, this made me feel better, as if things were more proper this way!

"That thought only took a split second. Then, my brain wiped all else away. For she was talking to me and I could at least partially make sense out of what she was saying. There, if you like, men, was a real thrill and one I had never expected.

"She kept those extraordinary eyes glued on mine, not looking at all at either Lucas or George, though both were helping keep her pinned. Her voice, which I'd already heard when she was carolling to herself, was deep and throaty. She spoke slowly, as if trying to deal with both unfamiliar speech and concepts. It was an odd tangle, being largely crude Spanish but with many pauses. Mixed in were clicks and gutturals which I guessed were Mayan and Lucas told me I was right later on. Rarely, she'd be at a complete loss and then would come some word utterly alien even to Lucas. This, we soon learnt, was in her own tongue.

"What I got was roughly this: 'Who are you? Are you from the Land of my people? Are you another of those who writes scrolls? Your eyes, they are of our ancient, lost color! Only once have I ever seen a man like you and those who advise, they killed him. I tried to stop them (it) but it was not good. The poor Pursee!'

"Even with all the garbled language, that last word got to me. Pursee! That was the first name, even mispronounced, of our long-lost agent, the chap I've called Jones, the man who wrote the report that was so strangely delivered to the Hoopers' boat at night off the mangrove coast Percy, eh?

"I spoke finally, when she fell silent at last and simply stared up at me. 'What do you know of Percy?' I said in my very crude Spanish. I had no Mayan and her own language was a total blank. 'Who killed Percy? He was my friend. I came to find him. Was it your people?'

"Those great, smoky-brown eyes widened even more, and that gorgeous mouth opened again. 'He spoke like you do. He did not speak like those young girls the Plan has us take from down below. He spoke like that too, the other man who came and went away when I was little, the one who made our High Women so sick and angry, the one who wrote all the scrolls.'

"Here she looked thoughtful as one does who tries to remember some forgotten name. She no longer seemed upset or even afraid of us. Then the eyes cleared. 'Labrador, that was his name, my aunt told me. Three names this strange man who escaped us had, Felipe Jose Labrador!'

"So, someone else had come and seen this weird bunch at close range and even got away with it, which seemed more than our lost agent had done. No doubt some peon or mestizo, some wandering laborer, maybe even a bandit 'Philip Joseph Farmer indeed! As common as Smith in New York and probably an alias, as Pancho Villa had been. But what was that about this unknown's writing scrolls? I asked the lady as best I could, and made sure that Lucas was also listening to it, so that any Mayan that crept in might have a chance of being understood.

"What came out was a real mélange of everything: Spanish, Mayan and her own gabble a real linguistic stew. I finally put my hand gently over her open mouth to shut her up and nodded to Lucas to tell me what, if anything, he'd got out of this. It was more certainly than I had, but puzzled us both.

" 'She talk very fast, Sir, and there is much words I don' know at all. But she say this man she call Labrador, he get everyone all excited so they wan' kill him, but he was clever and get out anyway. He tell them the country they come from it sink in the ocean, it don' exist any longer. Then he tell them a man name of Ee Are Bee, he know all about it. And he say, this Labrador fellah, he say maybe there is other city and this other city over in Africa! Yes, a city from this country that sink in the ocean long ago, he say, and this other city it call "Opar." I don' understand what this woman talkin' about, except it mus' be very old.'

"Now that word 'Opar' stirred some lost memory in my own mind. I took my hand away and our captive raced off into more of her excited speech. I listened to it for a minute and then put my palm back and again looked at Lucas. He seemed more confused than before, but he tried.

" 'Now she say the people here worship the sun, jus' like them ol' Indios did, them Mayans befoh the priest come. And this place in Africa they do that too.' He paused a second, then scratched his head. 'This man Labrador, he mus' be big liar but they think he smart. He tell them the name of their country that sink in the ocean and they say that is right name, the old name, almost the same as the way they say thot name. An' the name of this country they say sink in the ocean is some funny one. They call the place "Azdante" or "Adantaz," something like that anyways. I think this Felipe Jose Labrador, whoever he was, was some big liar and a bigger storyteller than anyone. But he fool these funny folks good wit' all his talk about sunk countries and cities in Africa call "Opars" or somethin'. Anyway, Captain, that's what I get out of her talk now and I think I get most of it' Lucas fell silent and three pair of eyes studied my face. I looked down at the giant, chocolate and milk orbs of our captive and made it four pairs studying.

"Frankly, I was just a bit numb, you know. This weird trip, that peculiar message that started it all, the ape-man monster we'd killed and finally this extraordinary female revelation. Only one continent of civilized humans was ever supposed to have sunk in the sea, as any child knows. Atlantis! The greatest legend of all time, left to future ages by Plato, and no one has ever known whether that Greek genius was writing of actual history or simply inventing mythical Utopias for his own personal philosophy.

"So there we stayed, for what seemed an hour but was only a minute really, four people full of varying degrees of puzzlement, while the tropic sun beat down and small insects bit us and buzzed off.

"Finally, I woke myself out of my dreams and returned to reality or what passed for it in this place. I can tell you, it wasn't easy with all of what I'd just heard and what I'd guessed, all churning through my mind."

The Brigadier sipped from his glass and fell silent, looking off over the library mantle, seeing far-off things we could only imagine. But at this point, my own memory stirred and I recalled something read as a boy in the 10th grade.

"Excuse me, Sir, but wasn't one of those lost cities in Africa that Tarzan's author invented, wasn't that called Opar?" I shut up as soon as those glacial blue eyes met mine, but then I could see he was laughing and felt a bit easier. The Brigadier didn't like interruptions when he was telling one of his yarns and I was afraid I'd goofed badly, especially since I was often telling the others never to interrupt him.

"You may have noticed that I was looking at Burroughs' stuff, along with a lot more light fiction when you came in, Parker," he said and now there was an open grin on his smooth face. He looked around, to take in the rest of the listeners.

"I have a rather good memory, Gentlemen. Intell Training, you know, but some of it's natural, especially for what is now called 'trivia'. That name, the one Lucas had caught, 'Opar', supposedly a place in Africa, that rang an old bell in my mind. That was a so-called 'lost city' of the Ancients in a number of the Tarzan tales, by a writer whose initials were E.R.B.

"Did this mean that old Burroughs knew a few secrets of the unexplored? No, not to me. To me, it meant this unknown chap Labrador, whoever he was the name means nothing but 'farmer' or 'agricultural laborer' in Spanish, you know, so it was probably an alias but whoever and whatever he was, he must have thought very quickly and stuck in that name from his memory to sway the rulers of this strange area into believing he knew all about 'em and that their alleged culture and ancestry was well known too.

"Pretty clever, the fellow must have been, since according to our fair captive, he'd impressed the locals well enough to escape from them, which seemed not the normal event at all!

"When I got this array of thoughts a tiny bit digested, I looked down at our scrumptious prisoner and thought quickly for a change.

"I told Lucas to try and ask what the woman's name was first and also how she should be addressed, assuming there was some title or other, from 'Your Grace' to 'Madam'. Always best to be polite to women, I've found, and I've been in a few odd places. What we finally got was several long and difficult words in her own tongue, but which ended in 'Loosheer' or at least something like that I tried calling her 'Lucia' and she smiled and seemed to enjoy my pronunciation. She had lovely white teeth but the carnassials or canines were a bit longer than normal and frankly looked as if they might be lethal in biting.

"It was time to do something. I checked my watch and it was close to Noon. We'd spent over an hour getting this muddled story sorted out and while there was still a lot missing, especially concerning our lost agent, I thought we'd sat around in dangerous country long enough, if not too long. A pack of those giant ape-men, like our visitor of the night before, might appear and we needed nothing less. But what to do next and especially what on Earth could we do with our oversized dazzler, our bepelted figurehead?

"We all three must have been on at least similar thought tracks. It was young Hooper who cleared the air. 'Lookee heah, Sah. You an' Lucas tell this lady to stay wit' me an' stay quiet 'til you two come back.' He waved his drawn Webley. 'You tell her what this is an' that I kill her dead if she run away or scream out or make trouble. You two better bush men an' can get around faster in this bush than me. So you go take a looksee maybe while I stay an' keep guard here.'

"Couldn't have been better put, really. The youngest of us was the coolest at this juncture. I thanked him and then Lucas and I, both speaking slowly and carefully, gave the lady orders. She wasn't pleased but she understood them. She said a couple of words, looking at our revolvers, and it was plain even to me that she knew something about firearms, whether her tribe had any or not. And something had to be done soon. The day was drawing on and we had to try and decide something about the future and do it quickly.

"Between us, we finally got the message across and though she seemed a bit hurt, she finally settled down and curled up. We three synchronized watches and agreed to come back to this spot in two hours or less. We ought to be able to learn something in that amount of time.

"With Lucas leading, we set off, following the upper stream flowing into the big pool, the path by which our captive had approached it. We kept low, using all the cover there was and along the brook there was a fairish bit. Ducking under big ferns, arums and shrubs that liked damp, we soon found a path, though a little-used one from the look of it. It made me wonder just how important locally our prisoner was. Was this her private trail?

"Lucas led and I brought up the rear. In no time at all we came to the forest across the plain, following the weedy little gorge of the brook bed the whole way.

"The sudden shade of the big tropical trees did not make us relax at all. Now we had to look up as well as on all sides. We all recalled our attacker of the previous night. When we finally got to looking about us and down as well, we found we were at what could only be a sort of junction. From a flat place between several towering boles, five or six paths and very well-beaten paths at that, led off like the ribs of a fan, all going somewhat forward. We looked at each other in silence. It was a silent place, with only a few insect hums and distant bird calls. Finally, Lucas crouched and studied the ground at close range.

"I heard him sniff several times too before he spoke. 'I'm pretty suah she come this way,' he said, pointing at a left-of-center trail. 'That's my best guess anyway.' Then he looked at me, waiting for orders.

"I nodded. 'Very well,' I said. 'Let's go as we did by the stream, one following the other. But we'll go slow and keep on the very edge of the path, on the left side as close to the trees as one can get' I checked my watch. We'd been away for one quarter of an hour so far. We unclipped our holster flaps and tucked them behind the revolver grips as well as shifting both rifles to the left hand. Then we moved out.

"For about a half hour there was nothing. Deep green shadows shading to black in places and that winding path. There was no undergrowth, only the great trees, whose trunks and leaves cut off any direct light save for rare gaps where stray sunbeams wandered down through lianas and bromeliads from far above. Then, suddenly, we both halted in our tracks. I didn't need Lucas for we both saw a blaze of light ahead which could only mean a clearing.

"Lucas fell back to my side and without a word we began to advance in line, slowly and also moving from tree shadows and root boles in an irregular, shifting manner. I noticed in passing that we were now under the reddish, oily boles of a grove of absolutely giant, mahogany trees, the sole decent cash export of this odd little colony. We were moving under the shadows of twenty thousand Hepplewhite or Chippendale chairs and tables.

"As the light grew closer ahead, so did something else, which was an odor. The other man noticed it before I did but soon even I got it hard and strong. It needed no breeze to bring us that smell and there was none in any case. We halted in silence again and looked at one another. No words were needed. Whatever we were approaching bore the reek of that monstrous humanoid we had buried only a few hours before!"

Ffellowes stopped his story at this point and shifted a little in his chair. I saw an odd look come over his face, one almost of chagrin or even embarrassment, both rare to the Brigadier in my experience. Then the expression vanished and in his even tones he began to talk again.

"I thought of something just now, Gentlemen, a small thing but I should have mentioned it earlier. That unholy stink we had learnt to dread so had not been even faintly apparent on that great, furry beaut' whom we'd taken prisoner." Pause. "If anything at all could be said about the lady's odor, it was very faintly that of a house cat, a pampered one, with a sort of wild, floral trace intermingled." Pause. "Not in the slightest bit repellent, you know. If anything, quite the reverse. Sorry I forgot to mention it earlier.

"Well, Lucas held up one hand to me in silence. Then he pointed to the forward path and tapped his own chest and shaded his brows with the other hand. Finally he pointed to me and then to the ground behind a giant tree. The whole message took one second. He would scout and I would remain and wait. I simply nodded and got behind the tree. I'm fairish in the woods but was not a patch on Lucas and we both recognized the fact.

"It seemed a long time to me, once he had gone, moving off in the direction we'd been going, not on the path but near it and as silently as any native hunter I've ever seen. I've seen a goodish few in many parts of the world, so that's no mean compliment!

"It wasn't really much actual time at all, no more than a few moments, he suddenly reappeared from behind the next tree to mine, coming back as noiselessly as he had left 'Follow now, Captain,' he murmured, his mouth next to my ear. 'Is very old city, close in front; very old, broken-up place, the kind place science men come from all over to look at an' study.'

" 'Do'you mean an ancient Mayan ruin?' I whispered back. 'No!' came the quick reply. 'I got Mayan blood with French an' Spaniol too. I know the Mayan stuff an' I got plenty Mayan frens' too, and I can speak Mayan a bit. I know their old places, like Xunantunich, which is not too far Nort' of where we are an' I been to lots more up in Quintana Roo. This place, she's, well, different—' He paused a second, obviously trying to find some descriptive phrase in his slurred English. He soon gave up and shrugged. 'I tell you this, Sar. This place no more like any Mayan place than that stink of that hairy man we kill, the stink we smell now, like sputa's perfume!'

"I couldn't help smiling and he gave one of his rare half-smiles back. The analogy was crude but effective. If the place he was describing was no more Mayan than that foul odor we'd learnt to know was like a whore's perfume, it must be very different indeed!

"Well, there was no time for being humorous. I, in turn, tapped his shoulder and pointed to the trail's right, then tapped my chest and pointed to its left 'Go very slow and stay even with me,' I breathed. He understood at once that I was telling him I couldn't match his pace or his stealth in his own jungles and nodded. And so we set off, one on either side of the path where there was little scrub due to the dense foliage overhead and the shade it gave. The chief obstacles were the giant tree roots, some types of which spread out in huge flanges, tall as a man where they joined the tree."

The Brigadier took a long drag on one of his thin cigars. Around us the big room was quiet, the few lamps illuminating only their own corners. I think the thick, old carpets added to the hush by absorbing sound. The roar of New York traffic was a monotonous and unheard or unnoticed hum, and only an occasional siren or police car whoop-whoop even drew one's attention to it. We, his audience, were like children told to be quiet or we'd get no story. We moved only when we had to, breathing as quietly as we could.

"I got to hate those damned trees," he resumed. "The giant roots were a nuisance and so were the bunches of vines, some large and some thread-like, which hung to the ground in many places. But the real reason was simple fear of what might be up above, ready to drop on our backs and even worse, might be watching us and stalking us from up above.

I had seen that great monkeyman we'd shot and knew quite well how quietly and agilely he had moved down a vertical rock face. Only his appalling odor had alerted me, though the others, the two younger men with their keen senses, had felt that we were under observation long before I did." He looked around at the intent faces and smiled.

"I've been on shikar up in Garwhal after a maneater, a tiger who'd already got two experienced hunters. That was bad but this was worse, I can tell you. My own view is that we're too used to danger from two dimensions only. A bomb or a diving plane or even rocket or missile is different. One knows the danger but it is still a mechanism at its worst. No one thinks of an animal striking from above, save for a few folk in the world who live in leopard country. Aside from Pantherapardus there ain't no such animal, as you might say in this country. Despite a lot of nonsensical and faked stories by so-called 'explorers,' pythons do not drop from trees on human beings, of whom they have a very sensible fear. Very rarely, a big one may use that method on a small antelope, but I've never come across such a case aside from occasional comments by old hunters which are at least meant to be the truth and I mean not told to impress the ignorant or to make a news story.

"From time to time I could see Lucas, though damn seldom hear him, as we both climbed over roots and ducked tangles of liana on opposite sides of the narrow trail.

"In case either of us should forget where we were and why, that foul stench, the odour of those man-apes or apemen, was a persistent and excellent reminder to stay alert. It didn't seem to increase or get worse or such. It didn't need to. It was just there, all about us or rather about that track we were skirting. Once or twice a vast root led me a bit away from our route and it grew fainter rather swiftly. That to me clearly meant one thing. What we were sliding along was their path, and the smell was a result of constant usage.

"We hadn't actually gone far when we checked and halted, both of us. I daresay Lucas alone could have done it in half the time and been not a bit less silent about it either. I suddenly saw his hand across the trail, just the hand projecting from a clump of glossy green bromeliads or something. I stopped short and saw one finger point ahead. It stayed that way for a second; then the hand flattened, fingers pointing ahead and all together. That gesture was held for a second too; then the whole palm, fingers and all, made a downward motion. It made the motion three times. I held a hand up so he could see it and made a circle with forefinger and thumb. Everyone seems to know that gesture. He'd told me that we were almost there, that we'd move ahead but would do so at a crawl. I'd answered that his signal was received. End of exchange.

"So I went into a Boy Scout or, if you prefer, a Commando crawl at the very left edge of the path. Lucas appeared and did the same on the other side. We moved out.

"It wasn't far or even much of a muscle strain for me. I'm sure that it was nothing to my partner. In about two hundred feet, the path made an almost right-angle curve. I got my head carefully around the corner as did Lucas. And there it was, a sight that any museum in the world would have given its last cent for and perhaps 5/6 of its endowment for even a verified set of photographs!

"In front of us, a couple of hundred yards away, lay a hidden city. And I do mean hidden. The ground sloped down in front of us at about a 45° pitch. The trees stopped where we were concealed, leaving only low forms of vegetation, none over knee height, mixed with patches of smooth, damp, black rock and stretches of equally damp, brown sand. A couple of hundred yards away, the slope ceased and the ground became level. Well beyond the point where this started, there rose a high, stone wall, made of vast, reddish-hued blocks. Behind this obstacle and starting almost next to the wall were tall, cylindrical towers.

"And, Gentlemen, why do I emphasize the phrase hidden? Simply due to one fact. A cliff lay just behind the city, a cliff perhaps a sixth of a mile high. Now, due to some earlier convulsion of Nature, of God knows how long ago and Central America is still a great active, volcanic spine the cliff had leaned out and over the strange metropolis. Much more likely, of course, this very odd formation had been discovered in ancient times by whomever built the perishing place to begin with. They'd simply used the cover of this, well, call it a geologic scoop turned parasol. They found the place and built their lair under it to suit. The result was, among other forms of protection, such as a weather shield and such, they had a place that enemies could only approach from one direction. Plus an added benefit and one they couldn't and in this case I'm frankly guessing, since there were strange things about this place, have calculated on it at least in their day. From the air, the whole complex was invisible! Nothing but smoke could give anything away, and planes over Central America were and are most unlikely to notice smoke. What with endless patches of vulcanism and thousands of unknown and/or tiny villages in dense rain forest or scrub forest why should any pilot even bother?

"I looked at my watch. It was midafternoon and we could see very well how this extraordinary place was built or rather had been built for it was certainly very old indeed. And gone somewhat to ruin as well. There was a vast wooden gate in the wall's center. It was shut tight but there were gaps in it where the wood had rotted and they were unfilled gaps, some big enough to take a small car and with ragged edges. Some parts of the upper tier of the giant wall blocks were simply gone, leaving a broken, crenellated effect I could see a number of the great squares of stone lying outside the wall with grass growing around and over them but not enough to fill all those empty spaces by far. It was puzzling.

"Lucas, who was lying beside me now behind a clump of bushes, was the faster thinker at this point as he was in others. 'Not enough stone in front, right, Captain? Not to fill them holes?' I simply nodded, having nothing to say.

" 'I don't think that breakings were done by people, Captain,' he continued. 'Them stones they mus' weigh a half ton mebbe, each one. Well, mebbe I crazy but I think those other stones that don' be out front where we see them, I think they inside, behin' that monstruss wall. I don't think people done it, Nossuh. I think there be an earthquake, mebbe long time gone. Some of those ol' temple things that stick up behind, they look the same, I think.'

"As his very shrewd reasoning proceeded, he grew quite excited and talked faster as well as pointing to what he meant 'See that tall towah on the lef? It still got a round top on but it ain't straight up and down. It lean a bit. There's two more like that in the middle an' on the right two that leaned over too much an' break halfway up.' The clever fellow looked at me with a rather pathetic inquiry in his eyes. 'I'm not much educate, not like you, but do that mebbe make a sense, Captain?'

"My answer was enthusiastic and I showed it by punching his near shoulder. 'Dam right it makes good sense, man. You know more about this place than I ever will, Lucas, but by God it's more than that! You can think and you make me feel stupid! That's a perfect answer and one I'd never have got on to for months!'

"It was worth a lot to see the broad grin, a thing I'd only seen once before from Lucas. He was a silent man and though always decent, he was both reserved and for this part of the world, very taciturn. Now his pleasure vanished as quickly as it had come, and with one accord we both turned back to study that amazing place before us.

"I was fairly tired, though by no means exhausted, yet that hidden lair of strange architecture was like a stimulant, not just to the eye but to all the senses and of course, especially to the imagination, to what in a child is called 'a sense of wonder.'

"We could see at least a dozen of the strange, cylindrical towers, all built of the same reddish stone, or at least those in front certainly were. Some could barely be glimpsed at all for they were far back in the shadow of that bizarre cliff which roofed the whole thing. The wall ran about three hundred yards on a flat plane across the front and then curved sharply in at each end. I imagine it ran right back to the cliff face, deep in the blackness of the great cavity's back. In the center, but well back, was a tower which looked much bulkier than the others. It got just enough of the brilliant sun so that I could see its domed roof was colored, and that the color was a golden hue. All the other intact, dome roofs were of the same red hue as the towers and the mighty wall. Why not, I thought Gold-plated temples ranged from central Mexico all the way to southern Peru in the Andes. The old MesoAmericans used the precious metal the way we Europeans used bronze or even tin. No doubt this was the main temple, the religious and political HQ. of the entire culture which had built the place. And who could they be? Just as I was slowly returning to the present, two things brought me back with a rush!

"One was Lucas. 'How come there is no plant on them walls?' he whispered, 'an' I don' see any peoples at all. We can smell 'em good back on that track. Where they is, d'you think? All inside now?'

"The other stimulant to end daydreams followed like an answer to his questions. I had just realized that the walls must have been cleaned to stay so free of any growth, when out of the depths of that incredible, cave city there came a sound. And what a sound! It was a long, howling wail.

"How one noise, obviously from a throat not an instrument, could express all that this one did, I can't conceive still. It held menace, it held despair, it held defiance and even triumph, all in one hellish, ululating wail! I've heard badly-played bagpipes playing laments, gentlemen, but their bad mix of sadness and off-key notes was 'Merry Christmas' by comparison. And it had great depth and volume, too. Lucas and I cocked an eye at each other, at the same time we stopped slapping bugs, wiping sweaty faces and froze where we lay, listening and staring. We guessed what kind of throat that was!

"The appalling sound died slowly away and once again one became aware of insect hums and bird calls. The pause was brief. Then it came again, exactly the same. Another brief pause and repeated a third time.

"In bright sunlight, tropical too, I felt as chilled and numbed by that ghastly sound as if I'd been plunged into an Arctic night. As the third cry died slowly away, neither of us had any inclination to move. We waited, just lay there, not even hearing the normal forest sounds as they became audible again. My head was buzzing and not with deafness or shock either but with scrambled thoughts and recollections.

"I thought of the long-lost 'Jones,' our sometime area agent, and the strange code message tossed into the Hooper's trading schooner. All stirred up in that was a mess of other points; the apeman thing we'd killed, my giant, lovely 'catgirl' we'd caught and left behind, the vague but quite definite avoidance of the whole region we were in, all of that and more. That lost and hidden site before us and its architecture, unlike anything I'd ever glimpsed, anywhere in the world, jumbled with 'Jones' and the warnings of danger and the demand for troops, fast, plus my own memories of reading the Tarzan stories and their 'lost city in central Africa' that Burroughs had named Opar, in his wonderful, self-taught, imaginative fiction. Fiction? Was it all fiction? Had he heard rumors or tales of something real? And then there was my recently-acquired 'catgirl' and the jumble of what might be legend and/or fact Lucas and I had got from her through the maze of partial comprehension. Through that last, ran another thought or rather a feeling, you know, an emotion so to speak. Very strong one, too; I felt that adjective 'my' and 'mine' to the depths of my being. My girl, that incredible, tall, female thing! And with that came more lunacy, such as her comparing me to another man, her alleged 'tale teller', whose name in English came out as 'Philip Joseph Farmer', and who 'knew all about everything and who had escaped her people.' "

Here Ffellowes stopped for breath and a quick drink. The library stayed utterly quiet. Then he began again.

"Must really sound as if I was and am still batty, eh? Felt a bit that way myself, though hopelessly confused, hyper-nerved up and more than a bit scared as well, might sum up what I was feeling then. The twin blows on eyes and ears at this point staring at this weird, shrouded city with its aura of abnormal age, and then those shocking sounds too. You fellows would have had to be there to understand.

"Then I checked my watch for something to do that was normal. Damn if a full twenty minutes had passed since that third, moaning yell had quit. I looked at Lucas but his eyes were fixed in front locked on that great stone wall. I looked back at it too, as if pulled by the thing, sort of mesmerized. So I also saw it all, from the start.

"As if laid on for an instant vision, pre-ordered by Fate or God, the great half-rotted gates in the wall began to open!

"My jaw must have dropped and Lucas' did because I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Sort of thing one sees unconsciously and only recalls as fact long afterward. In any case, and my apologies for these random divergencies, slowly and creakingly the bloody things opened, shoving back built-up soil and plants as they did. There must have been one or more other exits from that cavernous fort and it really was more of a huge fort than a city. In a second, you'll hear and realize why there had to be."

He took a long breath, the only one to be heard in that big room, and continued. "Shocking the way I forget to tell details. Those gates were not pushed open by machines or electricity. On the inside of each half, exerting three times at least the strength that the same numbers of men could have done, were five goldy-red pelted bipeds. I didn't need to look at my neighbor. We knew what they were as if we'd smelt 'em. But these specimens were dressed, unlike what had fallen upon us earlier. They had short kilts of stuff that glittered like woven metal, which in fact it was, as we soon saw. There were things hanging from heavy belts as well, things that had to be weapons and some of them glinted brightly also. One had something strapped to his or her back which looked awfully familiar to me. If it wasn't a rifle it was a close copy, and I could discern the breech and metal-tipped butt easily.

"This was all happening rather fast, but I'm trying to keep my tale a bit slow deliberately, so as not to miss anything else as I almost just did. Next, the ten gate openers fell back and lined up, each bunch of five with backs to its own half of the gate. There was a hush and even the distant birds seemed to shut up. All at once, there was movement in the shadowy opening, movement and noise. Barking cries, the clank of metal, the thudding of feet, all came at once. No problem for me to construe. I'd heard variants of that noise all my life. An armed body of considerable size had begun to move. If my eyes had been shut it might have been the Scots Guards, same number of U.S. Marines or probably even a gang of Alexander's hoplites for that matter. Any troops make the same noises at times. I expect Chaka's Zulu regiments would have sounded much the same when moving out. Because one thing allies all such groups, which is discipline and a cadence, a rhythm. And what was now appearing through the gate had it. The strangest little army on our planet was marching, not walking, marching out, and they were in both a formation, a column of fives, and in step to boot. Lousy pun, that, since they were barefoot.

"About a hundred came with officers on the flanks and one in front. Half way to our position, they stopped on a barked command as if a lion had been Regimental Sgt Major or a gorilla. Just what the Guards would like, unless they've changed. Behind this advance now came the cavalry, the most amazing body of mounted troops that ever existed, past or present.

"When I saw the first one, the leader or colonel or whatever, appear, I damned near choked. T'wasn't the rider, and I don't say 'man' for all the infantry who'd come first were our giant ape men. And so were the lines of mounted troops, and they were troops, now emerging. But that first one!

"She was another of these ultra females, gold breastplates and all, who might at a distance have been a twin to my big catgirl!

"Have you noticed I've carefully said 'mounts' and not 'horses' once? No, they weren't mules, donkeys or even zebras. They were massive, with legs like elephants, though smaller, hair like coarse, greyish wire and long noses like pigs, noses that were pink and twitched but with broad, flat muzzles and nostrils set side by side. And tiny, short tails that hung straight. They each weighed about as much as a medium horse but had narrow, ridged backs and the massive legs were so short that the riders' bare feet almost hit the ground, even though their knees were pulled up high.

"In short, Lucas and I were observing a force, the only such there ever was, of jungle cavalry, designed for the rain forest. Their mounts were not equids at all but tapirs!"

Ffellowes stopped and looked around at us, a grin on his face as he watched our reaction to this fantastic story. In the silence that followed, someone else cleared his throat and then spoke quickly. It was an older man named deCamp, an economist I believe for the U.S. Government "I'm a student of zoology as a hobby, Brigadier," he said. "Did you know, by any chance, that tapirs, rhinoceroses and all types of horses, asses, donkeys and so on are all related? They're the only living mammals, I mean those three groups, that are related, each to the other two sets. I mean like rats and squirrels both being members of the Rodentia?"

Ffellowes laughed aloud. "Yes, My dear man, I do know it; know it now, that is. I certainly didn't at the time, and would have had you clapped into bed or a hospital due to either alcohol or fever if you had ventured to tell me such a thing in those days.

"And now, my friends, I suddenly understood a lot of what I had heard, and more than that I knew a lot that made perfect sense from the very beginning, from the story of 'Jones' for instance and the secret message thrown aboard the Hooper vessel.

"There was an army, a secret army, which had given our poor ex-agent the fits when he somehow discovered it. There were actual and very real reasons for the Amerindians to avoid this territory and there always had been, since the dawn of human civilization. Certainly since the Classic Age of Greece. Aristotle and Plato had known what they were talking about, gentlemen. There had been a great culture far to the West, whose name at least had come to them. I was standing in its lost and last colony, preserved through the ages. There was an Atlantis!

"All of this data flashed through my mind at once, as lightning comes through a cloud. I knew it all. And I knew more. Alone in the world, the world of Homo sapiens, the world of what Science calls Reasoning Man or Modern Man, Man the gorilla hunter, the Orangutan shooter, the Chimpanzee trapper, there had been one wiser branch long ago. And this one, isolated by its home's disappearance under the Atlantic waves, had survived!

"Like the British garrison at Lucknow in the Indian Mutiny of 1857, this colony too had survived. In this case, they had been surrounded by the oncoming hordes of alien Amerindians who were pouring down from North America to the end of South America at Cape Horn. Some, perhaps many, had already gone past the lost colony of Atlantis, gone South forever. But more would come and Home could never now send help or even exist as a place to go back to, if evacuation had been possible at all.

"What to do, when all seemed lost, for these isolated men and women and probably some children too? What help was there in this hostile forest world? Think of it, men, think of it. Picture perhaps a few lonely ships, the last galleys perhaps, but possibly better ships than galleys, for the Atlanteans were wise, far ahead of the Minoans, the Egyptians and the south-migrating Dorian Greeks. Read Plato, who knew something of them. Can you see those lonely vessels and their crews with straining eyes, as they used the stars to navigate and again and again, crossed and recrossed the stormy Atlantic, looking, always looking, for the Home that now was not the Home that Never Was, for them?"

As the Brigadier brought that tragic story, one of the greatest of human tragedies ever, to life again and I thought of those gallant and forever lost seamen, my own eyes filled with moisture and my breath caught. I could hear some vigorous nose-blowing and throat clearing nearby, and I knew that I was neither a hurt child nor alone in my feelings.

Like the born tale spinner he was, Ffellowes gave it a moment to sink in. Then he started again, his calm uninfected voice as soothing and quieting as some old nurse's. There is some child in every thinking man, I am sure.

"You may ask, did these folk know Europe? Did they know that behind the Gates of Hercules lay the Mediterranean and its peoples, the ones I have mentioned? Why of course they did. No doubt they took them for slaves on occasion and traded with some of them on others. How else could the bare knowledge of that lost and mighty realm have come to Plato and to others from whom he, in turn, got it? Consider two facts, taken in order. First the far-ranging and skilful seamen of Carthage, Hannibal's city which Rome killed; plowing the levelled ground with salt and obliterating her great foe forever.

"We know from the Greek historians that the Carthaginians rounded the tip of Africa, going South down the East Coast and North up the West Coast. We know they reached the Canary Islands, whose still extant natives, the caucasoid or 'white' if you like, Guanches have never had any boats, not so much as a raft and still speak a dialect or rather their own language related to the mountaineers of the Moroccan Rif. Who put them there? Carthage or perhaps an earlier race of seamen? And remember this, too. The men of Carthage were most secretive. They did not and would not, say where they had been and especially how one got to any trading place by sea. They kept the secret of British tin, vital to the ancient world, for centuries. And why were they always want to go West? All the other seamen of the ancient Mediterranean and the Black and Red Seas too, knew about this obsession of the Carthage rovers. They were thought to be, and were called by others, mad. What were they seeking? Hell, Gentlemen, those folk knew the world was round, a knowledge later lost. There was regular sea trade with India and Ceylon, now called by its name of those days, Sri Lanka. Could they have learnt of this lost colony?

"Fact two. Why were blond Spaniards, starting with that greedy bastard Alvarado, Cortez' lieutenant, revered by the Aztecs and other Amerindians of Central America? Not North, mind you or South. Only by the MesoAmerican folk, from Aztec to Mayan, and many more minor tribes. What was so holy about blonds and redheads? A lot of that scrambled mythos of Quetzalcoatl has to do with fair skins and light hair.

"So back to my own story. All of the above hit me at once and in one orderly, intelligible blast, as in the aforesaid lightning bolt. And more besides, the ultimate key to the whole mystery and it was a complex key, a mix of Genetics, Myth and Anthropology, all fused together. As another detective that imaginary," (Ffellowes paused a strangely long time at this point in the sentence which was odd) "chap S. Holmes, was wont to remark, 'When one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the answer.' I had it now. What about the long-rumored Sasquatch, the 'Big Foot,' the Wendigo of the northern Amerindians? There are clever men, scientists, who are still searching and sure that a few are alive and in hiding. And if so, who and what might they be?

"Having just shot a crossbred specimen and captured another, I had no doubts on the matter. The male I had shot had more of the early strain in him, call it Gigantopithecus, Pithecanthropus or whatever. My catgirl had far less. Probably a caste system existed, with those who had more of the ancient genes of Atlantis running things on an hereditary basis. Logical isn't it? We Britons have had an absurd passion for logic, always.

"So there's the key, Chaps. Lost Atlanteans, mostly fair-skinned, on one side. On the other, primitive apemen, not lost but frightened and in hiding. Because, like our cousins the anthropoid apes I named above, they got killed mercilessly whenever Modern Man, be his skin red, yellow, black or white, in short, our nice ancestors, found them around. And that was true on any part of the planet from the Himalayas and Alaska up north, to Capes Horn and Good Hope in the southern reaches." He sighed and looked weary before going on.

"A lovely example is modern Germany. Hitler and his fellow crooks were warped fanatics in the bargain. And they were reverting to a very old and horrible idea. The Past is unsleeping. It never dies.

"What was the greatest crime a German could then commit? Male or female, sleeping with and/or breeding with a Jew of the opposite sex. To our remote forbears it must have been quite similar. Sleeping with, and/or breeding with intelligent hominids, who still lived in the wilder places and, mark you, had enough of the same genes to produce fertile offspring!" He sighed again and was silent. His eyes saw nothing as he mused on human cruelty and racism. Then he shook himself out of it and resumed.

"One gets hints in the Old Testament of all places. I was given one earlier that same day. 'For Esau was an hairy man.' How about, 'There were giants on the earth in those days?' To me, that's just another one.

"But those lost Atlanteans had another idea. Their isolated, cut-off group needed men. Here were strange folk, also in hiding, who knew the rain forest and how to live in it better than anyone. Why not use logic and do some crossbreeding? Those leaders of the abandoned survivors were eminently practical and must have been real leaders and damn persuasive as well, to get those two sets of isolated aliens to do it. But they had. And I was at this point, along with another modern man, looking at the result of that ancient decision. Its last and only army, officers and NCOs, rulers and ruled, was parading in front of me, having emerged from their place of refuge and ancient retreat to do so.

"And who knew where this very dangerous force was going next? Or why and what they would do, or had plans to do when they got there? I was back in our time and place and taking a deep series of gulps of air as I recalled who I myself was and the fact that I could hardly die now and here, not because of any scientific discoveries of fabled realms which had become real. I was an officer of the British Army, sent on a scout, and I had found an unknown and wickedly-effective looking foreign army on British territory and totally unknown to any branch of His Majesty's Government!

"I tapped Lucas's shoulder and his head turned. 'Crawl back to the curve,' I murmured in his ear, and then run like Hell back to George and the girl. I'll be doing the same, but do not wait for me, understand? You can run quicker. Wait with George and the other for three minutes by your watch. Not a second longer. If I haven't come, get out and head for the coast and that Hooper boat fast! The Government has to know about this! That's all that's important. Understand? Let's go!'

"We crawled back, going backward, always a slow job, but it wasn't far. All the time our eyes never left that incredible army that was still issuing from the gate and forming up in the little valley below us. At last we reached the trail at the last curve, went around it, stood up and began to run.

"As I knew he would, Lucas took an instant lead and within a minute was out of sight, though I was doing my best and the trail, for a jungle trail, was good and firm with no obstacles. God, how I ran! All the time I was listening intently for any sound from behind me, checking my watch as my left arm flailed up and down and burning every ounce of energy I possessed in the process. Despite tobacco and alcohol, I was in pretty good shape, though nothing like that of my vanished woodsman whom I'm sure could have done anything he was trained to do in the Olympics for an equally sure gold medal.

"I was racing through the trail junction and fifty feet into the small trail, the one down which my catgirl had come and up which we two had retraced her steps, when I heard the first noise that was not that of a bird or insect. Ahead of me and not too far away there came the sound of a rifle shot. Just the one shot and no more, but that was enough to make me race even faster, faster than I'd known that I could. I burst out on the little savannah and tore through the grass, ignoring the cover of the stream up which Lucas and I had come. I was at the big pool in seconds and saw just what I'd feared I'd find.

"My two stalwart friends were standing together, looking sadly down at a long, still shape on the water's edge. George kept looking down and away from me but Lucas, who wasn't even breathing hard, by the way, met my eyes directly and stood erect as he did so. 'Jawj had to do it Captain,' he said quietly. 'She tried to run the minute I come in sight. She move quick too, maybe quicker than me even an' much too quick foh Jawj. But it was me, too, Suh. I yelled to him to shoot an' he done it. It was the orders an' what I knew you wanted, after what you said an' what we seen back there.'

"Well, I'd got some breath back and I stepped over and put my arm around George's big shoulder. He was crying, poor lad. 'Lucas was right, Son,' I said. 'War is sometimes Hell, like this, but we're alone in enemy country. If they've heard that shot, they'll be coming fast on our tracks, I think. We'll leave her right here. Her own folk can bury her. We three have to move and move fast or they'll get us too, so let's go. Lucas, take the lead again!

"That splendid young man straightened up. He wiped his eyes once with the back of his arm and we moved out and over the cliff edge, doing a dog trot whenever possible. I had looked just once at the shape in the grass and never again. If I had, I don't think I could have left at all, except manacled and under restraint. Frankly, in a rather full life, never before had my sworn duty seemed so hard, so ugly and so meaningless."

He stopped talking and the silence in that big room was such that the sound of one cockroach crawling would have seemed like a train coming by five feet away.

At least two minutes of the utter quiet went by while the Brigadier stared at the floor. No one could have spoken, I think, even had they tried.

Then, he lifted his head again, and the even, level tones resumed. "Since I'm here in this room, Gentlemen, you can see we got away. All three got away and back to George's father's boat.

"What came next? That's locked in Her Majesty's most thoroughly guarded files. Certain picked units of paratroops, allegedly training for jungle warfare in one of our quieter possessions, found a hilltop in one of the remoter areas, quite by accident, of course, where there had been a recent minor earthquake. This in turn seemed to have been followed by a subsidence of soil and rock over a wide area, as much as five square miles. Fortunately no one lived anywhere near the place. Simply a lot of ruined jungle and twisted rock was absolutely all there was to be seen. Wouldn't have made a line in the papers if it had been reported, but since the troop training was secret, only the War Office ever heard about it" He smiled a little. "I do hear the Mayan Indians still don't like that area, or ever go there. They must have much knowledge of seismic forces and the danger of earthquakes, eh?

"Well, I've got to go now and can't say when I'll be back. I need a vacation and I'm thinking of the Caribbean shores. Probably why I recalled this tale just now."

I went to the club's front door with him and we two were alone. He shook my hand very hard indeed and something hard hurt my unready fingers. It was a massive ring, a huge gold thing with a great green stone set in the top. There was odd carving on the stone, but I could hardly study it then, could I?

The End

Hiero's Journey

Hiero Desteen 01

(1973)*

1 - The Sign of the Fishhook

The Computer Man, thought Hiero. That sounds crisp, efficient, and what's more, important. Also, his negative side added, mainly meaningless as yet.

Under his calloused buttocks, the bull morse, whose name was Klootz, ambled slowly along the dirt track, trying to snatch a mouthful of browse from neighboring trees whenever possible. His protruding blubber lips were as good as a hand for this purpose.

Per Hiero Desteen, Secondary Priest-Exorcist, Primary Rover, and Senior Killman, abandoned his brooding and straightened in the high-cantled saddle. The morse also stopped his leaf-snatching and came alert, rack of forward-pointing, palmate antlers lifting. Although the wide-spread beams were in the velvet and soft now, the great black beast, larger than any long-extinct draft horse, was an even more murderous fighter with his sharp, splayed hooves.

Hiero listened intently and reined Klootz to a halt. A dim uproar was growing increasingly louder ahead, a swell of bawling and aaahing noises, and the ground began to tremble. Hiero knew the sound well and so did the morse. Although it was late August here in the far North, the buffer were already moving south in their autumn migration, as they had for uncounted thousands of years.

Morse and rider tried to peer through the road's border of larch or alder. The deeper gloom of the big pines and scrub palmetto beyond prevented any sight going further, but the noise was getting steadily louder.

Hiero tried a mind probe on Klootz, to see if he was getting a fix on the herd's position. The greatest danger lay in being trapped in front of a wide-ranging herd, with the concomitant inability to get away to either side. The buffer were not particularly mean, but they weren't especially bright either, and they slowed down for almost nothing except fire.

The morse's mind conveyed uneasiness. He felt that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hiero decided not to delay any longer and turned south off the trail, allowing Klootz to pick a way, and hopefully letting them get off at an angle to the oncoming buffer.

Just as they left the last sight of the road, Hiero looked back. A line of great, brown, rounded heads, some of them carrying six-foot, polished, yellow horns, broke through the undergrowth onto the road as he watched. The grunting and bawling was now very loud indeed. An apparently endless supply of buffer followed the huge herd bulls.

Hiero kicked the morse hard and also applied the goad of his mind.

Come on, stupid, he urged. Find a place where they'll have to split, or we've had it.

Klootz broke into a shambling trot, which moved the great body along at a surprising rate. Avoiding trees and crashing bushes aside, the huge animal paced along through the forest, looking deceptively slow. Hiero rode easily, watching for overhanging branches, even though the morse was trained to avoid them.

The man's leather boots, deer-hide breeches, and jacket gave him a good deal of protection from the smaller branches which whipped him as they tore along. He wore nothing on his head but a leather skull cap, his copper helmet being kept in one of the saddlebags. He kept one hand raised to guard his face and mentally flogged the morse again. The big beast responded with increased speed and also rising irritation, which Hiero felt as a wave of mental heat.

Sorry, I'll let you do your own job, he sent, and tried to relax. No one was exactly sure just how intelligent a morse really was. Bred from the mutated giant moose many generations before, although well after The Death, they were marvelous draft and riding animals. The Abbeys protected their herds carefully and sold their prized breeding stock with great reluctance. But there was a stubborn core of independence which no one had been able to breed out, and allied to it, an uncertain but high degree of intelligence.

The Abbey psykes were still testing their morses and would continue to do so.

Hiero swore suddenly and slapped at his forehead. The mosquitoes and black flies were attacking, and the splash of water below indicated Klootz was aiming for a swamp. Behind them, the uproar of the herd was growing muted. The buffer did not like swamps, although quite capable of swimming for miles at need.

Hiero did not like swamps either. He signaled "halt" with his legs and body, and Klootz stopped. The bull broke wind explosively. "Naughty," Hiero said, looking carefully about.

Pools of dark water lay about them. Just ahead, the water broadened into a still pond of considerable size. They had stopped on an island of rock, liberally piled with broken logs, no doubt by the past season's flood waters. It was very silent here, with the roar and grumble of the buffer only a distant background noise now, behind them and to the east. A small, dark bird ran down a lichened tree trunk and twittered faintly. Dark pines and pale cypress rose directly from the water, cutting off sunlight and giving the place a gloomy aspect. The flies and mosquitoes were bad, their humming attack causing Hiero to pull up the hood of his jacket. The morse stamped and blew out his great lips in a snort.

The ripple on the black surface was what saved them. Hiero was too well trained to abandon all caution, even when slapping bugs, and the oily "V" of something moving just under the surface toward the island from farther out in the open water caught his eye as he looked about.

"Come on up," he shouted, and reined the big beast back on its haunches, so that they were at least ten feet from the edge when the snapper emerged.

There was no question of fighting. Even the bolstered thrower at Hiero's side, and certainly his spear and knife, were almost useless against a full-grown snapper. Nor did Klootz feel any differently, in spite of all his bulk and fighting ability.

The snapper's hideous beaked head was four feet: long and three wide. The giant turtle squattered out of the water in one explosive rush, clawed feet scrabbling for a hold on the rock, the high, gray, serrated shell spraying foul water as it came, yellow eyes gleaming. Overall, it must have weighed over three tons, but it moved very fast just the same. From a sixty-five-pound maximum weight before The Death, the snappers had grown heroically, and they made many bodies of water impassable except by an army. Even the Dam People had to take precautions.

Still, fast as it was, it was no match for the frightened morse. The big animal could turn on half his own length and now did so. Even as the snapper's beaked gape appeared over the little islet's peak, the morse and his rider were a hundred feet off and going strong through the shallow marsh, back the way they had come, spraying water in sheets. Stupid as it was, the snapper could see no point in following further, and shut its hooked jaws with a reluctant snap as the galloping figure of the morse disappeared around the pile of windfalls.

As soon as they had reached dry ground, Hiero reined in the morse and both listened again. The roar of the buffer's passage was steadily dying away to the south and east. Since this was the direction he wanted to go anyway, Hiero urged Klootz forward on the track of the migrating herd. Once more both man and beast were relaxed, without losing any watchfulness in the process. In the Year of Our Lord, seven thousand, four hundred, and seventy-six, constant vigilance paid off.

Moving cautiously, since he did not wish to come upon a buffer cow with a calf or an old outcast bull lagging behind the herd, Hiero steered the morse slowly back to the road he had left earlier. There were no buffer in sight, but a haze hung on the windless air, fine dust kicked up by hundreds of hoofed feet, and piles of steaming dung lay everywhere. The stable reek of the herd blanked out all other scents, something that made both man and morse uncomfortable, for they relied on their excellent noses, as well as eyes and ears.

Hiero decided, nonetheless, to follow the herd. It was not a large one, he estimated, no more than two thousand head at most, and in its immediate wake lay a considerable amount of safety from the various dangers of the Taig. There were perils too, of course, there were perils everywhere, but a wise man tried to balance the lesser against the greater. Among the lesser were the commensal vermin, which followed a buffer herd, preying on the injured, the aged, and the juveniles. As Hiero urged the morse forward, a pair of big, gray wolves loped across the track ahead of them, snarling as they did. Wolves had not changed much, despite the vast changes around them and the mutated life of the world in general. Certain creatures and plants seemed to reject spontaneous genetic alteration, and wolves, whose plasticity of gene had enabled thousands of dog breeds to appear in the ancient world, had reverted to type and stayed there. They were cleverer, though, and avoided confrontation with humans if possible. Also, they killed any domestic dog they could find, patiently stalking it if necessary, so that the people of the Taig kept their dogs close at hand and shut them up at night.

Hiero, being an Exorcist and thus a scientist, knew this, of course, and also knew the wolves would give him no trouble if he gave them none. He could "hear" their defiance in his mind and so could his huge mount, but both could also assess the danger involved, which was almost nonexistent in this case.

Reverting to his leaf-snatching amble, the morse followed the track of the herd, which in turn was roughly following the road. Two cartloads wide, this particular dirt road was hardly an important artery of commerce between the East of Kanda and the West, out of which Hiero was now riding. The Metz Republic, which claimed him as a citizen, was a sprawling area of indefinite boundaries, roughly comprising ancient Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Alberta, as well as parts of the old Northwest Territories. There were so few people in comparison to the land area that territorial boundaries were somewhat meaningless in the old sense of the word. They tended to be ethnic or even religious, rather than national.

The Taig, the vast boreal forest of conifers which had spread across the northern world at least a million years before The Death, still dominated the North. It was changed, however, with many species of warm country plants intermingled with the great pines. Some plant species had died, vanished entirely, as had some animals also, but most had survived, and adapted to the warmer climate. Winters were now fairly mild in the West of Kanda, with the temperature seldom ever getting below five degrees centigrade. The polar caps had shrunk and the earth was once again in another deep interglacial period. What had caused the change to be so drastic, man or nature, was a debated point in the Abbey classrooms. The Greenhouse Effect and its results were still preserved in the old records, but too much empiric data was lacking to be certain. Scientists, both Abbey and laymen, however, never stopped searching for more data on the lost ages in an effort to help shape the future. The terror of the ancient past was one thing which had never been lost, despite almost five thousand years. That The Death must never be allowed to come again was the basic reason for all scientific training. On this, except for outlaws and the Unclean, all men were agreed. As a good scientist and Abbey scholar, Hiero continually reflected on the problems of the past, even as now, while seeming to daydream in the saddle.

He made an effective picture as he slowly rode along, and not being without vanity, was aware of it. He was a stocky young man, clean-shaven but for a mustache, with the straight black hair, copper skin, and hooked nose of a good Metz. He was moderately proud of his pure descent, for he could tell off thirty generations of his family without a break. It had come as a profound shock in the Abbey school when the Father Abbot had gently pointed out that he and all other true Metz, including the abbot himself, were descended from the Metis, The French Canadian-Indian half-breeds of the remote past, a poverty-stricken minority whose remoteness and isolation from city life had helped save a disproportionate number of them from The Death. Once this had been made clear to him, Hiero and his classmates never again boasted of their birth. The egalitarian rule of the Abbeys, based solely on merit, became a new source of pride instead.

On Hiero's back was strapped his great knife, a thing like a short, massive sword, with a straight, heavy back, a sharp point, a four-teen-inch rounded blade, and only one edge. It was very old, this object from before The Death, and a prize won by Hiero for scholastic excellence. On its blade were incised, in worn letters and numbers, "U.S." and "1917" and "Plumb. Phila.," with a picture of a thing like an onion with leaves attached. Hiero knew it was incredibly ancient and that it had once belonged to men of the United States, which had long ago been a great empire of the South. This was all he or perhaps anyone could know of the old Marine Corps bolo, made for a long-lost campaign in Central America, forgotten five millennia and more. But it was a good weapon and he loved its weight.

He also carried a short, heavy spear, a weapon with a hickory shaft and ten-inch, leaf-shaped steel blade. A crossbar of steel went through the base of the blade at right angles, creating what any ancient student of weaponry would have recognized at once as a boar spear. The cross guard was designed to prevent any animal (or human) from forcing its way up the spear shaft, even when impaled by the spear's point. This was not an old weapon, but had been made by the Abbey armory for Hiero when he had completed his Man. Tests. At his saddlebow was holstered a third weapon, wooden stock forward. This was a thrower, a muzzle-loading, smooth-bore carbine, whose inch-and-a-half bore fired six-inch-long explosive rockets. The weapon was hideously expensive, the barrel being made of beryllium copper, and its small projectiles had to be hand-loaded by the small, private factory which produced them. It was a graduation present from his father and had cost twenty robes of prime marten fur. When his stock of projectiles was exhausted, the thrower was useless, but he carried fifty of them in his pack; few creatures alive could take a rocket shell and still keep coming. A six-inch, two-edged knife, bone-handled, hung in his belt scabbard.

His clothes were leather, beautifully dressed tan deerskin, very close-fitting, almost as soft as cloth and far more durable. In his leather saddlebags were packed a fur jacket, gloves, and folding snowshoes, as well as food, some small pieces of copper and silver for trading, and his Exorcist's gear. On his feet were knee boots of brown deerskin, with triple-strength heels and soles of hardened, layered leather for walking. The circled cross and sword of the Abbeys gleamed in silver on his breast, a heavy thong supporting the medallion. And on his bronzed, square face were painted the marks of his rank in the Abbey service, a yellow maple leaf on the forehead and, under it, two snakes coiled about a spear shaft, done in green. These marks were very ancient indeed and were always put on first by the head of the Abbey, the Father Superior himself, when the rank was first achieved. Each morning, Hiero renewed them from tiny jars carried in his saddlebags. Throughout the entire North, they were recognized and honored, except by those humans beyond the law and the unnatural creatures spawned by The Death, the Leemutes,*( *Leemute: corruption of ancient words, "Lethal Mutation." Now, in altered meaning, a creature lethal to humans, rather than to itself.) who were mankind's greatest enemy.

Hiero was thirty-six and unmarried, although most men his age were the heads of large families. Yet he did not want to become abbot or other member of the hierarchy and end up as an administrator, he was sure of that. When teased about it, he was apt to remark, with an immobile face, that no woman, or women, could interest him for long enough to perform the ceremony. But he was no celibate. The celibate priesthood was a thing of the dead past. Priests were expected to be part of the world, to struggle, to work, to share in all worldly activities, and there was nothing worldlier than sex. The Abbeys were not even sure if Rome, the ancient legendary seat of their faith, still existed, somewhere far over the Eastern Ocean. But even if it did, their long-lost traditional obedience to its Pontiff was gone forever, gone with the knowledge of how to communicate across so vast a distance and many other things as well.

Birds sang in massed choruses as Hiero rode along in the afternoon sunlight. The sky was cloudless and the August heat not uncomfortable. The morse ambled at exactly the pace he had learned brought no goad and not one instant faster. Klootz was fond of his master and knew exactly how far Hiero could be pushed before he lost his patience. The bull's great ears fanned the air in ceaseless search for news, recording the movements of small creatures as much as a quarter of a mile away in the wood. But before the long, drooping muzzle of the steed and the rider's abstracted eye, the dusty road lay empty, spotted with fresh dung and churned up by the buffer herd, whose passage could still be heard ahead of them in the distance.

This was virgin timber through which the road ran. Much of the Kandan continent was unsettled, much more utterly unknown. Settlements tended to radiate from one of the great Abbeys, for adventurous souls had a habit of disappearing. The pioneer settlements which were unplanned and owed their existence to an uncontrolled desire for new land had a habit of mysteriously falling out of communication. Then, one day, some woodsman, or perhaps a priest sent by the nearest Abbey, would find a cluster of moldering houses surrounded by overgrown fields. There was occasional muttering that the Abbeys discouraged settlers and tried to prevent new opening up of the woods, but no one ever dreamed that the priesthood was in any way responsible for the vanished people. The Council of Abbots had repeatedly warned against careless pioneering into unknown areas, but, beyond the very inner disciplines taught to the priesthood, the Abbeys had few secrets and never interfered in everyday affairs. They tried to build new Abbeys as fast as possible, thus creating new enclaves of civilization around which settlements could rally, but there were only so many people in the world, and few of these made either good priests or soldiers. It was slow work.

As Hiero rode, his mnemonic training helped him automatically to catalogue for future reference everything he saw. The towering jackpines, the great white-barked aspens, the olive palmetto heads, a glimpse of giant grouse through the trees, all were of interest to the Abbey files. A priest learned early that exact knowledge was the only real weapon against a savage and uncertain world.

Morse and rider were now eight days beyond the easternmost Abbey of the Metz Republic, and this particular road ran far to the south of the main east-west artery to distant Otwah and was little known. Hiero had picked it after careful thought, because he was going both south and east himself, and also because using it would supply new data for the Abbey research centers.

His thoughts reverted to his mission. He was only one of the six Abbey volunteers. He had no illusions about the dangers involved in what he was doing. The world was full of savage beasts and more savage men, those who lived beyond any law and made pacts with darkness and the Leemutes. And the Leemutes themselves, what of them? Twice he had fought for his life against them, the last time two years back. A pack of fifty hideous, apelike creatures, hitherto unknown, riding bareback on giant, brindled dog-things, had attacked a convoy on the great western highway while he had commanded the guard. Despite all his forelooking and alertness, and the fact that he had a hundred trained Abbeyman, as well as the armed traders, all good fighters, the attack had been beaten off only with great difficulty. Twenty dead men and several cartloads of vanished goods were the result. And not one captive, dead or alive. If a Leemute fell, one of the great, spotted dog-things had seized him and borne him away.

Hiero had studied the Leemute files for years and knew as much as anyone below the rank of abbot about the various kinds. And he knew enough to know how much he did not know, that many things existed in the wide world of which he was totally ignorant.

The thought of forelooking made Hiero rein the morse to a halt. Using the mind powers, with or without Lucinoge, could be very dangerous. The Unclean often had great mental powers too, and some of them were alerted by human thoughts, alerted and drawn to them. There was no question of what would happen if a pack such as had struck the convoy found a lone man ready to hand.

Still, there had to be some danger anywhere, and forelooking often helped one to avoid it if not used to excess. "Your wits, your training, and your senses are your best guides," the Father Abbots taught. "Mental search, forelooking, and cold-scanning are no replacements for these. And if overused, they are very dangerous." That was plain enough. But Hiero Desteen was no helpless youth, but a veteran priest-officer, and all this by now was so much reflex action.

He urged the morse off the track, as he did so hearing the buffer herd just at the very edge of earshot. They are traveling fast, he thought, and wondered why.

In a little sunny glade, a hundred yards from the trail, he dismounted and. ordered Klootz to stand watch. The big morse knew the routine as well as the man and lifted his ungainly head and shook the still-soft rack of antlers. From the left saddlebag, Hiero took his priest's case and removed the board, its pieces, then the crystal and the stole; draping the latter over his shoulders, he seated himself cross-legged on the pine needles and stared into the crystal. At the same time he positioned his left hand on the board, lightly but firmly over the pile of markers, and with his right made the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast.

"In the name of the Father, his murdered Son, and Spirit," he intoned, "I, a priest of God, ask for vision ahead on my road. I, a humble servant of man,, ask for help in my journeying. I, a creature of earth, ask for signs and portents." As he concentrated staring into the crystal, he kept his mind fixed firmly on the road and especially the area to the east and south, the direction in which he was headed.

In a moment, as he watched, the clear crystal became cloudy, as if filled with swimming wraiths of mist and fog. Thousands of years after western anthropologists had refused to believe the evidence of their own eyes when watching Australian aborigines communicate over hundreds of miles by staring into two pools of water, a man of the seventy-fifth century prepared to see what lay ahead of him in his travels.

As Hiero stared, the mist cleared and he felt drawn down into the crystal, as if he were becoming a part of it. He shrugged this familiar feeling aside and found himself looking down on the buffer herd and the road from hundreds of feet up in the air. He was using the eyes of a bird, almost certainly a hawk, he thought with a detached part of his mind. As his vision swayed to and fro over a wide arc of country, he fixed everything he saw firmly in his memory. Here was a lake; there, to the south, a river next to a big swamp over which a distant road seemed to run on pilings (no mention of that in his briefings; better look out). The bird was not conscious it was being used. Hiero was not in any sense controlling it; that was a different business altogether and much harder, not always possible, in fact. But his concentration on his route had allowed the mind of the creature which saw that route most clearly somehow to attract his, as a magnet draws a nail. Had no bird been overhead, perhaps a squirrel in a high tree would have been his lens, or even a buffer in the front rank of the herd, if nothing better offered. Hawks and eagles were the best possible eyes, and there were enough of them about so that there was usually a good chance of hitting on one. Their eyes were not exactly the same as a man's, but at least they had a sort of binocular vision. This type of thing was easy for a man of Hiero's large experience, who could, if necessary, utilize the widely separated eyes of a deer which saw two images.

He noted that the buffer were moving at a fast, steady trot, not panicky, but alerted, as if some danger were coming but as yet was not too close. The two wolves he had seen earlier were most unlikely to have caused this feeling, and he wondered again what had. Sitting up, he broke the trance and looked down at his left hand. Clenched in his fist were two of the forty small symbols which he had scattered about the shallow, dish-shaped board. He opened his own hand and saw another hand in miniature, the tiny, carved Hand, which signified "friendship." He dropped it back in the dish and looked at the other symbol. It was the miniature wooden Fishhook. He dropped that in, too, and emptied the pieces into their leather pouch while considering. His subconscious precognition had found a curious combination, which needed thought. The Fishhook had several meanings. One was "concealed danger." Another was "concealed meaning," or, by extension, a puzzle. In conjunction with the open hand, one meaning could be "a friend approaches with a riddle." Another might well be "beware of a seeming friend who means you ill." It had, curiously, nothing to do with either fish or fishing.

With only forty symbols, the precognition markers were often obscure. But as was pointed out to every beginning student, if they saved your life, or someone else's life, even once, they were certainly worth it, were they not? And a good, sensitive man or woman could do a lot with them. Hiero regarded his own ability in this particular area as only about average, not anywhere near up to his ability to use animal eyes as a concealed spyglass. But he had been helped by the markers before and he always felt better for having used them.

As he was repacking the saddlebag, the morse, who still remained on guard, snorted suddenly. Hiero turned, his heavy blade drawn out over his left shoulder and in a ward position as if by magic. Only then he saw the small bear.

Bears had changed over the millennia like everything else, that is, all bears had changed in some ways. This was a black bear, and a twentieth-century zoologist would have seen nothing odd about its body at first glance, except a larger and more rounded forehead. If he had looked, not at, but into, the eyes, more might have been glimpsed. Bears were never stupid; now they were, unevenly perhaps, approaching non-animal levels. It was alone, Hiero saw, and nothing else was around.

The bear looked about half-grown and stood on its hind legs, front paws hanging limp in front of it. It might weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, Hiero thought. It might weigh somewhat more and not be half-grown at all, but a new type altogether. His mind probed at the animal, and he kept his guard up. The thought he got in return was strong.

Friend—human friend—food (a plea). Friend—help—danger (a feeling of heat). Friend—bear (himself—identity feeling)—help— danger. This was surprisingly vibrant and clear. Hiero was used to conversing with wild things, although with an effort, but this animal had almost the power of a trained human. What a lot there was in the world!

As the man lowered his short sword and relaxed, the bear settled on its haunches also. Hiero sent a thought at Klootz and told him to stay on guard, noting in passing that the big bull seemed to feel the bear was harmless.

Reaching into his saddlebags, Hiero brought out some dried, pressed pemeekan. The ancient travel food of the North, animal fat, maple sugar, and dried berries pressed into a cake, still kept its old name unchanged. As he broke off a piece and threw it to the bear, Hiero sent another thought.

Who/what are you? What/who brings danger?

The bear caught the pemeekan between his paws in a very human gesture and snapped it up in one bite. His thoughts were confused for a moment, then cleared up.

Food (good/satisfying)—more? Bad things come—hunt—hunt humans, animals—hunt this human—not far behind now—not far in front—death lies all around—bear (himself) help human?

There was a last blurred thought which the man realized was the bear giving his own name. It was unpronounceable, but Gorm was a fairly close approximation. Under the clear and obvious thoughts, Hiero learned more. Gorm was a young bear, only about three years old, and relatively new to this area, having come from the East. But the danger was real, and it was closing in on all sides as they stood there. For a briefly glimpsed instant, through the bear's mind, Hiero caught a flash of utter, cold malignity, an impression of something bloated and soft in a secret place, spinning a web of terror throughout the forest. The bear had shown him this deliberately, he now saw, to impress upon him the danger. Leemutes, the Unclean! Nothing else caused such horror and hatred in normal man or beast. Beside him, Klootz snorted and stamped a great forehoof. He had caught a good deal of what had passed between the two and didn't like it.

Hiero turned and finished packing, his back to Gorm. He was convinced there was no danger from the half-grown cub and that the bear was both frightened himself and anxious to be of help. Civilized men seldom hunted bears any longer, and the old enmity of pioneer and bruin no longer existed.

Swinging up into his high saddle, the man sent a thought of inquiry to the animal on the ground. Where?

Follow—safety—danger first—slow—follow, came the answer as Gorm dropped to all fours and scuttled away from the clearing. Without even being urged, Klootz swung in his wake, maintaining a pace which kept him about fifteen feet to the rear. The fact that the morse trusted the young bear was a major factor in Hiero's own decision to do so. The morse stock was bred for alertness as well as strength and skill, and their mental watchdog capabilities were considered quite as important as their physical qualities.

They went south, back the way Klootz had come, and soon recrossed the road. Here, the bear did something which made Hiero blink. Signaling them to stop, Gorm recrossed the dirt track and then dragged himself back by his front legs, his fat rear end obliterating Klootz's broad tracks! Only the passage of the buffer herd and a smeared place now showed on the dust of the road.

Follow (Gorm)—walk hard ground (quietly)—not leave mark, came the thought. Following it, there came one more: Not speak— watch (me) only—others listen (for)—speak—danger.

Hiero nodded to himself. The bear was indeed clever, very clever. There must be a nest of Leemutes or some center or other nearby. If mind speech was used, it might well be picked up and some terror or other be sent on their tracks. He remembered that flash of shuddersome, gelid hatred the bear had shown him, and a tingle ran down his spine.

For some time, Gorm moved at a steady pace which was no more than a good walk for the bull morse. The warrior-priest kept a keen watch. A veteran woodsman, he noted that he and his mount were being led over underlying granite spines of firm ground and also that the woods were very quiet. The great forest of Kanda, where undisturbed, was full of life, in the trees, on the ground, and even in the air. Now the land was silent. No squirrels chattered at the travelers, birds were few and shy, and not a trace of the larger creatures, such as deer, was to be seen. In the windless hush of the late summer afternoon, the almost noiseless progress of the three yet sounded very loud in Hiero's ears. A sense of oppression was in his mind, almost of pressure from outside, as if the atmosphere itself had somehow grown denser.

Hiero crossed himself. This strange silence and spiritual oppression were not normal and could only come from the forces of darkness, from the Unclean, or some lair of theirs.

Abruptly, Gorm stopped. Through some signal that even his owner could not catch, the giant morse was given an order. Instantly, he too stopped and just as instantly lay down, crouching beside a great pile of deadfalls. Klootz weighed just a trifle under a ton, but he sank to his knees with the grace of a dancer and without a sound. Ten feet in front of the morse's moist and pendulous nose, the bear crouched, peering around a bush. On the neck of the morse, Hiero too lay stretched out, peering forward and trying to see what had alarmed their guide so.

All three were looking down into a broad, shallow hollow in the land, thinly planted with seedling alders and low brash. As they watched, from the tall forest on the other side of the dip and well to their right, a column of a dozen or so figures emerged.

Hiero had thought he was familiar with many types of Leemute, the Man-rats and Hairy Howlers, the Were-bears (which were not bears at all), the Slimers, and several others besides. But these were new and, like all Leemutes, unpleasant to look at. They were short, no more than four feet tall on the average but very broad and squat, and walked erect on their hind legs, their bushy tails dragging behind. They were completely covered with long, dripping, oily-looking fur of a yellow-brown hue, and their beady-eyed faces were pointed and evil. It would have been hard to trace their ancestry back to a genetic accident in a wolverine family after The Death, even for a contemporary expert, and Hiero simply catalogued them as a new and dangerous breed. For they had actual hands, and their rounded heads and gleaming eyes indicated intelligence of a high if nasty order. They wore no clothing, but each carried a long-handled wooden club, in the head of which was set glittering fragments of obsidian. A wave of evil purpose went before them like a cloud of gas as they moved one behind the other, in a curious hopping gait, which still covered the ground at a good speed. Every few feet, the leader stopped to sniff the air and then dropped to all fours to check the earth, while the others peered about on every side. The three on the knoll above them froze into immobility, trying not to breathe. The evil Furhoppers, as Hiero promptly named them, were perhaps two hundred yards off and, if they continued their present course, would pass down over the shallow slope of the bowl and up the other side, moving off to the left of the three's position. But when the line of crouching figures reached the center of the depression, it halted. Hiero tensed, one hand instinctively reaching for his reliquary and the poison it contained. For another figure had appeared and was advancing on the Furhoppers.

It was apparently a tall man, garbed in a long cloak of a dark gray, which was closely wrapped around him and showed only his sandaled feet. His hood was thrown back, and his naked, hairless head was revealed in the rays of the evening sun. His skin was so pale as to appear dead-white, and his eyes were a shifting color, impossible to see at this distance. On the right breast of his cloak was a spiral symbol, also difficult to see, etched in a dark scarlet, of interwoven lines and circles. He seemed to carry no visible weapons, but an aura of both spiritual power and cold menace radiated from him, as the chill of a great iceberg goes out from it to warn seafarers.

This was an extraordinary chance, for good or ill, and Hiero knew it. The Unclean had been rumored and more than rumored for centuries to have human directors, a race of men totally given over to evil and wizardry. On several occasions such people had been reportedly glimpsed directing attacks on Abbey convoys or settlements, but the information was vague and contradictory. On two occasions, however, men had been killed trying to penetrate the secret training rooms and guarded files of Abbey Central in Sask. Each time, the bodies of the slain had almost instantly dissolved into piles of corruption, leaving nothing to be investigated, save for ordinary clothing, which might have been acquired anywhere. But in each case, the Abbey guardians and priests had been warned by mental alarms of the spirit, not of the flesh, and in each case the man—or entity—had penetrated through many men on guard who recalled seeing nothing. This creature before him now could only be one of these mysterious men who were thought to rule the Unclean. No normal man, not even an outlaw, would or could associate with a foul pack such as this, and yet, as the man strode to them, the savage creatures cringed aside in evident fear.

The leader of the Fur creatures, crouching low, came up to the man and the two moved a little apart, while the others milled restlessly about, grunting and whining in low tones. Hiero could see that man's lips move and the yellow fangs of the Furhopper chief flash in answer. They were actually talking, not using mind speech, one to the other! Even as he inwardly shrank in loathing from the whole gang, the scientist in Hiero could not help applauding the feat. With normal speech, there would be no betraying mental currents, such as made him afraid to address Klootz more than was absolutely necessary and had caused the bear to impress mental silence upon them.

Now, the conversation apparently over, the man seemed to dismiss the pack of hideous creatures and, turning about, simply walked away in the direction from which he had come. This was to the south and east. The Furhoppers surrounded their leader, who snarled something out which silenced them. In a moment they had formed their line again and were tramping the dead leaves back on the way they had come, which was from the west.

As the gray-cloaked man disappeared in one direction and the Furhoppermutes in the other, all three creatures on the edge of the bowl relaxed a little. But no one used mind, speech; they simply sat quietly and waited.

After what must have been a good half hour, Gorm the bear slowly rose and stretched. He looked around at Klootz and his rider, sending no message, but his meaning was plain. The big morse arose as silently as he had lain down, and from his vantage high on the great back, Hiero surveyed the silent forest before them.

The setting sun slanted down through the pines and maples and lit the patchy undergrowth in flashes of vivid green, turning various piles of dead leaves into russet and gold. Ancient logs glowed with color as green moss and gray lichen were caught in the last patches of sunlight. How beautiful the land is, the priest reflected, and yet how full of evil under its loveliness.

But Gorm was all business, and as he lurched down into the hollow, Klootz followed him, his great forked hooves making no more sound in the leaves than a mouse would have.

To Hiero's alarm, the small bear was headed for the exact spot on the far side of the depression into which the sinister person in the cloak had gone. While desperately anxious to know more about this dark being and his purposes, Hiero did not want a direct encounter with him. His mission, far to the East, came first above all else. He dared not send a mental message, not with the enemy so close about them that the sense of mental oppression was still a weight on his spirit, and he could think of no way to halt, or redirect, the bear except by physical means.

"Pssst," he hissed, and again.

Gorm looked back and saw the man gesturing violently to stop. He halted on a patch of leaves and let Klootz catch up.

Hiero, looking down at the bear, could think of nothing to do which would explain what he wanted. He was keeping a rigid mindblock on, and he had a more than strong feeling that loosing it would bring a pack of devils down upon them from every point of the compass. But Gorm saved him the trouble. Looking shrewdly up at Hiero for a moment, the bear bent down and swept aside some leaves with his curiously delicate paws. Exposing smooth earth, with one long claw he made a line and pointed it with an arrow, just as a man might. The line led on the way they were going. On both sides of the line and behind it, Gorm carefully scratched numerous small circles or spirals. Irresistibly, the priest was reminded of the spiral, interwoven symbol on the cloak of the enemy. The message was plain. Peril lay behind them and on either side, but despite the fact that they were following the sinister figure of the bald man, less danger lay on that route than on any other. The bear looked up and Hiero nodded. Gorm swept leaves over his artwork and started off again with no more ado. The man nudged his great mount, and Klootz followed obediently in the bear's wake.

On his back, the rider turned over in his mind the way the bear had reacted, ever since he had first appeared. Why, the creature was human! The Dam People were thought to be as intelligent as people, although with a different outlook on life. Many of the Leemutes, of course, were as clever as men, although altogether malign and dangerous to life and spirit. But here was another animal species rising to humanity. This would make a fine problem for the Abbey theologians, Hiero thought wryly. They still could not agree on the spiritual status of the Dam People, and a fresh species of creature for whom there was no scriptural precedent would start the doctrinal pot boiling all over again.

The sunlight under the big trees was fading fast, but Klootz could see in full dark like a cat, and presumably the bear could also, so that Hiero felt no particular concern. He himself could see as well as many of the wild things when the light was dim, a result of a childhood spent in the forest as well as the cultivated ability of a trained woodsman. He was in no hurry to make camp, not being particularly tired, and he badly wanted to get away from the artificial silence of the wood, the zone of mental oppression which he felt so strongly.

For a mile or two. the little party moved under a pure forest of the great pines, the faint crackle of the deep-banked needles the only sign that bear and morse were passing. The light was very dim now, but an occasional ray of sunshine still broke through a. gap in the foliage far above and illumined a patch of forest floor or a small clump of fern.

Suddenly, with no warning, Gorm was gone. One moment, he had been padding ten feet in front, the next he vanished. Klootz checked, his big ears lifting and his great nostrils flaring as he sought for a scent of some kind. His rider reached smoothly for the bolstered thrower strapped to his saddle, at the same time looking keenly about. Is this treachery? His mind raced. The bear—had he been a friend, or was this the sign of the Fishhook being revealed, a false friend and a traitorous guide? The thrower was halfway from its scabbard and lying across the pommel of the saddle when the silence was broken by a voice.

Musical and deep, the note of a trained doctor, it rang under the arched branches from their left, speaking in perfect Metz.

"An ugly beast and a still uglier rider. Who follows on the tracks of S'nerg? Is this the prey we have sought all day?"

One of the rare beams of last sunlight streamed down onto a flat boulder perhaps twenty feet from the morse's left side. Upon it, arms crossed on his breast and a thoroughly nasty smile on his face, stood the man of the gray cloak, looking coldly at Hiero. Of the bear, there was no trace. Apparently the two men and the morse were alone.

"A priest, and one of some rank in your absurd hierarchy, I see," the cloaked man, whose name was apparently S'nerg, went on. "We have seen few priests in these parts, having a dislike for such vermin. When I have made an example of you, little priest, we shall see fewer yet!"

As he listened, Hiero had been slowly tightening his hold on the thrower, which lay across the saddle, facing the other way from his enemy. He was under no illusions about his own safety despite the fact that S'nerg appeared unarmed. From the almost visible aura the man radiated, the electric sense of power, the Metz warrior-cleric knew he was in the presence of a great adept, a mental master, who in his dark way was perhaps the equal of a Council member or Grand Abbot. Against such, any physical weapons were a matter of luck.

Lowering his arms, S'nerg stepped from his rock and strode toward Hiero. As he did, Hiero whipped the thrower up and tried to fire. His finger could not reach the trigger. He was locked in a muscle spasm, the weapon's barrel halfway aimed, but unable to move further. Despite his best efforts, he could not move. He looked down in agony at S'nerg, who stood calmly by his left leg, serenely looking up at him, the power of his incredible mind alone holding Hiero rigid. And not just Hiero. In a dim way the priest could feel the giant morse straining to break a similar mental compulsion and no more able to do so than his master. The sweat of his effort streaming into his eyes, Hiero fought to break the bonds, using every technique he had been taught to free his own will from the dreadful grip which the wizard had laid upon him. As Hiero glared into the calm eyes of S'nerg, a shudder ran through his frame. The evil master seemed to have no pupils, and his eyes were slanted, grayish pits of emptiness, opening on a nameless void. Despite all his efforts, Hiero felt a compulsion to dismount. He knew somehow that if he did, the control would grow even stronger, that the mere fact that he sat high on the saddle helped in a small way to limit S'nerg's power over him. Perhaps, a remote, absent corner of his mind mused, even as he fought, the morse's physical vitality somehow flowed into his master, helping him stay strong. As he stared down into the awful, pale eyes, he noted in the same detached way that, despite the smile on the cruel face, sculptured from sickly marble in appearance, beads of sweat stood out on S'nerg's forehead also. The strain was telling on him too. But Hiero could endure no more. He began to sway in the saddle. "In the name of the Father," he gasped aloud, fighting with his last strength. The Unclean adept's cold smile deepened.

At this point Gorm suddenly returned. Even a smallish bear has very powerful jaws, and they now clamped hard to a most sensitive portion of the sorcerer's anatomy. He screamed in pain and fright, a curiously high tremolo note, and his mental grip dissolved on the instant as he staggered and fell. Hiero's strength surged back and so did all his other faculties. While Klootz still shuddered from the strain, his rider was out of the saddle and on the ground in a second. As the writhing tangle of bear and man rolled over, the priest saw an opportunity, and his long poniard flashed from his belt and was drawn once over the white throat, even as S'nerg tried to rise. A fountain of dark blood obscured the contorted features, and then the cloaked shape lay still.

Hurry, came the bear's mind. Made (too) much (volume) noise. Go now—quick (run/gallop).

Wait, Hiero said to the other's mind. He was busy searching the adept's body. There was a peculiar and heavy, bluish metal rod, over a foot long, a dark-handled knife with what looked like bloodstains on it, and a roll of parchment. Under the cloak, the dead man had worn a soft, woven suit, all one piece of grayish, neutral-colored cloth, with an odd feel to it, almost slippery. In a small belt pouch was a round metal thing which at first glance looked like a small compass. This was all. Hiero tossed the rod, knife, parchment, and compass-thing into a saddlebag and mounted in one easy motion.

Go now, he said. All done here.

The bear set off instantly at a rocking canter, in the same direction in which they had gone before. In long strides the morse moved in his wake, easily maintaining the distance between them.

Looking back, Hiero could no longer see the still form of his enemy in the gloom. At least, he thought, he didn't seem to dissolve like the others had. Maybe they weren't men at all.

For several miles the three moved at high speed, despite the fall of night. Many bright stars provided some diffused light, and a pale crescent moon promised more later. Also, to Hiero's relief, the terrible mental oppression was gone; the dull feeling of stifling which had choked him for the last few hours had been lifted. It must, he decided, have emanated from the monster they had overcome. He did not forget to say a soldier's brief prayer of thanks. He was under no illusions as to how close he had come to death and perhaps worse. He had been about to submit to the terrible mind of the thing who called himself S'nerg. Whether he would have been slain on the spot or taken elsewhere to some foul den for torture and questioning, he did not know. But save for the young bear, they all would have been destroyed, he was sure of that. It must have taken great courage, as well as high intelligence, to hide, wait, and attack as Gorm had done, and Hiero felt a powerful sense of respect for his new ally.

Eventually, the bear began to slow down, his faint puffs of breath indicating that he had run about as far as he could. Klootz slowed his own pace, and they now moved at about the speed of a man trotting. The dark was full of sounds, but they were the normal sounds of the Taig, a grunting bellow in the distance, which was the mating call of a monster hog, the Grokon, the faint squall of some cat or other, the chitter-chatter of the night squirrels high in the trees, and the mournful tremolo of small owls. There was nothing about such noises to alarm. Once a large form, pale as a ghost, rose from the earth and flitted away before them in great, silent bounds which soon carried it out of sight. The solitary giant hares were a prey to everything and never left their carefully concealed forms until full dark.

At Hiero's estimation, they had come about five miles, moving steadily south and east, when Gorm signaled a halt. They were in a stand of great, dark firs, and rotting logs lay about them on the carpet of needles. It was very black under the trees, and even the dim starlight was blotted out.

Stay—rest—now (safe)—here? came from the bear. Hiero dismounted wearily and walked over to where the black form sat in the dark. Squatting on his haunches, he tried to look into the eyes of his friend.

Thanks—help (us)—danger—bad, he sent. He had noticed that each time, the exchange grew easier. He now could talk to the animal almost as easily as he could to his roommate Per Malaro at the Abbey college, who was also his frater and bondmate, closer mentally than anyone else in the world. The exchange was on the same level of intelligence too, not the way he talked to the big morse, whose answers were simple and contained no abstract concepts at all.

Now the bear responded. He felt a flick of the long tongue on his own nose and knew it for a greeting. Also, he sensed a wave of shyness, or some emotion akin to it, and with it a carefully buried element of humor. Gorm was amused.

(Almost) killed us—bad thing—saw it (felt it) watching us, so I went away before it (caught) me—made me (not alive) stay—not move. Then: came back—bite behind—stop (break) bad thing-— think at us. Good (luck?) The bear paused, his mind not readable.

Why, why have you helped me? Hiero asked bluntly. What do you want? There was another pause. Behind his back, the man heard Klootz snuffling in search of some dainty, perhaps a mushroom growing on a fallen log. Finally, the young bear answered, his thoughts perfectly clear, but untrained—as if he knew what he wanted to say but not as yet very well how to say it. Finally:

(To) go with you—see new things—new lands—see what you see, learn what you learn.

Hiero sat back, nonplussed. Could Gorm have guessed his mission? It seemed impossible. Yet he had told no one and his coming was secret.

Do you know what I seek, where I go? the man shot back, fascinated by the new mind he was meeting.

No, the bear replied coolly. But you (will) tell. Tell now. Perhaps (there will) be no time later.

The priest considered. He was under a vow to say nothing of his mission. But the vow was not absolute but confidential, merely for common secrecy's sake, not because it was holy, or even a secret in itself. He could, at his own judgment, seek any aid he wanted. He made a decision and once more leaned forward.

The two figures lay, head to head, in outward silence. The great morse bull kept watch, nose and ears winnowing the night air for news, near and far, while those he guarded conversed, each learning many things under the dark of the firs.

2 - In the Beginning

We are losing, Hiero, slowly but surely, we are losing." The Father Abbot's brown-robed form paced his underground study chamber as he spoke, thin arms locked behind his back. "Faith alone is not enough. Never was, for that matter. Again and again in recent years, we have become conscious of a will, or group of wills, working with the utmost secrecy and deliberation against us. The human-seeming things which tried to invade Abbey Central and almost succeeded are only a small part of the problem, though of great importance. But there is much, much more, which the Council in its wisdom has kept from the people. No agent of the newsletters has, or will, hear a word of it." He paused, and his lined, dark face with its pointed, white beard and drooping mustaches softened into a grin. "None of us have even told our wives." In an instant he was serious again, and picking up a piece of white chalk, strode over to a slate blackboard. The Most Reverend Kulase Demero had begun a most successful career as a teacher of the young, and old habits die hard.

"Look here," he said crisply as he began to write. "A large convoy two years ago was ambushed well north of the Inland Sea, on the main road from Otwah. Ten loads of old-time laboratory instruments taken and some found destroyed later. Those instruments came from an undamaged pre-Death site on the Eastern Ocean and, we think, were experimental matter involving advanced weaponry of which we now know nothing. We'll call that item number one." He continued, glancing over at intervals to see that Hiero, seated at a long table facing him, was paying due attention, just as he had done with a thousand pupils in the past. "Two, we sent a complete regiment of soldiers, under a good sub-abbot, twenty priests, a construction crew as good as any we had, and full supplies for all for six months, to start a new fishery-based Abbey up on the Huzon Gulf, to the far Northeast, in the cold woods. You have heard of that, I imagine, as it was too big to keep quiet. Despite all precautions, continuous mental communication with our own Comm chambers at Abbey Central and at other Abbeys, the whole force, roughly eleven hundred picked men and women, vanished utterly. Our only warning was a total and sudden lapse of communication. A Rover team found the site deserted and most of the remaining supplies being plundered by wild animals a half month later. There were vague traces of some element of the Unclean, but nothing you could put your finger on. Eleven hundred of our best! This was and is a terrible blow. So I say, we'll call that number two." He paused and looked at Hiero,

"Any comment?"

"Not yet, Father," Hiero said placidly. Those who did not know him sometimes thought him phlegmatic, but the abbot had watched his man for years and knew better. He grunted and turned back to his blackboard.

"That was about eighteen months ago. Next, which I'll call number three, was the affair of the ship. Damned few members of the Council know about that, so I'll assume you don't. About two months after we lost the Abbey colony, which would have become Abbey Saint Joan," and another look of pain crossed his face, "a great ship was reported to us by certain trusted persons on the Beesee coast to the west, well to the north of Vank and the great Dead Zone there, in a nest of rocky, wooded islands called the Bellas. These people are not Metz, but older still, in fact—"

"In fact, purebred Inyans," Hiero agreed. "And there are quite a few of them scattered about here and there, but they live in small hunting groups and won't come in and amalgamate. Some are good people, others trade with the Unclean and maybe worse. Now let's stop the baby stuff, Father. I'm not a first-year student, you know."

For a second, the Father Abbot looked perfectly furious, then he laughed.

"Sorry, but I'm so used to explaining things in this manner to the average village councilman or even some of my more elevated colleagues on the Grand Council that it gets to be a habit. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the ship.

"This ship, a big, odd-looking one, much bigger than any fishing boat we have, was reported wrecked on one of the outer islands of the Bella group. And there were people aboard from somewhere else, probably the other side of the Pacific! The ship was breaking up on the rocks, and the weather was bad. Our Inyan friends tried to get the people, who were yellow-skinned, just as the records say the East Pacific people should be, and just as the few rare fishermen who get wrecked here are, off in their small boats. We were already sending a cavalry squadron from the east, at Abbey St. Mark, as fast as we could. There are fairly good roads to that part of the coast.

"Well, when our people got there, nothing was left. The wreck was utterly gone, not a trace of it left. Three small Inyan camps on the coast, gathered for the salmon fishing, were gone too, with only a few traces that they had been there. But we found an old man in the woods, or he found us, an ancient cripple who had been taking a sweat bath and thus had been missed when the attack came. A horde of Leemutes, some sort of Hairy Howlers, I gather, had appeared from out of the water. They were riding great animals which looked something like the really big seals we see once in a while on that coast. They stormed the shore camps, killing everything that moved and hurling the dead and all their possessions into the sea. The old man did not know what had happened to the ship, which he had only heard of and not seen, but it must have met the same treatment. Who knows what new knowledge from the Lost Years we missed that time? Are you beginning to see a pattern?"

"I think so," Hiero answered. "We are being physically penned in, you feel, but more than that, we are being blocked off from knowledge, especially any knowledge which might prove dangerous to the Unclean, to the Leemutes. And the plan is concerted, is organized, so that when we do hear of any new knowledge, it is instantly snatched from our grasp."

"Exactly," the abbot said. "That's exactly what I think. And so do others. But there's more yet. Listen a moment.

"A year ago, twenty of our best young scientists, men. and women both, who were working on problems of mental control, in a number of new and fascinating aspects, decided to have a joint meeting. They came here to Sask City from all over the Republic. Parment wasn't in session, but the Abbey Council, as the Upper House, was, and we received word of the meeting, and our permanent scientific subcommittee knew all about it, of course. A routine Abbey guard, two men for the doors, was provided. Now one of the two, a sharp fellow, thought he counted twenty-one scholars going in one morning, after the group had been meeting for several days.

"If it were not for him—! Even as it was, things were bad enough. The guardsman looked through a window in time to see the twenty killing one another, in total silence, by strangling, bludgeoning, pocket knives, whatever was handy. He burst in yelling and broke the compulsion. There were six dead and eight more badly wounded. As you might expect, those with the strongest mental powers of will were the least injured. We could prove that from their school records." The abbot sighed. He had ceased his pacing and now sat on a bench opposite Hiero.

"The scholars remembered little. They too had the vague feeling that another person was present at some point, but they could not describe him, or it. The guard at the back door had been conscious of nothing at all. But to us, what must have happened is clear. It should be to you. Is it?"

"A mind of great power, I suppose," the younger man said. "One of the legendary dark adepts of the Unclean I've heard rumored. Is it, or they, really something besides a fairy tale?"

"I fear so," the abbot said. "Look, you understand the mental powers as well as any young man of the Metz. To accomplish this very daring stroke, aimed, mark you, at our freshest brains, our own greatest asset and greatest danger to any foe, a mind of extraordinary power, as you say, had to be close. Had to be physically close, that is, to the persons under the compulsion. There can be no doubt that the lad on guard (who by the way is now getting advanced training) had a good mind and indeed retained the memory of seeing an extra person enter. Once inside, while simultaneously holding an invisibility spell upon their minds, the creature worked on tiny, everyday resentments until they were built into murderous compulsions to kill. But there's another implication you may have missed as well."

"The silence." Hiero smiled. "No, I got that."

"Good boy," his superior said. "You do have brains, Hiero, under that lazy mask. Yes, the silence. What a mind! To compel them, twenty good minds, to slay one another in total silence! Noise would have spoiled the plan, so they had to be silent. I don't think there are four men in the Republic who could perform that feat."

"And you're one of them, of course," Hiero said. "Is there more, or do we now get down to specifics involving me personally?"

"You knew about the two who almost got into our inner files and research centers at Abbey Central," his superior said. "We may call them case number four, I suppose. What they were is beyond our present knowledge. If they were actually human men, then how was it possible for their very flesh and bone to dissolve into the substance of an amoeba? The Unclean is overreaching us, Hiero.

"There are many other cases of interest if they are considered as part of the whole thing. Small parties of trained explorers, men like yourself, ambushed or worse, vanished, in areas where no one should have known they had gone. Messengers with matters of unusual importance for the Eastern League at Otwah, or perhaps from them to us, also vanished, causing delays of up to a year on matters of common concern. And so on. It all adds up to one thing; a web, Hiero, a deadly, tightening web, is being drawn in upon us, even as we sit and wait to find out what is going so wrong!" The lean old man fixed his keen eyes on Hiero. "I still haven't heard any very searching questions from my prize pupil. But I need them: we all do. Hiero, you can't be mentally lazy any longer. You've been doing work any journeyman priest-exorcist could do, mixed with a lot of forest running and plain loafing. Your scores at Abbey Central, and you know it, were some of the highest ever achieved. And you're not even trying! Now listen to me, Per Desteen. I am addressing you as both your Godly and your temporal superior, and I want your attention at its peak! Those of us on the Council who know about you have been giving you rope for years, for two reasons. One was the hope that you would develop responsibility by yourself, always the best way, of course. The other reason, mainly advanced by me, young man, was so that you could get experience in many areas. Well, the time for idling is now, this minute, officially over. Am I plain? Now, sir, let's have some intelligent questioning, because I have a lot more to say."

Black eyes snapping with anger, Hiero was now sitting upright, glaring at his friend and mentor, any pretense of being bored gone forever. "So that's what you think of me, is it?" he grated. "A sort of chartered ne'er-do-well and good fellow. That's not fair, Most Reverend Father, and you know it!"

Abbot Demero simply sat looking at him, his wise eyes sympathetic, but not yielding, and Hiero felt his anger ebb away. There was truth, a good deal of it, in the charges, and being an essentially honest man, he could not deny it.

"I apologize for anger and impudence, Father Abbot," he said heavily. "I suppose I'm not really much of a priest, or a soldier either, for that matter. What can I do for the Council?"

"A good question, Hiero," the Abbot said briskly, "but not really the one I wanted, because it comes last, or ought to, and I want more thoughts from you first. Look now, my friend, what are your conclusions about what I have told you? I mean strengths, weaknesses, reliability, for that matter, plausibility, and above all— solutions, remedies. Let's hear your own ideas now."

"Well," Hiero said slowly, "one thing hit me from the very first, and it grew as the tragedies you related mounted. There has to be treason, at least one highly placed traitor somewhere in the Republic and probably more. I don't like saying this, but I have to, to be honest. What about the Council itself?"

"Good," the abbot said. "You're still able to think. Yes, there's treason, and it's being carefully, very carefully, searched out as we sit here. As for my peers, and your superiors, on the Council, you have no business knowing what steps might be taken if we ever should suspect a traitor in such an unlikely place. Therefore I shall tell you nothing about any such possible theoretical procedures."

Two smiles met across the table. The old abbot had refused information and (literally) told Hiero nothing. As well as everything, including the fact that the Abbey Council itself was nonimmune from suspicion.

"I can't argue against a conspiracy," Hiero resumed. "We are definitely getting a series of blows, savage ones, from someone. And what you tell me is the final word. It must be coordinated. Since we are meeting here at a sealed office and talking, at your insistence, you must be worried about some sort of betrayal even here. If our minds concentrate on a subject, even if we speak aloud, there are currents set up audible to an adept, especially one such as you describe. What are you doing to keep this from happening?" He folded his arms on his chest and stared at the abbot in turn.

"This," the abbot said simply. While they had been talking, the younger man had not noticed a plain wooden box, perhaps eighteen inches high, at one end of the table. The abbot lifted its lid and exposed a curious mechanism, a small, flat pendulum of some polished, ivorylike material, suspended motionless from a delicate wooden crossbar. Close on either side of the pendulum, two oval discs hung from the slender supports.

"There is a core of a very curious substance, something out of the Lost Years, which I'll tell you about someday, in that pendulum. If any thought, power, or what have you had come upon us, I think there is a ninety-eight percent chance that tiny weight would have rung against a side support piece. We've been testing it for two years, and it hasn't failed yet. In fact, it or a duplicate is what trapped the two spies at Abbey Central. Needless to say, very few of us know about it."

"I see," Hiero said, eyeing the little signal device. "Very reassuring. Let's hope it works, sir. Now, you wanted more thoughts, I believe. I only have one. There must be a plan, something to reverse this steady constriction you fear, and I'm to be part of it. It must need a younger man than yourself, and so some physical hazard is involved. Perhaps a journey, a probe into some guessed-at area held, or thought to be held, by the enemy? A reconnaissance of some sort? Beyond that, I'm in the dark."

"Think a little harder," Abbot Demero suggested.

"All right," Hiero said. "A weapon, or weapons, exist somewhere. As a result, one extraordinarily gallant man may barely manage to penetrate the Unclean enemy lines, relying on cunning, stealth, and sheer heroism, where a whole army could not get through. Frankly," he added, "I'm getting a bit tired of the mystery. Beyond the sarcasm I just gave you, I really have no suggestions and I hardly think a children's romance of the lone paladin against overpowering odds is what you're after. Come on, Father Abbot," he said impatiently, "what on earth are you after anyway?"

The Abbot looked a little nonplussed before he spoke, which in turn gave Hiero a bit of a start.

"Damnation, Hiero, you must operate on a level we can't tap! You see, that happens to be exactly what I want. You and a few other highly trained men are something of a secret weapon. We want you to go and try to raid some of the Lost Cities in the far South, in the hope, which I confess to be dim, that you will indeed give us some secret of the past before the Unclean overwhelm us."

Despite himself, the younger priest was instantly fascinated. He had been as far east as Otwah and into many wild areas of the North, but the far South was a closed book to almost everyone. For every mutated plant or animal in the northern part of the Kandan continent, there were a dozen in the South. There were rumored to be monsters so awful that a herd of morse would be but a mouthful to one of them, and trees so huge that it would take a man half a day to walk around the bole of one. Most of these tales could no doubt be relegated to fancy, rumor, and trappers' lies, but Hiero knew enough to know there was a grain of truth in many of them. He himself had been just far enough to see the southern end of the Taig and its countless pines and the beginning of the monster trees of the southern forest edge, which had few conifers, but many deciduous trees of far greater size. The lost empire of the once fabled United States had lain there, and every school child knew that The Death had hit it harder than anywhere else in the world, causing horrible changes to all life, such as had barely touched northern Kanda. Endless marshes, inland seas, and vast tracts of poisoned desert, the latter lit by the undying, blue, bale fires of the Dead Zones, were said to exist in the unknown area. And the Lost Cities themselves, the very places he was to go, they were the worst of all! Metz children were frightened into obedience with tales of the towering, vine-hung cliffs of the ancient, tottering buildings, even a glimpse of which was said to bring a horrid end. There were Lost Cities in the north country too, but most had long been either isolated or explored, that is, if known at all. And on them, in any case, the terrors of The Death had been laid lightly. Daring rovers and free rangers occasionally risked the anger of the Abbeys, political, not religious, and explored to the South, but few departed thus and fewer returned. All this flashed through Hiero's brain on the instant, as he looked into Demero's wise old eyes.

He sat back, for once effectively silenced, and the long, window-less room, lit only by the fluors on the wall, stayed quiet while both men took thought. It was Hiero who broke the silence, at length.

"Do you have any idea what it is I am to seek for, sir?" he asked quietly. "Or is it anything, just something that may turn up?"

"Well, there's that all right," the older man said. "But we're a bit more hopeful and knowledgeable, mind you, than that. We're looking for weapons, obviously. Now, The Death was caused by weapons. We don't want those again, certainly. The plagues, the nuclear poisons, all those things ought to stay buried. Unless the Unclean revive them, and I fear that mightily, I tell you! No, we want none such. But there are other things of power which are more or less intangible, at least in ordinary terms." He seemed to change his thoughts, and for a moment Hiero was puzzled.

"Did you ever reflect on our own central files at Abbey Central, Hiero?" the abbot asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Of course, Father," the priest answered. "I mean, what do you mean "reflect?"

"What do you think of them, that's what I mean," Demero snapped. "Are they efficient, are they useful? They cover an area of over two square miles underground, and they employ over two hundred highly trained priests and scholars. Is it worth it?"

Hiero saw that his old master was leading up to something, but for his soul he couldn't see what it was.

"Why, of course, certainly they're valuable," he said, thinking hard. "Without their collected and collated information, we'd never be able to get anything done. Half our research effort is simply adding to the information in those files. What's the point?"

"The point is this," Demero said. "When I ask for information, information, mind you, which I know to be somewhere in the files, it often takes days to get it Then, perhaps I need to balance several facts against each other; let us say the rainfall in the east of Sask province, the yield of crops in the south, the latest news of buffer migrations. So, it takes more time to get these. Then, with the help of others, I balance them, weigh them together, and make decisions. But you know all this, right?"

"Of course," Hiero said, intrigued by the other's manner, "but what of it? That's what's done with information; it gets utilized. So what does that prove?"

"All right," his elder resumed. "Now, suppose, just suppose I had gone to the files and told the files, not, mind you, the librarians, the files themselves, all I have just told you about our danger. Don't interrupt, boy, I haven't lost my sense yet. The files themselves next put all known information on this subject together and in ten minutes gave me back a sheet of paper which said as follows: If you do x, y, and z in that order, the enemy should be totally defeated.' " He paused, a gleam in his eye. "What do you think of that, eh?"

"Talking files?" Hiero said, one eyebrow cocked. "I assume, of course, you're not joking. We have begun to re-explore this radio thing, I know, but that's just people and an instrument. You're talking about a—well, a machine, a thing, holding all information and dispensing not just odd facts, but conclusions. Are you telling me such a thing is possible?"

The abbot sat back, satisfied. "Yes, son, not only possible, but well known at one time, in the years before The Death. The machines were called 'computers.' Some of the scientists doing research on the archives of the lost age are led to believe that certain computers existed that were larger than this building we're in. Can you begin to imagine the possibilities?"

Hiero sat staring at the wall behind Abbot Demero, his mind racing. If such things existed, and he knew the abbot would not lightly mention a possibility as a fact, the world could be changed overnight. All the knowledge of the past might very well still be in existence somewhere. It was a frightening thought, for it meant that all the secrets of the age of The Death were presumably hidden and available as well.

"I see you're beginning to reflect a little on the possibilities," the old priest said. "The Science Committee has picked you to go south and east, far to the East, where we have reason to believe these things may still lie buried in certain of their lost caverns. Five other men will go elsewhere. It's best none of you know the others' plans." He did not elaborate, nor need to. If any of the six should fall into the hands of the Unclean alive, the less they knew of their colleagues' venturings the better.

"Now come over here, Hiero, and I'll go over the maps with you. They have the latest information of these probable computer sites. You mustn't expect to find a vast sort of library, you know. The information was apparently coded in different ways and put in the great machines in ways we only dimly comprehend. You'll get a briefing from some scholars who've gone furthest into the field later ..."

And so the tale had gone. Telling this all to the bear, clever as the animal was, was simply not possible, if only because bears, even mutant bears, didn't read or write. But Hiero patiently and steadily made certain facts clear. In the blackest hours, before the first light of dawn, the man finally relaxed and willed himself to snatch a little sleep. Gorm now understood that his friend was on a long journey, but to Hiero's gratification, he still wanted to come. Also, the bear had enough reasoning power to understand that there was knowledge he could not understand; in fact, he might have been the first of his species to grasp the idea of abstract knowledge. He knew that the man was a foe of the Leemutes and that they were seeking something in a far land to hurt these evil things. With this knowledge he was content, and now he also rested, occasionally letting out the faint, puffing snore of a sleeping bear. Standing over the two, still saddled, his legs locked tight at the knee joints, the great morse kept his unbroken watch, in a state perhaps between dreaming and waking, but with all his magnificent senses alert for the first sign of danger. Klootz was not tired, and his kind did not lie down to sleep in any case, although they sometimes rested with their legs tucked under them. But tonight he rocked and swayed, chewing his cud and missing nothing that passed in the night, a sentinel without compare.

At first light, Hiero felt a velvet touch on his forehead and looked up to see the great, damp muzzle an inch from his. Satisfied that his master was awake, Klootz carefully lifted his huge hooves from either side of the man's body and moved out of the little grove into the gray dawn. In a moment the crunch of shredded bushes being devoured signaled that his breakfast had commenced.

Hiero rubbed his eyes. He was stiff, but not unduly so. It would have been better to have unpacked his bedroll and made a bed of spruce tips, but he had simply been too tired and too busy the night before. Besides, he was a seasoned woodsman, and a night spent on dry ground meant little to him. He looked over and saw Gorm was also awake and giving himself a wash with a long, pink tongue.

Any water about? he sent.

Listen (you can) hear it, came not from the bear but from the bull morse. A mental picture of a small stream a hundred yards off came to the man, and he rose and followed Klootz, who was ambling that way.

In twenty minutes, all had washed, eaten, and were ready for their new day's travel. Hiero ruefully checked his pemeekan supply. The way Gorm ate, it would be gone in no time and they would have to stop and hunt. This, aside from carrying an unnecessary extra element of danger, would further delay them.

Gorm caught his thought, which was unguarded. Try and save the sweet food, he sent. I can find much of my own. Once again, the brains and unselfishness of the strange creature who had appeared in his life out of nowhere made Hiero blink.

Hiero next rubbed Klootz down with a double handful of thick moss. He felt guilty for having left the big animal saddled and packed all night, but the morse seemed none the worse for it, and a roll in the little brook, which sent water cascading up the banks, put him in fine fettle.

The sun was now fully up and the forest was alive with sound and movement. Birds were everywhere, and as they began to travel, the priest glimpsed startled deer and small rabbits, as well as a sounder of Grokon passing along a distant aisle of the pines, even the striped young hoglets considerably larger than Hiero himself.

Gorm, the night before, had attempted to explain the route he thought best to follow. The man could only grasp parts of it, but he gathered that a considerable marsh lay to the south and that it was necessary to cross it at its narrowest place. The road on which he and Klootz had journeyed for the last week was a place of great peril, watched by many unseen eyes. It was only luck that the two had come so far undisturbed, for no people had used that road in a long time, or if they had, they had not lived to go very far upon it. On no account must they return to it for any reason. The fact that so few human beings traveled alone through the wild might have dulled the watchfulness of the Unclean and allowed morse and man to come as far as they had. But now, surely the whole area would be on guard. And when the slain wizard was inevitably discovered, they could expect a hue and cry of massive proportions indeed to be set on foot by the enemy, so Gorm indicated. Once again, mind speech was to be halted, or at least understood by man and bear to be held to a minimum.

They had gone perhaps three hours from the night's resting place when they received proof that they were not to journey undisturbed and unsought. The three were fording a shallow brook when Hiero felt the morse stiffen under him and at the same time saw the young bear come erect on the bank just ahead. A second later, his own, less alert senses were assaulted. He had never felt anything quite like it before. It was as if something strange clawed for his mind. A savage, questing force somehow probed at his inner being. He drew on all his own years of training and managed to make no response, keeping the pressure and the call, for there was an element of that too, away, repelling it by not acknowledging it. For what seemed like a long minute and was probably very little time, a mere instant, the searching presence seemed to hover over him in an almost physical way; then it moved on. He knew it had gone on elsewhere, but he was not absolutely sure he had managed to deceive or deflect it. He looked first at Gorm and in turn saw the bear's weak little eyes fixed on him.

Something bad hunts, came the message. I was (only) a bear. It left me and did not (see) me.

I (think) it missed me, Hiero sent. And Klootz also, for it is not hunting four-footed animals, at least not yet.

There will be other things (like the) evil fur things of yesterday, came the bear's thought. This forest is full of many creatures who (serve/hunt for) the evil power. Many of them go on four legs and have good noses.

The priest found less and less trouble understanding the bear. The whole exchange, plus a new decision, now to utilize the stream, was over in a split second.

All day long, they followed the brook, for it was little more, down its winding path. As much as possible, they stayed actually in the water, so as to leave as few tracks as possible. The force or entity which had tried to locate them did not reveal itself further. They saw fewer animals, though, and none of the larger ones at all. Once a great, foot-long water beetle sought to bite Gorm with its savage pincers, but he avoided it easily, and Klootz, following close behind, brought a great, flattening hoof squarely down upon its armored back. Very few of the giant insects bred from The Death's radiation were much of a menace, since they tended to be slow-moving and clumsy.

They made an early camp on an island. The stream which Hiero had not been able to locate on his maps, probably because it was too small, broadened a little, without getting more than two feet deep, and the little, willow-hung islet might have been designed for them.

While the bear went shambling off in search of food and Klootz, now unsaddled, wrenched succulent water plants from the stream bed, the man ate a frugal supper of biscuit and pemeekan while he tried to analyze what he had learned in the last few days. There was sunlight still, and Hiero had camped early because he needed light. He wanted very much to examine the various articles he had taken from the dead man, and this was the first opportunity.

The metal rod came first. A little less than an inch thick and about a foot long, of a very hard, bluish substance, not unlike patinated bronze, at first sight it looked unornamented. A closer look showed Hiero that four tiny knobs, set in a curved line, were sticking out of the sides. Hesitantly, he pushed one. At once an extension of the rod's other end began. The thing was a cylinder, with many tubes beautifully fitting one inside the other. While Hiero watched, it extended itself until it was a slender wand about five feet long. He pushed the same button again and it began to retract into itself once more. He stopped it by pushing it a third time. Next, he tried another button, the central one of the three. Two flat, oval discs on the end of two delicate arms emerged from the supposedly featureless rod, and each stopped at a six-inch distance away from the rod, forming a prong set at right angles to the rod's body. Hiero turned the rod over and examined it from every angle, but he could not fathom the purpose of the discs. He raised the rod's lower end to eye level to examine the discs better, but they were featureless. He tried to look at the rod's body again, while holding it upright, but he forgot the discs on their arms and they banged into his forehead, just over his eyes. Annoyed with himself, he started to lower them when suddenly he stopped and gently put them back where they had been. They fit! Excited, he held the rod upright and extended it to its fullest length, keeping the two ovals on their extensions clamped to his forehead. He was now beginning to get an idea of what he held, and with great care, he slowly pressed the third tiny knob.

A tremendous voice slammed into his mind with overpowering force, almost physically knocking him over. Where have you been? Why have you not communicated? Some strange creatures or groups of them are moving through our area almost undetected. The normals may be assaulting us with something new. There was a sudden pause, and the dazed Hiero could nearly feel the almost tangible suspicion in the other mind. Who is this? came the mind voice. Do you hear, I—click. The priest had managed to shut it off.

He leaned back against a tree trunk, both frightened and angry with himself. The strange device was apparently both a communicator and an amplifier of great strength, obviously increasing the distance over which mental speech could be sent at least tenfold. He had never heard of such a thing, and he doubted any Abbey scientist had, either. He must get this object back to the Abbey research centers if he did nothing else. The thought that the Unclean even possessed a thing like this was nerve-racking. No wonder the abbot has the jumps, he thought. He looked at the rod again and then carefully made it shut and the two head pieces go back into the handle, noting as he did so that the machining was beautifully turned and that the metal was one he had never before seen. He was about to wrap it carefully and put it away when he remembered the fourth button. This was not next to the others but nearer the butt end and to one side. He considered it for a moment and then wedged the rod, extension end up, between two heavy rocks. Next he broke off a slender willow sapling about eight feet long and carefully positioned himself behind its parent willow tree, while reaching for the enigmatic button with his new pole. The thought that the sinister makers of this thing might have built in a self-destruct device was late in coming, he reflected, but might still save his life. He checked and saw that the morse bull was several hundred feet upstream and then, with only his hand exposed, probed for the button. Face pressed to the tree, he heard one swift metallic sound, as if a great spring had been released, and then silence. He waited an instant and then looked cautiously around the tree. He got up at once and tossed the stick aside. The amazing rod's last trick was both simple and entirely unexpected. It had fully extended itself again, this time in a single instantaneous motion. But now, projecting from the end was not the blunt cap of before, but a two-edged, razor-sharp lance head. It was over half an inch wide and almost as long as the original, folded-up rod itself. Hiero bent the extended rod sideways, but the tough metal gave very little. He hefted the thing at shoulder height. It was a perfectly balanced javelin. Lowering it, he eyed the edges of the blade and confirmed his first impression that they were smeared with some sticky substance. Undoubtedly not a face cream, he reflected. He shut his new prize carefully up again and put it away.

Next came the knife. It was a short, one-edged thing in a leather sheath and had been used recently, being sticky with dried blood. There appeared to be nothing odd about it, and he cleaned it and put it away too, after ascertaining it bore no marks of any kind.

He now examined the rounded object which had looked to him earlier like a small compass. Many of his colleagues, indeed most people, still used compasses, but Hiero did not. He had a built-in sense of direction and while in school had won many bets by being blindfolded and always picking out the correct compass points.

It was obvious at once that if this was a compass, it was no compass he had ever seen before. There were no obvious compass bearings, no directions and their subdivisions. Instead, there was a thing like a circular wheel, or round track, under the glass plate on top. Set at intervals next to this track were symbols of some kind with which he was totally unfamiliar, for they were neither numbers nor letters he had ever seen before. On the circular track was a round, fiery bead of light, which swayed gently as he rocked the case in his hand, just like the air bubble in a carpenter's level. Hiero examined the symbols again. There were four larger ones set where the main directions on a proper compass should be. He aligned the four symbols one by one to a map of his own and managed to pick the one near the loop end of the object as north. But the fiery bead was not fixing itself on north or any of the four points when so used! If the damned thing isn't a compass, what is it? he wondered to himself. Reluctantly, he replaced it in its pouch and stowed it away again, determined to re-examine it again soon.

Last of all came the rolls of yellowish, parchmentlike material. He tried to rip a page corner experimentally and found that it tore, but with great difficulty. It was certainly not a paper, nor was it parchment either, but a synthetic material the like of which he had never before glimpsed.

Most of the papers bore writing, closely spaced and not printed, in a dark, reddish ink, which looked unpleasantly like dried blood, especially in the fast-waning light. Like the lettering or whatever on the compass thing, the symbols were totally unintelligible to Hiero. But one piece was mostly taken up by a large map, and this he studied with great care. It somewhat resembled his own map in general outline. The Inland Sea was there and, he thought, several familiar roads to the north. The main east-west Otwah road was quite clear. Most of the marks were obscure, though, especially many in the South. Rivers and swamps seemed to have been carefully drawn in signs he used himself, and he felt that the map might prove a useful guide. Many marks were thought-provoking. He was reasonably sure he had found some of the ruined cities of the pre-Death eras, for the few such sites marked on his own map were in the same places. But the alien map had many more of them, as well as much else that was strange.

Eventually, that too was put away and he prepared a bed, digging hollows for hip and shoulder and spreading his bedroll. Without being ordered, Klootz was feeding close to the island, and his master knew he had nothing to worry about, at least that was physical, in the way of nocturnal danger. The bear had not returned, but Hiero had earlier agreed on a travel plan with him, and he was confident Gorm would be back when wanted. He curled up with a sigh and dropped off while the last light of day still. lingered in the west.

He was awakened by rain, a light spatter on his upturned face. It was very dark and the damp clouds had rolled out of the east, bringing moisture from the distant seas. He was about to pull his hood over his face and go back to sleep when a wet reek of fur strongly assaulted his nose. Gorm was standing next to him, and the bear's whole manner demanded attention.

Something comes in the night (perhaps) many things, but one for certain (emphatic)! We must go the way we planned/discussed. Listen!

Sitting up, the man did indeed listen intently. He was conscious of Klootz standing quietly nearby, his great ears also belled into the rainy night. For a moment, the falling raindrops and the muted gurgle of the stream were all that was audible. Then, far away in the west, at the very limit of Hiero's hearing, there came a sound.

It was a high, keening shriek, rising to almost the level of inaudibility and dying away then into silence. Twice it sounded, and then only the listening night could be heard. But no one, neither man nor beast, needed to hear it again. There was a menace implicit in that distant cry which raised the hackles on one's back. It was a hunter and it was on a track. In the situation they were in, it was no time to debate on whose track was whatever had screamed. The long-expected pursuit was upon them, and it was time to go.

For a seasoned traveler like Hiero, it was hardly more than a minute's work to break camp, including packing. Once up in the saddle, he loosened the great knife in its back sheath and, slouching comfortably, let the bear lead the way, Klootz ambling along in his wake through the shallow water. Hiero's time sense was not as good as his directional sense, but he had a fair idea of the present hour, about two A.M. Like many of the ancient mechanisms, clocks had been rediscovered, but they were large and clumsy. A woodsman of Hiero's caliber had no need for such things, indeed would have discarded a wristwatch if one had been available. Living in the wild for long periods gave you a built-in clock in your own body.

The rain lifted a little and became a fine mist. The animals did not mind getting wet particularly, although the bear liked to sleep in a dry place, and Hiero's tanned leather was treated with various water repellents which made him almost completely watertight. In any case, it was still warm in the last days of summer.

The little party traveled hardly any more slowly at night than during daylight. Hiero could rely on the sense of the two beasts to move without stumbling at a good pace, even when sight was at a minimum.

For two hours of steady and undisturbed travel, they followed the little stream bed, which still kept its same dimensions. Hiero eventually signaled a halt and swung down on the bank to stretch and do a few muscle-limbering exercises. Gorm flopped down next to him, also grateful for a rest. Bears can and do travel long distances, but steady marching, day in and day out, is not their habit. Klootz browsed in the shallows, adding more supplies to the many pounds of plant food he had already devoured that day. An eater of green stuffs never really stops unless asleep, since the nourishment is so much less than from a direct protein intake,

The priest now briefly said his morning prayers, a process the animals ignored as incomprehensible. The bear was mildly interested, but only mildly. Hiero, however, had detected that casual interest earlier and made a note in his mnemonic files that discussing religion with an intelligent animal might prove immensely rewarding.

Prayers over, Hiero stood listening in the dark. As he did, for the first time since they had left camp on the island, the faint scream of the hunter broke through the misty night. It was unmistakably a lot closer than at first. With a smothered oath, Hiero mounted and this time sent a thought to Gorm as he did so. Hurry up, you, or we'll be trapped!' The young bear led off again at a splashing gallop, and spray fountained as the big morse lumbered after him through the shallows, his wide hooves coming down on the invisible water like dinner plates.

As he rode, listening hard, the man tried to think rationally and analyze their danger. He had no idea what followed on their tracks. Whatever it was, it seemed to be a night hunter of uncommon skill, and perhaps it was a pack of them. And whatever it (or they) were, it was moving incredibly fast. The bear and the morse had not been loafing, indeed, for nighttime had been setting a good pace. But neither walking in the running water nor moving at a steady clip had thrown whatever pursued off their track. What could it be?

One faintly encouraging thought rose to Hiero's mind at this point. Anything moving that fast probably could not carry, and certainly could not lead, any human master. Whatever atrocity was tracking them down almost had to be running unleashed and free. At least, Hiero reasoned, following this train of thought, if I'm right, I won't have to worry about facing someone like S'nerg. It was probably a purely physical danger.

Even as the thoughts came to him, the evil cry, clearly audible over the splashing, again welled up in the distance. The near distance, he observed. The hunter, whatever it was, could certainly move. Damn, the pursuit was going to catch up with them while it was still dark! This could be very bad. It was at least an hour to first light-Leaning over, he fumbled in his left saddlebag and finally located by touch the packet he wanted. To a stranger it would have appeared no easy task, doing this blind while the morse's great body lurched along underneath him, but he had practiced many times in the past and had little trouble securing what he wanted. Next, he loosened the strap on his holstered thrower so that it could be whipped out in a hurry. As an afterthought, he reached into the saddlebag again and took out the murderous rod he had taken from S'nerg's dead body. As an emergency weapon, should he lose his regular spear, it might be of great use, and he tucked it into his belt. The spear itself was in its socket at the saddlebow, ready to his hand at need.

Now he concentrated his mind on his steed and the bear. Find an open place, close to the stream if possible, he sent. We must fight. Whatever comes is too fast to run away from. In the back of his mind was the thought that Gorm, invaluable as he had proved in the recent past, must be tired now and probably not much use as a fighter. If the small bear could get even a few moments' rest, it might make some fleeting difference. The Abbey Battle Code was never out of a trained Killman's mind. "Use every tiny advantage and perhaps the enemy will use one less," ran one of the ABC rules.

The bear did not answer as he galloped on, but Hiero knew he understood. As for Klootz, the rapport between man and mount was so strong that he knew the great bull was already seething with rage and ready for a battle of any size, shape, or description. An Abbey morse did not like being chivied over the land by anyone, regardless of who it might be.

Behind them, the chilling cry broke out again, a hideous, thin screaming in the quiet, moist night. This time Hiero thought he could distinguish several voices and he knew the distance was shortening. It was logical. A solitary hunter, no matter how powerful, might be immobilized by sheer accident. A pack was always more effective. But a pack of what?

Here, the thought came suddenly from Gorm. A place of grass and no trees. Is this what you want?

Yes, the man sent. Lie down and rest until they come. Do not fight if you can help it. He urged the morse out of the water and onto the sward of a natural forest opening. The very first faint light in the east had appeared, not enough for any detail to show, but enough so that he could barely see they were in a natural clearing, one which sloped gently to the stream's edge. As Klootz stood silently dripping and the exhausted bear lay panting off to one side, Hiero considered tactics. The glade was perhaps a hundred yards wide at its tip by the brook. It was roughly shaped like a half-moon, and the forest edge at its center was two hundred feet from the water. He urged the morse on until Klootz now stood almost exactly in the clearing's center, back to the trees, but fifty feet away from them, so that nothing could use the trees as cover to leap upon them from behind. Hiero reached into his saddlebag and extracted his beryllium-copper helmet, round and unornamented, save for the cross and sword on the forepeak. It fitted over his cap and was his sole piece of armor. He put it on and tried to catch the minds of their pursuers. He found blind, ravening appetite, more than one, coming fast, unreachable at any level he could influence!

Man and morse waited, alert and ready. They had done all they could. Gorm was silent now also, hidden somewhere in the black shadows and ready to pounce if possible.

They had not long to wait. The blackness of the dying night was still almost totally unrelieved when from up the shallow stream, the way they had followed, came the sounds of splashing water and many clawed feet striking on rocks. Sensing rather than actually seeing their attackers, the Killman-priest twisted the heads of the two objects he had been holding and hurled them away, one to the right and one to the left. As they hit the ground, the two flares burst into life and a white, incandescent glow illumined the whole area.

At once, Hiero saw that he and his animal allies had made a basic, if unavoidable, error in traveling down the stream and keeping to the water. The five sleek, sinister shapes poised at the brook's edge resembled grossly enlarged mink or some other water weasels quite enough to indicate that a river bed was the last, place in which anyone ought to try to elude them. No wonder they came so fast, Hiero thought as the momentary surprise of the lights froze the creatures in place.

Their undershot, sharklike jaws and vicious teeth glistened in the light as they blinked their beady eyes and then recovered. Each one, from wet muzzle to long tailtip, was at least ten feet and could hardly have weighed any less than a full-grown man. Collars of bluish metal glinted and betrayed their wearers' allegiance, even as they scuttled out of the water and rushed to the attack, snarling as they came.

Hiero fired the thrower and dropped it all in one motion. It took too long to reload, and these things were coming too fast. But the tiny rocket went true. The leading animal, head hit, simply blew up in a burst of orange fire, and the one next to it writhed aside, screaming shrilly and dragging a broken leg.

As the other three paused, shaken by the explosion and the death of the leader, Klootz charged with a bellow of fury. Spear couched, Hiero gripped the bull's barrel, ready to strike.

The wounded fury could not escape, and the morse's pile-driver front hooves crushed its life out in a terrible, smashing blow. Another one, leaping straight up at Hiero, took the heavy spear in its throat, right up to the crossbars. The savage brute fell back, choking on its own blood, and Hiero let the spear go with it, whipping out his heavy sword-knife as he did so.

The remaining two fell back for an instant, but for true mustelids, like all weasels, the thought of retreat never occurred to them. Separating, their grinning masks of fury showing the white fangs, they attacked like streaks of dark, undulating lightning, leaping at the rider and not the mount, and from two sides at once.

Fortunately for Hiero, he had worked out such a development with Klootz many times over on the Abbey's training fields. Automatically, the bull took the opponent to his left and paid no attention to the other, leaving that one to his master.

Rising in the saddle, Hiero cut down at the upthrust, rapid head in one terrible chopping blow. The solid bite of the ancient blade could be felt all the way up to his powerful shoulder. The giant weasel-thing was dead before it hit the ground, its narrow skull cloven almost in half.

But even as he recovered, the man felt a terrible pain in his left leg. Overconfident, Klootz had underestimated the speed of his enemy. Even as his great hoof had come dashing down, the last of the hunting pack had swerved aside and altered its spring in midair. A slash at Hiero's calf had opened the flesh almost to the bone, and he swayed in the saddle from shock as the animal leaped away.

The bull was not to be taken twice this way. Knowing his rider and master was hurt sent him stark mad, but with a cold fury. He advanced slowly on the surviving hunter, rocking gently from side to side, grotesquely mimicking the way a playful fawn minces up to another baby opponent.

A fury to the end, the last servant of the Unclean sprang from a crouch, again at the drooping rider and not the morse. But Klootz, now on guard, was not deceived by the supple, twisting spring. A great, cloven hoof shot straight out, and the lashing blow caught the leaping death squarely in its midsection. There was an audible crack, and the next instant, the sleek-furred monster was writhing on the grass with a broken back. Not for long. In one savage rush, the infuriated bull morse trampled the creature into a pulp, even while it still snapped and tried to sink its teeth into its giant foe.

Hiero hung limply in the saddle while the morse lowered his own great body gently to the ground so that the man could dismount. The priest wobbled off Klootz's back and collapsed against one of the bull's huge, sweaty sides, breathing hard and trying to keep from fainting. Finally he looked up and saw the anxious face of Gorm looking at him from a few feet away.

I was ready but it was too quick, came from the strange mind. Can I help?

No, Hiero sent. I must bandage/cure myself. Watch for any danger while I do so. The bear padded off and left him.

Painfully, the priest removed his slashed leather boot, now full of blood, and examined the wound. It appeared clean, but any animal bite ought to be dressed quickly. He fumbled in the saddlebags, conscious of waves of blackness hovering over his pain-racked mind. The flares had gone out long since, but they had served their purpose. Dawn light was flooding into the clearing, and the chirping of the awakening birds seemed ironic after the blaze of sudden death, which had heralded the morning, and the five grim shapes on the reddened grass.

Hiero finally got the medicine kit out and gingerly spread the healing salve thickly over the long, bleeding wound. He next bandaged it as tightly as he could. It probably needed stitching, but in his present condition he simply wasn't up to it. When he was sure he had done all he could, he gulped a Lucinoge tablet. The mind expander was also a narcotic of sorts, and as he sank into slumber he could feel his muscles relax. His last thought was a mild worry that something or someone might take over his mind while he was unconscious. Then he remembered no more.

3 - The Cross and the Eye

Hiero woke in the dusk. The hush of early evening lay on the land of the trees, and over his head a great balsam branch hung in the windless air. It was obvious he had slept the whole day away. Looking down, he saw that he was now lying on a pile of soft balsam tips and that his other boot was off. Instinctively, he reached back over his shoulder for the heavy knife. It was in place, as the sore part of his back testified.

He sat up, feeling no more than a bit dizzy, and looking about, found Gorm lying a few feet away, sound asleep. Listening, Hiero caught the sound of shredding plant matter from a position around a bend upstream. He sent a thought to the big morse, and in an instant Klootz appeared, green fronds of pickerel weed still hanging from his blubber lips. Swaying over, he leaned down, and a stream of cold water ran off his shiny neck and into Hiero's face.

"Phew, get away, you horror, before you drown me!" his master spluttered, but at the same time his strong hands were gently rubbing the great antlered head.

"Your spikes are hardening, boy, which is just as well, because the way this trip is starting, we're going to need them." Shifting from speech to mental rapport, he ordered the morse to remain still while he used the big beast's legs to try and stand up.

He found he could remain erect without too much trouble, although walking at all made his leg throb painfully. However, with an effort, he managed to unsaddle Klootz and lay out the saddlebags where he wanted them. Then he dismissed the bull, but told him at the same time to stay close to camp and remain on careful watch.

Next, Hiero seated himself and turned to Gorm, who now also sat, looking up at him. Reaching over, the man touched the bear's nose gently.

Thanks (warmth/friend feeling), brother, he sent. Hot? did you make (the bed of) branches? And why did you take off my boot? This was actually the greatest puzzle of all. He could see that the young bear might well be clever enough to make a bed; after all, they used them in their own winter dens, but how did the creature know enough to remove his other boot so that his feet could rest?

It was in your mind, came the astonishing answer. I looked to see (what) must/could/should be done. Your mind does not sleep, Gorm added; all that is there can be seen if (one can) look. lean see only a little, but what I saw, I did.

Hiero once again got out his surgical kit and examined his wound carefully at the same time thinking over in fascination what the bear had just told him. Incredible, but it must be true! He, Hiero himself, had known what ought to be done, and the young bear had found what knowledge he could in the man's own unconscious mind. Incapable of surgery or even first aid, yet Gorm had made a rude but comfortable bed and managed at least to tease off one boot so that Hiero might sleep better. Resolving to look into this further, the rover priest bent to his task.

What followed was unpleasant but necessary. First Hiero cut off the blood-soaked stocking and the equally caked bandage he had applied the previous morning. Then, bracing himself by various forms of nerve-block training and a small further Lucinoge dose, he sutured the edges of the long, gaping slash with medical gut. Fourteen stitches later, it was done, again disinfected and re-bandaged. He hauled on his right boot and put a clean stocking and a moccasin, taken from the saddlebags, on the left foot. Then he directed the bear to take the bloody rags and bury them somewhere deep.

Doing this, he suddenly thought of something else and looked about. There were dark spots here and there on the grass, but the bodies of their assailants were gone.

From the shadows, Gorm sent an answer. The big (horned/stick head) and I buried them. Their bodies (would have) drawn other things to (the) hunt. But only small things have come (easy to) frighten away. His mind sent a picture of jackals, bush cats, foxes, and other little scavenging creatures.

So the bear and the morse could work together, even when he himself was out of the picture! This was also fascinating, Hiero reflected. It meant, it had to mean, that the bear was the one giving orders, for Klootz, smart as he was, could barely think ahead to the consequences of any given action. More food for thought and future exploration, the man reflected.

Have you (felt) nothing else hunting/danger to us? he asked Gorm.

In the distance/far? (dimension problem) came the answer. The bear was not being clear, and he seemed to understand this and tried again. Long way, far off (in) many directions. But only once (strong) and that came from above/the sky? (impression of something both nasty and winged).

The man probed but could get little more, beyond a vague and distant sight of something with wings but not a bird apparently, glimpsed (or sensed) far off in the sky earlier in the day, and from which had emanated a powerful feeling of evil.

Filing this as one more piece of information to be mulled over later and also making a mental note to avoid going out into open areas as much as possible, Hiero repacked his possessions. Hobbling to the stream, he cleaned the blood off his weapons and sharpened both spear and knife. When he came back, he also reloaded the thrower, which had been replaced in its saddle holster.

Sitting down again, he ate some more pemeekan and biscuit. When he offered it to Gorm, however, the bear refused it and said he had been feeding on ripe blueberries all day. He showed Hiero where they grew nearby, and he was able to limp over and gather several handfuls for dessert. He refilled his big saddle canteen and the small emergency one strapped to his belt, and then, as the last of the light faded, took a quick bath in the brook, being careful to keep his wounded leg out of the water. Dried off and dressed again, he said his evening orisons and lay down again. There seemed nothing abroad in the night that could harm them, and the sounds of the forest were all normal. The death cry of a rabbit sounded in a nearby thicket, and the hum of many mosquitoes made Hiero unpack and draw a fine-meshed net over his upper body. Once that was done, exhaustion took over and he was asleep in a second.

The next day dawned hazy. The sun was behind wreaths of fog and lowlying cumulus clouds, and there was no wind. The air seemed damp and oppressive to Hiero, but only the normal result of a falling barometer, not from any other cause.

Once saddled, Klootz pranced a little, as if tired of simply standing around feeding himself. The man and the bear had decided to leave the stream. Their new route lay more to the south, and after another brief meal, they were off, alert but confident. Hiero's leg was now only a dull ache, and the rest had helped his tough frame almost as much as the medicinal salve of the Abbey doctors.

For five days they traveled uneventfully through the great pines and spruces of the Taig, always going south. They kept a strict watch, stayed under the trees, and used mind speech seldom, but detected nothing of any menace or importance. Game was plentiful, and Hiero was able to stalk and kill with his spear a giant grouse, as big as a child, while the foolish bird scratched away in the pine needles. He built a small fire and quickly smoked a lot of the breast, thus obtaining nearly twenty pounds of meat, which would feed both himself and Gorm for a good while.

On the sixth day, the priest estimated they had made perhaps eighty or so miles, and he began to feel a little easier. Whatever malignancy the Unclean tried to send after them now, if any, was going to have a fairly rough time in tracking them down, he thought. He had not yet learned the power and determination of his enemies, nor had he guessed at the fury over his deed in slaying one so high in their dark councils.

Toward noon, the ground became boggy and moist. It was obvious that they were heading into either a swamp or the margin of some body of water. Hiero called a halt, stopped on a patch of dry ground, and got out his maps, bringing the bear over to consult with him while Klootz was turned loose to browse.

Ahead of them lay an enormous area, roughly given on one of the Abbey maps as a vast marsh, called by some the Palood, and both trackless and unknown. The bear's knowledge also stopped here, although he agreed with the map in that he felt the Inland Sea or a great water of some kind lay to the south, beyond a wide expanse of fen. But he had never in his life, not a long one in Hiero's opinion, traveled so far down into the unknown. Most of his information seemed to be secondhand, as indeed was the man's.

Reflecting, the priest decided to try a scan with the crystal and also to cast the symbols. He got them out, said his prayers, put on his vestments, and instructed the two animals not to disturb him.

Fixing his mind on the route ahead and staring into the crystal, he sent his thoughts out in search of a pair of eyes.

His first vision was disappointing. He found himself looking at a desolate stretch of water from very low down, apparently almost in the water itself. Nor could he see very well, since the frog, turtle, or whatever, whose eyes he had borrowed, was lurking behind a clump of tall reeds and, in addition, possessed short-range vision. Shutting his own eyes, Hiero willed a vision change, this time emphasizing height, distance, and clarity of sight. Surely, he felt, there must be a hawk or some other bird of prey quartering back and forth over the open water and marshes ahead of them.

Once again the crystal cleared, and this time the mental emphasis on height had paid off, but not at all in the way Hiero had planned!

He was indeed very high up, perhaps a mile or more, and he had an instant to note the land spread out below, the pines of the Taig fading into the great swamp, and, far off, the gleam of what could only be the Inland Sea. And his vision was now superb, much too superb! The highly intelligent mind whose eyes he had inadvertently borrowed was in turn aware of him instantly, and as it became aware, tired at once to find out who, what, and where he was. He was somehow linked to a furious brain which, cold and repellent though it was, was nonetheless almost identical to his own, seeking with every ounce of its being to locate his present position.

Just as Hiero broke the connection with a wrench which hurt his head, a last, close-up look through the enemy eyes showed the rounded nose of a strange craft, a thing like a huge bullet, and at the edges of his vision the beginnings of great wings, made of something like painted wood.

Flight by men was no more than a present dream of the Abbey scientists, but they were well aware that it had been a part of worldwide technology in the ancient past, and they had no doubt it could be and would be rediscovered when more urgent matters had been disposed of first. But here it was, in the hands of the Unclean! High in the blue sky of the Taig, evil and unsuspected eyes marked all the land below and now sought to trace the travelers and pin them down. And Hiero had led a deadly watcher right to his present position, at least in a way which would allow more rapid pursuit to be organized! He sprang to his feet.

"Lie down," he vocally ordered the bull, and led him under a dense clump of fir trees and with his free hand pushed Gorm the same way, urging them on. as best he could himself. The bear understood at once and made no effort to talk with his brain. The trained morse and the untrained bear both had got the feeling of immediate and pressing danger and needed little urging to do what they were told.

Lying against the bull's side, Hiero kept the thrower cocked and ready across his outstretched legs. It was really only accurate for about three hundred feet, but it could be used for double that, and it was the most powerful weapon he had. Straining his eyes up through the canopy of needles and branches, he sought for his enemy. Presently, he Saw it. Quite far up, in lazy circles, a black shape like a great falcon soared and sailed, now drifting out of sight and now moving back. The priest unpacked his seldom-used far looker, a short brass telescope, and tried to see how much of the peril he could discern. The machine, in fact an unpowered glider, a thing Hiero could not comprehend, stayed too high, however; and beyond seeing that the wings had a light bend backward, thus simulating a real bird's wings, he could learn little. This, then, must be the thing the bear had tried to describe, he reflected. The hunt had not been thrown off at all, but merely diffused, and despite the distance he thought he had put between them and himself, the forces of the Unclean were still on his track. He looked dismally at the ground and then at his left hand, still clenched into a brown fist.

A fist! He peered quickly out into the little clearing they had just left. The casting bowl and the pieces still lay there, and so did the crystal. He had scurried, under cover so quickly he had completely forgotten them. He was allowing the enemy to frighten him, to shake his inner confidence. He said a quick, mathematical table as a prayer and then looked down, at his now open hand and the three symbols which he had unconsciously caught up while battling in the mind of the flier high above.

First, the little Fish, an unmistakable, fork-tailed carving. It meant water, any kind of water. It also meant, or could mean, boats, docks, nets, lines, salt, and other watery concerns. It was also one of the symbols of male virility. The second symbol was the tiny Spear. It meant war, up to and including fighting of all kinds; also any dangerous hunt. The last sign was an odd one, and he had to think back to his early classwork for its various meanings, since it had never once before come to his hand, not in all his many wanderings. It was a cross, a tiny symbol of seven-millennium-old Christianity, but superimposed on its center, where the arms joined, was the oval carving of a miniature eye. The Cross and the Eye! He felt a shiver run up his spine. This rarely turned-up symbol stood for the presence of a spiritual evil, something which menaced not just the body but the very soul.

He laid the three symbols gently on the ground and darted a look at the sky. The flier was still visible, but only just, now far away, at the limit of Hiero's vision to the north. The priest darted out into the open and retrieved the bowl and also the crystal on its wooden base. Not even an eagle could have seen a movement at that distance, he felt.

Repacking his apparatus in the bag while Klootz mumbled over his cud and the bear snored, utterly relaxed in an instant nap, the priest turned the three symbols over in his mind. He was heading for water. Even if he had tried to turn back, it was almost certainly too late. The flier knew roughly where he was and the pursuit must already have been summoned. He dared not use his looted rod to listen, for fear of being detected himself, but he was sure the ether was thrilling with the summons and exhortations of the Unclean. Leemutes no doubt were pouring from various dens in the North. But what of the South? Was a trap being laid there, or perhaps many?

The Fish, the Spear, and the Eyed Cross! Water, battle, and the coming of some spiritual bane or woe. But was that the right reading? As always, the little signs were chancy to interpret. The last sign, the Eyed Cross, could mean a grim psychic menace, but it could also mean a great sin upon the caster's own conscience, a mortal sin, in fact. Be damned to that, Hiero said angrily to himself. He had confessed before leaving the Republic, to Abbot Demero, in fact. And telling Leolane d'Ondote that she was going to be neither his first, second nor indeed any other wife, and further, that her talents were exclusively prone was not a mortal sin, even if more than a trifle rude. That was the heaviest guilt currently on his mind.

Suppose, now, that the Spear meant a hunt and the Fish a boat? No, that was silly in his present condition. Well, then, what about other possibilities? Through the long afternoon, he turned over and over in his mind the various combinations of the three pieces. But the Eyed Cross dominated his thoughts. Deep inside him was the certain knowledge that he was not in mortal sin and that he was instead approaching some dread encounter with a great evil of the Unclean.

Determined not to expose himself to the man, Leemute or whatever, which rode the sky machine, he waited with his two allies until the sun was only a dim, red glow in the far West. Then they sallied out from the gloom of the firs and headed south into the muddy paths between the last straggling trees of the Taig.

Under the evening stars, gleaming pools of water began to appear and soon grew more frequent. The trees grew less in size, and the pines now vanished at last. Great spatterdocks and overgrown marsh plants, looming oddly in the night, began to replace them. Strange and lovely perfumes came from pale night flowers growing on the surface of muddy pools, and rank stenches came from other and seemingly identical pools. Ferns, too, were increasingly large, often as high or higher than Klootz's head, and they grew in great black clumps, some so thick that the travelers had to detour around them. The air had been growing steadily warmer for the last few days, but now it was suddenly both warm and damp, and even when perfumed, carrying a hint of fetid decay and overripe growth under the pleasant scents. They had left the Taig and its cool breezes for good and were now breathing the air of the Palood, the monster-haunted fen which for league upon league bordered the northern edge of the Inland Sea. It was a trackless, horribly dangerous waste, and only roughly defined on any map.

Even as Hiero recalled all this, a hideous, croaking bellow rang out somewhere ahead of them. It drowned the normal noises of the night, the constant hum of the swarms of insects, and the chorus of small frogs by sheer vibration.

Klootz jerked to a standstill, and ahead of them in the dark, Gorm halted like the grotesque shadow of a distorted pointer, one foot raised, dripping from a pool of dark water. For a moment they listened and then, when no other sound came, began to move cautiously onward. Hiero's face and hands were now smeared with an insect-repelling grease, but the cloud of bugs still penetrated his clothes, and it was a sore trial not to be able to curse wholeheartedly. They had gone only a hundred feet or so when the grunting roar again broke out in the moist dark ahead of them. With it came a prodigious "splat," as if some vast platter had been slammed down hard into soft mud. The myriad small animal voices of the marsh, the night birds, frogs, and other things fell silent. Only the humming drone of millions of mosquitoes and gnats went on. The three again paused, but this time not for so long.

Behind them another awful bellow exploded in the night. The sheer volume of the second cry had to make the bulk of its owner simply enormous. And it seemed to be closer than the one in front.

Hiero looked desperately about. They were in shadows on the edge of a big patch of open, shiny mud, well lit by the bright stars above and the half-full moon. To their left and in front was only the mud, but to their right, some dark clump of vegetation rose against the stars.

Get to the right quickly, he sent to the bear and the morse. Into those bushes or plants and lie down again. We can't face these things!

They had barely begun to move when the growth parted on the far side of the mud patch and a face out of nightmare leered over and down at them from a hundred feet away. Dimly, Hiero could see, the scientist still operating in his mind, that a frog or a three-quarter-grown tadpole might possibly have been its remote progenitor. The great opalescent eyes were set ten feet apart on the blunt, slimy head. The thing squatted many yards off the mud on monstrous, bowed forelegs, and horny claws tipped the giant toes. The incredible gape of the jaws now gleamed with lines of giant fangs, teeth such as no frog ever had, like a forest of ivory needles, each a foot long, glistening in the moonlight.

The morse did not move, and Gorm, almost paralyzed with fear, shrank against one of his rigid forelegs. The priest raised the thrower and took careful aim, saying a silent prayer as he did so. Even the powerful charge of the small rocket shells was simply not designed for this scale of being. Under his body, Hiero felt the bull gathering himself for an enormous leap. Klootz's hindquarters tensed and sank down.

Wait! Hiero sent, just as Klootz was about to explode like a coiled spring. The man had seen the attention of the monstrosity suddenly waver. It crouched as he watched, and its eyes and head shifted to the left and behind them.

Then, suddenly, it just took off. The pillarlike hind legs, no doubt the legacy of some pre-Death ranid ancestor, hurled the whole bulk of the titan, long tail trailing, past and over the three shrinking mammals. Before they could even blink, the weight of what must have been fifteen tons hit the mucky ground well behind them. The shock wave made the mud rise in a mighty wave, and at the same time an incredible flailing uproar broke out, great limbs kicking and tremendous bodies straining, while showers of plant matter and acres of muck were hurled into the night air. The vast creature had fallen upon another of its own kind, Hiero realized, suddenly remembering the second awful cry which had come in from their rear.

It took little urging to get Gorm and the morse away from the appalling sounds of the struggle. They galloped away through mud and slime, splashing recklessly through several shallow lagoons and over reeking patches of some evil-smelling herbage. Finally the uproar died away in the distance and Hiero commanded a halt. They now stood on a long, raised bar of packed, dried reeds, jammed together by some floor of a past year, and listened to the night.

The insect and frog chorus reverberated, but otherwise nothing else sounded or moved beneath the white moon, save for the cry of a startled heron which they disturbed. They could see quite a way in several directions, the principal obstacles to viewing now consisting of great reeds, whose clumps had been steadily increasing as they progressed. Some of the smooth stalks were two feet around, and the feathery tops towered up far over the soft up-thrust points of Klootz's antlers. Between the reeds grew many huge mallows and stands of giant arrowweed, the triangular leaves of the latter dipping gently like fans in the gentle breeze. Lanes of still moonlit water stretched between the patches of mud and plant life, some opening into large ponds, others winding out of sight around distant corners. It was a scene of strange beauty, and even the ever-present smells of the dissolving marsh gases and rotting vegetation did not really detract from it, Hiero thought as he gazed.

With an effort, he recalled himself to the present. They were very lucky, in the headlong flight from the amphibian colossi, not to have blundered into some other and possibly worse peril. It was definitely time to pause and consider the next step. The Abbey maps were quite useless here, and Gorm was as alien to this strange country of mingled land and water as Hiero himself. What guides had they, then? They knew in which direction they wished to travel, south, and where it lay. They knew the Unclean were seemingly somewhere still on their tracks, coming from the opposite direction, the North they had left behind. The great swamp stretched before them unbroken to the horizon. The limits of its existence, both from the maps' outlines and the brief glimpse the priest had caught through the eyes of the Unclean flyer, were shorter ahead of them than to either side. The marshes might stretch for hundreds of miles in the lateral directions but barely for fifty in front, southward, if his vision was any judge, the man reflected. There really wasn't much choice. South and through the narrowest part of the swamp the path had to go. There were sure to be dangers, but, true to his training, Hiero had selected the route which promised the most for the least, in terms of rewards and perils.

Through the remainder of the night they slowly moved on south, wading through many shallow pools and avoiding equally many deep ones. It was necessary to swim on two occasions, broad channels which intersected their path and could not be circled. In the first one nothing occurred, but as they left the second, and the dripping morse hauled himself out on the mud bank, Hiero, looking back, saw the black water heave ominously, as if something large were moving off the bottom. He had been carrying his thrower across the saddle, ready for any action, but above all he dreaded an assault from below, in which all of them would be more or less helpless. The bear he had made swim just in front of Klootz's nose, so that he could at least attempt to defend him if he were attacked.

As they now stood looking at one another, the priest could not help smiling ruefully. All three of them were soaked, and mud caked the legs of the four-foots. The clinging bog smell was vile, and there was no way of getting rid of it, not until they got out of the swamps, at any rate. One advantage the caked mud gave the animals was that it at least partially protected them from the incessant, droning attack of the mosquitoes. Slapping at himself, Hiero wondered if his protective ointment would last. He was used to bug bites, as any woodsman had to be, but the legions which rose from the Palood were something else again! To make matters worse, huge brown leeches had to be picked off the two animals at almost every stop, filthy things which haunted every pool of water.

The first day was spent huddled in a thicket of the towering green reeds. Determined not to be caught out in the open muck or water by one of the flying enemy during daylight, Hiero had hacked a careful way into the reeds which he thought unlikely to be seen from above. By the time the sun was fully up, they were well hidden in the heart of the reeds, but little more, if any, comfortable than if they had been in the open. It was a cloudless morning, and the August sun grew steadily hotter as the day advanced. The mosquitoes, shunning the light, were overjoyed to find helpless targets buried deep in the shade and attacked in new armies. Minute gnats and crawling bugs, mercifully absent during the hours of darkness, joined the onslaught and helped make them all miserable. As if that were not enough, the leeches, too, emerged from the water and, suckers waving, inched onto the three at every chance.

The man cut what he could spare from his own mosquito net and managed to rig crude muzzle screens for the two tortured beasts so that they could at least breathe in comfort without inhaling clouds of flying, stinging pests. Beyond plastering themselves with as much mud as possible, there was little else they could do. At least, Hiero thought, there was no water shortage. Where the pools were not churned up or too shallow, he had found the water to be perfectly clean and needing only to be strained once to remove insects and other vermin before being added to his canteens.

Food was another matter. There was some grouse, quite a lot of pemeekan, and even more of the biscuit left in the saddlebags, but he was aware that it really ought to be saved as much as possible. The morse would simply have to be allowed to feed before they started the night's journey; there was certainly enough succulent vegetation growing in or near the water. But what could the poor bear do but eat the dwindling rations along with himself? Aha! Aha!

He fumbled quickly in the near saddlebag, momentarily forgetting the insects and the cloying heat. Sure enough, the fishing equipment was still in its case. Let's see now, he thought, can I reach the water from here with a throw?

Carefully tying a shiny, weighted lure to the gut line, he threw it out into the channel which ran, brown and turbid, a few yards from the mouth of the tunnel he had carved for them in the roadbed.

On the third cast, a violent tug signified some luck; and soon a fat, striped fish, a perch of some unknown sort, he thought, weighing about three pounds, was flapping its tail on the packed mud bank. Before his luck ran out, he had caught two more of them. He gave one to Gorm, who fell upon it and seemed to find it excellent. The other two he cleaned and scaled, packing one away for later and eating one now himself. He had eaten raw fish many times before, and examination showed these not to be infested with worms, as was sometimes the case. Certainly lighting a fire would be the absolute height of folly, knowing that the heavens were no longer free of inimical eyes. He ate one of the dry biscuits with the fish and a small lump of pemeekan, since the fish contained no fat or oil. Then he curled up for a nap, doing his best to ignore the vermin, winged and legged, and to endure as stoically as his two allies.

At nightfall, having seen nothing of the winged watcher during the day, he told Klootz to go and eat; and soon the steady maceration of water plants added to the insect and frog drone. Some sorts of small birds appeared in quantity in the evening sky for the first time, and he could hear their many shrill calls as they hawked for insects over the marshland. He sourly felt that about eight million more of them would be needed to diminish the mosquito population in some degree. He shared two biscuits and the other fish with the small bear, who also had found and dug himself two whitish roots or tubers from the mud. Tasting one of them gingerly, Hiero felt the sting of some powerful acid and knew that he would be unable to supplement his own diet with this particular plant.

Giving the big morse an hour to feed, Hiero decided, would be about all the time he could spare. The marshes had to be traversed and the sooner the better. As things were now, they could travel only during the night, and even that time was cut into by feeding and finding shelter.

Kiootz came willingly enough, and his master noticed that he had not bathed, that only his head and legs as far as the hock were wet. Since the big morse loved water and wallowed at every opportunity, this was surprising.

Something (nature unknown) in the deep water (under/watching), came the thought when the priest sent a question. Bad too/ very bad (to) fight.

This matter-of-fact statement from his mount made Hiero blink. He saddled hastily and, calling Gorm, rode to the far side of the reed island they were on. Moonlit shallows stretched away before them, broken by many mud banks, and no deep, open water was visible except far off and to one side. The man was very glad they had swum the other channel the night before and wondered what the morse had sensed lurking out there. It never occurred to him to question Klootz's judgment or his keen senses. If he said there was something bad out in the water, then there was, and if he was afraid of it, it must be pretty horrendous. It could be anything, from a colossal snapper to one of the great frog monsters they had encountered previously. Or something nastier still, Hiero reflected. He had wondered earlier why the flying watcher had made no appearance during the day. Perhaps the answer was too simple. The great marsh was (rightly) thought so dangerous that the Unclean either could not believe he had entered it or, if they did, were confident he would never emerge. Both conclusions made logical sense, he admitted to himself.

Once during the night they heard the vast, bellowing cry of a giant amphibian, but the sound came from far away and to one side, in the distant East. Again, later, from a tangle of tall vegetation they were skirting, there came a mighty hissing, as if the grandfather of ail snakes were suddenly angry. They made haste to leave the area, and although Hiero was careful to watch the back trail for an hour or so, nothing appeared to be following them. Gorm was very cautious in the lead, testing all the mud patches they traversed to be sure that they were not some quicksand or ooze which would sink the whole party. Twice such areas were found, but the bear seemed quite able to tell them from the rest of the landscape, and the man gradually relaxed his fear of being mired in some sucking bog.

The damp air was stirred by fitful breezes, and ever-stranger odors came to them as they went deeper and deeper into the watery waste. It occurred to the priest, watching Klootz's broad hooves flatten on the mud, that he might well be the first man to try the swamp with both a steed who was semi-aquatic and a priceless guide and outrider such as the young bear. This might mean that they would succeed and get through where others had failed.

They spent another miserable day, this time in the rain, which fortunately was warm. Gorm had located another mound of rotted plant matter from which reeds and giant docks were growing, and once again Hiero hollowed out a cave into which they all had to crawl.

It was still raining at evening, and Hiero had caught no more fish, despite repeated efforts. He and the bear shared some grouse, biscuit, and pemeekan, but the animal could discover none of the roots he had found earlier. Klootz, however, seemed quite pleased with the water plants near their mound, and there was no deep water nearby, so that he was able to have a roll in the muddy shallows.

Eventually Gorm led off again, with a fine drizzle still falling and little if any light to illuminate their way. Possibly as a result, they had to swim on two occasions, though fortunately without incident.

In actuality, they were all very lucky, if Hiero had only bothered to think for a moment. For three days, they had safely penetrated the great wilderness of water and yet had seen or encountered few of the monstrous life forms which inhabited it. And despite the swarms of noxious insects which caused them all such misery, Hiero, much the most susceptible, had caught none of the sickening fevers which made even the very borders of the Palood feared.

Once again, the priest hacked away into an island of partly growing, partly dead plant matter. After adjusting the mosquito masks on the animals, he put on his own and prepared for another soggy, leech-and bug-ridden day of itching and cursing. They were camped on the edge of a dark, deep lagoon, but he ignored the black water, his wariness for once strangely lulled.

The priest was so tired, however, that he soon fell asleep, despite the bites and the steamy heat. As the day passed, he lay in a sort of drugged torpor and the two animals slept also, hardly moving and simply enduring, while even the thick mud-plastered hides of the morse and the bear were drilled again and again by the sucking worms and clouds of waiting gnats and stinging flies.

Exhausted they must all have been, but there perhaps was more to it than that. Deep in one of the saddlebags, a tiny bead of light glowed under a glass dial, brightened, dimmed, and then grew bright again. Forces and currents, invisible to the eye but nonetheless powerful, moved through the steaming fog which lay on the Palood. In dark places, unknown to normal mankind, consultations were held, fears explored, and decisions taken. Curious things stirred under the slime, and the Unclean concentrated their vast powers on the heart of the bog, where a telltale glow on one of their hidden control boards told them a deadly enemy of unknown power, a foe to their fell purposes, now lay concealed. From drowned cities, lost and buried forever under the fens and mud of the marshland, came the flicker of strange movement and unnatural life.

The morning grew old. A pale sun shone through a watery fog and yellowish vapor rack. No wind disturbed the quiet pools, and the tops of the tall reeds and docks hung limp in the mists and humid steams which rose from the surface of the great fen. Still the three drowsed on, occasionally murmuring or groaning softly in the tip of their overlong sleep. Afternoon passed and still they lay, unmoving. The light died slowly as the sun sank into the cloudy west. Now the white fogs of night began to rise from the meres and dark waters, mingling with those left from the day, until vision shrank and one could see only in streaks where the veils curled aside before reclosing and forming new banks of haze and murk.

At this dree hour came the Dweller in the Mist. From what foul den or lurking place it issued, none would ever know. The ghastly cosmic forces unleashed by The Death had made the mingling of strange life possible, and things had grown and thought which should never have known the breath of life. Of such was the Dweller. How it had found the three, only it, or perhaps the Lords of the Unclean, could have said. Perhaps the telltale in the saddlebag helped. It had found them, and that was enough.

Some warning gave Hiero a fighting chance, some spark sent by the trained soul the Abbey fathers had taught, to the trained mind which they had disciplined. He woke, clutching the silver cross and sword upon its neck thong, and saw before him the doom which had stolen upon them as they slept.

The vapors had parted briefly over the dark lagoon which lay before the entrance to their refuge. Around a corner of the next islet of mud and reeds came a small boat. It was hardly more than a skiff, of some black wood, with a rounded bow and stern. On it, standing erect and motionless, was a figure swathed in a whitish cloak and hood. What propelled the strange craft was not apparent, but it moved steadily through the oily water, coming straight for the place where the priest now sat, staring.

Before the shrouded figure in the pale draperies, there came out a wave of fell power and evil intent which struck Hiero and piled over him like some vast and clammy net. Beside him, the two faithful beasts apparently slept on, unmoving. The force which the Dweller commanded held them in their places, if not asleep, at least numbed into unconsciousness. The man knew that something had caught them all unaware which might, in truth, destroy the bodies of the two animals, but which was really directed at him, and the aim of which was the total enslavement of his mind and soul. Here, he knew on the instant, was the embodiment of the warning given by the little Eyed Cross.

All this flashed through his mind as he prepared to do battle and the black skiff glided to a halt, nosing into the soft mud bank not ten feet from where he sat. From the place of his inner being, Hiero looked into the shadows under the pale hood; and from that caverned place, the Dweller's eyes, two pits of ocherous evil, stared silently back.

In one sense, though only the broadest, it was another mental struggle, such as Hiero had waged unsuccessfully against S'nerg.

But there were important differences. The Unclean wizard, bad as he was, was still a man, and his control owed much to simple hypnotic techniques, amplified and strengthened by years of training and practice in telepathic control. That which was called the Dweller was not remotely human, and the powers it drew upon were somehow inherent and natural to it. It sought control by a form of mental parasitism, as a vampire sucks blood by instinct, rather than by any design. Its form of attack was non-physical but two-pronged.

Hiero felt an intensification of the smothering, clinging feeling which had announced the Dweller's coming. His mind, his body, his inner processes, his center of being, felt steadily constricted and squeezed, as well as feeling a constant drain of energy. In addition, however, a subtle feeling of pleasure was projected at the same time, a sense that the Dweller meant all that was good and beneficial, both to his physical and to his spiritual well-being. There was a subtle biological side effect, sexual in nature, which filled Hiero's mind with mingled loathing and delight at one and the same time. The overall attack was very powerful. The psychic energy of the swamp-thing seemed almost a visible aura around its shrouded head, the bulk and shape of which, even under its wrappings, looked all wrong and somehow not physically possible or proper.

One hand clutching the Cross and Sword on his breast, the priest fought grimly back. The part of his total being which was being seduced by the promise of unspeakable pleasures he concentrated on memories of strength and austerity. Such were the Abbey choir services of the motet evenings, the mental courts where novices battled one another in silent struggles of the mind. He had obtained just enough time before the Dweller's net was cast to start reciting the table of logarithms with yet another part of his brain. Long ago, the Abbey masters had learned that the ancient mathematical formulas were a strong defense against mental attack. Based as they were on logic, repetition, and disciplined series, they formed a strong barrier, when properly utilized, against the illogic and confusion which, of necessity, were the chief mental weapons of the Unclean. Yet it was a struggle which Hiero felt to be steadily going against him. The draining power of the Dweller seemed inexhaustible. Each time the priest blocked off an avenue into his mind by which it tried to lure him into acquiescence, another similar attack would commence on some other flaw in his psyche. And the steady compression of what Hiero felt to be a net never ceased its remorseless constriction as well. The appeals to his gross senses and the black, strangling clutch at his thought processes seemed more and more hopeless to combat.

Yet, even as his will seemed to him to weaken, his courage and resolution actually flared higher in response to the danger. And an unexpected help came, unrealized in fact at this time, from the dead mind of S'nerg, whom the priest had slain. His struggle with the adept had given Hiero's own dormant powers a new strength of which he had as yet no conception. He battled on, therefore, no hint of yielding in his soul, determined that if this nightmare from the swamp murk were to conquer him, it would only be at the price of his death!

The physical world about him had completely disappeared. He was conscious of only the black foulness before him, the veil from which stared the twin pools of lambent horror, the eyes of the Dweller! And in those eyes he saw, or sensed, for the first time, something change, some shift or evasion. So close now was his rapport with the thing before him that he realized at once what had happened. It was no longer attacking! The doubt, faint as it was, had interfered with the stream of projections and mental bolts which the Dweller had been using, and even the tiny hesitation had broken the flow of its concentration. To gain the victories to which it had been used, weakness and weariness must help and undisciplined minds must inevitably yield to the frightful powers it both controlled and lived by.

For the first time, Hiero's mind reached out and, in a way impossible for a non-telepath to imagine, struck back at the Dweller. The stroke was not one of great strength, being both hesitant and clumsy. But the thing almost visibly staggered. It had never been challenged so in all its foul existence, prowling the swamp and its borders for prey. What became of its victims was best unthought. To what hell they had been lured and their subsequent fate there, no one would ever know, but Hiero always felt that some joint serfdom of physical pain and soul suffering was their fate.

Again he lashed out with a mental bolt and this time actually saw the horrid spots of spectral light which were its eyes blink in response. Gaining confidence with each probe he directed, he felt new strength surge through him. For the first time in a long while, or what seemed so, he became aware of the world about him and felt the night air on his face and saw the hooded shape before him and its place in the scheme of things, not as an inchoate force, but as a vile object to be destroyed. He next struck at the net of thought which the Dweller had tried to use to compress his mind in a cage, and one strong blow shattered the invisible bonds completely. Now, rejoicing in the clean surge of energy which he was using, he shaped a web of his own, willing the strands of psychic energy to form a pattern of power which would hold the living horror which was the Dweller enmeshed in its own turn. Remorselessly, calling on the Trinity and all the saints to aid, he began to choke the monster's mind and dark spirit as it had tried to do to him.

Neither one had moved a muscle during the encounter. But as the burning, almost tangible power of the warrior-priest began to slay the Dweller, it let out one fearful cry, a mewing sound, as if some ghastly stringed instrument, some guitar forged in the nethermost pit, had struck an impossible chord. Then, grimly, it fought for its existence. And fought in vain, for all its shifts and evasions, its counterstrokes and lurements, were to no purpose.

Fending off each rally by the mere-thing, Hiero, by the power of his trained will and armed spirit, inexorably drew the strands of his mind trap tighter and tighter. When he had bent a last effort (he thought) and still found the other's will unbroken, he breathed harder and, using his new knowledge, concentrated a dart of energy, which went through the net he fashioned in some way without disturbing it.

Once more, and for the last time, that awful mewing, twanging cry, the death scream of something never meant to give voice at all, echoed over the lonely fens.

Then—there was an instantaneous vacuum, as if a soundless bubble had burst, perhaps somewhere in another alien dimension superimposed upon ours. And then, nothing more. There was only the soughing of the night wind in the reed tops, the hum of countless insect hordes, and the rasping obligate of frog voices.

The black skiff still lay nosed upon the muck, just in front of Hiero's tunnel. But no hooded figure now stood glaring in at the priest. A heap of colorless rags lay spilled half over the gunwales, and from the clothes, a sticky, oily substance was leaking, covering the now moonlit water with a foul stain. A charnel stench came from the rags, a reek which made the worst efforts of the marsh gases seem like perfume by comparison. Whatever had worn the hooded cloak had returned to its native elements, as foul in its strange death as it had been in life.

Choking at the vile smell, Hiero rose and, putting one foot on the strange little craft, gave it a hearty shove. To his amazement, the skiff did not simply glide off at the force of his push, but instead turned and moved away, in steady progress up the channel down which it had first come. He could see clearly now, for the mists had cleared while he had fought for his life, and he watched the mysterious boat, bearing the remains of its ghastly pilot, sedately turn a corner in the reed banks and vanish. In its strange going, it kept the last secret of the Dweller in the Mist.

Wearily, Hiero looked up at the white moon. The incredible struggle had gone on for at least three hours and yet had seemed like only a few moments. When the Dweller had first appeared, the last sickly light of the fog-shrouded sun still lingered in the west. But the position of the moon showed that it now was not far short of ten o'clock.

He turned and looked down at his two partners in jeopardy. For the first time, he smiled. The bear was swatting mosquitoes in his sleep and growling angrily as he did. Klootz was also asleep, but emitting gargantuan grunts and rumblings, while every inch of his great hide twitched and rippled in an effort to shake off the stinging bugs. Whatever spell they all had been under was completely lifted, that was certain.

The priest said a brief prayer of thanks while he watched the gibbous moon rise still farther. He was still somewhat bemused, and his nervous energy was a long way from returning to normal, while the tremendous dose of psychic strength he had utilized to fight the Dweller had taken a toll. He felt as if he had been riding for two days without a break, at a full gallop.

But it was not time to delay. The mystery of how the horror of the mere had found them was insoluble, at least at present, but one thing was clear, it had had help! That much he had been able to read from its anguished brain, even as he destroyed it and sent it back to the nameless deeps from which it should never have emerged. Somehow, even though he had seen no flier, felt no follower of any kind, the three had been tracked. They must move on and at once, before fresh forces could be assembled for their destruction. Hiero felt fairly sure that the Dweller had not been able, even if willing, to summon any aid in its last moments, because he now knew the strength of the weapon which he had used to slay it. And it had been too preoccupied fighting for its unnatural life to send any messages whatsoever. But if it could find them, by whatever means, so could others. This was a matter on which he would have to take thought, but later on, not now.

He was amused that his new confidence seemed more than temporary. Beyond, and indeed underlying, the amusement was a hard-won feeling of mental power. Hiero knew, without even wondering how he knew, that Abbot Demero or any others of the Council would now be hard-put to stand against him. He hastily put aside such thoughts as vainglorious and impertinent, but they were still there, buried but not dead, in the deep reaches of his mind. He was learning something the Abbey scholars of the mental arts were just beginning to conceive, the fact that mental powers accrete in a geometric, not arithmetical, progression, depending on how much and how well they are used. The two battles Hiero had won, even though the bear had helped decide the first, had given the hidden forces of his already strong mind a dimension and power he would not himself have believed possible. And the oddest thing was, he knew it.

Tired, but feeling somehow wonderful anyway, he roused Gorm and the morse. The bear rose, sniffed the air, and then sent a message. You have fought. It is in the air. (But) there is no blood (and) we have not waked. The enemy which strikes the mind? (Doubt/fear?)

Marveling at the bear's perceptions, not for the last time, Hiero briefly told him of the Dweller and the fact that it was gone forever.

Gone, that is good. But you are weary, very!! Weary and also troubled (as to how) the enemy found (smelled out) us. Let us go. We (can) eat later.

The big morse nosed him all over and wrinkled his lip in distaste at some smell he seemed to detect on the mud-smeared leather. Hiero saddled him, picking off some more of the big leeches as he did, and in a short time they were on their way again, under the bright moon.

The night's journey was uneventful. Beyond Klootz's shying at a small water snake and Gorm's frightened avoidance of a still pool covered with the scented pale blossoms of some giant nenuphar, nothing occurred.

Dawn saw them camped in yet another clump of vegetation. But it was not a reed bed, but rather a hollow in some large, rounded bushes, with laurellike, dark green leaves. Hiero guessed, and rightly, that the appearance of these woody plants and also the solid ground on which they grew meant that at long last the Palood was coming to an end. He fell asleep as the sun rose in a clear sky. As he dropped off, he dimly heard the morse chewing his cud and, very faintly, far off in the distance, the apparent raucous screeching of many birds.

That evening, after sundown, when the three had all fed, the man and bear sharing pack rations and Klootz thirty pounds of fresh green fodder, Hiero sat for a moment before leaving, All day, while nodding drowsily in the high-cantled saddle, he had ruminated over the problem of pursuit.

How had the Dweller been led to them? The bogs and pools swallowed any tracks on the instant. No hunters trailed them beyond earshot. The three were too sensitive now to allow any undetected surveillance of that sort. Could a flier be so high in the sky at night that they, the travelers, were visible to it? Perhaps a means of seeing at night lay open to the enemy of which the Abbey scientists knew nothing. But he had to dismiss the thought. If that were the case, there was nothing he could do about it anyway, but he did not believe it. No, the fragment of thought he had plucked from the dissolving mind of the living foulness which was the Dweller had seemed to say (or meant) that the creature had been led to its sleeping victims.

Led by what? The priest continued to brood as he saddled Klootz and swung up into the saddle for the night's ride. And as he rode along under the serene light of the moon and countless stars, he continued to dwell on the problem. The hunting pack of giant water-ferrets had simply followed the trail by means of their keen noses. Or had they? Had they, and perhaps the flier too, some better guide, some aid which allowed them, if not to pinpoint the exact location of the three, at least to know the general position where they might be found? "Damn it, how!" Hiero muttered aloud in vexation. "It's as if they had a string on me somehow, something on me they could follow, like a bad smell that never grows any fainter."

His thoughts shifted to the Unclean as he spoke, and suddenly he grunted at his own stupidity. Quickly he ordered a halt. They were crossing a hard-packed sandbar at the time, and the instant Klootz and the bear stopped, Hiero was down on the ground, tearing open one of the saddlebags. His hand seized what he wanted, and he pulled it out into the moonlight.

It was a moment of irritation, bitter and intense, when he held the betrayer in his hand. He smiled grimly at the realization of how the possessions of the dead adept, S'nerg, had led his foul avengers upon the tracks of his killers. The tiny bead of light in the thing like a compass glowed steadily as it rocked back and forth on its circular track. The priest needed no more proof; he knew.

Whatever else the curious instrument was, and it probably had several uses, it was also a "homer" of some kind, a fix which told the position of its owner to his friends so that he would never be totally out of touch. Enraged at his own folly, Hiero crushed the instrument under his heel. He had no fear of the rod and the knife, since he knew the former's powers, and the knife was simply and only that, a knife. Once more he remounted and, with a lighter heart, signaled his companions to lead off south.

Far away, in a place buried deep beyond the reach of the last, dimmest ray of the sun, a hooded figure turned from a great board of many-colored lights, and pointing to one darkened bulb which was set in a vast wire frame, showed by a shrug that it had now gone out.

4 - Luchare

By the time the next dawn that they made camp, well before the rising of the. sun, Hiero and the two animals could see that the great marsh was at last coming to an end. All night the hard sandbars had grown more and more frequent, steadily replacing the mud and soft muck of the swamp. Huge logs, some still bearing leaves, showed that seasonal flooding or storm-driven waters came into this area at frequent intervals. Patches of higher, firmer ground now supported stunted trees instead of the great reeds, and occasional spines of rock protruded from the ponds and channels, forming craggy islets in the wider and more open stretches. Halting on top of one of these, whose ramplike slope had tempted him to gain a better look about, the man glimpsed a number of great, domed shapes, black against the moonlit sand, moving on a beach below him. Their furious activity puzzled him until he realized that he had caught a group of snappers laying their leathery eggs in the churned-up sand. He dismounted and waited patiently, signaling the bear to do the same. After the moon reached zenith, the last of the monster turtles waddled back into the water and disappeared, their task of reproduction over for another season.

Keeping a sharp eye out for any stragglers, Hiero and the bear went down and dug up a nest they had previously marked in the moonlight as being in a shallow hole. Gorm gulped down three of the great, golden-yolked things, each an easy hand length in diameter, while Hiero spooned up one himself. But he packed the morse's saddlebags with eight more, all he could get in and then the group set off again, the bear moving rather more slowly because of his gorged stomach.

As they topped a small rise in the land, Hiero reined up. Ahead of them reared a row of dark hills which shut off the view of the country beyond. Where these mysterious mountains had come from was a puzzle to him, since they ought to have been visible a long way off and yet had not been. He decided to camp on the spot, selecting a handy cleft in a large rock which was partly overhung by vines and bushes. The puzzle of the suddenly appearing hills could wait for dawn, and that was not far away.

As the sun slowly rose, Hiero peered out and started to laugh, in both joy and relief, making the bear look curiously at him. The "mountains" he had seen a few hours before were nothing but a crest of tall sand dunes, and they were no more than a mile away, across a belt of scrub with a few streams trickling through them. He, or they, rather, had conquered the great marsh!

For a long time he lay, the morning sun warm on his tanned brow, and watched the dunes. A short distance beyond them could only lie the Inland Sea. A road led to the extreme western edge of this great body of fresh water, that is, a road from the Metz Republic, far to the northwest. But Hiero knew that he was nowhere near the place where that road reached the brawling port town of Namcush. He must be hundreds of miles further to the east, and what towns if any lay in this part of the sea or on its shores, no one really knew, beyond perhaps some few close-mouthed and suspicious merchants. The men of the merchant guilds sometimes voyaged for thousands of miles, but many of them were pagans with no love for the Abbeys, or the Republic either, or indeed any governing body, save their own loose, mercantile federation. They were not men who gave up information easily, and more than one of them was certain to be allied with, if not an actual servant of, the Unclean. Yet it was necessary to deal with the merchants, and some of them were good men who served as spies and secret messengers for the Abbeys, often earning themselves a horrible death.

It was mostly information given by trading merchants, sometimes filtered through thousands of miles of rumor, which Hiero had stored in his brain, ready for mnemonic recall whenever he needed it. But any information of the Inland Sea's eastern, central, or southern end was vague, out-of-date, and apt to be inaccurate.

A number of ships sailed the Inland Sea, some of them mere rowing barges but most with sails. Pirates manned some of them, and merchants and traders others. Sometimes it was hard to tell which was which, for, like the Vikings of remote legend, an honest merchant sometimes found a colleague in trouble too easy a bargain to resist.

Also in the deep waters and among the many islands skulked the Unclean, in strange, seldom-glimpsed craft. And there were great beasts too, lurking in the open deeps, some of which came into shallow water to seize their prey. Other vast, nameless monsters were said to be plant eaters, but were nonetheless bellicose and easily aroused to fury.

The worst of the so-called natural disasters and perils, though, were ancient, as old as the Inland Sea itself, which had once been five smaller seas, a thing the oldest of the Abbey's preserved maps clearly showed. These were the places of the cold Death, where the fires of the dreadful radiation of the last cataclysm still poisoned the air and water. Most of them had lost their once dreadful potency. Daring freebooters sometimes risked a horrible end to loot one of the Lost Cities which bordered the Inland Sea and had been designated over five thousand years gone as First Strike targets. Some of these dreaded places were plague centers too, so that a man ran the risk of dying hideously of radiation poisoning, or, if he missed that, of some fell sickness and of passing that on to his neighbors before he died himself.

As a result, those who went to the Lost Cities, even those places judged to be cleansed by time and the elements, were apt to do so secretly, lest their fellows (unless pirates themselves) be inclined to kill them out of hand for threatening them in turn with an unpleasant death by disease.

Around the shores of the Sea and on its surface, too, roamed various groups of human nomads, some living from the water directly, as fishermen, others gleaning the refuse of the shore or doing both and living in semi-permanent camps. By all accounts, the Inland Sea and its environs was a lively place, where a man could get himself killed in a different way for each of the twenty-four hours, seven days a week, with no fear of repetition.

All this ran through Hiero's mind as he stared at the dunes and imagined what might lie on their far side. And so dreaming, he fell asleep, the sun beating down on his bearded face, tangled black hair, now stiff with filth, and his mud-caked clothes, A piece of abandoned human refuse, he looked, as he lay under the hot sun, instead of a Per of the Church Universal and an Abbey scholar of good repute.

Anxious to push on, he allowed Klootz only a short time to browse that evening. The young bear had caught Hiero's excitement and was as eager to be off as he. As soon as they had gulped a meal of five-day-old grouse (now growing a shade high) and biscuits, they set off, all feeling a sense of release after the ordeal behind them.

The moonlit scrub area which lay between them and the tall dunes proved to be mostly berry bushes, intermingled with a few low cactuses of the pincushion variety. The ripe berries, a reddish brown, were tasted by the bear, who at once began to gulp pawfuls. The big morse wasted no time in reaching out and lipping in whole branches, and Hiero, after failing to identify the fruit, nevertheless ate a pound of the sweet things himself and felt the better for it. When all three could hold no more, they ambled on, feeling much too full to set a fast pace.

The white sand dunes, soon reached, proved to be only about a hundred feet high and filled with gullies and other easy methods of gaining the top. In no time, the travelers stood at the summit of one of them and gazed in delight at the sight which lay before them, spread out clear and distinct under the soft light of the three-quarter moon.

They were gazing down at a great bay of the Inland Sea. Directly before them, below and no more than a thousand paces away, was a long, white strand, blotched and partially covered with driftwood and flotsam. Straight out to the calm south, the water lay almost motionless until the gaze met the dark horizon of night. Faintly visible to both right and left, tall, black promontories guarded the mouth of the bay, which was perhaps five miles deep and twice that wide. No breeze but the faintest, stirred, hardly enough to ruffle the man's filthy locks. The water was as calm as a bath. The Inland Sea, whose savage storms were legendary, was in a moment of repose and slept, undisturbed by any wind or other atmospheric turbulence.

But all was not lifeless. From the shore below them, and out some few leagues into the bay, great leaves, round and many yards across, floated on the smooth mirror of the water. White flowers, blooms of some enormous lily, opened here and there, and the intoxicating perfume they gave off was so strong that Hiero could almost feel the fragrance as a material thing.

In the open water between the giant lily pads, great, dark bodies noisily churned the water into boils of foam and then vanished, only to reappear and shatter the calm surface somewhere else a hundred feet away. A herd of some enormous, feeding animals were disporting themselves, wallowing and splashing in the relative shallows near shore, and as they rose and sank, small waves rolled up the gentle beach and the huge round leaves of the lilies dipped and rocked on the water, set in uneasy motion.

Hiero sat down with a sigh to watch. His hopes of a clean bath in the sea were obviously doomed to postponement. Even allowing for the distortion of night, any one of those things down there would make four of Klootz, big as he was, Gorm and the morse sniffed the breeze in loud snorts, excited at the smells of the night and the noise of the sportive behemoths. Hiero bade them lie down and wait with him.

Presently one of the creatures emerged from the water and waddled out upon the sand directly below the watchers. It was huge, long, and low, balanced on four short, sturdy legs, each with three wide toes. There was a great, blunt head, shaped like a long-snouted keg. It yawned suddenly, displaying a pale gullet in the moonlight, which also glinted on huge tusks set at each corner of the gaping jaws. As the water ran off its great back in runnels, a short, plush coat of fur began to dry and give the animal a lighter shade of color. Something in looks like a cross between a pre-Death hog, a hippopotamus, and even a Brobdingnagian seal, what its ancestors had been was a mystery. It began to graze contentedly on some short-stemmed plants, and the contrast between its peaceable eating habits and otherwise horrendous demeanor made Hiero chuckle.

Faint as the sound was, the great beast heard it and its small ears flapped vigorously as it looked suspiciously about. Deciding the neighborhood was apparently dangerous, even though it could see nothing, it lumbered back into the water, twitching a tiny curled tail, and rejoined its fellows among the enormous lily pads.

Happening to glance beyond the herd and out to sea, the priest caught an even more wonderful sight, which left him dumb with amazement and awe.

From the quiet water out near the mouth of the bay, there soared into the moonlit night the black outline of a monster fish, long and slender with a sharp-pointed head, identical in appearance with the pike Hiero was used to hooking in every cool northern lake. For a fleeting instant he felt himself back in his piney wilderness looking at a leaping catch, not on the unknown shores of the warm sea of the South. Then, as he shook his head to clear his vision, the scale of what he was seeing came home to him.

"God in Heaven!" he murmured aloud. The titanic, falling shape hit the shining water with a crack which echoed like the noise of a colossal thrower shell, and the sound echoed back from the distant cliffs. The fish he had just seen could have swallowed one of the ponderous water beasts below him in two bites!

He looked down in amazement. A few ripples stirred the giant leaves, and tiny wavelets lapped the shore, but otherwise nothing stirred. Only streaks of iridescent oil on the dark water told him that he had not been dreaming. The advent of the leviathan he had just seen had made the herd of great water hogs vanish as silently as if they had never been there at all.

He waited with his impatient allies for a few more moments, but since the waters remained silent and undisturbed, he decided the big animals must have dived and gone elsewhere. In any event, the dirt and filth accumulated during the journey through the swamps were too unbearable to stand any longer unless absolutely necessary.

Thrower cocked and the butt resting on his hips, Hiero urged his big mount down the white face of the dune. Klootz simply sat on his broad bottom, braced his splayed-out front legs, and slid, the bear sliding along next to him.

Once at the bottom, they all paused and looked about them, keen ears and noses testing the breeze for signs of danger. Seeing and hearing nothing, the calm bay before them still undisturbed, they tramped over to the water's edge. To the intense annoyance of the big morse, after unsaddling him, his master told him to stand guard. He stamped off up the beach, grumbling, and took a stance on a hillock of sand, shaking his still-soft antlers in anger.

Gorm waded carefully into water about six inches deep and then, lying down, began to roll over and over, emitting "whoofs" of sheer pleasure. Hiero painfully removed his filthy clothes, save for his linen and shorts, and laid them in the sandy shallows, weighted down by a large rock, to soak. He next carefully cleaned his undressed leather boots with a knife and a stiff brush, the latter taken from a saddlebag. This done, he was ready for his own bath. He also did not go very far in. He was a fine swimmer, but the recent glimpse of the local wildlife had cured him of any desire to leap out into the depths. Even where he was, he kept a wary eye out for any suspicious-looking ripples or surges. However, nothing disturbed his long-overdue wash, and he finally had had enough and came out, bringing with him the bear, whose sodden fur, pressed to his plump body, made him look a third smaller.

Grunting with joy, the big bull now rolled happily in the shallows, and chewed up several bales of the nearer lily roots and leaves when he was done, actually diving for some of them, which made Hiero very nervous. Not until Klootz too was out on the beach and drying off under the warmth of the August night did the man totally relax.

Working by feel, Hiero shaved, a rough but adequate job, and even trimmed his short mustache and his black hair also, so that it hung less heavily over his ears. With a second set of clean leather clothes from the saddlebags and his old ones now drying over some stones, he was able to enjoy the feeling of content that comes from cleanliness after a prolonged spell of enduring compulsory dirt.

A little back from the beach, a spur of gray granite thrust itself out from the sand dunes which had flowed around it over the centuries. Here, the man thought, would be a good place to camp for a day. The rock furnished a shelter on its rearward face, away from the sea, where an overhanging shelf gave access to a narrow cave.

Soon all the contents of the bags were stowed in the cave, and Hiero and the bear were snoring away in close harmony, while the faithful Klootz, chewing his cud and belching comfortably at intervals, maintained an unwearied sentinel's position just in front of the cave's entrance. just as Hiero dropped off into a deep and untroubled sleep, he was conscious once again of the harsh, far-off screaming of many birds, and mingled with it this time, a muffled resonance, a faint vibration of some kind which he could not identify. Even while his tired brain attempted to form a coherent thought about the distant sounds, sleep overcame him.

He awoke in late morning, feeling better than he had in a week. Had it only been a week since he had left the unused, dusty road far to the North?

He went out of the little cleft in the rocks and found a warm, fresh breeze blowing from the lake, which was a sparkling blue, flecked with many whitecaps. Offshore, a great drift of swans was resting, honking and gabbling. They looked as if a great mound of soft snow had been sent down unseasonably from the High Arctic.

His two allies were so full of high spirits that they were playing a game out on the open sand. The small bear would charge at the morse, snarling in apparent savagery, and the big bull would try desperately to hook him with his palmate antlers, always "missing" by a least a full bear length. When that happened, the bear would tear around in circles, trying to catch his stub of a tail, while Klootz would rear up on his hind feet and paw the air madly with his immense, bony front legs and platterlike hooves.

Hiero was so amused at the two that for a moment he forgot the possible danger of the aerial spy they had encountered previously. When he did remember, he quickly scanned the sunlit heavens, but except for a few small, puffy clouds, they were empty of motion. Nevertheless, he was disturbed. They had escaped several unpleasant deaths only by the narrowest of margins, and only a good day's ride away had he himself managed to destroy the telltale instrument which he had so thoughtlessly carried in his saddlebags. A sudden feeling of euphoria could get them all killed just as quickly as a blunder into an obvious trap. It was when you were feeling at your best that you were apt to relax, sometimes with fatal results!

He saw nothing dangerous, however, and could not help wishing he had four legs of his own so that he could join the game. As he watched, keeping a weather eye out in all directions, he thought about his further plans. For over four days the flying thing had apparently been absent. Why not try daylight travel? As they moved along the seashore, going east, it would be dangerous enough moving even in daylight, and they would need the extra vision time given by the rays of the sun. That was it, he decided. Unless he saw the flyer or found some hitherto unknown danger menacing them, they would travel by day from now on.

The two animals noticed him at this point and came gamboling over, sending up showers of sand.

Feeling good, eh, sent Hiero. You're a fine pair of guards! I could have been eaten/caught/killed by now (time past)!

They both knew he was fooling and paid not the slightest attention, except that Klootz butted him gently with his antlers, making him stagger and catch hold, lest he fall. He felt the horn, hard and getting sharper, under the soft velvet as he did so, and indeed, a piece of the latter peeled off in his hand.

Ha! he sent. Stand still, you big oaf, and (let me) try to clean you (up a bit) scrape/peel/rub.

The morse shook his head ornaments vigorously and then stood quietly while Hiero tested each section to see how loose the covering was. Like most male deer, Klootz had to grow new antlers each year, and it not only took a lot of energy but made him nervous and itched badly as well, particularly when, as now, the velvet was peeling and shredding to reveal the hard core beneath. The Abbey scientists had long ago discarded the idea of breeding the antlers out. For almost half the year they provided superb weapons of defense, and in addition, they made their wearers feel tough and confident. It was decided that the energy saved by eliminating them would be a bad bargain, and anyone who wanted to ride or drive an antlerless cow, such as most farmers used, could do so.

Hiero peeled a small amount of the covering off with his fingers, but whenever he met any resistance, let it alone. He and Klootz both knew how much help was needed and when to stop, for it had been six full seasons since they had chosen each other at the great annual calf roundup. Hiero next got out a small steel mirror and touched up his face, shaving more carefully and repainting his rank badges, now almost obliterated. This done, he repacked.

Soon they were swinging along up the edge of the beach, Hiero in the saddle and the bear lumbering over the hard-packed sand and shingle out in front. It was not long before they came upon signs that they were back in lands used by humans.

From a pile of riprap, sticks, and dried weed, which lay on the shore in a little cover, a polished human skull looked blankly up at Hiero. He dismounted and examined it thoughtfully. There was a gaping hole in the occipital region, and a few faint shreds of dried tissue there indicated the thing to be not too old. He put it down reverently and, mounting, rode on. It might be an accident, indeed there were a thousand ways of accounting for its appearance, but why a fairly fresh skull and no body at all, not even one bone? That hole looked as if something (or someone) had gone after the brains. He suppressed a grimace and said a one-line prayer for the repose of the skull's owner, assuming charitably that the man (or woman) had been a Christian.

They rested briefly at noon in the shade of a large, leaning tree of a variety new to Hiero. He recognized it as a palm of some unknown type from pictures he had seen and realized that winter could hardly be too severe in these parts if such a plant could endure it. The scrub palmettos of the Taig were able to grow only through buried trunks. He must be even further south than he had realized.

During the still heat of early afternoon they had one encounter with a foe, but it passed off without doing any harm. Rounding a shoulder of rock, and actually in shallow water, since the beach had briefly disappeared, they suddenly found a large, black-spotted, yellow cat tearing at a carcass on the next patch of open sand.

The big cat raised bloody fangs and snarled in angry warning.

Go! Suddenly deciding to test something, Hiero used a bolt from his new armory of mental weapons. Leave! Out of our way or you will die!

The animal cringed as if hit a blow by a stick. Its ears flattened, and emitting a frightened "miaow," like a vast kitten which had been spanked, it left the beach in one huge bound and vanished into the dunes in a second. Hiero was thunderstruck at his own success and then burst into laughter.

He got off and picked up the carcass, a small, striped antelope of some sort, hardly touched by the cat. It must have just been beginning to feed. Here was easily obtained food for himself and Gorm! He slung it carefully before him on the saddle. Klootz did not ruffle a long ear. Blood was nothing new to him, and he had carried far worse burdens than this one.

Sometime later, the priest, idly glancing out to sea, reined his mount up sharply, making him snort with annoyance. Sorry, an accident, Hiero sent absently. Far out on the blue, wave-flecked water, two small, black triangles were outlined against the horizon. The ship was moving along in the same direction they were, the man decided after watching it for a few moments, but far faster. Also, it seemed to be going away as well as east, so that even as he watched, it sank below the edge of the sea.

As he rode on, he made a note to keep more of an eye seaward. A telescope could probably pick Klootz and his rider out a long way off, and he had no desire to end up in one of the pagan galleys he had read of, chained to an oar with a whip instead of meals. Also, the Unclean had ships too, of some curious types, and they were supposed to haunt little-used parts of the vast freshwater sea.

They were approaching a dark promontory of rock some hundreds of feet high which projected out into the water for a short distance when the noise first came to them. It was late afternoon by then, and they had seen nothing of note for a considerable time. Hiero was wondering how deep the choppy water was at the foot of the rock massif and whether the going would be safer, if more time-consuming, inland when the rattling, screeching cry, the noise of a bird redoubled tenfold, fell upon his ears. Again, and yet again, it rang out, and then he saw it.

Briefly, over the crest of the towering, jagged rock in front of them, soared a brown bird whose saillike wingspread could not have been less than thirty feet. Before it dipped down again on the far side of the peak, it opened its long, hook-tipped beak and let out a repetition of the scream he had just heard. Other echoing screams answered it, and told him that more than one of the great birds were aloft just out of sight.

Then, mingled with the rasping cries of the birds, an unmistakable drum thundered out, a long roll of muffled thunder. When it ceased, he heard the massed yelling of a horde of people mixed with the piercing cacophony of the birds. Again the great drum rumbled, silencing for a moment the other noises. This was the noise Hiero had heard the previous dawn!

By this time, at his master's urging, Klootz was racing for the seaward base of the jutting rock. Behind him, tongue lolling out, Gorm galloped, laboring to keep up.

Not curiosity alone impelled Hiero to goad the morse on. The base of the rock was an obvious place to hide, should one of the huge birds sight him. The look of that immense hooked beak was dismaying, and the priest had no belief in his invulnerability from a flock of things that size.

Splashing through the shallows and circling the water-lapped boulders at the foot of the precipice, man and morse picked their way around the looming granite elbow and finally, both cautious, peered around the outer rim to see what had caused all the peculiar noises. Behind them, allowing them to brave whatever danger there might be, the young bear paused, waiting on events.

The first thing Hiero was conscious of was the stake and the girl; the next, the great birds; and last of all, the spectators. He did not at first notice the shaman, or witch doctor, and his crew.

A short stretch of curved beach sloped gently away from the sea, up to a high and artificial-looking bank of packed earth which backed the beach, cutting off any glimpse of further inland. A sort of arena, or amphitheater, was thus formed, one side wall being the cliff around which Hiero and Klootz now peered, the other being a similar, abrupt, rocky hillock a few hundred yards away. The sea, lapping at the white sand, formed the fourth side. The little beach was swept spotlessly clean, only the tall, wooden stake in the center interfering with the symmetry of the smooth, white sand.

Tied to the stake by a length of supple, twisted rawhide perhaps fifty feet long, was a very dark-skinned, almost naked girl. A scanty rag about her loins was her only garment, and her feet were bare. Her massed, tightly curling black hair tossed freely in the vigor of her movements. The rawhide was tied tightly to another lashing which secured both her wrists together in front of her. As a result, she could run, leap, dodge, or hide, turn or fall, but only in a fifty-foot arc around the wooden stake. She was doing all these things, her body a sweat-oiled blaze of dark movement as she sprang and crouched, ducked and spun, in her hopeless battle against the winged death.

The great birds! There were about eight of them, Hiero saw in one glance. Somewhat like giant gulls, but brown, not white, and with savage beaks, they circled and wove, always slashing down at the leashed prisoner. Like gulls too, their great feet were webbed, and thus they seemed only to use their murderous beaks as weapons. But that was enough. Despite her most desperate efforts, it was obvious the girl could only hold them off a little longer. As he watched, she scooped fine sand into her bound hands and hurled a cloud of it at the head of a swooping flier, which shied off with a scream of rage. But a long, bloody wound on her glistening back showed that the girl had not warded off all the attacks from above.

As the bird sheered off, the crowd let out a yell of derision. They made Hiero look at them then, with more than a passing glance. They sat in wicker-roofed lines of dirt seats, arranged in tiers on the earth back at the rear of the arena they had so obviously created. The roofs were not because of the sun, obviously, but rather to keep the birds from selecting an impromptu victim from among the screaming audience.

They were very light-skinned, Hiero saw, an archaic human stock he had only glimpsed among the southern traders once or twice, or else learned of through the old books, and many of them had light brown or even blondish hair. All, men, women, and children, seemed to be half-naked and all were armed, no doubt as extra insurance against the birds. They were waving every type of sword, spear, and axe as they yelled a raucous encouragement to the flying deaths.

To one side, a group of kilted men, hideously masked and with towering plumes of feathers, presided over a bank of giant, polished drums. These people had no protection from the birds and apparently no fear of them either. Now, as Hiero watched, they bent to their drums and, under the direction of the most gorgeously masked and feathered, the obvious high priest, beat out another rumbling roll of thunder on the tall, black cylinders. The audience screamed anew, and their cries were taken up by the birds, who swooped again, their shrieks drowning out the human yowling. Then, suddenly, all noise ceased, and the arena was silent in shocked surprise at what they now saw.

Hiero had ordered Klootz to charge and unlimbered the thrower almost without thinking. He also held two more of the tiny rockets in his mouth, praying he might get a chance to reload. As the bull morse tore out of the shallows and around the corner of the cliff, his rider noted in passing that a group of swarthy men, in good cloth clothes and leather hats quite unlike the rest of the audience, occupied the seats nearest to his end. Like all the others, they were gaping in amazement.

The great birds, seeing the charging bull and his rider as some terrible combined beast, flared lightly up like great feathers from their attempted kill. All except one, which was so intent upon the girl that it noticed nothing else.

She had fallen in a wild leap, and in falling had apparently knocked all her wind out. She was crawling, but as the bird sailed down, she seemed to sense it and turned face up with her bound hands raised in front of her.

She's still trying to fight, the priest thought in admiration. That's really a tough one. He was aiming his thrower as carefully as was possible, to intersect the great bird's swoop, Practice over a long period of time in handling all of his weapons while mounted made this sort of thing a matter of trained reflex, but never exactly what could be called easy. One went through the proper motions and then simply prayed.

The prayer or the training, possibly both, worked. The propellant fired perfectly, and the rocket hit the bird monster smack between the shoulders. There was an incandescent blaze of white fire and the two great, brown wings, no longer connected to one another, sailed to the ground, a few charred rags drifting away from between them.

Hiero had slashed the leather thong connecting the girl to the post and pulled her across the saddle on top of the stiffening antelope carcass before the still-stunned audience began to wake up. Circling high above, one of the great birds screamed once, fearful of coming lower or perhaps mourning the death of a mate.

As if the cry were a signal, an answering yell of rage broke from the flock's aroused patrons. Mounting in one movement, Hiero knew his spell was broken and that a shower of lethal missiles was next on the agenda.

"Travel, boy!" he shouted aloud, whacking Klootz with the wooden stock of his thrower. Only as he yelled did he remember the two shells in his teeth and the fact that in yelling he had to let them fall. He bolstered the thrower, pressing the girl tightly to the pommel with his left hand. Fortunately, she was either stunned or had good sense, for she made no move and lay absolutely limp, face down.

As they raced in the only possible direction, the water's edge at the far side of the arena to the east, Hiero saw the first spear hit the sand by one of Klootz's great legs. The next instant he heard the whistle of more, and worse, of arrows, one of which buried itself in the thick saddle with an audible "thonk."

But his chief attention was ahead. The tall, plumed priest who led the drummers had abandoned his drums and, followed by his gaudily dressed followers, was rushing down to block their escape. As they neared him, the rain of arrows ceased, since the crowd did not wish to kill their own men.

The priest ran well in front of his men, waving a long sword, and Hiero made a very quick decision. The high shaman had discarded his mask; in the pale, narrow face and blazing blue eyes, Hiero read both fanaticism and intelligence. This was not a follower one needed or wanted. The man could have been avoided, but weakening the opposition was a better strategy.

Kill him, Klootz! he sent, even as he tightened his grip on the helpless girl, for he knew what was coming.

The great bull swerved slightly to the left and ran as if to pass just in front of the leader of the enemy. The shaman, fearful of missing his blow, ran a trifle harder. And as his arm went back for a hard cut, he died.

With hardly a break in his stride, the battle-trained morse lashed out in one of his awful, stiff kicks, using his giant left foreleg. The terrible hoof took the priest squarely in the stomach and hurled him, broken-backed and gushing his life blood away, back into the arms of his followers. The morse raced on, and before the first yell of rage and despair had rung out, he was already in the shallows and thundering around the wall of the eastern cliff.

To his delight, Hiero saw that the empty beach stretched for miles into the distance before them. Nobody on foot was going to catch them now, and he urged Klootz on, hoping to make the lead as long as possible. The only obstacle he could see was a small river, whose waters glinted in the late afternoon sun about a half mile off. It did not look particularly wide or deep, and he felt sure that only the middle would require swimming, if indeed any of it would.

He looked back and saw a few black figures on the sand near the cliff, waving their arms and leaping up and down, and he smiled in contempt. Then, as the act of looking back made his memory work, a sudden thought came to him. Gorm! Where was his friend and guide? Had he been slain? Even as he thought this, his mount caught the thought and answered, once again surprising the priest with the realization that he would probably never know just how smart Klootz was.

He (will) follow/track/smell out (later), came from the morse's mind. He goes (away) not/near water. Having delivered this message, the morse lapsed into silence and once more concentrated on running steadily over the long, white strand toward the rapidly approaching river.

The shrill screech of one of the giant birds came to Hiero and he looked up quickly, wondering if they were going to attack or could be somehow controlled, perhaps by the priests. He could not take time off from his escape to concentrate mentally and probe the bird minds, or indeed any minds at this point. He had not forgotten the lonely skull and the hole in its back where a great beak had almost certainly probed. To his relief, the little flock of remaining birds was circling far above, and even as he watched, they flew out to sea, no doubt heading for some distant island rookery. The interruption of their routine of human sacrifice apparently had confused them and rendered them incapable of further harm.

A torrent of high-pitched, angry, and unintelligible speech suddenly broke out from the rescued prisoner, and at the same time she began to kick and squirm vigorously. Hiero reined up and looked around. The river was a few hundred yards off still, and the antlike figures of their enemies were barely visible in the distance behind them.

"I might as well free you, young woman," he said aloud, and hauled the girl upright, turning her as he did, so that she sat facing him over the front of the saddle, the dead antelope serving as a seat for her. He had been reaching for his belt knife to cut the leather which still bound her wrists together, but at the first good look at her, his hand stopped and he simply stared. Quite unabashed, she stared back.

She was totally unlike anyone he had ever seen before, but in spite of that, lovely, in a rather wild and untamed way. Her skin was far darker than his, a warm chocolate, as contrasted with his copper color, and her great, dark eyes were no lighter in shade than his own black. Her nose was moderately long and very straight, her nostrils quite widely flared out, and her dark lips very full and pouting. The great mass of her hair was a tangled, uncombed heap of tight, almost screwed, black curls, each of which looked like black wire. Her firm, brown breasts were not large and gave the priest the feeling that she was considerably younger than he had first supposed. Metz women covered their upper bodies, but he instinctively sensed that nakedness meant nothing to this one. He doubted somehow that the loss of the very short and ragged skirt she wore would have bothered her at all.

She had been studying his bronzed, hawk-nosed face, with its short, black mustache even as he had studied her, and now she held up her bound hands and said something impatient in her unknown language. Obviously, she wanted to be cut loose; Hiero did so and then lifted her again and turned her forward, so that she now sat astride in front of him, facing in the same direction. He noted in doing so that her slim waist seemed to be muscled with steel and leather.

Once again he urged Klootz on toward the river. For some reason he could not fathom, some thought at the very back of his mind, the sight of the not-very-imposing stream disturbed him. It was as if some important fact were tied to it which it was necessary to remember. Something to do with the people back there, perhaps? Now what the devil was it, anyway? A feeling of guilt at risking the possible success of his whole venture at a moment's hazard for a girl he had never seen before? Could it be that? No, not that, damn it, the river. Think of the river!

The flash of mnemonic lightning hit his mind a bit late, in fact, just as they reached the river's brink and saw the long, log canoe, hard-driven by a dozen paddlers, sweeping down the muddy center channel at them. As the white-skinned rowers spotted them, a fierce yell rang out, and they bent even harder to their paddles.

The village, of course! Hidden from any sea raiders, it must lie up this river, since he had not passed it earlier. What had been plaguing his mind was the buried realization that there had to be a village close by from which all those women and children could have walked. Now a message had been sent to the village guard, perhaps, indeed almost certainly by crude but adequate telepathy. This art was common not just in Metzland, but among almost all living people at least in some small degree. The savage priests were probably pretty good.

As all this flashed through his mind, he was feverishly loading the thrower and at the same time kicking Klootz into the water. If they got trapped on this bank ...! Better now to take a chance in the water. The channel was probably only a few yards wide; once they were across, the level beach stretched on out of sight, empty and inviting.

In front of him, saying nothing, the girl reached down and lifted the broad spear out of its saddle sling. The casual arrogance of the gesture made Hiero grin in spite of their predicament. This was indeed a tough, young animal!

Hiero's luck with the thrower ran out this time, but it was partly his own fault, as he was the first to admit. He waited too long to fire, so that when Klootz stepped off into the channel at the exact instant the rocket shell ignited, the aim was hopelessly spoiled. Not only that, but the canoe was too close to allow a reload, its sharp prow thrusting down upon them in midstream, even as the morse swam mightily for the shallower water on the other side.

But they had never seen, let alone fought, a morse before, nor had they any conception of the deadly Abbey killer teams of morse and man. Hiero threw both arms around the girl, gripped tight with his legs, and ordered Klootz to dive. Dive, boy, down! his mind sent. Come (up) under them! As the bull porpoised down under the surface toward the oncoming canoe, Hiero saw the slack-jawed surprise on the faces of the pale savages, several of whom had dropped their paddles and had lifted weapons for the kill.

Klootz, through cleverness or luck, Hiero never would learn, came up gently, though firmly, from off the river bottom, which was not far under. Hiero, eyes shut, crouching over his rescued prize in an effort to shield her, felt the bottom of the canoe slide off his own back, pressing him down even harder, flattening him on top of the girl and the dead antelope. When the sliding canoe hit his crupper, though, which was the next thing to happen, Klootz abandoned gentleness and simply heaved up with all the enormous power in his great hindquarters.

The two half-drowned humans and morse erupted out of the water and into the light as the loaded canoe, hurled straight up in the air, broke and threw its occupants in various directions into the churning water. They could all swim and there seemed to be none dead, Hiero noted in relief as Klootz splashed through the muddy shallows and out on to the eastern marge. The priest could be ruthless enough to enemies of decent humanity and the Abbey, but he disliked killing men and women whose chief fault was ignorance, for which they ought not to be blamed.

Amid spluttered cries and curses, whose nature was evident from the looks and gestures of those who made them, the morse again bore his two riders away down the strand into the east.

The long rays of the half-set sun cast gigantic shadows before them as they went. Hiero now had released his death grip on the girl, and she sat firmly in front of him, apparently none the worse for the experience. The cut on her shoulder and back had begun to bleed again, though, and he signaled the morse to come to a halt after a mile or two. Lifting her down, he smiled as he saw that she still clung to the spear.

"You can put that back," he said, pointing at the saddle socket in which it belonged.

She gabbled something, looked about, shrugged as she saw no visible danger, and (reluctantly, he thought) restored the weapon to its place.

As Hiero got out his medical kit, she watched with interest, and when he indicated that he wanted to sew up the lips of the wound before bandaging it, she merely nodded. Whether this indicated native trust, ignorance of suturing, or what, Hiero had no idea. Even with the Abbey's salve it was a painful process, but aside from tightening her lips once or twice, she gave no sign that it hurt. Finally the wound was stitched and bandaged, and the priest lifted her up on the morse again, while he repacked his belongings. When he was through, he noticed that she was leaning over Klootz's long neck and scratching behind his flapping ears, something he loved dearly. Hiero gave her another good grade for liking and understanding animals.

Once mounted, he looked back, but he could see no sign of pursuit. Inland rose the same lines of dunes which had accompanied them all the way so far, except where the rock spines of the subsoil broke through, and he felt sure the swamp began and still stretched endlessly on, only a few miles beyond that.

It was late evening now, the low clouds red in the west and the sun's disc altogether gone. It was high time to look for a campsite, but they had only come a few miles and he had no idea how good the savages were at tracking. His decision to kill the shaman might have merely enraged them instead of helping to hinder pursuit by forcing them to mourn ritually the death of a leader. The girl, too, ought to have rest and food very soon. She might be as tough as she appeared, but what she had been through that day would have tired a strong man. The priest himself felt weary and he had endured far less.

Another hour's ride, and in the full dark, more water loomed up. It was impossible to see how broad it was, and it would be insane to try swimming it in the dark. Reluctantly, Hiero turned the morse inland, following the bank of the stream or inlet, and keeping double watch in case anything large came out of it and wanted dinner.

Their progress was necessarily slow and grew slower yet as cacti, vines, and woody plants grew more common. Eventually, peering about on the side away from the water, Hiero caught sight of a dark hillock somewhat to their left. He steered Klootz that way and to his surprise found that the "hillock" was an enormous, rounded bush or low tree, about forty feet high, with a stout, central trunk. Its branches hung nearly to the ground and provided as close to a natural tent as one could hope to find.

Once "inside," after they had unloaded and unsaddled the morse, Hiero dismissed him to feed and mount guard, simultaneously. He decided to risk a very small fire of twigs, and after he had gathered them and got it lit, realized that no good reason for it existed, save to look at the girl. This discovery annoyed him.

She had sat quietly, arms around her knees while he unloaded and puttered. As he got food from the packs and water from the big canteen, she accepted a share in silence, but made no effort to talk. Eventually, the short meal over, she brushed a few crumbs from her lap and once again stared levelly and impersonally at him over the light of the wee fire. It was obviously time for some attempt to communicate.

Actually, it took only four tries. She did not speak Metz or Inyan of the western type, or understand the silent sign language. But when Hiero tried batwah, the trade language of the merchants, she smiled for the first time and answered. Her accent was very odd, if not downright bad, he thought, and many of her nouns were utterly strange to him. He guessed, rightly, as it proved, that he came from a place at one end of a very long trade route and that she was from far off, either near or at its other extremity.

"What kind of man are you?" was her first remark. "You look something like a slaver, like those who sold me, but you ride that wonderful fighting animal, and you got me away from those pale-skinned barbarians. But you owe me nothing. Why did you do it?"

"Let's have a few facts first from you," he countered. "What's your name and who are you and where do you come from?"

"I am Luchare," she said. Her voice was rather high-pitched but not nasal. She spoke with pride, not arrogance, just pride. I am who I am, was the unspoken message, that of one who valued herself. Hiero liked her, but kept that fact to himself.

"Very interesting, Luchare," he said, "and a pretty name, no doubt of it. But what about my other questions? Where is your home? How did you get here?" And what am. I to do about you? was the unspoken one.

"I ran away from my home," she said. Her voice, like his, was now flat and emotionless, but she watched him carefully, her eyes bright in the firelight. "My home is far off, far beyond this sea. I think there." She turned and pointed unerringly to the northwest, in the direction of the Republic.

"I think it unlikely," the priest said in a dry tone, "because that's where I come from, and I never heard of anyone like you before. But don't worry about direction," he added in a voice he tried to soften; "that's not important. Tell me about your country. Is it like this? What are your people like? You called those white people who set the birds on you 'barbarians.' That's an odd term for a slave girl to use."

Their conversation, it may be added, was not at first this smooth and continuous. There were many gaps, fumblings for alternate terms, corrections of pronunciation, and explanation of new words. But both were highly intelligent and quick at adapting. As a result, it went at an increasing rate of progress.

"My people are a mighty and strong one," she said firmly. "They live in great cities of stone, not dirty huts of hide and leaves. They are great warriors too, and not even the big, homed one could have saved you as he did this afternoon if it had been they you fought."

Just like a woman, Hiero thought bitterly; give Klootz all the credit. "AM right," he said, "your people are great and strong. But what are you doing here, which I gather must be a long way off from wherever you started?"

"First," she said firmly, "it would be more correct if you told me who you are, where you are from, and what rank you held in your own country,"

"I am Per Hiero Desteen, Priest, Scholar, and Senior Killman of the Church Universal. And I fail to see why a bare-rumped chit of a slave girl cares what the rank of the man who has rescued her from an exceedingly nasty death is!" He glared angrily at her, but he might as well have spared himself the effort.

"Your church can't be all that universal," she said calmly, "if I haven't heard of it. Which is not surprising, since it just so happens,

Sir Priest, that we happen to have the only true church in my country, and if someone went around looking like you, with silly paint on his face, saying he was a priest, they'd put him in the house for mad people. And furthermore," she went on in the same flat, lecturing voice, "I was not always a slave girl, as any man with breeding, sense or manners could tell who looked at me!"

Despite his Abbey training in handling people, Hiero found her very annoying. "I beg your pardon, your ladyship," he rejoined acidly. "You were, I suppose, a princess in your own mighty kingdom, perhaps betrothed to an unwelcome suitor and forced to flee as a result, rather than marry him?"

Luchare stared, open-mouthed at him. "How did you know that? Are you some spy of my father's or of Efrem's, sent to bring me back?"

Hiero in turn stared back hard at her, before laughing in a nasty way. "My God, you've grabbed up the fantasy of every girl-child who has first heard the legends of the ancient past. Now stop trying to waste my time on this silliness, will you? I want to know about wherever you come from, and I solemnly warn you, I have my own methods of finding out, even if the manners you boast of, plus a little common gratitude, don't get me the answers I want freely given! Now start talking! Where in the known universe do you come from, and if you really don't know even that, at least tell me the name of the place, what it's like, and how you got here!"

The girl looked at him darkly, her eyes narrowed as if in thought. Then, as if she had come to a decision, her face cleared, and she spoke reasonably and in softer tones.

"I am very sorry, Per Hiero—is that right?—I honestly didn't mean to be rude. I've made believe I was someone extra important so long that it's hard to be normal again. I come from a country which I guess is south of here, only, as you saw just now, I don't know where south is. I did really live in a city, and the country, especially the wilds, is not what I'm used to. Oh, yes, my country is called D'alwah, and part of it lies on the coast, the salt sea of Lantik, What else did you want to know?"

"Well," Hiero said more cheerfully, "that's quite a bit better. I'm not really as nasty as I just sounded. Only remember that I'm fond of straight talk, my girl. Save the fairy tales for the kids from now on and we'll get along. To start with, how did you get into the fix where I found you?"

As the tiny fire grew dimmer, until it was only an unregarded, winking ember, Luchare spun her tale. Hiero still believed not more than two-thirds of it, but even that was interesting enough to hold him riveted.

Judging from her description, she did indeed come from the far South and East, in fact just about where he himself wanted to go. Which made him listen to every word she dropped with extra special attention.

Her country was a land of wailed cities and giant trees, a tropical forest which reached up to the very sky. It was also a land of constant warfare, of blood and death, of great beasts and warlike men. A church and a priesthood not too unlike that of the Abbeys, so far as he could gather, governed the religion of the people and preached peace and cooperation. But the priests were seemingly incapable of stopping the constant warfare between the various city-states. These states were socially stratified, with castes of nobles, merchants, artisans, and peasants, plus autocratic rulers. There were standing armies, just as large as could be economically maintained without crippling their respective countries through taxation exacted from the peasants to maintain them.

Hiero was frankly incredulous. "Can your people read and write?" he asked. "Have they any of the old books of the past? Do you know of The Death?"

Of course they could read and write, she retorted. Or at least the priesthood and most of the nobles could. The poor were kept too busy to learn, except the few who got into the church. The merchants could do simple, practical arithmetic. What more was needed? As for The Death, everyone knew about it. Were not many of the Lost Cities nearby, and some of the deserts of The Death too? But books from the pre-Death age were forbidden, except perhaps to the priesthood. She herself had never seen one, though she had heard of their existence and also that anyone who found one had to turn it over to the authorities on pain of death.

"Good God!" the Metz exploded. "Your people—-and I'm assuming that most of what you've told me is the truth—have picked up all the discarded social junk of the dead past at its worst. I knew some of the traders down here had slaves, but I thought they were probably the most primitive people we knew about. The Eastern League at Otwah can't have heard about you either, because they're not far behind us. Kingdoms, peasants, internecine warfare, armies, slavery, and general illiteracy! What your D'alwah place needs is a thorough housecleaning!"

His obvious disgust silenced the girl, who bit her full lower lip in anger at his open contempt. She was nothing near being stupid, and she knew that her strange rescuer was both a clever and, more, a learned man. For the first time in a long while, Luchare began to wonder if her longed-for homeland was quite as perfect as her dreams made it.

"I'm sorry," Hiero said abruptly. "I was rude about your country, and you had nothing to do with making it the way it is. I've never seen it, and it's probably a very nice place. It sounds interesting, anyway. Please go on with your own story. I'd like to hear what brought you so far from the Lantik Sea. I know how far away that is, at least up in the North."

"Well," she began, a little doubtfully, "I ran away, from my—my slave master, who was cruel to me. I really did," she said earnestly, her dark eyes large in the dim light.

"Oh, I believe you. Go on from there. How long ago was that?"

It had been well over a year, Luchare thought. It had been hard at first, and she had learned to steal food from peasant huts. Wild animals had almost caught her on several occasions, but she had got toughened up and had weapons too, also stolen, a spear and a knife. She had lived thus on the cultivated lands at the edge of a great jungle for several months, until one day she had fallen from a tree, breaking her ankle. While waiting for the inevitable prowling animal to find her, an Elevener had come instead.

"What, you have them too?" he interrupted. "I had no idea they went so far. What do they do in your society? Are they well thought of, do people trust them?" He was really excited, for here at last was an actual link between the two widely separated areas from which they came.

The "Eleveners," the mysterious followers of the so-called Eleventh Commandment, were a group of wandering men whose little-known order dated back to The Death itself and perhaps even before. They wore simple clothes of brown cloth, were strict vegetarians, and carried no weapons beyond a belt knife and a wooden staff. They seldom appeared in groups and indeed were usually alone. They wandered from place to place, harming no one, occasionally doing some work for keep, teaching children their letters or watching flocks. They were skilled physicians and always ready to help the sick and injured. They hated the works of the Unclean, but sought no trouble with anyone, unless actually attacked. They had strange powers over animals, and even the Leemutes usually avoided them.

No one knew where their headquarters was, or even if they had one, nor how they were recruited or where. They seemed to be utterly apolitical, but many of the Metz politicians and even some of the Abbey hierarchs distrusted and disliked them. When pressed, such people could never say why, however, except that the Eleveners "must be hiding something." For they were no Christians, or if they were, they concealed it well. They professed a vague pantheism, in line with their ancient (apocryphal, the Abbey scholars said) commandment: "Thou shalt not destroy the Earth nor the life thereon."

Hiero had always liked the ones he had met, finding them merry, decent men who behaved far better than many of the self-proclaimed leaders of his own country. And he knew, too, that Abbot Demero both liked and, more important, trusted them.

He was leaning over, intent on further questions, when, with a strangled cry, Luchare sprang over almost dead coals right into his arms, knocking him flat on his back in the process.

5 - On To the East

Look out!" she yelled. "A monster behind you! I saw it! Something black with long teeth! Get up and fight, quick!"

It had been over three weeks since he had even spoken to a woman, Hiero reflected, as he held her warm body tightly and made no effort to move. She smelled sweetly of girl, perspiration, and something else, something wild and fierce.

"That's my bear," he said mildly. "He's a friend and won't hurt you!" As he spoke, his mouth was pressed against a mass of warm, scented hair and a soft cheek. Hiero had detected Gorm some ten minutes back and sent him a mental order to stay outside the tree's domed shelter, but the inquisitive young bear had wanted to look at the stranger.

Luchare pushed herself off him and glared down at his smiling face. "So, what they say about priests is true, eh? A bunch of lazy womanizers and sneaking skirt-lifters! Don't get any clever ideas, priest! I can defend myself and I will, too!"

Hiero sat up and brushed himself off. Next, he carefully threw a few more twigs on the fire, so that it flared up, illuminating his copper skin and high cheekbones.

"Now, listen, young lady," he said, "let's get everything straight. I was the one jumped on just now, not the other way around. I'm a healthy, normal man, and regardless of what takes place down south in your peculiar-sounding country, Abbey priests have no vows of celibacy and are, in fact, usually married by my age, at least twice! However we do have rather firm rules against rape and any similar forced consent. Also, I am not in the habit of making love to children and rather think you're about fifteen. Am I right?" As he spoke, he was patting Gorm, who had now crawled all the way in and was lying with his head in the man's lap, peering shortsightedly at the girl across the fire.

"I'm seventeen, almost eighteen," she said in indignant tones, "and priests aren't supposed to go around with women; at least ours don't. Who ever heard of a married priest?" In a lower voice, she halfway apologized. "I'm sorry, but how was I to know? You never said anything about that new animal. And how did you know he was there, anyway? I heard nothing and I have good ears."

"I accept the apology," the priest said. "And I might as well interrupt your story briefly and spell out a few more things, since we're apparently going to be traveling together for some time, until I can figure out what to do with you. Does anyone in your country have the ability to speak with his mind? That is, send silent thoughts, so that without using his, or her, voice, another person or perhaps an animal can understand him?"

Luchare drew back, lips parted slightly, her dark brown skin reflecting the firelight in soft, shadowed movements.

"The Unclean, the evil monsters from the days of The Death, are said to do this thing," she said slowly. "And there are many rumors, which I know now to be true, that they are ruled by the most wicked of men, horrible sorcerers, who also have this power. An old church priest who taught me my lessons, a good man, said that such powers of the mind might not themselves be evil in theory, but that in actual practice only the Unclean and their devils seemed to know how to make use of them." Her eyes brightened suddenly, "I see! You knew the animal was out there by thinking to him! But you are not one of the—" Her voice failed as she realized that she might be in the presence of one of the nightmares of her childhood, a wizard of the diabolic enemy!

Hiero smiled cheerfully. "Unclean? No, Luchare, I'm not. And neither is Gorm here." Gorm, go over slowly, lie down, and put your head in her lap. She has (never) seen a bear (I think?) or believed (been taught) in thought/speech/mind sending. We'll (have to) teach her, like a cub.

The slim, dark brown girl sat, frozen, as the small bear ambled over and did as he had been directed. But when a long, pink tongue came out and gently licked her hand, she relaxed a little.

"You—you told him to do that, didn't you?" she said in a shaky voice. "You really can talk to him, just as you do to me?"

"Not as easily, no. But he's very clever; in fact, I'm not sure exactly how clever he is. He's really something almost as new to me as to you, and we've only been together a week. Now Klootz, my bull morse, the big fellow outside, has been my partner for years. I can talk to him easily, but he's nowhere near as clever as Gorm here. Still, he fools me at times too, and just when I think I know the limits of his brain, he tries something brand new and surprises me."

"Gorm," she said softly, stroking the furry, black head. "Will you be my friend, Gorm?"

"He'll be your friend, don't worry," Hiero said. "And he's also a very effective guide and scout. But now please be quiet for a few moments. I want to ask him how he got here. We parted when I went clumping out in the open to pick you up." He leaned forward and concentrated on Gorm's mind.

The bear, it seemed, had drawn back behind the rocky point as soon as he had seen where Klootz was heading. He had tried to make mental contact with the departing priest, but realized that it would be hopeless in all the confusion. He had, however, picked up other telepathic minds, not Hiero's, although he could not make out what message they were sending.

I think that was our enemies (who were) trying to get people to hunt/stop/attack us from in front, Hiero sent. How did you/Gorm smell/find (us)?

Easy/cub/trick, came the answer. Went (back from) big water, walked along—came down to big water—smelled—went back-swam small water above men's houses—came down (again), followed and smelled your trail.

By that time, Gorm had come to the hut village of the white savages, most of whom were back from their bird arena and were milling around and all making a fearful racket in the night. He had watched for a while and then, seeing that the villagers had a large pack of yelping dogs, he had quietly swum the little river and gone on east, returning to the beach to pick up Klootz's tracks and then simply following them until he found their present camp.

The priest decided that pursuit that night sounded very unlikely and that they could relax and trust Klootz and the bear to warn them. Settling himself once again, he recommenced questioning Luchare where he had left off.

"The Elevener? Why, he looked like anyone else, an ordinary man of my people, perhaps fifty or so years old, except for those drab, brown clothes. Why?"

"That's very interesting," Hiero said. "In your country, it's obvious, the people are all as dark-skinned as you and have that curly hair and those dark, dark eyes, right?"

"Of course. Why? Until I ran away, I never saw anyone of another color, except once or twice a white-skinned slave from the North, from around here, I guess. But the few Eleveners I've seen have all been of my own people."

"Well," the man said thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the tiny fire, "up my way, they all look like my people, that is, with bronze or the Inyan reddish skin, straight black hair, high cheekbones, and so on. Which, I think, tells us something interesting about the Eleveners that the Abbeys hadn't known before. Now, before you go on with your own story, tell me one more thing about them. In our areas, they carry no weapons, teach children in school, serve as animal doctors, work on farms, eat no meat, and never take any pay, except mere subsistence. Also, they hate the Unclean, but never seem to do much about fighting them. Is all that true down in D'alwah?"

"Yes, I think so," she said. "The church doesn't care much for them, but the poor people get very angry when there's any talk of bothering them, so they're generally let alone. You see," she added naively, "the peasants have so much to get angry about as it is, why stir them up over something that makes no real difference? That's what my—a teacher I knew told me. They don't really mean anything one way or the other, just like the Davids."

"Who are the Davids?" Hiero asked.

"Oh, a funny group of traders who call themselves People of David, who live in our big city and in some of the others, I guess. They actually don't believe in the church, they won't eat lots of ordinary things, and they don't marry anyone but another David. But no one bothers them either, because they pay their taxes promptly and always trade honestly. Also, they can fight like wildcats if anyone tries to molest either them or their church. They have a funny one with no cross and no Dead God at all, and at school once, one of them told me it's much older than ours! They're really peculiar!"

"Humph," Hiero grunted, thinking, at school, eh? and trying to assimilate all he had learned. "Must be an odd heresy of some ancient kind we never got up our way. The last one in Kanda, a group called Prostan, I believe, reunited with our church over two thousand years ago. Since then, it's all been one Church Universal. You certainly have a lot of strange survivals in the far South. But go on with your own story now, and I'll try not to interrupt."

He fed the wee fire to provide a light, and as the faintest haze of smoke rose to the highest level of shiny leaves under the round dome of the tent-tree, the girl talked on, her matter-of-fact tones seeming to emphasize her extraordinary story. Hiero had lived through many strange adventures, including the most recent ones, but he was spellbound just the same. The bear lay dozing, head in her lap.

The Elevener, a quiet, elderly man, had set Luchare's leg and helped carry her to a shelter. He had then gone away, but soon had come back with a large draft animal, something like Klootz, apparently, but striped and light in color, with short, straight horns, which stayed on all year, unlike antlers. It was commonly called a kaw. Both of them had ridden the kaw away on a trail to the northwest. The Elevener, whose name was Jone, had told the girl that he was going to try and take her to a place of safety run by his order, but that it was a long way off and that they would have to be very careful. He had asked no questions of her at all.

They had traveled for many days through the great, tropical forest, avoiding the main roads between the warring city-states, but using game trails and village paths where they could. The peasants and woodsmen were always glad to see them, gave them food and shelter, and warned them of migrating herds, rumored appearances of Leemutes, and other signs of the Unclean. In return, Jone had helped the village sick, sat with the dying, and distributed sets of little carved wooden letters he had made, so that the children could learn to read and write. This idea, Luchare interjected, was one of the tricks that really annoyed her church about the Eleveners, since the priests did not believe, and still less did the nobles, in giving the peasants new ideas.

"Some of my own church don't like them any better," Hiero admitted, "though everyone can read and write in our country. But conservatives dislike them as a rival religious group. I guess they are in a way, but if we're not doing the job properly, then they should take over, as better men, that's what my abbot says. But go on."

After some three weeks of traveling, in a generally western direction, tragedy struck. They were now far beyond the limits of any of the city-states and their appendaged villages. Jone had told her that another week or so would bring them to a place of safety.

Actually, she had never felt more safe than with the gentle Elevener. Dangerous animals almost never came near them, and if they did, snorted for a moment and then went away. Once, she said, a herd of giant snakeheads, the lords of the forest, had simply parted to one side while the patient kaw had carried his twin burden down a lane in the middle of the huge beasts. Jone simply had smiled when she expressed awe.

Hiero thought to himself that the Eleveners must long have been in control of mental powers he now felt burgeoning in himself, though his were drawn out by the two savage battles he had fought with his mind. And the broad extent of their society, in physical terms, was also news of the first magnitude. He listened intently.

They had been ambling down a game trail in the jungle, Luchare said, no different from a dozen others they had seen and exactly where, she had no faint idea, when suddenly a man had stepped into the trail ahead of them and stood with his arms folded, facing them. At the same time, a score of hideous, hair-covered Leemutes, things like enormous, upright rats, naked tails and all, but far more intelligent and armed with spears and clubs, had come from the jungle on both sides of the trail. (Man-rats, Hiero said to himself.) They were totally surrounded, though none had come closer than a few feet.

Luchare had been terrified, but Jone's gentle face had not lost its impassivity. The man in front of them was ivory-skinned, totally hairless, and wore a gray robe and hood, the latter thrown back. His pale eyes had been cold and evil beyond description. She knew that a master wizard of the Unclean held them fast and she tried not to panic. There was a moment of silence, during which she had simply shut her eyes and hugged Jone around the waist. Then she heard his calm voice speaking in D'alwah.

"Let us speak aloud. There is no need to frighten the child. I offer a bargain."

"What bargain, Nature-lover, Tree-worshipper? I grip you both tight in my hand."

"True enough, o Dweller in the Dark. But I can slay many of your allies, and even you yourself could be injured, or at least drained of power for days by the struggle. I am an Ascended One, as I think you are well aware. This trap was set with some care, and in an unlikely place."

Trembling, Luchare had heard the enemy's harsh voice ask again what bargain was proposed.

"Let the child and the animal go. If so, on my word and soul I will make no resistance to you and will submit myself to your wishes. Speak quickly, or I will force you to kill us at once, and it will not be an easy struggle."

"So be it, Tree-man. One of your rank, even in your weakling order, is a rare captive in all truth, since usually you skulk in safety in holes and corners. Let the child and the beast go, then, and come with us."

"In all your thoughts and deeds there are lies," was Jone's calm answer. "I will send her away, unfollowed by any of your dirty pack, and I can easily tell if that is so. I will remain here for an hour, and after that time has passed, will go with you. That is the unalterable bargain."

Luchare could almost feel the terrible rage of the Unclean adept, but in the end, as Jone apparently had known he would, he agreed.

Blessing her gently in an unknown tongue, the Elevener had also spoken to the kaw, and the creature had at once moved rapidly away down the trail, now carrying her alone on its saddle. Her last sight of her friend had been of the slim, brown-clad figure standing patiently, facing the gray devil and his horrid crew of attendant monsters. Then a curve of the jungle wall of green had hid them all from sight. At the remembrance of how Jone had saved her, Hiero could see that Luchare was close to tears.

"He must have been a very good man," the priest said quietly. "I have met one of those wizards of the enemy myself, indeed a man so like your own description that it might have been the same foul being, were the distance not so great. And he almost slew, or worse yet, captured me. Had it not been for the fat, clever one there, with his head in your lap, he would have done so." As he had hoped, the girl was distracted and forgot her sorrow in her interest. He gave her a brief sketch of his encounter with S'nerg, and when he was through, encouraged her to resume her own story.

The poor, faithful kaw had been the first casualty a few days later. She had slept in a great tree one night, and some prowling monster had fallen on the kaw as he stood underneath and killed him. In the morning she had descended, avoided the bloody remains on which scavengers were feeding, and fled on foot, in which direction she hardly knew.

Great beasts, many of them things she had never seen before, constantly snuffed on her trail, and she escaped death only by inches on more than one occasion. Several times she had thought of suicide, but some tough strain or other had forced her on. She still had her spear and knife and had managed to feed herself, though mostly by watching what the birds and small monkeys ate. This had hazards, though, and she had got very ill on two occasions.

Exhausted, her clothes in rags, and close to starvation, one day she had heard human voices. Stealing close to investigate, she had found herself looking at a camp of traders, swarthy, black-haired men, not unlike Hiero, she said, whose kaw-drawn wagon caravan was parked in a large clearing. Moreover, the clearing was athwart a broad trail, almost a dirt road, which entered one side of it and left by the other.

While lurking in the brush, hoping for a chance to steal food and clothing, she had been surprised by an alert sentry who had with him a big watchdog on leash. She had tried to fight but had been knocked cold. When she woke up, she had been brought before the master trader, who had examined her carefully. She would tell them nothing, although they spoke some bits of her language. The trader chief had ordered some of his women (it was a big wagon train) to examine her physically, and on finding out that she was a virgin, had treated her well, but had her heavily guarded. It was made plain that she was valuable property, to be sold to the highest bidder.

She had ridden for several more weeks with them, always watched, but treated well enough. She had learned to speak batwah then, she said, and was soon able to talk to the other women, who were not unkind, though making it plain that she was not on their social level. But she was not beaten or raped, and was allowed cloth to wear and given a riding kaw, though it was led by another.

They had crossed several wide expanses of open grassland, and once had avoided what they said was one of the deserts of The Death. One day they came to the Inland Sea, of which Luchare had only heard vague legends, and there found a walled harbor town and many ships, traders and merchants, inns and market places. Quite a large permanent population lived there, some of them farming the fertile land on the port's outskirts and selling grain and produce to the passing ships and caravans. There were people of all skin, colors, including both whites, dark browns, like her own, and the traders, most of whom looked more like Hiero than anything else. She even saw some battered-looking churches, though none of the traders she saw were Christians, and she was not allowed to go near the buildings or speak to a priest. She thought she had seen only one at a distance.

The town was called Neeyana and was said to be very old. Luchare did not much care for it. The people were apt to be sullen, and she saw faces in the shadows which reminded her of the Unclean wizard. The Unclean were not ever mentioned there, except under one's breath and after looking over one's shoulder first. She had the feeling that somehow the Unclean were in the town, woven into its fabric in some evil way, so that they both tolerated it and influenced it at the same time. The girl found this difficult to explain, but Hiero thought he caught her meaning. It was obvious that just as the Eleveners' order extended far beyond his previous conception of their scope, so too did the power of the enemy.

Luchare had been sold, after several weeks in guarded seclusion, to yet another merchant, a man who was embarking on a ship with his company and his trade goods.

He had also had her well guarded, apparently also appraising her maidenhood at a high price, which made the Metz smile inwardly. What on earth was so valuable to these strange southerners about female virginity? he wondered.

She had never been on anything larger than a rowboat or canoe before, Luchare went on. The ship had great, pointed sails and seemed immense to her, But a storm came up after three days' fast, smooth sailing, and there was a wreck. The ship was driven on to a small island of rocky precipices and cliffs at night. The following morning they had been discovered by a white, savage tribe who came out in canoes, the same ones from whom Hiero had rescued her. They seemed friendly enough to the merchants, and their chief priest had had a conference alone with the shipmaster. But in return for saving the traders and their goods, such as were not lost or ruined, they had wanted Luchare, whose skin color they had never before glimpsed, to sacrifice to the huge birds they worshipped.

"The traders agreed, the dirty lice," Luchare said. "They even came and watched. Did you see them, all sitting on one end? They were dressed a bit like you, but had hats." And the following afternoon, she had been stripped and tied to the stake where the priest had first seen her, while the flock had come from afar, drawn by the summons of the tall drums. Those drums, which Hiero had heard the previous day, had heralded the previous death of a male prisoner, a captive from another tribe down the coast.

Exhausted suddenly as the events of the last few days caught up with her, and with her tale finally done, Luchare fought to stay awake. Hiero got up and gave her a blanket and a spare coat of his own from the saddlebags. She smiled drowsily in thanks, curled up, and was sound asleep in seconds, the sleep of healthy youth, able to shrug off worry in a matter of seconds. A faint buzzing noise from her pretty mouth, her rescuer decided, was altogether too feminine to qualify as a snore. What a beautiful thing she was, even with that weird hair, like bunches of great, loose springs!

Hiero realized at this point that he was yawning so continuously his mouth was unable to shut, and hastily gathering up the other blanket, he fell asleep, quite as quickly as had Luchare.

Outside the shelter of the tree, the big morse browsed under the stars, the warm, scented air bringing him many messages from far and near. Presently the bear emerged and touched noses with the bull, then turned and set off into the night on a hunting expedition of his own, while inside the tree's shelter the two humans slept, knowing they were guarded.

In the morning, Hiero awoke with a start. A strange sound caught his subconscious and made him sit up and reach for his knife in one and the same movement.

But a second later he stopped the motion and grinned sheepishly. The sound was a soft voice singing a little tuneless song over and over, in a refrain that wavered up and down in an odd but pleasant way. It was enough like a lullaby in his own language for him to feel that it probably was one in Luchare's too.

When he pushed the branches aside and squinted at the sun, he knew it was mid-morning. He had slept over ten hours and must have needed it. A few feet away, with her dark back to him, the girl sat sewing something, using his own repair and mending kit, which she had discovered in the pack. Her gentle singing masked his approach, and realizing this, he coughed politely.

Luchare looked up and smiled. "You're a late sleeper, Per Hiero. See what I've made?" She stood up and, before he could say or do anything, had slipped off her ragged skirt. For a second she stood revealed, a slim, nude statue in polished mahogany, then slipped on the garment she had been working on. In another second she was laughing at him from a leather one-piece suit, with elbow-length sleeves and shorts that came to mid-thigh.

"Well," he managed, "that's very neat. My spare clothes, I gather."

"Only part," she answered. "I left you the extra pants and underthings, so this is only your other long leather shirt. You don't mind, do you?" Her face grew long at the thought of disapproval.

"Not a bit. You're a marvelous needlewoman. If I get any more holes in things, I'm going to have you fix them up for me."

"I only learned, well—after I ran away. I'd never sewn anything before. It's pretty good, isn't it?" She pirouetted, arms held out, a pretty picture in. the sunlight. Behind her, the big morse looked on, blinking, and Gorm, as usual when there was nothing else to do, slept under a small bush.

The water he had not wanted to ford the previous night lay a hundred yards off. In the glare of the day, he could see it was nothing but a small bay, not a river mouth, and that they could walk around it in half an hour.

They ate a brief meal from the pack. The grouse even Gorm now disdained, and it was hurled away, but antelope steak, pemeekan, and biscuit were a whole lot better than nothing, and five of the great snapper eggs were yet unbroken in their packing. The bear and each human ate one. Then Hiero and the girl cleaned the saddlebags, washed out the squashed egg, and aired the rest of the contents. A little before noon, they were on their way again.

All the rest of the day, they followed the shore eastward. Occasionally, a rocky outcrop would make them turn inland, but they seldom deviated much from their course.

Hiero was pleased with his capture, though at intervals his mind would grapple with the gloomy realization that he had no idea what to do with her and that she was in no sense supposed to be a part of his mission. In fact, he thought in one of these moments of clarity, by distracting him, she was probably a positive danger! Still, she was from the very area to which he had been sent, she was a mine of information on the people, customs, and political makeup of her land, and besides—there was no obvious alternative!

Once they came to a place where a series of long sandbars, strewn with logs and other storm wrack, lay in the sea, just off the mouth of a small creek. On these bars, some of the great snappers, their dark gray shells crusted with growth and algae, lay basking and sunning themselves. They hardly blinked their evil eyes, however, as the little party went on by along the beach and splashed their way across the stream.

"Do you have those in your country?" the priest asked as they watched the comatose monsters warily.

"Yes, and much worse things," was the answer. It seemed that the very sewers had to be screened with great iron bars and grills of massive stonework, even in her own proud city. Otherwise, foul things, water-borne and avid, emerged at night to devour whatever and whomever they could. Bridges, too, had to be covered with strong barriers and roads near streams strongly stockaded when possible. Even with all that, heavily armed, mounted patrols went continually about on regular beats, looking for intrusive jungle creatures and repelling incursions of Leemutes. Hiero was used to a life of fairly constant strife, but he began to feel that he had always lived in peace and quiet after hearing about everyday existence in distant D'alwah.

That night they camped on a high, rocky knoll, from which, at early evening, Hiero could see well inland to the beginning of the Palood, its night mists rising in the still air. Far on the distant air, as he watched, came the faint bellow of one of the monster amphibians, a grim warning not to venture back into the great marsh.

As they sat talking after their evening meal, which consisted of one of the last snapper eggs and some chunks of the cooked antelope which they had carried along, the Metz priest suddenly fell silent.

Very faintly, out at the edge of his mind, his psychic consciousness, he had felt something, a touch, a thought, plucking. It was hardly enough even to notice, but he was becoming more and more aware of his widening powers in this area. He now could "hear," without even thinking about it, the "voices" of little birds and small, hiding animals they passed as they rode along. Luchare he did not probe, out of courtesy and decency, but he felt sure that he could do so if it should become necessary.

The dark girl noticed his intent look and started to speak, only to have him wave her into silence with a peremptory hand.

Concentrating very hard, he tried his best, using all his newfound (and hard-won) knowledge to pinpoint and identify what he was "hearing," but it was useless. Yet he had a more than strong feeling that whatever it was, it was finding him, albeit very gently and subtly!

Hiero got quickly up and went over to the packs. Coming back, face set, he carried the strange metal antenna-spear of the dead S'nerg and, sitting down, opened the thing out to its fullest length and drew out the two forehead contact rods. With these on his head, he felt the power he possessed within himself expand suddenly, and almost felt something else!

Greeting, Enemy! came a surge of evil force. The priest felt at the same time a wave of power as the person or entity on the "sending end" tried to use his strength to pinion Hiero and enclose his mind with an intangible, yet very real, block. He had been incredibly lucky, he now knew, when he had first activated this thing. If the power on the other end of the communication band had then tried this trick at once, he would probably have been caught. But now, armed with his new-won strength and knowledge, it was easy to fend the other off, as a fencer wards a sword stroke, and at the same time keep open, the message level so that he could either listen, or talk.

You are strong, Enemy, came the next grudging thought. Are you a renegade brother of ours or perhaps a new mutation we know nothing about? We have continuously watched and guarded this wavelength since we realized that you had slain our brother and stolen his (indecipherable name or symbol) communicator.

Hiero sent no answering thought. The other knew he was listening, however, and he had a feeling that the Unclean, almost certainly one of their wizard lords, would not be able to stop talking. It was obvious that they had no idea who or what he might be. They were arrogantly sure, though, that he must have their kind of twisted, sick mind, whatever he was, and the idea that one of their despised foes, an Abbey priest, had such power was obviously alien to them.

You are not one of the disciples of the tree-worshippers, the soft Earth lovers, who call themselves the Eleventh Commandment Seekers, that is plain, came the thought. We know their mind patterns, and you are far more like us in power and cunning,

A dubious compliment, another section of Hiero's mind recorded, at the same time making note of the fact that the Eleveners, while implacable foes of the Unclean, yet apparently were also in some kind of communication with them.

We lost you in the great marsh, came the cruel thought. And we sent an uncertain ally, now also seemingly lost, so that perhaps, though he is very strange, even to such as we, you slew him as well In an case, you found, the (undecipherable), which you also took from our brother's body, And you silenced it. There came a pause.

Will you not speak? The thought was sweet now, with the evil, persuasive sweetness of uncatalogued sin. We, our great Brotherhood, acknowledge you as a full equal. We wish you to join us, be one of us, share our power and our purposes. Do not fear. We cannot find you unless you wish us to. We wish only to exchange thoughts with a mind of such power as yours, and one so different. The thought was soft and honey, sickly, sweet. Speak to us, our Enemy, whom we wish to make a friend.

The priest held his mental barrier raised high, as a gladiator secutor once held a shield against the deadly net of the retiarius. He remembered the Elevener, Jone, who had died to save Luchare and his remark, "In all your thoughts and deeds there are lies." Further, Hiero was by no means sure that the other and his crew could not locate him, should he try and speak to them as they asked. In fact, he decided, maybe they can even trace me now, while I just listen to them. Who knows what they can do?

He tore the contacts off his head and slammed the antenna back in and telescoped the main rod shut, all in one motion. The alien voice stopped abruptly. Yet at the very edge of his mind once more, he could feel the faint (and irritating) plucking and twisting as it still attempted contact.

He concentrated, thinking hard. Perhaps if he altered the basic mind shield he had been taught at the Abbey, so—then, using his new powers, next activated another, different mental shield, causing that one to overlie the other, thus.

It worked. As his new barrier fitted over the old, the voice or mind touch ceased abruptly, like the light of a snuffed-out candle. He was no longer conscious of any contact at all, and he was sure he had shaken off the enemy.

He looked up. It was full dark again, but the moon was bright, and Luchare and Gorm sat together a few feet away, in silent companionship, waiting for him to return to them. The morse could be heard as he fed himself down at the bottom of the rock, as usual keeping an unsleeping guard.

Hiero rubbed his eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "The Unclean were just trying a few games. They can't do it any more, and I'll be all the more ready next time."

"Are they following us? Are they able to—to talk with your mind?" the girl asked hesitantly.

"No, not now. They don't know where or, for that matter, what I really am, and I think they are getting a bit worried about me. Anyway, they've been sending out a constant wide-band signal, somehow tuned to what they had learned of my personal brain pattern, trying to get into contact. I felt it, took out this thing—" he kicked the communicator—"which belonged to one of them, the one we killed, and talked to them. You see," he went on, "they think I'm a Leemute or something, some new kind of evil mutation, or just a naturally evil human like themselves. My mind seems to be changing somewhat, and they can't figure me out.

"Well, I got worried and cut them off, and then I fixed their probe so that they can't annoy me either. I don't think they have a hope of locating us that way any longer."

He next repeated what he had said, only this time to the bear, using a short-range band he felt no one could pick up or home in on.

Gorm understood remarkably well and even drew a surprising conclusion. You are strong now, friend/Hiero. It will be difficult/ impossible for most (of the) enemy, except for the strongest/oldest/ most senior, to overcome you.

This was more of a statement than a query, and it made Hiero feel sure that the bear actually understood something of his, the priest's, new mental development.

They slept the night peacefully away, and after breakfast down on the beach the next morning, Hiero decided to cast the symbols and use the glass. He was almost certain that none of the Unclean were close by, and it seemed worth a small risk.

He explained the process, got his equipment, robed himself, said the brief invocation, and waited for events. The girl, the bear, and the morse waited quietly on the sand a little way off. Luchare was fascinated, but wise enough to realize that there must be no distraction and that questions could always be asked later.

Hiero's first view in the crystal was precisely what he wanted. A large bird, probably a sea bird, with white wings (he could see them flash) and excellent eyes, was flying along the coast to the east, going exactly the way the man wanted to go himself. The view was superb.

He could see that the seacoast sand ran, uninterrupted by river mouths or even small streamlets, for many, many leagues. The great Palood followed the coast only a few miles inland, but was separated from it by a more or less constant barrier of higher ground on which grew rank scrub and palmettos. Fair off, in one place only, the marsh touched the coast.

Far away too, in the remotest distance, Hiero could see what appeared to be many islands, but they were hard to make out. As the bird dipped and wheeled, using the air currents to plane, he also saw plumes of smoke rising from a stockaded village on a small river far back in the West. Obviously this was the camp of their erstwhile foes, the pale-skinned bird worshippers. Nothing else stirred, except that, well out to sea, on the distant horizon, some great dark thing made a stir on the water as it swam. If it was a fish, it certainly stayed curiously high out of the water, but he could make out no details.

He willed the sight to end and opened his eyes to examine next what he held in his closed left fist. First, before looking, he called Luchare and Gorm over. There was nothing really secret, or, for that matter, sacred, about the symbols. The prayer which preceded the casting in the bowl was simply to ask God's help in making the choice, but the things themselves were not like a piece of Communion bread or a cup of sacramental cider.

The girl was eager to know more and the bear appeared interested too, although Hiero wondered how much of the abstract thought he actually grasped. The amount of brain in that fur-covered skull was still a mystery.

What now lay in the priest's brown hand were some already familiar signs and also some not yet utilized on this particular venture. There were five symbols altogether.

The Spear and the Fish were both back. "War and water, battle and ships, fishing and hunting," Hiero said to Luchare as he set those two aside. Next he looked at the Clasped Hands.

"That sign means a friend in need." He smiled at her. "A good sign, one of the best. It can also mean an old friend will appear soon, or that I will make a new one, one whom I can trust. There's another symbol quite like it, this Open Hand." He showed it to her. "That one showed up when Gorm appeared first. But the Clasped Hands are a little different." They meant a friend for life, among other things, but he somehow did not mention that fact.

"Could it mean me?" she asked. "I mean, I have so few friends of my own, and I wondered ...?"

"It almost certainly does mean you. I doubt if we're going to see many other people very soon, and those we do are most unlikely to prove friends. Let's assume we each have a new friend." They both smiled this time, the copper face and the dark brown one displaying twin sets of perfect white teeth.

"Let's see," Hiero went on, "what else have we? Two more? Well, first the Lightning. That has three meanings, of which two are very uncommon. First, I could be hit, that is, actually struck by lightning. I take leave to doubt that. Next, I could grow very, very angry. It sometimes means beware of anger. Possible, but I never felt less angry." He laughed and turned the little thing over on his palm. "No, I think the usual thing, the commonest of all its meanings, is meant again. Just plain, very bad weather; in fact, a big storm. We'd better keep our eyes open for it." He placed the Lightning with the other three.

"Last, what have we? The Boots, or Shoes, as some call them. A long journey, and one which hardly needed an appearance, since I knew that before I set out. I guess it means that as long as I thought it would be, it will end up being even longer still." He stared at the tiny, fringed boots in his hand and then gathered up all five symbols and replaced them in the bag with the other thirty-five.

"Can you really make more sense out of it?" the girl asked. "It seems, well, a bit vague. Most of the stuff could almost be guessed, if you think about where we are, who we are, and what we're doing."

"First," the priest said as he finished unrobing and packing, "you're absolutely right. It is a bit vague. But I'm not a good talent at this particular form of foreseeing. I know men, friends of mine, who could get a lot more out of it, maybe draw ten symbols or even fifteen at one time, and make an extraordinary and detailed prediction. I've never got more than six myself, and I feel I've done well if I get even a modest clue as to what's coming."

They both mounted, Luchare in front as usual, and with Gorm ranging in front, he continued to lecture. "Now, we do have something to go on. The symbols are an odd mixture of forces, you know. Part of it is genuine prediction, part wish fulfillment, and part a subconscious—I'll explain that later—attempt to influence future events.

"So—we have the Spear, the Fish, the Clasped Hands, the Lightning, and the Boots. A reading of the obvious answers might, I stress might, run as follows: a long journey, filled with battle, impends upon us, or me. A true friend will help, and the journey, or perhaps the next part, will be on, in, or over water. Now there are lots of other permutations possible. Oh, yes, the journey will start with a bad storm, or in one or something. That's what I get, anyway. And I feel pretty certain that the storm is coming. That's the surest of all of the signs."

The prospect did not look much as if a storm were in view. The sun shone brightly, as it had for the past few days. The blue sea danced and sparkled, the tiny whitecaps not even indicating a stiff breeze. Rafts of small ducks and other waterfowl whirled out on the water offshore, rising in clouds and then settling as they fed and played.

Gorm, Hiero sent, what weather is coming? The animals could usually sense weather a day or two ahead, especially if the change were going to be drastic.

To his surprise, the priest received a negative answer from the bear. No bad wind, water, coming. Sun, moon, quiet air is all (that) comes.

"It may be," he said to Luchare, when he had explained his silent question, "that the weather is still too far away. The symbols are apt to be pretty uncertain about time, at least when I use them."

"Could I learn to use them, do you think?" she asked. They were so close, she riding only an inch in front of him, that she did not even have to turn her head. When the morse moved quickly, the scented, corkscrew curls blew in Hiero's face, and he kept resolving to ask her to tie them up. Curiously, he never seemed to get around to doing it.

"Can't see why not. There are children, back in my country, who can use them more effectively than I. It's a talent, that's all. My own are a little different. I can do a good job of farseeing, I can talk to animals pretty well, and now, just lately, I seem to be learning some new tricks, mostly about how to fight with my mind. But using the Forty Symbols to forelook just doesn't seem to be my best attribute. You might be a whole lot better. We'll try it out later on."

"What about using my own mind, the way you do? It would be wonderful to talk the way you and the bear do. Could I learn that too?"

"Well," Hiero said, "you could, I'm sure. It's just a talent and not a particularly uncommon one, either. But, unlike casting the Forty, which is more or less instinctive, mind speech and the other mind attributes, up to and including telekinesis, the manipulation of solids by mental force—that's a rare gift, incidentally—all have to be taught. And, once taught, practiced, practiced constantly. I started at the age of ten, and many of the Abbey scholars started earlier still. Some actually get selected when they can barely talk, on the basis of some very complicated tests. So, you see, it's not all that easy."

They rode in silence along the beach for a little way, and then in a small voice, she asked, "Do you mean I can't learn at all, that I'm already too old?"

"Good Lord, no," the surprised Hiero said. "I'll try to teach you myself when we have a moment. I simply meant it takes training, discipline, practice, and time. You may be a marvel at it and go extra fast."

Before he could even move, she had whipped around, eyes gleaming, and given him a tremendous hug. "Wonderful! Can we start now, right away?"

"Well, I, uh, well, that is, I hadn't ..."

Most of the day passed quickly, in doing lessons. Actually, Hiero thought to himself, it was probably a damned good idea to have to recall all the basics he had learned in the Abbey schools. Luchare was very clever and she was also willing to work. The one thing she apparently wanted above all else in the world was to talk to Gorm and Klootz, and this was the goal Hiero held out to her as a reward. But he spoke bluntly first.

"Now listen to me, carefully. The shield for your own thoughts is the most important thing you can learn, and it has to be learned first."

When she wondered why, he explained that, with a decent mind shield, a child could evade the grip of the most skilled adept alive, as long as the two were not either very close physically to one another or linked by an emotional bond of some kind.

"But if you start sending messages without any ability to defend yourself, why, the Unclean could actually grab your mind, take control of it, and force you either to go to them or else to do whatever they wanted, commit murder, maybe, or anything! Even with a conscious shield, or the ability to create one, if you use the powers of your mind too widely, then another mind can home in on you, as if you were a target. That's what they've been trying to do to me for the last week, and it took quite a while to stop them completely from annoying me. Now do you understand why what I say is important?"

"I'm sorry, Per Hiero. I'll let you be the guide. Only," she burst out, "please hurry, that's all. Somehow, I feel it's very important! Why," she added, "don't the Unclean control everybody's mind, if so many are unshielded?"

He laughed. "I'm sure it is important, at least to you. Now let's review what I just taught you. But first, the Unclean can't control an unconscious mind, one that isn't sending at all, unless they have the person in their physical power or in close contact. Now, to begin, the shield is to be conceived by your mind as an arc, surmounted by the Cross. Visualize this and then practice, with your eyes open, making it appear in your physical vision, so that the picture blocks out the horizon. Next—" He droned on, using his superb memory simply to repeat what old Per Hadena used to use as the basis for his lectures. This allowed Hiero to think of other things and to keep watch. He kept an eye out for the enemy flier, but no trace of it appeared. Many hawks were in the sky, though, and he saw them diving on the countless water birds. Once they came to a place where a small herd of the great water pigs lay floating near the shore. At the sight of the travelers, the big, shiny-creatures submerged in a welter of foam and vanished.

At another time they had to cross the marsh, previously-glimpsed, where a long, skinny finger of the Palood thrust south and caused an oozing stream to drain into the Inland Sea. Hiero had Klootz and the bear gallop across the dirty shallows at the juncture of marsh and sea, while he watched the giant reeds carefully. Nothing appeared, however, and the whole area was only a quarter of a mile wide. Once through it, the pleasant sandy shore began again.

They camped that night under a rock overhang, and Hiero allowed a tiny fire, first bringing a rock over to screen it even from the water, which the girl thought amusing.

"There are ships out there, you know," he reminded her. "Probably very few contain anyone or anything friendly. You ought to remember; you were on one. And a fire might draw other unpleasant things too, not human at all." Having silenced her, he relented, and after supper (the last snapper egg), he allowed the lessons to continue.

"I want you to realize something," he said next. "I could speed those lessons up considerably. The way to do it, and it's sometimes done in an emergency, is to go into your mind and do the teaching there. But I'm not going to."

"Why not?" she asked. "I don't mind, and if it will help make things go fester—"

"You don't know what you're saying." He threw a tiny stick on the fire and poked it gently. The soft night breeze brought them many sounds. The muffled grunting from down the beach to the west was probably the water pigs they had passed earlier. The squawking from offshore, which rose and fell, came from the sleeping flocks of waterfowl. Far away, so far as to be almost inaudible, a big cat screamed once. Little waves broke on the beach in front of their camp, a gentle splashing which never ceased.

Hiero went on gently. "To do what would have to be done, I would need to get into your mind almost completely. Do you want me to know your innermost thoughts, dreams, hopes, and fears, many of which are in what the ancients knew as the subconscious? That means the part of your mind which doesn't think so much as it does feel. Just reflect on that idea for a minute."

Her face was serious in the firelight. "I see what you mean," she said. "Thanks for being so patient. It's hard not to want to do everything quickly, because it all sounds so marvelous. It's a new world to me. But I see what you mean. No one would want someone else to know everything. Unless they were—or maybe not even then. I mean—"

"I know what you mean," he said in a firm voice. "And the answer is no, not even then. If two people in love open their minds to one another, they always shield something of the conscious mind and all of the subconscious. Now let's go back and review the techniques I told you to use in practicing. First ..."

The next morning, Hiero felt a bit tired, but Luchare was as bright as ever. She wanted to work all day, and he finally had to call a halt, as much to give himself a rest as anything else. But when they rested at noon, he allowed her to try and call Gorm. To her inexpressible delight, the bear actually "heard" her mind voice and, as Hiero observed, seemed pleased too, almost as pleased as the girl herself.

The day was bright and clear again, and neither bear nor morse could feel the tingle of any coming weather change in their sensitive bodies. This made Hiero worry a little, though he said nothing as they journeyed on. The Lightning was about as close to being an infallible sign as existed in the whole Forty, While the priest felt himself to be only a mediocre artist in the use of the symbols, still he was not that bad. Or was he? Still, perhaps the time element was the key. He turned to thoughts of other matters and allowed himself to forget his puzzlement.

Another night and day passed. Once they saw a flock of huge, running birds, apparently flightless, racing up the beach far ahead, but beyond noting that they were a dark green in color, could see nothing more. Whatever they were, they had excellent eyesight and were extremely alert and wary.

The next night, by the light of the now full moon, Hiero hooked a huge, round-bodied fish, weighing over a hundred pounds, he believed. Everyone helped, and once, when they thought its thrashing would break the line, Gorm waded into the water and walloped at it with an expert paw, which tamed it enough for Hiero and Luchare to haul it out. Even Klootz pranced around in excitement, although when they began to clean it, he snorted and went back to his fodder of bushes and his sentry go.

Everyone else fell asleep full of fried fish, the bear so round the priest thought he would burst. Lots of fish were smoked and packed for the future, something which always pleased Hiero, who had the true woodsman's feeling of not wasting the almost imperishable trail rations, the pemeekan and biscuit.

The next day dawned cloudy. As they set off, a very gentle rain, hardly more than a heavy mist, began to fall, and Hiero got out his spare waterproof hood for Luchare. But it was not really uncomfortable, and the weather remained very warm, even at night.

The mild rain continued all night and into the next day. It was much too misty to see far. They paused briefly at noon and ate, then went on as usual. The sea was calm, but the fog had increased and a vague malaise was growing in Hiero's mind. He now wished he had used another bird the last time it had been clear and that he had looked ahead. Once again the thought of the Lightning came to him. A mild drizzle and a mist were hardly bad weather, at least in the sense of that particular symbol. It was most peculiar.

Luchare had been practicing her exercises very hard, which had made her unwontedly silent for the previous two days. She was now good enough to exchange mental "baby talk" with the bear, and Gorm also seemed to enjoy being told to stop and go, to pick (up) that stick, and in general to be ordered about like a not-very-intelligent dog. But as the afternoon passed, Hiero grew more and more uncomfortable and he finally told them both to stop using their minds, even at this close range. He could not see why he was disturbed, yet he trusted his instincts enough to believe there was a reason. Klootz and the bear seemed conscious of nothing out of the way, however.

Nevertheless, when disaster struck, the priest knew that it was his fault and that he had not been prepared or even alert, for that matter. In retrospect, the enemy had laid the trap with great care.

But if only Gorm had not been walking next to Klootz, if Hiero had not been laughing at the girl's mental effort to make the bear pick up a dead fish. If—if—if!

At first glance, the little bay looked utterly empty. They had rounded another of the innumerable rocky points which thrust through the sand and out into the water when they came upon it. The mist partly shrouded some small islets just offshore. On the shore itself, a few hummocks of gray stone, their feet circled by olive-colored scrub palmetto, reared about the lighter sand of the beach. Only the lapping of tiny wavelets broke the silence of early evening as Hiero checked the morse, some evanescent doubt troubling his mind.

He urged Klootz forward just as Gorm suddenly ran ahead of them, nose lifted high as he caught a rank scent. Luchare, unaware of any tension, laughed happily as she watched, finding the bear's pose ridiculous.

The rocks and bushes on the beach erupted leaping figures. A horde of fur-covered, bounding Leemute horrors, stub-tailed and with glistening fangs, resembling giant, distorted monkeys seen in a nightmare, came at them from all sides but the rear. As they came, their ululating, echoing cry, long familiar to Hiero on the northern marches, rang out in hideous familiarity. In their hands the Hairy Howlers bore long spears and clubs and brandished great knives.

Yet this was not the chief menace, bad as it appeared. From behind a small island of granite, a long, black vessel, bare of any mast, glided smoothly only a few hundred feet offshore. On its foredeck, hooded figures bent over a shining metal mechanism whose short-pointed, solid barrel was aimed at the morse and his riders.

The priest reacted by instinct, the unconscious, trained Killman taking over. His reflexes were thus even faster than either those of the bear or of his own great steed.

Get back out! was his savage message to Klootz and Gorm as, thrower in hand, he slipped from the saddle. The girl, frozen in surprise, simply stayed fixed desperately in her place as the morse turned about on his own rear end, so to speak, almost squatting in his effort to obey the command he had been given. He was already twenty paces away in the first of a series of great bounds when his master fell.

Hiero had been bringing the thrower into aim, determined not to miss the boat and its menacing weapon, when the Unclean gunner fired first.

There was a streak of blue fire and the stink of ozone. Hiero felt a terrible blow on' his chest and a moment of intense cold as he blacked out. His last thought as he slid into darkness was, So this is what the Lightning meant!

Then—nothingness.

6 - The Dead Isle

Hiero's first sensation was of pain, the second of movement. Instinctively, the pain made him try to rise, but he found he was hindered, that he could not. This in turn made him realize that he was lying on his back on something hard which moved gently, heaving restlessly up and down, sideways and back, in a regular rhythm.

The pain was centered in the middle of his breast, a constant ache of tremendous proportions which sent ripples of lesser pain throughout his whole body. His right hand was free, and instinctively it sought his chest. It there encountered a hard object of unfamiliar shape and fumbled with it. That's wrong, his mind said indignantly. The Cross and Sword should be there!

He realized at this point that his eyes were open and had been for some time. He was in total darkness, then, or almost total. A very faint line of light, a little below eye level, showed some way off. As he tried to concentrate on it and at the same time block off the pain by Abbey techniques, memory also returned.

The Lightning! Something very like real lightning had apparently been used on him. The meaning of the little symbol had been its rarest attribute, then, and it had tried to warn him that he would actually be struck by the strange weapon on the Unclean boat's deck. And he was on an anchored boat now, probably the same one. He had been on small vessels of the Republic many times and on traders' boats too. The feeling was unmistakable.

The pain still a constant, but now rendered bearable at least, his mind began to work again. What was this strange object that lay on his chest? His free hands, left now as well as right, traced its outline in darkness until they came to a heavy thong which was attached to the object. As he realized what had happened, Hiero offered a silent but fervent prayer of gratitude. The enemy weapon, the electric bolt or whatever, of the Unclean had hit squarely (or been directed: who knew God's will?) on the silver Cross and Sword medallion which was the badge of his order. Result: a fused mass of melted silver and a man alive who might otherwise have been dead!

His hands felt further down, to his waist, and encountered a broad band of smooth metal, whose very feel was strangely unpleasant. This was what held him firmly to the hard bed or table on which he was secured. Against his ear, though, he now heard the surge and rush of water, and he realized that he must be imprisoned against the actual hull of the ship, apparently down in the hold, or a section thereof.

His eyes were now as night-adapted as they would get, and he could see slightly more. The thin line of light was indeed the bottom of a door. Hiero was held by the broad waistband, on a narrow bunk, and the band was secured at one side of the bunk by a massive lock. The room or cabin was small, about ten feet square, and contained no furniture, except for a foul-smelling bucket in one corner whose use was obvious, although in his present condition his metal belt prevented his reaching it. Wails, decks, overhead, everything he could reach, were all of metal, featureless and blank, with no rivets or welds showing. Since all the vessels he had previously seen were of wood, with experimental iron hulls only being talked about, the priest was compelled to admire the workmanship. It was, he reluctantly conceded, well in advance of any type the Abbeys possessed, at least in the nautical realm. He remembered, too, that the boat he had seen was mastless and no sign of smoke had shown either, eliminating both sails and the crude steam engines of the newest Republic craft as a means of propulsion.

As he listened now, he began to hear other noises over the faint groaning of the hull and the slap of waves on its outer surface. Voices came faintly to him and also muffled barking and grunting sounds, the latter all too familiar. Apparently some of the Howlers were on board. Underlying the other noises was a thin, whining hum, barely audible if one concentrated. This, he decided, must be the ship's engine or whatever provided power, and he wondered how it operated.

Hiero had wasted no time in looking for any weapons. His belt dagger and his heavy sword-knife were gone, and the rest of the things were on the saddle. Had Klootz and the girl gotten away? Had Gorm also escaped in the confusion? Poor Luchare, her protectors were always getting trapped by the enemy!

His musings were interrupted by the clink of a lock or latch. The door opened, sliding into a recess, actually, and light flooded the little cubicle, causing the priest to blink and raise a hand to his eyes.

Before he put his hand down, a fetid stench warned him of one enemy, at least, a Howler. As he looked, his eyes adjusting to the new glare, he saw that his captors had turned on a fluor in the ceiling.

There were two men in the now familiar gray cloaks and hoods. One wore that mind-wrenching spiral on his breast, but this time instead of red, it was in a sickly blue. The same one, the obvious leader, had his hood thrown back, and he so resembled S'nerg that Hiero had trouble in not gasping aloud. The subordinate creature kept his hood on, but the priest glimpsed a brutal countenance in the hood's shadows, bearded and with a broken nose. Against the wall near the door crouched the Howler, a pink-faced monster, well over two hundred pounds in weight, its dirty brown fur matted and foul. But under the brow ridges, the deep-set vicious eyes were alive with intelligence and malice. In one huge hand it carried a metal weapon like a great cleaver.

The keen eyes of the leading human had not missed the flicker of recognition in Hiero's, and it was he who spoke first. He used batwah, Hiero noted, not Metz.

"So—you have seen one of us before? All the Brotherhood are close kin, priest, and if you have glimpsed one, you have seen all."

Watching him under lidded eyes, Hiero could believe it. The man, if he was a human man, seemed a trifle older than Hiero's memory of S'nerg, and his throat lines were graven deeper. But the resemblance was still astonishing. Nevertheless, the priest said nothing.

The adept, for such he must be, spoke sharply in an unknown tongue to the other man, and the one addressed hurried to Hiero's side, bent, and released the lock in the metal belt which held him fast, Hiero did not move, however, but remained lying there, watching the three attentively.

"Good, good," the adept chuckled. "A man of great control. Had you leaped up, even got up slowly, I should have had you knocked down, just as a beginning lesson in obedience. But we knew you were clever. Why else all this trouble? Still, I am pleased. Now pay attention, priest, if priest you are, and not something else.

"I am S'duna. The big one in the corner is Chee-Chowk, and he does not like you. No, not at all. He had never seen a Metz priest, yet he knows an enemy, eh, Chee-Chowk? But actually, he's a delightful fellow. I only wish you could see him tear a man's leg off and eat it in front of the victim. Good sport, eh, my friend?" He smiled at the awful, grinning creature, and Hiero barely restrained a visible grimace of repulsion.

"Too bad humanity, or your weakling segment of it, priest, doesn't like the Howlers. Yes, we've adopted your name. It's not a bad one. You see, they're only mutated monkeys of some long-extinct species. We think they were laboratory animals before The Death, but we're not sure. They're very clever now, though, and they do hate humans, all except their good friends." His tone was light and bantering, and he appeared in no hurry to move.

"We're going ashore now for a few questions. As you'll see, escaping is silly. And Chee-Chowk and his merry crew will be watching, waiting for a new kind of dinner, please remember that."

He leaned over until his white death mask of a face was thrust close to Hiero's impassive brown one.

"You're something a little different, priest, I'll give you that. We may just come to terms. Think that over, too. We don't generally use prisoners for anything except amusement. Ours, not theirs, I might say. But in your case, well, who knows?

"Now get up," he added sharply, "and walk behind us and in front of Chee-Chowk. And do what you're told. You'll live longer." He turned and left the cabin, followed by his silent acolyte.

Hiero got up quickly, but not quick enough to avoid a nasty cuff from the Howler, which shoved him through the door at the same time. He fell, still weak, to his knees, and a great paw next jerked him roughly erect by his collar and thrust him further on.

Ahead of him, he saw the booted feet of the second man going up a narrow companion stair. The short corridor was gray and featureless, save for a few doors like his own. He wondered if Luchare were behind one, but he dared not use his mind for a probe, not in this place.

When he crawled out of the foredeck hatch, pushed from behind by the Howler, he found the rain still falling, if anything, harder. As he tried to look about, two more gray-hooded men took him by the arms and half-led, half-dragged him to the side and thrust him down a ladder into a large rowing boat.

They were in a harbor, a hidden anchorage surrounded by tall spires of smooth rock rising from the freshwater sea. Despite the rain and mist, the priest could see a few other craft, one of them with masts, at anchor not far away. None was large, and there was no sign of movement on any.

Behind him, the huge Howler now crouched in the stern, while the horror's two masters stood erect in the bow. The two oars in the boat's waist were manned by a pair of half-naked slaves, white men, covered with scars and whose hair and beards grew rank and unclipped. They stank worse than the Howler, if that were possible, and their eyes were vacant and apathetic. They stared at the water and made no sound.

As Hiero looked back, moving as little as possible, the boat turned under the oars' power, and he got his first good look at the ship which had captured him. It was sharp-bowed, long, and slim, the hull of dark gray metal, and with a midship cabin, also of metal. A curious short tower rose just aft the cabin, with a crow's nest full of strange rods and instruments on poles, like giant fly swatters. On the foredeck, a cloth shroud of some sort covered the weapon which had felled the priest.

The rowboat turned further and the ship was lost to his view. Ahead of them, through the mist, Hiero saw a landing, a stone dock thrust out into the water from a rocky islet. On the islet above, half-hidden under an upthrust crag, crouched a squat castle, a low stone keep visible in the center of massive walls, which lay open now to view through a great gate. The ponderous doors of the castle were flung wide against the gray walls, which rose up some thirty feet above the surrounding rock.

Nothing appeared to grow on the islet, and all was gray or black stone. On the walls' top, a few figures paced, but not in any regular order. The fortress of the Unclean seemed guarded not by arms, eyes, or regular sentries of any sort.

The Unclean leader, S'duna, turned from his place in the bow and stared down at Hiero. Then he pointed to the oily black water through which they were passing. "Look there, priest! We have many guards and many wards upon our island. Look and remember! None leave the Dead Isle of Manoon, save by permission!"

Hiero stared at the water to where the white finger thrust. Close to the boat and clearly visible, even in the mist and rain, a round thing, several feet across, emerged, like a segment of greasy hose, magnified many times, As it turned and twisted, the Metz saw that it was an eyed head, a head of horror. It was some kind of giant worm creature, whose sucking, round, jawless mouth could not close, but gaped and contracted rhythmically, full of sharp fangs set in concentric circles. The thing dived under the boat as he watched, and he estimated the body to be many yards in length. It had made no sound.

He looked at S'duna and shrugged, very slightly, his face bland and unmoving.

The other smiled malignantly. "You appear a hardy one, I'll give you that, little priest. Let us see how hardy you remain when we go to visit in our order's house on Manoon. Is it not a heartwarming place?"

Hiero was now paying little attention. As the boat drew in toward the desolate island, an assault had begun on his mind. He sensed that S'duna knew of it but had nothing to do with it. The forces which laired on the isle had been waiting for Hiero, and their attack was the result of long preparation. It was both a test and an assault and also, in an odd way, a welcome. He knew that he was being subjected to enormous and increasing pressures which were intended to destroy him if they could, yet which might allow him to defend himself if he could. And in the very nature of the onslaught, there was an element of doubt. The Unclean rulers of Manoon did not yet know with what or whom they were dealing. They could have killed him while he slept. Instead, they were frightened enough to feel the need to experiment. And they still thought, apparently, that he somehow could be induced to join them!

He was helped, or rather shoved, onto the stone quay, and with the Howler behind and the others in front, was marched up the path, paved and smooth, toward the gate of the Unclean castle.

This last physical exertion, while not especially strenuous, almost overtaxed his waning strength. He could not estimate how long he had been unconscious, but he was desperately tired and now felt the need of water and food as well. He expected none of the amenities, especially rest, however. The advantages to the enemy of questioning a weakened, half-exhausted prisoner were obvious. However, the process of holding his mind block against the mental assault, using his fast-waning physical energy to do so, was wearing him out at a geometric rate. Halfway to the shallow steps of the fortress, he fell, and when Chee-Chowk's great paw wrenched him erect, he fell again. He made no effort to rise, concentrating only on holding the mental barrier, and at the same time nerve-blocking any unpleasant physical stimuli. As he lay, the Howler cuffed him but he felt nothing.

S'duna looked down at him thoughtfully. "Wait," he said, lifting a pallid hand to restrain the Leemute. "Lift him. up. It will avail us nothing to have him die here. He is fast draining himself, and he is wanted for a long period of arduous questioning, if nothing more. Garry him gently, Chee-Chowk, as you would one of your dirty cubs, eh?"

The wizard certainly exacted obedience, Hiero had to admit. He was lifted gently in the great, hairy arms, and although the stink of the creature was appalling, he could block that out too. Carried, or rather cradled, he passed under the cold arch of Manoon. Few who entered that place left it, and of those who opposed the Unclean in their purposes, none at all.

As he was borne into the court of the fortress, the mental assault ceased. Hiero felt that S'duna had signaled somehow, in a way he could not detect, that the prisoner was worn out and had best be allowed some respite. Whatever the cause, the pressure and probing ceased, and although he kept his shield of force firmly in place, with the rest of his senses he could look about, especially with his eyes.

The fortress was not especially large. The whole extent inside the stone walls was perhaps two hundred yards square. Steps led up to the walls' angles, and as well as being low-walled themselves, the parapets were broad enough to walk upon. A few hooded figures paced them, the same he had glimpsed from the boat. There were no armed men about and he saw no obvious weapons in evidence, save for Chee-Chowk's cleaver.

The square stone keep which lay before them was low, only about three storeys high, and had few windows. Those it had were narrow and set in no obvious order. The roof was fiat, making the structure look like a great, gray, blank cube, its shape in some way an affront to any kindly softness or indeed the human condition. The pavement on which they walked looked like the same stone slabs as the walls and the fortalice. All seemed to the priest to have been made with one purpose, an arid and sinister efficiency, one which denied beauty or taste or even life as being necessary. Inwardly, far, far inside, he shuddered, but none knew or saw it by his actions or appearance. And too, his curiosity could not be quelled entirely, even here. No one had ever penetrated the lives of the enemy as he was now doing. He must observe, despite himself.

They passed through a narrow door and went silently along an. ill-lit stone corridor. The dim blue glow of an occasional fluor provided the only light. Hiero looked back over the hairy shoulder of his carrier and saw the gray light of day in the door vanish as they rounded a corner.

Presently, after many baffling turns, the corridor began to go down. At the same time, the hollow, echoing voice of S'duna reverberated back from in front.

"Manoon lies truly below, priest. We of the Great Brotherhood find the depths a relaxant, a shield against the silly clamor of the world. Only in the bowels of the earth is there the complete silence we crave, the spiritual emptiness we seek to encourage the growth of pure thought." His words echoed along the stone corridor in diminishing tones: "Thought, thought, ought, ought."

When the silence had returned, save for the pad of the three sets of footsteps, he added gently, "And the dead, of course. They are here too." The echoes sighed: "Too, too, oo, oo."

Eventually, the two ahead came to a halt. A small, metal door had been opened, and the great Leemute stooped and entered. He laid Hiero on a pallet of straw, not ungently, and then backed out of the room, snarling as he did, to indicate his true feelings toward the captive.

"Farewell for a time, priest," came the voice of S'duna. "Rest and prepare yourself. You will be summoned, never fear." The door of heavy iron slammed shut with a clang, and a lock clicked. Then there was silence.

Hiero looked about him. The room, or cell, a better description, had been hewn from the living rock. There was no window in the rough walls, but a small slit high in one corner, too small for a man's arm, brought air from the distant surface. A small fluor, set in the ceiling, protected by a metal grill, gave a dim but adequate light. The cell was about ten feet square and furnished with nothing, save for the straw mattress and a covered pail, the latter obviously for sanitary purposes. There was also an evil-smelling drain in one corner, again with a heavy metal grill covering its opening.

Next to the pallet was a wooden tray on which were set an earthenware jug of water, another of some sweet, dark wine, and a loaf of ordinary hard bread. One sensing taste, an art taught in the Abbey schools, told him the wine contained some unknown substance, but the bread and water seemed pure enough, if a trifle flat in taste. He poured the wine down the drain, ate the loaf, drank all the water, and lay down to rest. The air was damp, but not especially cold, and he was not uncomfortable. The pain of the great bruise on his chest, where the lightning gun's blast had struck him, was still vivid but perfectly bearable. He now began, very cautiously, to try a previously thought-out experiment.

He lowered the mental guard on his mind a tiny, the smallest, bit. Imagine a man weakening a wall of rough stones from the inside, in order to see if an inimical force, or a dangerous animal, is pressing on it from the outside. Bit by bit, careful to make no sound, the man removes first the larger stones, then the smaller ones which fill up the chinks. He pauses and listens at frequent intervals. He is careful to leave the outer face of the wall unchanged. But until he is able to make at least a tiny hole all the way through, he cannot communicate with the outside world and get help. This was what Hiero did with his brain, slowly dismantling his invisible wards and guards, one by one.

The very last step was not needed, so delicately attuned had his mind become and so sensitive the warning devices that he felt the Unclean outside waiting! It was a weird experience. He knew they were waiting, on constant watch, waiting in what numbers he could not tell, for him to relax his barrier. And he could feel them without so doing, feeling them waiting to invade his mind, hoping he would be lulled into letting his inner fences down for even one split second, which was all they needed. Give them that, and he would be in an instant a mindless thing!

As carefully as he had dismantled his shield, so he rebuilt it. A few moments later and he could relax again. The wards were up once more, and the whole thing had been put on "automatic." Invade the cell and kill him with a sword thrust, they could do easily at any time; but invade his brain and spirit, not at all.

He lay back considering. He was sure of one thing, and that was that he must have frightened the Unclean adepts badly. Had this not been so, he felt sure he would now be writhing on some torture rack to give pleasure to one of their feasts. But they wanted desperately to know more about him, that was obvious. They wanted to know who and what he was and (Hiero was certain this lay uppermost in their thoughts) were there any more like him! As long as he kept them guessing, he had a shrewd idea they would handle him with great care.

How on earth could he use his mind, since his body seemed trapped here? The mental communication bands were sealed off by the necessity of keeping up the wall between their minds and his. Yet he could never escape unless he could explore, could learn more about his prison, and the only way to do that was to use his unfettered mind. And he knew he had better hurry, for God alone knew how long he would last under the Unclean Brotherhood's idea of an examination. The problem was a snake devouring its own tail. Relax the defenses and be overwhelmed. Don't relax them and die, through inaction, a little later, but just as surely. The mind's "doors" were all locked since no one could communicate except on the known wavelengths, not the Unclean, not the Abbeys, not the animals, not anyone.

Or—could they? Like many revolutionary ideas, Hiero's came partly through his subconscious. It was slow emerging into the conscious, and then suddenly it was there. Or could they? Where had he got that idea? Was it possible there were other bands, perhaps on another part of the mind's spectrum, one nobody had yet chanced upon? He began to probe, sending his thoughts out on a "wavelength" neither he nor anyone else had ever tried before. It was a thought channel which had long been deemed blank, or rather too full of "static" to be useful. The only thing it had ever been demonstrated to carry was the mass mind of a beehive or wasp nest, for the channel was so "low" or "coarse" that it was very close to the inaudible sounds of certain communal insects.

Once again, analogy is necessary. Try to imagine a specialized electronics expert, who only had knowledge of microwave amplifiers, forced to use a crowded police call band, and use it with the microwave equipment which is all he is accustomed to. In addition to adapting his unsuitable equipment, he must operate through the police calls, which are already apparently using that particular band to capacity!

This was what Hiero now managed to do. Lying on his straw heap, eyes shut, to outward appearances sleeping, he began to tap the minds of his guardians at a level they had never suspected anyone capable of utilizing. It was hard at first, but the new wavelength had fantastic possibilities. For one thing, he found he could easily maintain his shields at the same time he explored with it. The two "bands" were totally different, and one had no relation to the other.

First, he looked for the source of the pressure which never ceased to beat, although without any effect, on his outer, automatically maintained shield. In passing, he noted that he was now using his mind at three separate, quite distinct levels, at one and the same time.

The enemy who watched him and kept up the thrust on his brain surprised him. It was only one man. But he had help. He sat before a curious machine, whose low humming and buzzing varied in a rhythmic pulse as it went up and down a scale. Above a board, covered with lights and buttons, hung a clear glass tube filled with some opalescent fluid, suspended by wire at both ends. The fluid, oily and shimmering, seemed to move in keeping with the wavering rhythm of the board below. The man, another adept, apparently, hood thrown back and eyes shut, sat with his hands fitted into two depressions on the front of the board which were shaped to receive them. In appearance, he was another duplicate, Hiero saw, of S'nerg and S'duna.

Saw!' Even as the word rang in his mind, he closed that channel off and mentally retired into his own skull again, safe behind his shields. Saw! Without the benefit of an animal's eyes, he had somehow seen the room and the man. There was only one possible explanation. On this new level, he was in the other's mind, undetected, and using the other's sense of perception. Could he use more than sight?

Cautiously, he eased himself back along the line to the mind of the Unclean adept who, in turn, was supposed to be observing him. He found to his amazement that he was occupying the other's brain and tapping the other's sensations all at the same time. The sickly scent of an unpleasant incense filled the control room in which the adept sat, coming from a small, smoking brazier. Hiero guessed that it had an effect like Lucinoge and enhanced the mental powers. But the key fact was that he, Hiero, was smelling it, using the olfactory sense of his unconscious watcher! And he could feel the cold metal of the instrument board, where the other's hands now rested. The next step was one he was reluctant to take. But he could see no way out of it. The strange machine was undoubtedly tuned to the other's brain, was in a combined mental and physical contact with him. The priest wanted to know more about the machine, indeed felt it vital that he know more. The Abbeys were only beginning to consider mind enhancement by mechanical aids, and the enemy was obviously far ahead.

Slowly, as slowly as a person with poor sight threads a needle, Hiero began to use his new channel of observation to tap the adept's links with the machine. The experience was uncanny. Through the machine, he began to feel the mind of the adept beating remorselessly on his own, Hiero's, mental barrier! A feeling of intense heat began to overcome him and he withdrew again, hastily. This sort of circular mental polarity was obviously not without danger. It was not necessary to kill himself to test his new powers, and what he had just tried was something that obviously needed lots of lab work first.

When the sensation of heat, a feeling not physical, but nonetheless dangerous for all that, had vanished, Hiero sent his mind to explore elsewhere, and sent it roving, to seek other intelligences nearby. He was doing now, he realized, in a conscious way, what his subconscious had always done when he wanted to see and put himself in a trance with the crystal.

He "knew" S'duna's personality from observation, both physical and mental, and he set himself to find that particular master of the Unclean Brotherhood. He touched several other human minds, and one non-human fleetingly. This latter he took to be Chee-Chowk or some other Leemute, but he went on without investigating. Ah! He touched the mind of the man he wanted.

The adept was apparently resting, his mind under the influence of some strange drug. Hiero was able to see part of the room, a large one, hung with dark draperies and containing many strange instruments laid out on tables. S'duna lay upon a bed, and beside him, another small brazier emitted a thin trickle of bluish smoke which he was inhaling. One brief look into the thoughts of the enemy was enough for Hiero. The man's plans for imaginative relaxation involved much that was bizarre and sensuous and more that was hideous, foul beyond belief. Hiero withdrew his mind, sure now that he could find the other again whenever he wanted.

What next? The time element he was being allowed in which to plan was uncertain, but must be decreasing. The fact that S'duna was under some drug seemed hopeful. A mind of that power would probably be involved in any interrogation. What more could now be done with this new attribute he had acquired?

He concentrated as hard as he could on distance. That is, he began to use the new band in an increasingly wide arc. Whenever he tapped a mind or even touched one which could be identified as Unclean or as being on the island, he thrust further out and beyond.

Soon, he knew he was sending his thoughts far beyond the physical scope of Manoon, as ripples from a far-flung stone grow larger and larger. Now he concentrated on Gorm and the girl. He knew their mental identities well and he began to search for them.

He encountered many minds, but all were animals, the brains of birds, intent on prey, usually fish, and the minds of fish and other aquatic creatures. Once he touched upon a cluster of human minds, all in one area, like a group of blips on an ancient radar screen. This, he guessed, must be a ship, and he knew he was still over water in a physical sense. Wider and wider yet, he cast his net of awareness.

Just when he was about to despair and abandon the process for some other, more hopeful, line of endeavor, he found them.

Gorm! The mind of the bear lay open to him, or at least partly so. To his surprise, which he momentarily put aside, there were some areas he could not penetrate. Using the bear's weak eyes, he could see that he was looking at Luchare. The two were on a lonely stretch of beach, in what seemed to be late afternoon from the way the light appeared. A shift of the bear's glance now revealed a huge foreleg blocking part of the scene. Klootz, too, was still with them, then!

Now, could he communicate? Gorm, Gorm, he called, using the new wavelength as hard as he could. He could feel the animal shift uneasily, but he was not getting through. At best, he was making the bear uneasy, acting as an irritant. He tried again, this time not so hard, but using a narrower "needle" of thought. It must be remembered that the soldier-priest was trying something utterly new. The full capabilities of his recently won system were unknown to him.

Mainly by luck, he made a fleeting contact. Hiero! He felt Gorm literally jump as the message hit him; then he lost the bear again. He tried Luchare next, but got nowhere. He was not surprised. She was a novice at mind speech and the bear was not. In fact, he thought, recalling the sealed elements of the ursine mind he had just noticed, the bear was still an unknown.

There was no time for such speculation, however. Patiently, he went back up and down his odd channel, trying to relocate the precise point at which Gorm had been jolted. There it was again, a flood of thoughts! Hiero, the bear sent. Hiero/friend, where are you? How do we speak, this (strange) way?

The priest finally managed to quiet the animal and began slowly to explain what he was doing and how. This time Hiero was not too surprised to observe how quickly Gorm understood. He had thought previously, it came to him now, that the young bear owned a brain not far short of a human's in power. It was now apparent that the estimate was far too low. The bear was quite as intelligent as Hiero, only in a somewhat different way, that was all.

I am a prisoner of the Unclean, the priest sent. I am on an island in the sea, where I do not know. I am going to try to escape very soon, since I feel sure they will torture me. Where are you and how are you?

As Gorm developed practice, the story of the three unfolded. The brief fight, which had left Hiero dead, they thought, on the beach, had left them untouched. They had evaded all missiles and galloped away west. Easily losing the few Howlers who pursued, they had next gone a few miles inland to the very edge of the Palood and headed east again. Now they were camped some half a day's eastward journey from the place where Hiero had been captured. The enemy was not, apparently, seeking them. It was supposed that they were thought to be mindless brutes and a stupid slave girl, not worth bothering about. They had been trying to frame new plans when the wonderful message had burst upon them. It was now a day and a half since the battle, if it could be called such. What did Hiero want them to do?

The priest reflected for a moment. It would be silly for the girl, who knew nothing of boats or deep water, the bear, who knew even less, and the morse, too big for most vessels, to try and reach him. He must escape in his own way and seek them out instead. The problem was where to tell them to meet him. But it was not insuperable.

Go, he sent, to the east. Find a cove where a small boat can come in secretly. Wait there in concealment. The Unclean know nothing of this channel of the mind we use now. He told them to send him a mind picture through Gorm, once they had found such a location, and estimate how far it lay from the site of the battle. He would surely be able to direct himself to it with that help. He added a prayer, a message of comfort for Luchare, and broke communication. A plan had been growing steadily in his mind, and he felt he could no longer avoid trying it. Who knew how much more time he would be allowed?

Once again he mentally sought the nameless adept, the same who, by the help of the curious apparatus, was maintaining the combined watch and pressure upon him. Once again he had the weird experience of invading the Unclean wizard's mind and senses and seeing them focused on himself!

He began to insert a thought in the normal mental pattern of the adept, a thought which would simply appear as a subconscious command! The thought was simple: The prisoner is too quiet. Turn off the machine and go and check on him. Too quiet; go and check. Over and over the thought was built, Hiero increasing its strength by degrees, his concentration never faltering as he tried not to let the pressure mount too rapidly so that the adept, himself a master of mental science, would suspect he was being tampered with. On and on, up and up, went the pressure. All the while Hiero watched the instrument board before him through the eyes of the man he was trying to mislead.

Suddenly there was a click. The priest felt his enemy's worry plainly as the light in the peculiar hanging tube dimmed and went out. The board's lights, too, were now shut off. The pressure on the other part of Hiero's brain vanished. And at the same time, before the Unclean adept could even rise from his seat, Hiero struck. The mental barrier he had erected to defend himself was swept down, and he lashed out at the dark mind of the adept before the other could even think of guarding himself. Using both channels now open to him, Hiero captured the enemy's brain before any warning even could be formulated. Now Hiero paused, keeping a tight vise on the other, arid waited to see if anyone else had been aroused. There was nothing, no thrilling of the ether, no alarm, no sign of awareness of what had happened.

After a moment, Hiero ordered his captive, bound no less strongly than if he had been loaded with chains, to come to his cell and release him. It was a risk, for the adept might have no key, but Hiero was gambling that anyone of that rank must have the ability to set him free.

He watched through the other's eyes as the adept left the chamber from which he had kept watch and headed for Hiero's distant place of imprisonment. Nor were the adept's eyes the priest's only aid. With the man's ears, Hiero heard footsteps coming at a cross corridor and made the other stand in an alcove until they had passed.

All this time he could feel the enemy's own mind raging against its restraints. It was a strong mind and it battled desperately to free itself and the body it was attached to from the strangling embrace of the priest's brain. But in vain: so quick had Hiero been that the entire forebrain was completely under his power, all senses, all locomotor ability, everything. The Unclean could only rage futilely in the dark recesses of his mind, helpless to intervene actively.

Through a maze of dark corridors they went, passing closed doors at intervals and using the occasional dim bulb of a fluor set in the ceiling for light. Once, as they passed a door, Hiero caught the sound of a faint moan. But he dared not tarry to see what foulness of the enemy lay behind it. It would be all he could do to escape alone, and it would serve no one to have him die here in the course of a hopeless attempt at rescue of some other of Manoon's captives. Presently they were before his own door. He could feel himself inside and themself outside at one and the same time. Under Hiero's mental orders, the adept was forced to release a tiny, hidden catch in the stone corridor wall just outside the door. The door lock clicked, and the adept opened it and entered. As he entered, Hiero forced him to his knees. The door closed by itself behind the Unclean. At the same time, Hiero clamped down on every neural synapse he could reach in the adept's body. With a muffled exhalation of breath, the enemy passed out cold, completely unconscious, even as the Metz left his mind completely and reoccupied his own in full.

He rose from the bed and crouched by the body. Hastily he stripped the other, finding a nasty-looking dagger belted on under the robe. This he took and drew on the gray robe and hood over his own supple leather clothes. He listened for a moment and heard nothing. He built again his "ordinary" mind shield, simply as a precaution, lest a snooper try a chance probe at him. A sudden stillness made him glance down. There would be no need to tie the Unclean master up now, for he had ceased to breathe. The ferocious nerve shock must have stopped the evil heart, Hiero realized and promptly forgot the matter. The sooner such creatures as this were exterminated, the better, was his only feeling.

Before he had "led" the adept to his own cell, the enemy's memories had been extensively looted. Hiero knew now where his cell lay, where the various entrances were, and the whole maze of Manoon's underworld down to the last broom closet. He shut the cell door behind him, locked it, and went on his way down the corridor, his hood over his bent head, to all appearances a master of the Dark Brotherhood intent on some problem as he paced along at a steady rate.

He was not heading for the surface by the way he had entered. It was not the closest way out, for one thing, nor the most private. Also, there was something he wanted to get before he left. He kept his mind always on the warning pulse of the mental wavelength he had found the Unclean to favor. Any human being within range would be detected before he ever saw him and either avoided, the best method, or taken over mentally if necessary.

He had crossed several hundred yards of dusty corridor, listening intently, his new knife held firmly up a sleeve, when he thought he caught a faint sound. He paused, his ears straining. The noise, if it were a noise and not the blood beating in his temples, was a soft scuffing, and it had seemed to come from behind him somewhere. He heard nothing now. The buried world of Manoon was utterly silent. Far behind him, a dusty blue fluor glowed in the corridor roof, and equally far ahead, another.

Once more he went upon his way. Soon he slowed his pace even further. He heard footsteps ahead and saw the glow of a stronger light. He was approaching, as he had meant to, a more used part of the dungeon-fortress complex. The footsteps died away again and he moved on. It had only been an underling, whose mind radiated nothing but vicious stupidity.

Hiero saw that the light came from a strong fluor set at the junction of his corridor with a much broader one. This was also as it should be, and no Unclean minds were in close proximity. Hood drawn down, he stepped into the new hallway and turned left. In a short time he was before another door, and finding it unlocked, he quickly entered. The small storeroom was empty. Having mind-probed first, he would have been greatly surprised had it been otherwise. On a shelf, shoulder belt, scabbard, and all, lay his beloved sword-knife, flung there carelessly by hands disdainful of mere physical weaponry. In a second, he had his robe off and was belting the beloved weapon on. Only moments later, he was out again and moving off up the corridor outside, back the way he had come, storeroom door shut behind him. It had been luck that the dead man back in his own cell had known where his sword was stored, but it had been forethought which had led the Metz to probe for the information. He wasted no time looking for the thrower. It already had been taken apart for examination, he had learned, and besides, he had no shells.

Hiero met no one and sensed nothing on the way to the little-used corridor from which he had come, but he was nonetheless nervous. A feeling was growing that somehow he had been detected. Once into the corridor, he quickened his pace, moving at a dog trot. All of Manoon seemed unconscious of his escape, but that feeling persisted.

The passage floor grew rougher, the jagged walls dripping cold water now and then, and the fluors were set even further apart.

This was a path to a seldom-used exit, one originally designed in the far past to serve as an emergency escape route in the event Manoon should suffer a siege. When Hiero had ransacked the now dead master's mind, this way had been the one which the Unclean himself had regarded as the most secret and the least likely to be either searched or guarded.

The passage floor now began to slope upward at a light angle, which reassured Hiero, who had been wondering if he had made a mistake. But the floor was even rougher, and bits of rubble and even a few large rocks littered it. Also, it twisted, cutting down the dim light of the occasional fluors even more. His pace slowed to a walk.

The priest paused. Had he caught another faint sound, the rattle of a stone far to his rear? Once again he "swept" the airwaves for an Unclean human's presence and detected nothing. If anything, a rat or some other vermin, he decided and went on. No human mind stirred in the fortress.

At length the passage straightened. It ran up now at a fairly steep angle, and a tiny gleam of light far away heralded its end. Encouraged, the Metz loped on, breathing evenly. He was beginning to feel the strain of all the mental effort, even more than the physical exertion, but he still had reserves to draw on.

He had passed the last dusty fluor and gone into the darkness beyond when the rattling scrape of claws on stone made him turn, freeing the heavy sword-knife and dagger together from the folds of the robe as he did.

One fluor's light beyond the near one, a great dark bulk filled the tunnel from side to side, rolling along at a terrifying speed. At the same time, realizing somehow that he had been detected, the monster gave forth with a ghastly ululating bellow which filled the tunnel with deafening noise.

Chee-Chowk! Somehow the giant Howler had sensed Hiero's escape and tracked him down. And the priest's watch for Unclean human minds had made him forget they too had allies who thought in a different band altogether! But there was no time for self-recrimination.

As the Leemute passed under the last fluor just in front of him, Hiero caught the glint of the cleaverlike weapon the filthy thing carried in one great paw. Then the priest attacked.

He had transferred his sword, letting it droop from his dagger, or left hand, while he stooped and then hurled a fist-sized piece of rubble as hard as he could, straight into the fang-lined maw which shrieked at him. Straight and hard went the missile, and the chunk of limestone smashed into the hideous mouth, silencing the cries on the instant and making the brute halt in sudden agony, pawing the air with his free hand.

Behind the rock raced Hiero himself, sword now in the right hand, dagger in the left, using the downward slope of the tunnel to lend force to his charge.

Chee-Chowk tried to raise his own weapon, but using the long dagger as a main gauche, the defensive poniard of the forgotten Cinquecento, the priest beat it aside and struck a terrible blow at that awful, bleeding face which reared above him. The short, heavy blade, backed with utter desperation, for Hiero had no doubt as to the ultimate outcome if he should miss, came cleaving straight between the staring, red eyes. It drove into the skull beyond and split it with a "chunk" sound, as when a man splits a heavy tree knot with an axe.

That was all. The Howler's giant body fell slowly forward, eyes glazed in death, and Hiero had to twist himself sideways to avoid being crushed. Even so, his sword was wrenched from his weakening grip, so deeply was it embedded in the head of his monstrous foe.

There was silence, broken only by the priest's panting breath. As soon as he could think again, he tried to tear loose his sword and, while doing so, to use his brain to see if any general alarm had been given. But he could detect nothing. No mental clamor, no alert, nothing at all. The minds he was able to spot-check back in the main fortress were unconcerned, set only upon their own routine business. S'duna still lay in drugged slumber, a prey to evil visions.

Finally, Hiero tugged his weapon loose, and stooping, wiped it more or less clean on the dirty fur of the Leemute. He stood looking down at the huge bulk, whose muscular spasms went on despite death. "A pity, Chee-Chowk," he mused aloud. "Perhaps if decent men had raised you, you'd have been just another kind of man, not a foul, night-haunting ogre." Moved by the tragedy of the Leemute's mere existence, he said a brief prayer and then turned and resumed his march up the tunnel. Already he could smell the fresh breezes over the dank airs of the tunnel and the stench of the dead Howler.

The light was much further than it looked, however, and it was more time than he cared to lose before he climbed the ramp to the end of the tunnel. His legs now really ached, and he had a strong feeling that a Chee-Chowk one-year-old would have been too much for him.

The emergency exit from the buried world of the Unclean was not barred by any door. The tunnel walls made a double zigzag, that was all, so that no one could see out or in, The last portion of the zag was a narrowing slit, through which one squeezed.

The Metz priest peered out cautiously. He had to shade his eyes, even though the sun was setting, until they grew accustomed to the normal light of the outside world. The bolt hole from which he peered was set high up, on the left arm of the bay to which the ship had come bearing him as a prisoner. He now faced east, and the light of the setting sun was coming from above and behind him. While Underground, he had come a long way out onto one arm of the two which guarded the harbor of Manoon.

Down a tumbled slope of rock and scree, on which nothing grew, the harbor lay before him. The few ships still rested silently at anchor, including the thin black craft which had captured him. A slight chop stirred the waters of the harbor, and looking to his left, the entrance, he could see whitecaps outside where a brisk breeze was blowing. And he could see something else.

There was only one wharf, the one to which he had been taken, below the road up to the castle. The castle glowered at him across the silent harbor and the bare rock which surrounded its walls. The gate was shut. No one paced the walls and no sound came from the edifice.

But just to the right of where Hiero now crouched, a path led down to a tiny cove with a bare shingle of pebble beach. Spread out upon this were a couple of fishing nets, and near them two small wooden boats were drawn up on the shore, held by anchors tossed up into the rocks at the end of their ropes. The priest decided that the rulers of the Dead Isle occasionally wanted fresh fish and made some of their servants go out and get it. Whatever the reason for those boats, they represented a chance. Their oars were plainly visible, simply shipped inside, and one of them even had a collapsible mast lying across its thwarts, a sail wrapped tightly about it.

Hiero had been maintaining a watch on the massed minds of the castle and its underground world. Still nothing stirred. Chee-Chowk apparently had followed his intended prey alone, not wishing to share what he no doubt thought of as a free dinner! But this could end at any time. Nevertheless, he decided to wait. The light was failing rapidly now, and it must be very close to sundown.

Nightfall would aid his chances enormously. It was a risk worth taking.

The shadows rapidly grew longer. No lights came on in the squat bulk of the castle, and its sinister outline grew harder and harder to make out. Nor were any lights visible in the harbor. Not even an anchor watch, thought Hiero, who had some experience of the Beesee coast and its seamen. These people were overconfident, he decided, too arrogant to believe anything could challenge them or their fortress. Their very lack of apprehension would be a shield to one of God's servants. Or would it? He remembered S'duna's comment in the boat, about Manoon's having "many guardians." Best to go cautiously.

A few stars had glimmered through the flying clouds, but no moon, and soon even the stars were invisible. The wind was making up now, and it moaned among the empty, barren rocks of the Dead Isle. The voices of the countless dishonored slain, the tortured victims of the Unclean, Hiero thought, and resolved that, come what might, he would not be among them.

He felt his way slowly down the slope, all senses alert, but heard nothing and sensed nothing with his mind.

Soon he made out the outline of the small boats. He felt his way around the one with the mast and freed its anchor. Then, with the anchor rope over his shoulder, he began to drag the boat into the water. It was a sturdy little thing, and it took some doing. Twice he had to pause and rest, each time checking the dark mass of the fortress for lights.

Finally he got the boat launched and, climbing aboard, stepped the mast, though leaving the sail furled. Then he went back and smashed a hole in the other boat with a heavy rock, first transferring its oars to his own in case he needed spares. In another moment he was afloat, had two oars in the tholes, and was pulling along the shore for the harbor mouth.

He rowed carefully, glancing ahead for rocks and not trying to make any speed. His little craft was almost invisible in the black shadows of the overhanging rocks, and he followed each dip and twist of the shore with precision. At one point he had to pass quite close to one of the larger moored vessels he had glimpsed earlier, but it was soon past and nothing stirred aboard it; nor could he detect any mind. His greatest problem was the increasing chop of the short, stiff waves as he neared the harbor mouth. Spray was already coming aboard, but he was grateful for the fact that at least he would be in no danger from thirst.

Two oval, flat pieces of wood, which sat on pins secured to the sides of the boat near the tholes for the oars, had caught his eye. Though he had never seen leeboards before, for his own people did not use them, he quickly grasped their purpose. The round-bottomed little boat would go faster sideways than forward under sail and might even turn over without a steadying influence. The leeboards rotated on bolts secured to the boat's side, and one of them could be dropped on the side away from the wind when the sail went up. The priest had been in enough craft with sails, even though they had had fixed keels, to understand what tacking into the wind meant, and he could see what he had to do to make use of the fishing boat's best powers.

Even though he was prepared for it, the full force of the wind at the entrance caught him by surprise. Actually, it was not gale force or anything like it, but in the tiny boat, only a dozen feet long, it felt far more severe than it was. A capful of water, caught from a wave top, slammed into the back of Hiero's bare head and ran down his neck under the cloak, making him shiver momentarily. But it was not really cold, little less than blood heat, and he pulled stoutly into the crests, pounding up and down, quickly developing a rhythm which allowed him to avoid shipping much water.

He was squarely in the middle of the entrance, fangs of black rock rearing up on either side, when all his mental alarms went off. Instantly he slapped on his own new spy-proof mind shield and simply listened to the clamor, while continuing to row his hardest.

He could hear S'duna's mind, almost incoherent with rage, as the Unclean was awakened and told the news. The minds of other adepts, how many Hiero could not now tell, also tuned in, and he felt the mental search pattern they established at once. But he also felt that it was harmless. His shield was impervious, giving him a mental invisibility the Unclean could not even detect, far less crack. He was much more worried about purely physical means of detection arid pursuit, and he felt sure the cold minds in Manoon would think of them, too, before very many more moments went by!

Luck, or something else, Hiero thought, mentally apologizing to God, was with him. He had barely rounded one of the corner rocks of the entrance when lights burst out on the walls of the castle. At the same time a flare hurled up by a rocket cast a spectral blue light over the harbor. Not two wavelengths to the left of the boat, Hiero saw the harbor's mouth almost as brightly illuminated as if it were day. But a wall of stone, the outer bastion of the Dead Isle itself, shielded him from view. Nevertheless, he was under no illusions about his safety. Once there had been time for logic to take over, the Unclean search would discover the missing boat. After all, how else could he leave the Dead Isle, save by water?

He shipped his oars and freed the sail from its lashings. It was a simple type, a kind called a "standing lug" in the Lost Millennia, and Hiero had seen similar rigs before. Next, deciding that he wanted to run along the island's coast in an easterly direction, he lowered the right leeboard into the water. Then he took one oar and locked its thole pin into a hole in the stern, so that he had a crude, but adequate, rudder.

It took a few moments to get the feel of the boat, and some of them were bad. Once he let her head fall off so far a bucket of water poured over the stem, but he managed to bring her up again and get her settled. Fortunately, the wind was steady from the west and did not blow in gusts. Also, the little craft was well balanced and, once given a chance, sailed stoutly along.

Hiero had been so busy mastering the boat and watching for rocks that he had let his mental probes slip, though not the shield, for that he had put on "automatic." Now he felt something new, a strange, unpleasant thrilling of the mental communication bands. It meant nothing to him and was not actively harmful, being merely a minor annoyance. Since he had no idea what it meant, however, it worried him.

Then, from the whitecapped water off to his left, beyond the shadow thrown by the island, an enormous coil of glistening rope, as thick around as his body, rose from a swell and sank again, clear in the light of the dying flare.

The worm-things of the harbor! Manoon had called new and awful pursuers from the slimy depths of the Inland Sea.

7 - The Forgotten City

Luchare sat cross-legged and stared at the tiny, red fire in front of her. She shivered. But she was not cold, far from it. The young bear lay next to her, his head in her lap, and made faint woofing noises in his sleep. Beyond the mouth of the little gully, she could hear Klootz methodically chewing his cud even over the noise of the waves breaking on shore, and she knew that no unannounced danger could steal upon them in the night.

No, it was Hiero. The wonderful burst of communication had restored them all to life and purpose again. She herself had seriously contemplated suicide just before the priest had managed to reach their minds. Not that he had actually said anything to her, she thought illogically and quite angrily. No indeed, she was too stupid to hear him; a bear, a four-legged animal, was the only one smart enough, not a woman who—She shied away, even in her own mind, from the unspoken and unwanted thought. She, Luchare, daughter of Danyale IX, bothering to care about whether a common foreign priest, a lowborn, painted-faced nobody, talked to a stupid bear rather than to her! Ridiculous!

Overcome with sudden remorse, she stroked Gorm's shaggy head. "Clever bear," she whispered. "Clever bear, bring him back safely."

Their camp was set back in a pocket of a rock outcrop only a few hundred feet from the sea. As Gorm had told her, they needed to find a little bay or cove where they could lie undetected and to which Hiero could aim. Open to the sky, but otherwise walled except in front, it was a good location. Luchare, mindful of Hiero's warning, had built a screen of brush on the beach side, so that the fire was invisible unless you came within a few feet.

The bear awoke suddenly and sniffed the breeze. Wind, stronger, Girl (identity Luchare symbol). The sky is dark. Hiero may have good luck (?). He lay back and shut his eyes again.

But he's in prison! she thought. The Metz priest himself would have been surprised at how well Luchare had learned to use her mind. She and Gorm could conduct a regular conversation with very few breaks now, and she could even give the big morse intelligible orders, although she usually asked Gorm to do this for her. Klootz accepted Gorm's commands completely, as he would have Hiero's, another thing the priest would have found worth pondering. The bear had been very careful, too, when planning their next moves.

Do not try (negative emphatic) to talk to Hiero! He had made the order plain. Talk only to me or Klootz and when we are close together. Being clever herself, she realized that he knew what the dangers were far better than she. She ought not to try and locate Hiero mentally, lest she unwittingly draw the enemy down upon them instead.

But damn this waiting and wondering!

An hour or so later, she felt the bear rouse himself again. This time he rose and stood, dark, pointed head erect, as if trying to see through the racing clouds about them. Somehow, she now was attuned enough to know, he was in communication with the priest again. If only she could understand and were not so stupid! There must be some way she could help, if she could only think of it! Then she realized with a thrill, that Gorm was now talking to her.

I cannot describe this place properly. You must tell him what it looks like. He cannot see well with my eyes.

Then, into her mind like a flood, came Hiero! But there was no greeting, no warmth, only commands!

Quick, girl, where are you? Try to tell me what this place looks like from the sea, if you can imagine it. And hurry!' There was a pause. I am pursued; I cannot keep this mind path open for long. Hurry!

Luchare was terrified. She had wanted so much to help, but now she was unable even to think. Anything she thought might kill Hiero, if the information were incorrect. But she came of fighting stock and managed to rally.

Wait, she sent clumsily. I will try. We are less than a day's journey east from where you were taken. Offshore is a lone rock with two palms growing at the east end. The rock is high in the west, low to the east. Behind it is a small cove with a beach. We are there.

That's enough! Hiero snapped. No more until you see me, or they will use you. Don't send any more messages until you actually see me, understand! Now wait! There was a sudden blankness, a "silence." Luchare burst Into tears. Here he was, in deadly danger, maybe about to be killed, and not one kind word for her, not even a "hello" or "how are you"! The next moment her tears increased at the thought of her own selfishness. Even as she stormed at his coldness, he might be dead!

Wait, be calm, came the thought in her mind. Looking down through her tears, she saw that Gorm lay on his stomach, head on his furry paws, looking up at her.

He will come back, the thought continued. And he thinks of you too. Only now he must fight for his life. Be patient.

Luchare blinked back the tears and then reached down and hugged the bear. How had he known what she was feeling?

Your mind was open to me, he sent. When Hiero spoke to you, it was through me. Your own mind is not yet strong enough for such a task. Now sleep while I keep watch.

Soothed, but still apprehensive, she lay down on her waterproof cloak, staring at the black sky above and listening to the small breakers hitting the beach and the rattle of the wind in the palmettos. She was sure she could not possibly sleep, and the bear observed with satisfaction that she was asleep in hardly any time at all.

These humans, he thought. They take their affections so hard! Then he resumed listening to the night.

His face calm, but his mind racing, Hiero watched the coil of the great water worm disappear below the surface. He was braced against the lee side, gripping his steering oar in one hand and the sheet, the line holding the sail, in the other. The little craft was tearing along the rocky coast of Manoon, the wind on her quarter, and he was keeping her as close to the cliffs as he dared. Something told him that the danger would be greater out on the open water. Soon, however, he would have to leave the shelter of the isle and strike out for the mainland. He knew by his Internal "compass" and the glimpse of the land at sunset where he wanted to head, but keeping an unfamiliar small boat on course in this stiff breeze was something else again. And now the haunters of the depths were being loosed upon him. He could still feel the vibration in his mind which he had decided was the hunting call sent out from the Dead Isle to the monster worms. He strained his eyes through the black night to see if a worm or a sharp rock would appear first in the murk and destroy him.

Once a great swell broke two boat lengths to seaward of his little craft, but he could not see whether something was lurking below or a wave crest had simply toppled over naturally.

A vagrant fleck of moonlight pierced the wind-driven banks of clouds and helped give the priest his new bearings. He was leaving Manoon at last. The farthest, most eastern headland, gaunt and windswept, towered up to his right, blacker than the clouds, and beyond its point lay nothing but windswept open sea. Somewhere off there, how far it was hopeless to guess, must lie the mainland and his friends.

At this point, in order to head the boat around the island, he was forced to jibe and cross the sail over to the other side. This meant raising one leeboard, securing it, and lowering the other. Somehow it got done. Fortunately, the standing lug is one of the simplest rigs ever devised, which may account for its continual rediscovery throughout history. Bringing her around on the new course, Hiero looked back and instantly stiffened.

Out of the tossing sea, three waves back, caught in a ray of the fitful moonlight, the hideous round mouth, pulsing in horrid motion, of a giant worm appeared. To the priest, then and later, these dreadful brutes were "worms," but in actuality, their origin, like much else, dated back to The Death. In the past only foot-long sea lampreys, the scourge of the local whitefish and trout, forced mutation had turned them into mindless, ravening colossi, capable of overwhelming a small boat. The Unclean wizards of Manoon had found a mental wavelength which stimulated the hideous things into a simultaneous rise to the surface and quest for food. Only the adepts could then control them enough to keep them away from their own vessels, and they thus formed a most effective guard around the island, many of them always lying on the bottom near it.

As the creature bore down on him, clear in the persistent moonlight, the neck arched and cut through the water like that of a giant snake. The small, round eyes, set on the sides of the head, were visible as it swayed from side to side, following each movement of the boat. Almost, it seemed to Hiero, the thing was toying with him, for it advanced at a very slow rate, far slower than if it had been coming in earnest. Probably it was only instinctive caution, for the tiny brain was incapable of any thought. At length it seemed to decide this thing was prey. The motion through the water suddenly increased tenfold, and the head-mouth, barbed fangs all palpitating, struck down at Hiero as he sat in the stern.

The priest had never felt he had a chance, once he saw the worm come, and he was very, very angry. To have come through so much, only to be dragged down by a hideous, mindless thing like this! But he was trained to battle, and the first rule was never to give up.

He had taken a turn with the sheet to a rude wooden cleat, and as the horror struck down at him, he in turn stood up, the tiller-oar held between his knees. At the same time, he thrust stoutly into the yard-wide, sucker mouth above him. He used the butt end of one of the spare oars, snatched off the boat's bottom, and he drove it home down the foul gullet as strongly as he could.

There was a shock which threw him to his knees, but he never lost control of the steering oar and he saw the great worm fling back its head in agony at the hard morsel so suddenly jammed in its throat. The wash of its recoil helped drive the boat forward a trifle faster. As he watched in fascination, the monster churned the water to foam in its efforts to expel the unwanted tidbit. Soon it was out of sight in the murk, but he dared not relax his vigil. There were assuredly many more of the things, and he could not always count on such luck. Besides, he was fast approaching exhaustion. The strain of the two recent combats and the necessity of keeping a constant watch on the mental airwaves had worn him down to a shred of his normal vitality. He had not had anything like a rest since his capture and he was not sure how much longer he could go on.

The island had long since been lost to view, and the now increasing gleams of the moon's rays on the dancing wave tops showed nothing but empty water as far as the eye could reach.

Tired as he was, Hiero decided it was time to try and get more information. He had no belief in the powers of good triumphing so easily. S'duna's rage alone had come clearly to his mind as he was leaving the harbor, and the other adepts could hardly be less furious. S'duna had said himself that no one had ever yet escaped the Dead Isle. Pursuit would be coming, and the sooner Hiero contacted his friends the better.

It was then that he called Gorm. If Luchare could have known his thought when he broke the mental contact with her, she would have slept with a smile on her face. Slowly, reluctantly, the priest was finding that her dark face and dancing, corkscrew ringlets were somehow always coming between him and any other work or thought, even in times of crisis. Almost physically, he shook off such feelings. If he got out of this mess ...

His brain was now tuned to the island behind him again, and using his new wavelength, he was able to separate several sets of minds from what must be the main group back at the fortress. Using his newfound powers, he was able to locate no less than three separate "groups" of mind pulses, apart from the central one which had to be Manoon itself. These three pulse groups were stronger than the other, and that meant closer! They lay, physically, that is, in an arc, between the island and himself. The pursuit could thus be pinpointed as being in three vessels, all more or less on his track. The Unclean lords had quickly guessed which course he would take, that was obvious. Now, how far away was the mainland?

The priest strained his eyes, staring ahead through the night, but the fleeting moon gleams, though they came at closer intervals, revealed nothing but more of the great freshwater sea. He turned his mental energies to the subband again, God Almighty, the shore could not be too far distant, from the strength of the signals he had caught from his own friends. He must have come five miles at least since leaving the Dead Isle. On and on he sailed, up one wave and down the next, the wind steadily from the quarter, the little boat's best point of sailing. But she was not designed with speed in mind, and behind him, the three clumps of mental force which he knew represented three enemy craft grew remorselessly more powerful. He knew too that they were seeking his mind and not finding it, which was his sole consolation.

As the night drew on, the light grew better. The clouds began to thin out and the moon and stars appeared in greater and greater frequency. This was bad, but there was nothing the priest could do except hold his course and pray.

What was that? A dark line ahead, glimpsed in the waning moonlight? There, it came again, and yet again as he rose to a wave top. It was land, a little to the left of his bearing. He trimmed the small sail and the boat bore up, while his heart pounded. Once again there was a chance, and he was going to take it. Now once more he reached out for the bear's mind.

Wake up, break camp, and wait! Be ready and don't answer, or you'll be detected. Three times Hiero sent this on his new low-level wavelength and then ceased. He had done all he could.

The wind still drove him on with the same strength. But the clouds were almost gone now, and even his small sail must be visible for some distance in the moonlight, he knew. He sought the enemy minds and marveled at how close their "images" were. Yet when he looked back, he could not see them.

He could begin to make out details of the land now, but to his disappointment saw nothing but a line of light-colored beach and dark scrub and whiter dunes behind it. No island such as Luchare had described appeared, indeed no islands of any sort. Had he overshot them? No matter; getting ashore was the first step, away from those pursuing boats. He aimed directly for the nearest stretch of beach, now no more than a half mile away.

As he did, he sensed the sudden surge of emotion in the minds of his nearest foes as they glimpsed him for the first time. Alerted, he looked back and saw them. Two dark triangles rose from the shining waters, rose and fell back, then rose again. The sails of the pursuing vessel were about the same distance from Hiero that he himself was from the beach and safety. It would be a close race. But he had been lucky and he knew it. He had struck the westernmost boat, the one at the left end of the line of three, and it was not one with an engine. But he could feel the thrilling of the communication bands as the Unclean sent out word that he was in sight, and sure enough, he felt the other two mind "clumps" begin to close up toward his position. He readied the long knife in his lap, this time for himself. He would receive no second chance to escape, he knew, and the enemy was going to get no live prisoner this time. He looked back, calculating his chances, estimating the speed of the two-masted vessel. It was gaining on him fast, and he could see the black outline of its hull now and even a twinkle of light as some edged weapon caught the moon.

But the beach was also very close. He heard the breakers rolling ashore and could make out the black outlines of individual palm trees behind the sandy margin, etched in chiaroscuro by the moon.

There was a "zzzup" sound and then another. Round holes magically appeared in his sail, but the tough cloth from which it had been woven did not fray or tear. With a sharp thud, a heavy bolt of some kind, probably from a crossbow, he thought in a remote corner of his mind, buried itself in the gunwale a span away from his hand. There was nothing he could do and he did not even bother to look back, but drove on straight for the creaming surf. Shooting at one small boat from another at night and in a wind was as much luck as a matter of skill and hence not worth thinking about.

Now his boat was rearing up in the first breaker, and he hastily dropped the sail and steered her in. He had no time to raise the dropped leeboard, but he managed to loosen it so that it at least swung free on its pintle.

Down went the blunt bow as the wave caught the boat and hurled it at the beach just ahead. Crouched amidships but keeping the boat steady with the steering oar, Hiero rode her in, in a long, sweeping rush.

As sweetly as if the little craft had tried to come to rest, the leeboard and then the bottom grated on the sand. The priest, free of his stolen cloak, now tucked under one arm, was running through the ankle-deep water and up the sandy slope beyond almost at the same moment.

The zipping of more of the enemy missiles overhead and alongside did nothing to slow him down. Now an enraged, ululating yell rang out behind him, and as he toiled up a gully in one of the high dunes, he knew the boat had a complement of Howlers aboard. He stumbled to the dune top and as he did, looked back for the first time. His little craft lay on her beam ends in the breakers, white water pouring over her side. He felt a moment's regret, for she indeed had saved him. Just beyond the outer waves, the enemy lay hove to, and in the moonlight he could see black figures dancing with rage on her deck and hear their redoubled shrieks of fury. He smiled wearily and wondered how long he had before they put a company ashore to try and run him down. God knows, at this stage it wouldn't take long, he thought, rubbing his eyes, his breath coming in pants.

He lay down now on the crest of the sand hill, hidden from his foes by some grasses, but able to watch, them. Time enough to run for it inland if he saw a boat being lowered. The enemy vessel was bigger than he had imagined, and there might be fifty souls aboard; plenty to spare for a landing party.

Then, over the waves, he saw the outline of the slim, engine-driven vessel which had captured him. It came fast from the southeast, a white curl of foam at the sharp bow, slicing through the waves like a knife. In a few moments it was resting bow to bow with the sailing ship, rocking up and down in the waves. He could see a cluster of dark figures on her foredeck and he knew the "lightning gun" again was seeking a target. He crouched quickly and slid down the back side of the dune. As he did he saw the grass burst into orange flame a few yards over his head.

Idiot! I never moved sideways from where I ran up the slope! He trotted slowly away from the dunes through the palmettos and scrubby bushes, picking a way around patches of growth too dense to cut through. Behind him, he heard more fires crackle. A stitch began to cause a sharp pain in his side, and he had to slow to a walk. All the while he tried to monitor the enemies* minds, but a new difficulty had come up. Apparently there were too many minds, and they were all trying to shield themselves and concentrate on him at the same time. He found it almost impossible to separate their thoughts, even on the new wavelength of which they were ignorant.

Suddenly a clear message came to him, standing out, so to speak, above the jumbled thoughts of the others, like a mountain above hills.

Priest, I think you can hear me! You have some new tricks, priest, and I want them. You have slain another Elder Brother (sacrilege!) and made away with the chief of our Howler allies in some manner, this too we know. Now listen well, priest!! S'duna, a Master of the Dark Brotherhood and Initiate of the Seventh Circle, swear by our most sacred bond to slay you, yes, and by the most horrible means we can devise. And I will never rest until I bring this about. I go now, but you will see me again!

Hiero sat down under the shadow of a large bush and stared dully at the moonlit vegetation before him. He felt so tired that further physical effort would probably kill him, but he also felt marvelous in another way. He could feel the enemy minds, and they were not coming ashore! And there was only one answer to that. They feared him, alone and worn out, feared him desperately! Only this could make a heavily armed pack of over a hundred (a guess) furious Unclean, including their acolytes and Leemute allies, abandon so hard a chase. They had no idea of what he was really capable, and their leaders feared an ambush! The priest giggled weakly at the thought. It was all he could do to stay awake and keep his mind shield up, and the Unclean feared a superhuman, one-man ambush!

He roused himself at length. What little store of strength he still possessed must be used before it too gave out. He concentrated in the new channel on Gorm. The bear must have been waiting, his response was so quick.

I'm ashore to the west of you, I think, Hiero sent, striving to keep his message coherent. You'll have to find me. I couldn't see your island, but I'm back in the scrub about a quarter mile from the dunes. I can't stay awake much longer and my mind screen will be on lock. You'll have to use your noses and ears. The enemy is near, just offshore, so stay behind the dunes and guard your minds! Repeat, guard your minds! He fell forward on his face in the sand, the last trickle of energy leaving his body. Anyone passing by would have had to look hard to see that one patch of shadows cast by the moonlight under a certain large bush had a solidity that the others lacked. A child armed with a rock could have slain him.

He awoke to find it dark. Water dripped down his face, and for an instant he thought it was raining. Then he felt the canteen spout against his teeth and realized that he was leaning on something soft which smelled wonderfully of girl. His head was on Luchare's breast, and he now saw the young bear a few paces away in the moonlight and heard his snorts as he sought for a scent. The giant morse loomed in the background, dark against the star-filled sky.

With an effort, for he was terribly stiff, Hiero pushed himself up on his elbows and took the canteen from the girl's hands. She squeaked in excitement and surprise and started to babble.

"Are you all right, we looked all day and just found you a few minutes ago, that is, Gorm did. He smelled you and I don't wonder, I can myself, where have you been, you need a good bath and I—"

Hiero had freed one hand and pressed it firmly over her mouth while he drank from the canteen. When he had had enough, he put it down and released her lips.

"I need food," he said firmly. "While I eat I'll talk. But we're by no means out of the woods. Have you seen any of the enemy, either at sea or here on shore?"

She sprang to the morse's saddlebags and was back with food on the instant, but her voice now tried unsuccessfully to be indifferent.

"How—how are you, Hiero? We were hiding about three miles down the coast in a bay. I guess you couldn't see it. You look terrible and smell worse." As she spoke, she handed him some smoked fish and biscuit.

Between ravenous bites, he told her briefly what had happened to him since his capture. At the same time, he was telling Gorm the story, only with his mind linked to the bear's. It was tiring, but saved repetition. The mental history took only a minute or two, so fast was mind speech, and Gorm wandered away when he had heard all he wanted.

Hiero finished his meal with a chunk of pemeekan, explaining he wanted some sugar. Then he stood up and stretched, breathing deeply.

"You don't know how good this feels after those black dungeons," he said, inhaling the scented night breeze. "Manoon is really indescribably horrible. Even the air smells dead, and nothing grows there, not even weeds or cactus."

She shuddered appreciatively and he looked her over. She was still neat and immaculate-looking in her leather suit, the mass of dancing curls shining in the moonlight. Something in his eyes made her hand go up to her head and attempt to adjust her hair, while she rose nervously from where she had been sitting in front of him.

"I missed you, you know," he said quietly, first sitting down and then leaning back on one elbow.

Luchare now had her back to him and she seemed to be staring at the dunes, white in the distance under the moon. "Did you?" she said, her voice uninflected. "That's nice, because we missed you too."

"I said I missed you, "Hiero returned. "I thought about you a lot. I was afraid you'd be hurt, much more afraid than I was of my own troubles, surprisingly."

She turned, and he could see the great dark eyes clearly in the moonlight. For a moment there was silence; then she spoke.

"Hiero, I'm not really a runaway slave girl," she began hesitantly.

"Now really," he said, suddenly annoyed for no reason he could think of. "I'd already come to that fascinating conclusion. And I don't give a damn, either, even if it seems so important to you. I was talking about how I felt about a—a—well, friend, a girl I liked, and who and what you are in your own benighted, barbarous country is of no conceivable interest to me at all!"

"Oooh!" she gasped. "You selfish, arrogant man! I was trying to tell you something important, but as far as I'm concerned, you can go get in a boat and go back to your Dead Isle as fast as possible! You're half-dead yourself, and you look like a dug-up body and stink worse!" Furious, she stamped away into the night, leaving the equally angry priest glaring after her.

His annoyance left him quickly and he scratched his head ruefully. Now why did I get so angry? he wondered. I was the one who blew up first. He could not see that the growing fear of personal involvement and other, even stronger emotions were clashing within him.

What news? he sent Gorm, rubbing his dirty, unshaven face.

Nothing stirs in the night, came the answer from nearby. I can feel nothing, smell nothing but the ordinary night creatures. The enemy has withdrawn, perhaps to the island you were on.

Wait here, he sent, and all keep watch. I'm going to bathe and get clean.

He walked slowly to the dunes and climbed them even more slowly. The Inland Sea lay empty and beautiful once more, under the bright moon. Only a light wind riffled the waves. His thoughts ranged far beyond his eyesight as he sought for news of his enemies. Up and down the coast went his mind. Never once did he encounter anything but the brain of a beast or a bird.

Then he gathered his new strength and his mind ranged far out, miles away over the water to where he knew the Dead Isle brooded. The new mental wave sought for the evil minds it knew to be there and found—nothingness!

Shocked, Hiero tried again. It was no use. There, out in the distant fortress, the Unclean had built a mind shield of their own. He could locate the island and even sense minds there, but he could learn nothing. He was in the position of a man who tries to peer through the dirty glass of a neglected aquarium. Behind the barrier he can sense dim shapes moving, but what they are and what they are doing remain a mystery.

That was quick, he acknowledged grudgingly as he slid down to the beach and stripped. Behind him, he heard Klootz also coming down the sand hill. The big morse was not going to risk losing his master again, and was determined to mount guard.

As he washed himself and shaved with his gear from the saddlebags, the priest brooded over the new enemy shield. Obviously, they were unsure of his present powers. But S'duna and his crew must have felt certain that a new mind power existed, and they had managed to nullify it in a very short time. They could not prevent Hiero from sensing where they were, but they had completely stopped any penetration beyond that.

The moonlight was strong enough so that he was able, after washing his clothes and changing to his set of spares, to retouch his badges of rank with the paint stick. Feeling a hundred times better and only missing the weight of his medallion, for he had thrown the remaining lump away, he headed back for the dunes again, Klootz falling in behind.

As he topped the crest, he found the girl and the bear climbing the other side. For a second, the blood beat in his temples as he looked down at her; then he controlled himself with an effort. God in Heaven, what is the matter with me? he wondered.

In her turn, she stared coldly enough at him, then merely smiled politely. It was an almost overwhelming temptation to invade her mind. What in the nine Hells was she thinking? Why do I care? his mind repeated, warding off the answer which made him so nervous.

"I'm sorry I was impolite back there," he said stiffly. "Please put it down to being tired." His voice sounded artificial even to himself, and he cursed his own clumsiness as he spoke.

"Not at all, Per Hiero," she said lightly. "I'm sure I overtaxed your strength and was being silly. Please forgive me!"

They glared at one another from behind frozen masks until Hiero mounted Klootz and held down his hand for her to take and then lifted her up before him. With Gorm ranging in front, once more they were a team.

After a while, the tension went out of both Hiero and Luchare. They did not speak again of the curious and disturbing exchange which had just taken place, but common sense made them both talk naturally of other things. The strained feelings were put aside by mutual and unspoken consent, buried but not forgotten by either party.

As Klootz carried them along at his mile-eating amble, Hiero explained what he thought might be the next order of occurrences.

"They must know fairly well where we are," he said. "Now they're somewhat scared of me, but that won't last too long.

"Still, here's how it would seem. We must go on, around the end of the Inland Sea or even across it, and get to the shore on the southeastern edge near this Neeyana place you went through. The Unclean will have alerted all their groups and allies ahead of us, you can be sure of that. My maps, even their maps, show nothing ahead on this coast but a complex of markings which apparently mean Dead Cities. Now, I'm supposed to hunt certain Dead Cities, but these particular ones, no. For one thing, they seem to be half-submerged. The Unclean map I took from the man I killed up north shows the Palood coming south again and touching the Inland Sea for the last time, just where the city markings are. I'd hoped to cut north before this, but we haven't time now or the thrower either. I'd need that to fight the big marsh animals."

They rode on beneath the moon until dawn, always on the landward side of the dunes, which necessarily slowed their pace. Klootz had to pick his way through thickets and palmetto scrub and also avoid cactuses, and he could not move in the open, not with S'duna and his evil company ready to pounce from offshore. All the time he monitored the mental bands, looking for any trap or signal, but the mind waves were silent. Evidently the Unclean had developed some inkling of his powers and were lying low and not communicating. This was all the more dangerous. But as the night drew on, he lost the ability to detect the Dead Isle at all, and this made him feel a little better. If his new powers could not reach out to them, the reverse was probably true. Also, though he could not prove it, he had a feeling that their newly-developed shield was linked somehow to the fortress, to Manoon itself. Perhaps it was an actual physical device of some sort, such as the one he had seen his Unclean warder use, a mechanical amplifier of the mental powers. In this case, his thoughts went on, it might be too cumbersome to move. He would only have to avoid fortresses and concentrations of the Unclean. If he could find them, that is!

At dawn, they sheltered under a dense clump of some squat palm. Hiero had once again become wary of observation from above, though he had seen no Unclean flier since entering the marsh far to the west. This was no assurance that none was above, however; and he dared not try and use the eyes of a bird, lest the enemy be able to get on their track. He did not even want to cast the Forty Symbols, though that was mainly because he was depressed.

They ate quietly and drowsed the long, hot day.

He occupied himself with searching the neighboring trees and shrubs until he found one he lilted, a low, tough thing whose shiny black wood met his chopping blade with a resounding "clang" when he cut at it. Off and on, he worked at securing some heavy pieces of this wood all day, and by nightfall and the recommencement of their journey, he had what he wanted. He had been forced to resharpen his sword and his best knife many times, particularly the latter.

"It's for a crossbow," he explained, when Luchare questioned him. "A Killman, a trained soldier, that is, ought to be able to make a complete set of weapons out of almost anything. I have no thrower any longer, and a heavy crossbow is the next best thing I know. I may use animal horn later, if I can get any, and I need metal and feathers or something for bolts. It will take a while, but I've got nothing better to do."

"Could you show me how?"

"Why not? I've got more than enough wood for a second one here. The better we're armed, the more chances we have. Look here, I'm whittling on this stock. The butt end runs so—"

It was hard to explain at night while they were riding, but during the next day he was able to sketch on sand, so now both of them whittled away on their weapons, chatting companionably as they did. Long spells of outward silence usually meant that they were talking to Gorm, who lay and watched them as they worked. Hiero had outlined the route ahead as he saw it, and warned the bear that the area seemed to be very dangerous and filled with the Dead Cities. To his surprise, Gorm seemed somewhat contemptuous.

I have been in some of them to the north, the places of your human past, he explained. They are evil; Unclean things there, what you call the Man-rats and others, but they are clumsy and do not use their noses and ears, almost as bad as you two, he added. I am not afraid of such places.

Hiero learned that the young bear had indeed ventured into several of the ruined towns of Kanda at one time or another, though he became evasive when asked why. The Elder folk have us do it, he finally sent, and would say nothing more. But the priest gathered that it was some kind of test, perhaps an emergence into adulthood.

He was quick to tell Gorm that the vast Dead Cities of the South were nothing like the abandoned places he might have seen in most of Kanda, being far larger and apt to be ten times as dangerous. Luchare chimed in to add her views.

"There are several of them, in D'alwah," she said to Hiero. "Tell him plainly, you're better than I, that no one, save for the Unclean, goes there at all. Strange things, horrible things, are said to lurk there, creatures which are not found elsewhere,"

Perhaps, was the bear's calm answer. I am always careful. But we must go there anyway, so why worry?

"My people have a few strange instruments," Luchare offered. "They are either very old or copied from very old ones, made before The Death, it is said. The priests and a few nobles whom they trust keep them. When it becomes necessary for someone to go near a Dead City, or one of the Deserts of The Death, one of these is taken out of safekeeping and sent along. It tells you when the invisible death is still there, the fleshrot"

"Yes," Hiero said absently, eyeing the grain of the wood as he whittled at his crossbow. "I know what you mean. We have them too. What you call the 'invisible death' is actually lingering atomic radiation. We can't produce it, but we know about it up north." He laid down the bow and watched the setting sun a moment before continuing. "As long as you're with us, you won't need one." He smiled. "Klootz and I are trained to detect it with our bodies. And I suspect our fat friend can do it too." A question to Gorm elicited the fact that he knew well the danger of hard radiation and could detect its sources easily.

Luchare marveled inwardly. She would rather have been flayed alive than let it show, but every attribute Hiero demonstrated seemed to put him on another and higher plane from herself. In her heart, she felt that her pride in her exalted origin was simply a last defense against admitting that a foreigner of no particular birth was too good for a girl from the barbarous South, no matter how lofty her social position.

Both too preoccupied and too honorable to probe her mind and a prey to conflicting emotions himself, Hiero saw nothing on her face to indicate any of them.

"Let's take another look at the maps," he now said. "We are fast getting into what seems a very nasty area. Did you hear the frogs last night?"

They had all heard the increasing racket of the amphibian chorus, and all knew what it meant. The Palood was angling toward the coast again. The soggy world of fen and marsh met the symbols of the half-drowned cities on the Unclean map and could not be far ahead.

"Look, if we can get through here," he went on, "this symbol down the coast might well be your Neeyana, Luchare. Now, I can't read the peculiar script they use and, knowing them, it may be in code as well. But see." His finger indicated a wavy line going away east from the southeastern corner of the Inland Sea. "This looks as if it might be the trail you came over with the people who took you captive. This blob here, then, looks like a good bet for a Desert of The Death. See, it has the same mark as these circle things just ahead that must be Dead Cities.

"Now, then, beyond that desert, here to the south, are three more cities, Dead Cities. One is very close to the desert marking.

Those three are marked on my own maps too, the first more heavily. They are among the few that are. This is where I'm supposed to start looking for—what I need." He rolled up the set of maps and carefully restored them to the saddlebag.

Again they set out in the half-light of evening. Not only were the frogs growing louder, but the buzzing, biting insects had made an unwelcome reappearance also. Hiero's salve was now exhausted, and there was little they could do but grimly endure, slapping when the nuisances became unbearable.

Once more, Klootz began slopping through puddles and mires. The great reeds and. giant dock leaves now rose up in the dark again, replacing the dry land growth through which they had marched for so long.

All through the night they moved on at a walk. Twice they had to circle broad pools from which bubbles of marsh gas rose and burst. Once Klootz stamped a great hoof down on a pale snake, an adder of some sort which made the mistake of striking at him. Hiero roved the night with his brain, searching for danger, but he was too unfamiliar with his abilities to be very sanguine. An amphibian mind is the same whether the creature is twenty yards long or three inches, and it gives off much the same emotional values and neural reactions. No true "thought" occurs at all. Thus, if the priest were trying to see if the thing he was inspecting was one of the huge frog monsters which had almost attacked him before, he had only the view from the animal's own eyes, dim at best, to give him a scale of reference. Once indeed, they heard one of the great creatures bellow, but the sound came from far away.

The first faint glimmer of dawn was barely beginning to lighten the east when they came to a halt. A few moments earlier, Hiero had ordered Klootz to stop and had got down himself to test the surface on which they were traveling.

"Thought so," he muttered half to himself. "There's only an inch or so of muck here. I heard the hooves strike something hard quite a way back." He raised his voice so the girl could hear. "I think we're on a road, or at least something once constructed, a thing artificial." Gorm, come back and tell me what you think,

Man-built, very old, was the bear's verdict. They stood listening to the frog and insect chorus on the v/arm night, while clouds of gnats and mosquitoes descended on them. Hiero felt the bite of a leech through a tear on his ankle and, looking down, saw that the morse's legs were covered with the black, worm shapes, clearly visible in the waning of moonset.

"Day's coming," he said. "We'll have to find cover." He instructed the bear to look for shelter and began to walk by the morse's head.

The decision was soon made for them. With no warning, they rounded a clump of the big reeds and found a still expanse of open water before them, broken only by dark hillocks and peculiar, tall, peaked islands, fast taking shape in the dawning light. Looking about, Hiero spied a low mound not far away to one side, which had some vegetation growing on it. He remounted, and Gorm and the morse floundered through muck, for they quickly left the firm surface, until they reached the place.

Klootz heaved himself out of the mud, which would have been up to a human neck, with a sucking noise, and the two humans quickly dismounted. They were on a flat-topped island in the mud, about ten yards square. Thick bushes and even a small palm grew on it, but none of the marsh plants, proving that it was solid ground. While looking at its curiously regular edges, the priest unsaddled the morse and began to pick leeches off his mount's body.

"This is an ancient building, I feel sure," he said at length, yanking the last rubbery body off Klootz and hurling it out into the marsh. "We're standing on a flat roof. God Himself knows how much is sunk below us. This building could have been tall enough to reach, well, the height of a hundred men. The muck might be easily that deep."

They covered themselves against the insects as well as they could, and then all crouched down under the cover of the palm tree and bushes, to pass the day as best they might. Hiero made sure that they were covered from above by cutting a few branches and laying them over the four bodies. They would be hot, dirty, and uncomfortable, but also hard to see.

As the day flooded the landscape with light, their spirits sank, at least those of the humans did. Klootz ate steadily at every piece of browse within reach, and Gorm managed to sleep, keeping his bearish thoughts to himself.

But the landscape, or rather waterscape, which now lay before them could hardly be considered inspiring, even with a clear sky above and a warm sun.

The Inland Sea had vanished. As far as the eye could reach, there was water, but it was brown and still. From it, stretching equally far out of sight, thrust the ruins of a vast and ancient metropolis, the hecatomb of a vanished race. Some of the buildings were higher than tall trees. Their original height made the imagination boggle, for now they rose from the unplumbed water. Smaller ones, or perhaps those which simply had sunk further into the surrounding mud, were only domed islets, covered with vegetation, like the one on which the travelers now lay concealed. Others were between these two types, and they made up the majority, rising a few storeys from the water, their tops alone heavily laced with plant growth. Even through these clustering plants and the wear of millennia, the destruction by some inconceivable force was still visible. Many of the ruins were shattered and broken, as if by some titanic blow, one which combined both fire and shock. Water plants, huge lily pads and arrowweed, others like great floats of green bladders, covered much of the still water. Here and there, great piles of logs lay tumbled, many overgrown with vines and creepers, the wreckage hurled in by past storms.

The brown and black building's had dark and gaping windows showing in many places where vegetation had not obscured them. Here and there, amazingly, a fragment of incredibly ancient glass still glinted in the sun and occasionally even a scrap of some rustproof metal. It was a drear and sad prospect to see, a world of death and old ruin, old beyond memory.

The voices of the frogs had died down with the coming of the sun, but the insects still buzzed and stung, although mercifully in far lesser numbers.

Other life there was little, save for a few scattered flocks of some small, dark birds, which flew silently about the roofs of some of the buildings. Large blotches of white stained other buildings, looking to Hiero like the marks of nesting birds of a larger sort, but the birds themselves were absent. Perhaps the season was over and they had gone elsewhere.

The priest probed the area with his mind and found nothing. In the waters and under them, there was much life, but it was not of a kind he could reach or understand, having no intelligence, only appetites and fears.

Yet he did not like the place. Even in the sun, there was a brooding presence to it, a feeling that all was not well.

All day they watched the buildings and the water, but saw nothing beyond the movements of small creatures of mud and pool. The afternoon drew on and the sun sank lower toward the west. The first frog voices began to sound, hesitantly at first, then louder. The insect voices also restarted, and their humming battalions attacked in new numbers.

"Let's get out of here," the priest choked, spitting out a cloud of bugs.

They repacked Klootz and mounted. Hiero saw nothing for it but to try and move around the shoreline, muddy though it was, and circle the forgotten city. The water between the buildings, he felt sure, was too deep and also too extensive to try swimming. Who knew what lurked under the surface?

Hardly had they started, indeed Gorm had barely put a front paw off the islet, when they all froze.

The insect and batrachian chorus ceased. Over the still lagoons and through the ruined towers of the ancients, there rang a long, echoing wail. As they listened, it came again. "Aowh, aowh, aaaaouh," it sobbed, rising and falling on the evening air. Three times the mournful notes hung suspended, their place of origin a mystery. Then there was silence.

As the four listened, a frog spoke hesitantly, then another. Soon the full, croaking orchestra was in full swing again.

"Could you tell where it came from?" Luchare asked.

"No, and neither could Gorm. It seemed to be some distance away, out in the water, but I don't like it. There is an intelligence here; I feel it in my bones. Something malignant, evil, watching, and waiting. We must stop a while longer while I think. I don't like this plunging into the night with no protection. The Unclean may be here, hidden perhaps by a mind shield."

Full night was almost upon them. Only a red line showed the sun's last light. Hiero dismounted, his brow wrinkled. Ought we to turn back? But where? He felt he was being stupid. There must be some plan, some more sensible method of doing things, that he was missing. Damn! He slapped at the swarming mosquitoes, more in frustration than anything else.

"I wish we had a boat," the girl said, looking about. "But it would have to be a big one to hold Klootz. Then we could get out of this mud, at least."

"Up north we build—Holy Mother, forgive my dumbness!" he exploded. "We build rafts, rafts for our animals when there's no bridge! And I've been sitting ail day staring at a thousand log piles, logs all but covered with long vines! The only thing I haven't been given is someone to step up and kick me awake! Come on down from there and we'll get to work!"

It was true. The storm-brought drifts of logs lay everywhere. All about their islet were numbers of them, a few with leaves still left on their branches.

Even Gorm was a help now. Klootz was hitched to a vine rope and tugged free the ones they wanted, while the bear helped untangle branches and vines. Hiero hacked off limbs with his sword-knife and generally supervised, while Luchare bound the big logs tightly together with cut lengths of tough vine.

At length they had done all they could. The priest had cut two twenty-foot poles and also made a couple of crude paddles, the latter in case the water grew too deep for the poles. The whole raft was about thirty feet long and fifteen wide. It was incredibly clumsy, but absolutely necessary, Hiero felt.

I (can) swim, Klootz sent, gingerly testing the structure with a huge foot.

No, Stupid, his master came back. Danger under the water. You ride.

It took every ounce of everyone's muscle to get the great thing off the mud and into the water deep enough to float, especially with the big morse aboard. He finally had to leap onto it from the islet, and the shock drove the raft momentarily under the surface. But he landed neatly and stood carefully, and it rose again, spilling water, and floated.

8 - The Peril and the Sage

The huge raft was even clumsier than Hiero had feared. Still, with patience, it was just possible to move it slowly along. The chief problem was the vast, tangled mats of vegetation which lay entwined on the water's surface. He had to lean over and cut them aside with his sword, and he finally sat down and lashed the sword firmly to one end of his pole. He used leather thongs from his repair kit and tied everything twice before he was satisfied,

From then on, he could cut more easily, and without having a fear that something would seize his arm as he leaned far over the raft's edge, and also without having to put down the pole.

Something bad near! suddenly came the bear's mental voice. Not a human, something else which thinks and not-thinks.

Hiero rested on his pole, and so did Luchare. The great raft moved sluggishly forward for a few yards on momentum alone while all strained to hear the night, both with physical senses and mental ones. But there was nothing, nothing save the almost deafening chorus of frogs and insects, a medley of croaks, trills, and stridulations which made ordinary speech almost inaudible.

It is gone, Gorm sent. It was quick, like a moving fish. Now— nothing.

The priest did not delude himself into believing the bear might be mistaken. Gorm's alertness had saved them several times already. If his quick mental perceptions, which after all were not human, had detected something, then something was there!

Thinks and not-thinks! There was no time to try and find out what the bear meant, not now. Worried and frustrated by the intangible menace, Hiero looked all around, taking in the still, dark water, the nearer buildings, and the patches of floating plants. He noted in passing that Klootz' huge, flat antlers were hung with the last shreds of velvet and were now almost ready for use as weapons.

But under the pale moonlight, nothing stirred. At last Hiero signaled to Luchare and thrust his pole deep in the mud again. Once more, the ponderous raft slid forward, headed for the wide opening between two towering ruins. Frogs blinked and fell silent, their cold eyes goggling from huge lily pads and bladderworts as the cumbersome thing went by. Once it had gone, the renewed chorus broke out in its wake.

As they passed into the first shadows of the shattered monoliths, the raft met with its first major check, a tangled mass of some floating weed. Hiero ran to the front of the raft (it had no real bow) and began to hack with his pole-knife while Luchare aided him by thrusting the cut portions aside. Fortunately, there was deep water under the weeds; and, once cut, they were little trouble. Still, it was arduous work, for the raft had to be poled a few yards and then the cutting had to commence again. It was to be only the beginning of such work.

Through the night, the raft's slow progress continued. Black windows and gaping rents in the rotted, ancient masonry leered down at the wayfarers as they struggled on. Once, a cloud of bats issuing from one such ruin and swirling up across the face of the moon made everyone jump, but beyond that, nothing happened but hard work.

On two occasions they encountered a bank of thick mud, risen up invisible under the water plants ahead, and were forced to backtrack and seek another opening through the maze of the old city. Fortunately, there was one available each time. Again, while crossing wide stretches of water (perhaps, Hiero reflected, the remains of ancient squares or parks), they had lost touch with the bottom entirely. He blessed God's aiding his forethought in cutting the crude paddles. The silt-laden water was so clam that even these were sufficient to move the raft along until the poles could be brought into use once more.

As the first light of dawn came into the eastern sky, the Metz looked forward at his human partner, and somehow both managed to grin. They were both filthy, drenched in sweat, palms blistered by their pole work, and it seemed that not an inch of their bodies was unbitten by gnats and mosquitoes. But they were alive and healthy, and they must have come quite a distance, which was some satisfaction.

"I don't want to travel by day, not in this place," Hiero said aloud. "Look, over there, a sort of sloping place. We can spend the day there and still be at least partly hidden."

The rapidly growing light revealed them to be in one of the numerous squares, as Hiero had come to call them. On three sides, vast and rotted stone structures loomed up far above their heads, pierced with countless windows and ancient scars and rents, black openings on nothing. Long vines and twisted lianas hid many other places.

The fourth side was more hopeful,, however. Some huge building had evidently collapsed under the weight of the countless years, and in the not-too-distant past. The result was a great pile of rubble and broken stone, thrusting up in an irregular mound from the quiet waters of the lagoon. A few large bushes grew in one place, probably survivors of the original structure, but otherwise it was quite bare of vegetation.

Soon the raft lay in a shallow cove next to the island mound. Leaves covered it, and to a casual inspection, it was one more tangle of drifted logs. The travelers, two-and four-legged, soon were huddled together under the clump of bushes, waiting in sticky irritability for the sun to rise even higher and add another dimension to their discomfort.

Gorm—what was the thing that frightened you? Hiero sent. The mind touch you caught as we started, I mean.

Something new, the bear admitted, as he tried to cover his sensitive nose from the crowding mosquitoes. Only one, whatever it was; a bad mind, quick, sly, full of hate for everything not like itself But not a human, not any animal I know either. Maybe— there was a pause as the young bear reflected—maybe, a little like a frog, but one that thinks!

While the others absorbed this, he added, It went away. Perhaps to find more. With this parting message, he covered his nose completely with his forepaws and fell asleep. His thick, black fur saved him from most of the other bites, and he seemed to have the ability to sleep anywhere, at any time.

"We'll have to keep watch," Hiero said to the girl. "Try and sleep, and I'll take the first one." He wiped the sweat from his eyes with a filthy hand and managed to get dirt in one of them. As he rubbed harder, Luchare pulled his hand down and from somewhere produced a damp and (relatively) clean cloth with which she sponged his face, cleaning his eye out in the process.

"There," she said in a tone of satisfaction. "Now keep your dirty fingers out of it. What do you think Gorm felt, Hiero? Could he be imagining things? This place is enough to make anyone have bad dreams, even a bear." She looked out at the brooding land, or rather waterscape, before them. Even under the now completely risen sun, the silent hulks of the past were not a pleasant sight. The green vegetation mats of water plants, the vines crawling up the buildings' shattered faces, the trees and bushes on their pinnacles, all added to the feeling of desolation.

"He doesn't imagine things," the priest said. He was trying to ignore the dirty, but enchanting, face so close to his and concentrate instead on what he was saying.

"There's something here, maybe a lot of somethings. I can't tap the mental channels, but I can feel thought going on around me, do you understand. Maybe several kinds of thought. We're going to have to be careful, very careful." And lucky, very lucky, he added to himself.

Another long day passed. They ate and drank sparingly. The canteens were running low, and though Klootz and the bear did not seem to mind the lagoon water, Hiero tested it and it was foul, full of green matter and with a sickening smell. He did not intend to drink of it except as a last resort.

The sun reached zenith, and the afternoon began and slowly waned. Luchare finally slept, and so did both animals. Save for the humming insects, which never ceased their myriad assault, no sound broke the silence. The towers were empty of bird life, and none appeared in the blue, cloudless sky. Listening on all the mental channels known to him, the priest could detect no coherent thought. Yet all around him, intangible and in stealth, some spying, probing presence seemed to glare at them. A busy undercurrent of activity was at work; he felt it in his bones, but could neither actually locate nor identify it.

They had just repacked the raft and were easing the big morse aboard when they froze in their tracks. The light of late evening still let them see the buildings around them clearly, but their eyes could detect no movement. The frog chorus had barely begun.

From out of the distant east, in the direction they themselves wanted to travel, there came the same strange cry they had heard the previous evening. The frogs fell silent.

"Aoooh, aoooh, aaaoooooouh," it wailed mournfully. Three times it came, and then there was silence once more, save for the insect buzz. Slowly the frogs began again, while the two animals and their human friends stood in the gathering dark, each immersed in his or her own thoughts.

"Oh, I hate this place!" Luchare burst out. "It's not like the rest of the world at all, but some dead, wet, horrible wasteland full of moaning ghosts! The City of the Dead!" She broke into tears, burying her face in her cupped hands. Her long-held control had finally given way.

Hiero moved to her side and put his arms around her and patted her back, until at length her wet face was raised to his, a question in the great eyes which he had no trouble answering. He lowered his head and drank in the wild sweetness of her lips for the first time. Her strong, young arms rose and tightened around his neck, and when the kiss finally ceased, she buried her face in his jacket. He still stroked her back, saying nothing, his eyes staring sightlessly over her head into the gathering night. The bites of a dozen midges and mosquitoes were unfelt.

"What was that for?" came a muffled voice from his shirt. "A present for a frightened child?"

"That's right," he agreed in cheerful tones. "I do that to all the scared brats I meet. Of course, sometimes it recoils on me. I might even get to like it."

She looked up at once, suspicious that he was laughing at her, but even in the last light of day, what she saw in his eyes was so plain that her face was jammed back into his chest once more, as if what she had read in his expression had scared her. There was another short silence.

"I love you, Hiero," came a small voice from his chest.

"I love you, too," he said almost sadly. "I'm not at all sure it's a good idea. In fact, I'm fairly certain it's a bad one, a very bad one. I have been set a task so important that the last sane human civilization may fall if I should fail to carry it out. I need a further distraction like a third leg." He smiled down at the angry face which had popped up again.

"I seem to be helpless, however." He tightened his grip around the firm body. "Win or lose, we stay together from now on. I'd worry more if you were somewhere else."

She snuggled closer, as if somehow she could bind herself to him. They stood thus, the world forgotten until a mental voice whose very flatness made it seem sardonic broke in.

Human mating is indeed fascinating. But we are in a dangerous place to study it. That is something of which I feel certain.

This acted like a pail of cold water. They almost sprang apart. Studiously ignoring the bear, who sat looking up at them from the middle of the raft where he sat next to Kiootz, they seized their poles and pushed off into the humming, croaking dark. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars were out, and both of them had excellent night vision.

Once again, a night of toil and discomfort lay before them. Yet they detected no signs of an enemy, though there were moments when the appearance of one would have come as an almost welcome distraction. On and on through the drowned city they poled, hacked, and paddled their way. Hiero fell overboard once, but popped back up in a second, streaming foul, muddy water, at least cool for a few seconds.

The moon rose and made their task a little easier. The silent, black buildings stared down from a thousand ruined eyes as they struggled past. Perhaps they were following boulevards and esplanades which had once echoed to the tramp of vanished parades. All were buried now, forgotten and lost under the weight of centuries of mud and water.

Luchare and Hiero had become so inured to their toil that the first light of dawn was a surprise, brought to their notice by the fact that they could now see one another's faces clearly.

"My love," the priest said wearily, "if I look half as dirty and tired as you do, I must be the worst-looking thing around."

"You look much worse," was the answer. "I may never kiss you again, at least not until I can scrape you off with a knife first." Tired as she was, the girl's voice was buoyant with love and happiness.

"Look at that damned morse," Hiero grunted, changing the subject. "He's getting back at me for all the riding, galloping, spurring, and general hard labor I've put him through."

Klootz was indeed asleep, only his great ears twitching under his antlers, giant legs tucked neatly under his barrel. Beside him, the bear also slept on, as usual allowing nothing to come between him and his rest.

"They're supposed to be on watch. We could have been eaten by now with guards like that!"

"I know, Hiero, but we haven't been. I'm so tired and dirty it would almost be a relief, anyway. Where are we, do you suppose?"

The raft was drifting slowly along what once must have been a mighty avenue. The close-packed buildings on either side were so tall, even in their antique ruin, that most of the sunlight never reached the water lapping at their sides. As a result, few plants grew here. The water, too, seemed much deeper. The two had been using the paddles for the last hour or so.

They could see light far ahead and equally far behind, but great, ruined structures hemmed them in on both sides. There were bays and gaps in the looming, moss-hung cliffs and walls of stone, shadowed niches and caves, but the general effect was that of being in the bottom of some vast canyon. As the daylight grew, this effect was heightened, rather than the reverse.

Hiero looked about him carefully. Then his eye returned to one spot; he saw something which sent a cold chill up his spine.

Luchare! His mental voice jolted her as no spoken word could have. Don't make a sound. Look at that opening to the right, at the water through the big hole in that building.

The gloomy light was nevertheless quite strong enough to delineate the place Hiero was staring at. A huge masonry wall, or possibly a vast gate, for it was hard to tell, had collapsed in a distant age. The water flowed through the wide gap and into a still pool, hundreds of yards across, completely surrounded by more shadowed and lofty structures as far as the two could see.

In the middle of the pool, directly opposite the entrance to the watery "street" on which now rode the raft, a tall, thin object rose directly from the surface of the quiet water. At first, Hiero had assumed that it was some inanimate structure of an unknown type, perhaps a spire of some long-sunk house. But his eye had strayed back to it, warned by a physical sense he could not define, and with a thrill of horror he saw that it was ever so gently moving. Then the shape, like that of a giant amber leaf, complete with ribs, or vanes, became clear. They were looking at a colossal fin, whose owner lay just under the turgid surface of the water. The sheer bulk of the creature defied the imagination.

It must lie there in ambush, Hiero sent, waiting for what passes. If we stay still, there's a chance.

Indeed, a gentle current was taking them past the opening, although at a rate which seemed absolutely leaden. The two animals still lay in the center of the raft, apparently asleep. Yet both were not.

I heard you, came Gorm's thought. What is the danger? I can see nothing.

Something very large, just under the water, came Hiero's answer. Do not move. It watches. It could eat this whole raft, I think. I will try to reach its mind.

Try he did, on every mental band he knew, including the new one he had learned to use while on Manoon. But as the raft lazily drifted on, he had to acknowledge defeat. Whatever monster lay embayed back there, it sent out nothing he could distinguish from the thousands of other life essences in the waters around them. The size of the thing was no clue to its mental activity, and its sheer bulk gave off no mental radiation, at least not any that he could perceive.

They drifted until even the buildings around the place where they had seen the fin were out of sight. Then and then only did Hiero signal to Luchare to resume paddling. And both did so with great care, being careful to splash as little as possible.

They had still a very long way to go down the gloomy canyon when Hiero exclaimed aloud, "Push her over to this side. I see something we badly need."

Between the two of them, they got the raft wedged into the angle of a great building which jutted out a little beyond its fellows. Hiero told Luchare to hang on and hold it there.

"Look," he said, "we're in luck—a copper band around this level of windows."

He had glimpsed the sickly verdigris of the copper as the raft approached it and remembered their three-quarters-finished crossbows. Using his belt knife and the pole's butt end, he managed to pry a strip weighing several pounds loose and onto the raft. Under the coating of verdigris, the metal was untouched.

"I think it's bronze," he said, looking carefully at it. "Better than copper too, lots harder. We have enough to tip a hundred arrows here. Lucky it lasts forever."

Luchare shivered. "I'm glad too, but let's get moving. I still find this place makes me sick. All those old windows seem to be watching us. And where are we going to spend today? The sun's all the way up now, even if it looks so gloomy down here."

"I don't know. We'll have to keep paddling, that's all. Maybe we'll find an island or a cove or something. Perhaps an opening in the side of one of these buildings. One without an occupant," he added.

Despite the steady increase of light, they had little choice, save to keep moving. The gentle current was growing stronger, for one thing, and for another, no more large breaks in the walls of stone occurred. The eddying stream helped now, though; the opening at the far end of the long line of buildings drew rapidly closer, far more rapidly than if they had been forced to propel themselves unaided. And the current also had prevented the formation of any mats of vegetation, so that no more cutting was necessary.

Still, it was almost noon when the raft shot from the darkness between the lines of towering ruins and out into the sunlight. For a moment the passengers were dazzled by the light, but when they saw clearly, Luchare let out an exclamation of delight and, dropping her paddle, clapped her hands together.

They had emerged into, and now were drifting in, a small lake whose clear blue water indicated great depth and a probable close connection with the Inland Sea. Around its fringe, many buildings formed a ring, save in one direction, the south, where a wide gap was evident.

But it was the middle of the lake that held their attention. A small, green island, covered with bushes and palm trees and showing patches of grass here and there, rose out of the lake's waters. Bright-colored flowers, yellows and blues, glowed amid the herbage. And flocks of small birds circled here and there, while a raft of mingled geese and ducks, brown and white, fed in the shallows on the side facing the raft. After the days and nights in the gloom and stench, the insects and frogs, the fear and the labor, the place looked like Paradise.

"Come on, Hiero," she urged. "Let's get over there quickly. That place is big enough even to have a spring. We can get clean. Those trees may have fruit, and we can probably get a few ducks. Hurry!"

But the priest stood immobile, holding his paddle. True, the island did indeed look inviting. Perhaps too much so! He had not forgotten, tired though he was, the stealthy sensations of the past few days, the weird calling in the twilight, the feeling that the party were somehow being kept under observation. This place was still surrounded by the drowned city and its ravaged buildings, attractive though it looked.

But fatigue won over caution. They had to rest somewhere, and both he and Luchare were nearly at the end of their respective ropes. Also, the need for food, fresh food, and clean water was urgent. And the animals needed them both as well.

"Come on, then," he said and began to paddle. "At least we can hide there for the rest of the day. But don't talk so loudly! This place is no Abbey home for the aged and unwell! I still sense some strange mental undercurrent that scares me, that I can't pin down."

A gently sloping beach on one end made the little island almost perfect. And there was a spring, or rather a dew pond, filled with clear, sweet water, set in the island's center and surrounded by tall ferns and sweet-smelling flowers. To make matters complete, Hiero found a bed of freshwater clams in the shallows of the beach, and the three carnivores feasted on the raw, juicy shellfish until they could hold no more. Klootz paid the clams no attention but began to put away pounds of grass and shrubbery at once.

By mid-afternoon, washed, cleaned, and with full stomachs, all were fast asleep, save for Klootz, who still roved the island, selecting the finest bits of leaf and twig while mounting an alert watch at the same time. Even he had rolled in the clear water, and now he was engaged at intervals in rubbing the last of the soft velvet off his great rack of gleaming, black antlers. At times he paused and looked about, then, seeing nothing, fell to eating again.

So exhausted were the two humans that they slept through the afternoon and most of the entire night that followed. Hiero awoke in the darkness before dawn and realized at once what had happened. Before he could even form a self-reproach, the bear's voice echoed in his mind. You needed the rest. Nothing has come near. But still—something watches. I know it, just as I know the sun rises.

We must be alert, Hiero replied. He stretched, feeling so stiff that he could hardly move, although the sleep had done him a lot of good.

Luchare awoke at the movement from her place nearby. "Is that today's new sun, that dim glow? We must have had a long sleep. But I still feel like sleeping again. Is that wicked?"

"No, it's not. We're both still exhausted. I'm going to declare a rest day. I think we can finish those crossbows and cut some bolts for them too, which will make me feel a lot better. We're going to need some missile weapons for hunting, if for no other reason,"

The day began more pleasantly than any in weeks. Hiero managed to finish his own crossbow and to cut some bolts from seasoned dead saplings washed up on the island's shore.

Luchare was no help, for she spent most of the time arranging her hair, bathing, and pelting Hiero with bunches of flower petals whenever she caught him looking "too serious." At mid-afternoon, he gave up on any further work simply to lie with his head in her lap while she gossiped about her past life and speculated on their future together.

"I hope we have a long and happy one, love," he said at last. "But we're a far and distant way from it now. And you've never mentioned, in all your gabble, just what led you to run away from D'alwah. An arranged marriage, one might guess?"

She gasped in astonishment. "I knew it! You were too peering into my mind!"

"No." He smiled up at the indignant face and with his finger transferred a kiss on the end of the dark, aquiline nose. "You admitted you were no slave once before. You're the daughter of one of your great nobles, I imagine, because, by your own admission, only the priesthood and the nobility get a chance to learn as much as you have. So it was a fairly easy guess. How great a noble is your father, in your own country's terms, I mean?"

"The greatest," she said in dull tones. There was a silence.

"The actual king, eh?" Hiero no longer smiled. "Now that's a pity. Are you the only child? It might be important."

"I had one older brother, but he was killed in a battle with the Unclean. My father wanted me to marry and cement an alliance with the next most powerful state. I knew, everyone knows, ail about Efrem of Chespek. He beats and tortures his concubines. His first queen went mad and he had her blinded, divorced her as not being legally married, since the kings cannot marry people who are physically maimed, you see, and put her in a nunnery. That's what I was running away from."

"Can't say as I much blame you," Hiero said, chewing a grass stem. "I rather was hoping to establish contact with various countries, especially yours, so that I could open a trade route and, more important, we could start to recivilize your area. Stealing a princess, the only princess, is a bad start."

She bristled. "What do you mean 'recivilize?' I'll have you know, Per Desteen, my bearded priestling, D'alwah is a great and powerful nation, with two walled cities and countless churches and other big palaces and buildings of stone. To say nothing of a great and brave army!"

Hiero smiled affectionately at her and said nothing. He rolled over on his stomach and still said nothing, his chin pillowed on his arms, apparently staring away off over the lake.

"I see," she said after an even longer pause. "Those things aren't enough to be called civilized by themselves, are they, Hiero?"

"Well, what do you think?" he asked. "They go along with a basis of chattel slavery, a stranglehold on wealth and education by a small, propertied class, crushing taxes, a state religion which seems to have degenerated, at least in part, into sheer superstition, and finally, incessant, bloody warfare with your neighbors. That last would be too silly and meaningless in any case, but it weakens your society terribly, just when it needs its strength the most to fight the Unclean and the ravening monsters of your own forests. Now, you tell me if that's civilization. I'd call it pretty advanced barbarism and a plain path downhill to complete ruin."

"I suppose you're right," she said. "It's just that, having been raised as the royal princess of D'alwah and flattered and lied to by everyone from the time I could talk, I had no way of knowing anything could, or should, rather, be any different."

"I know," he said, patting her shoulder. "The amazing thing, little princess, is that you turned out the way you did. Not only lovely but smart, smart enough to admit you don't know everything. The only kind of brains worth having, that is."

Her face bent over his, and he pulled her down. The tall grass hid them from any observation, and he breathed into her ear, "Now?"

"I'm afraid," was the husky, low-voiced answer. "I'm a virgin. That's one reason I was supposed to be so valuable."

"You'll be my wife when we can find another priest. As far as I'm concerned, you're my wife right now. And my love. Forever and ever, until God calls us home. That's what our marriage service says."

Her lips came down on his then and silenced him. The grasses waved gently in the afternoon sun. Once there sounded a small cry, so soft and brief that even the bear could hardly hear it These humans! he thought. At least that's over with and we can concentrate on other matters. He drowsed too in the warm sunlight, half-listening to the grinding sounds of Klootz remorselessly demolishing his cud, over and over. The island slept, the silence broken only by the muted call of birds and insect hum.

They both awoke in early evening, or rather were awakened. Neither one said a word as they quickly drew on their clothes. The messages from Gorm, Awake! They come! had hit their two sleeping brains like a thunderclap. In the instant that this took, the terrible wailing cry which had grown so familiar to them came again, louder than they had ever heard it, and this time it did not cease.

"Aoough, aaaouugh, aaaooough!"

Now, in great volume, it came from all around them. In the half-light over the twilight lagoon, their island no longer seemed a haven of safety, but a tiny morsel of helpless sanity in a chaotic and implacable world. Hiero himself spared a brief and regretful thought for their first love-making, sandwiched between perils and duties, a moment already pre-doomed to evanescence.

With the morse and the bear, they rapidly took stations in the center of their island. Around them, the booming menacing wail grew louder still. "Aoough, aaaooough, aaough!"

Now, clearly outlined in the yet strong light, the travelers saw their enemies, and all knew at once that they had been watched from the beginning of their voyage through the drowned metropolis.

From every side but the open south they came, in small, narrow craft, half raft, half canoe, apparently made of tightly bound reeds, pointed at either end. From out between the encircling buildings, across the quarter mile of open water around the island, the strange craft surged, propelled by their owners' webbed hands, as well as paddles. And the white heads in the water between the boats showed where many more were coming fast by simply using their native element.

A new Leemute! Take a frog, Hiero thought, and stand him up; give him a high-vaulted skull and a pallid skin, white and sickly-looking. Give him evil black eyes, like huge bubbles of sparkling, vicious jet. Give him almost man size. Give him knives of bone, as white as his skin, and spears of fish bone and bleached bone clubs. And give him hate! As the things came steadily on, the priest thought of Gorm's first impression. A frog that thinks. Must have been a scout and we've been stalked.

The wailing, sobbing cry which had filled the air suddenly ceased. And only then did Hiero realize that the frog-things themselves were utterly silent. The strange noise had come from the buildings all around them but not from the creatures themselves. Was it a signal to attack? Who had made it? Many other questions filled his mind, but there was no time for any of them. The first attackers had reached the island and were swarming ashore.

The priest's first instinct had been correct: get away from the lagoon and meet the frog creatures on dry land. They ran awkwardly, half-hopping, half-scuttling, and were obviously far less at ease with solid dirt under their great, webbed toes than with the swamp ooze or water. Still, there were many of them and only four of the travelers. But now Hiero had lapsed into the cold killing fit of his Abbey training. Defeat was not even a consideration. Luchare got the first one. Her long lance, the extendible javelin Hiero had taken from the Unclean priest, licked out, and a frog-thing's throat opened in scarlet. A shower of the barbed bone spears came whistling and everyone ducked. One struck Hiero full on the breast and he gasped. It had hardly penetrated the skin! The amphibian Leemutes were no spearmen. Apparently their skinny arms were not shaped for throwing. Even so, though this was a boost to morale, quickly communicated to the others, there were apparently hundreds of the ugly creatures swarming up the gentle slope from the water. And they will be getting harder to see. Hiero thought, for the light was now fading fast.

But again, the things' own physical characteristics worked against them! As the light died, they became more, not less, visible! A strange, spectral glow emanated from their dank, squamous skins, and they were thus outlined in their own luminescence. A weird and frightening sight, no doubt, but not to trained fighters, and by this time Luchare was one too!

Klootz! Hiero sent. To me!

The big morse had been guarding the left flank while the bear held the right, keeping his ground and scything with his great antlers at any Leemute who ventured near. They were afraid of him, and few of them tried that side.

Now he lunged forward between Hiero and Luchare and, at a word, crouched. Both swung up into the big saddle, one spear couched to the left, the other to the right.

"Charge!" the priest shouted. Around the island, you big clown, sent his mind. Clean up on them! Follow us, Gorm!

Hiero had suddenly seen the best, indeed the only, method of attack. Once the strange characteristics of the frog-things became apparent, it was obvious. Individually no menace, they yet swarmed in such numbers that they might pull down an immobile foe if allowed to. But if attacked, and on solid earth where their weak land legs made them doubly vulnerable, things might be different!

The giant bull morse was a creature such as they had never seen, and he was almost invulnerable to their feeble darts, which could barely do more than annoy him. The low bushes and the few trees were no impediment to his charge at all, and he simply tore through the glow of the crowding frog creatures as if they were not there. Their gaping mouths, rimmed with needle fangs, opened voicelessly in terror and rage. But save for the stamping, snorting, and grunts of the morse, the growling of the bear, and the gasps of the humans, the strange battle was fought in utter silence. Even as he thrust savagely with his spear, Hiero wondered at the creatures. He had been able to detect no mental activity at all, and since they seemed voiceless, how on earth did the creatures communicate? Twice around the islet they charged, scattering havoc through their phosphorescent foes.

Suddenly, they had won, at least for the present. With no signal that either human could see or hear, a scuttling, shambling rush back to the lagoon began. One instant they were surrounded by a hideous, glowing pack of nightmare demons; the next, innumerable blobs of living light were ebbing away to the water's edge. Even as Hiero signaled a halt, he observed that the dead and wounded were being taken too. Probably to eat, he thought sourly, unwilling to concede any decent values to the squattering Leemutes.

"They're gone," Luchare breathed, bloody lance resting across the saddlebow in front of her.

"Yes, but not very far; look!"

The island now was surrounded by a ring of cold fire! The amphibian horde lay in the water, aboard their reed boats or simply floating; it was hard to tell in the dark. But one thing was obvious: they were not going away. "I think they'll be back all right, come first light probably," the priest continued. "Anyone hurt here?" Are you all right, Gorm? Klootz, any wounds?

Their weapons are weak. I thought they might have poison on the points, but there is nothing. I am not even scratched.

Klootz shook his great antlers angrily. Drops of dark, evil-smelling blood flew back and caught his two riders in the face.

"Phew! I guess you're all right too?"

The man and woman dismounted and stood looking through the night at the weird cordon of light for a moment.

"Come on," Hiero said at length. "Let's clean our weapons and get some food into us. Then we can rest again. I'll take first watch. I've almost finished my crossbow, and I want to start to cut and trim some quarrels and bolts. The moon's rising again, and there should be enough light."

"I'm not staying asleep while you work!" his young lady stated flatly. "Maybe we can finish both of the bows between us."

The love and trust in her voice caused a pang deep in Hiero's breast. He had not admitted how forlorn it all looked, even to himself. What could the morning bring but another attack, one in overwhelming numbers this time? His ideas about completing the crossbows were only to avoid having to face the inevitable. Ringed by water and countless aquatic foes, what help could they count on in escaping? None.

A true Killman never gives up, said one part of his training. A priest trusts in God, said another. You 've been stuck before; look at Manoon, now, said a third. He laughed, a quick, short bark, and Luchare looked curiously at him. But she said nothing. She was learning that her strange lover was a man of moods.

"All right," he said, "let's get busy, then. Our two fur people can keep watch."

It must have been well after midnight when Hiero suddenly stiffened, his sensitive hands pausing, immobile over their work of cutting vanes for the crossbow bolts. A strange mental signal had come to him. Something inimical moved in the night, but behind a shield he could not penetrate. Yet he was conscious of it coming, like a menacing cloud, which still conceals whatever lies within its heart.

Quickly he woke the others, for Luchare had long since collapsed, exhausted, despite her earlier boasts.

I feel it too, came from the bear. What it is I cannot tell, but you are right; it comes through the dark in our direction. It comes from there. He indicated the south, where the open water lay.

"Unclean!" Hiero burst out in despair. "These damned frog Leemutes must be more of their allies. The feeling hung around them like an evil stench, and I couldn't put two and two together!" We should have tried to leave earlier, even if it meant fighting our way through the line out there. At least the danger from those things only hits at the body!

Patience, was the bear's calm reply. You chose the best way you knew. You are our leader. We have escaped other traps. There was a pause, as if the strange, literal, ursine mind was considering something new. Then there came a note of something surprising to Hiero—a touch of humor. Let us not die before we truly are killed.

Hiero probed the star-and moonlit night, using all the new power of his own mind. The inchoate force continued to approach steadily, and at last, just before dawn, he too was able to pinpoint its direction, the same as that which the bear had found. With the coming of daylight, he guessed what he would see. The familiar "feel" of the enemy, even masked and hidden, was unmistakable.

Quietly, he gave his instructions to the others, not even excluding Klootz.

Luchare stared at him, wide-eyed. "Must we die, beloved? Is there no way out, no other hope?"

"I see none, dearest. They took me alive before, and they will make no mistakes this time. From my brain, from all our living brains, they could force knowledge, a knowledge which would probably ensure their ultimate triumph. The ancient weapons I seek would be an irresistible force in their hands, plus whatever the bear knows and my own new skills in mind-fighting." He smiled sadly down at the dark, haunting face, ringed by its tight, black curls. "I have two death pills," he went on. "Here is one. Klootz will not be taken alive." Gorm, can you die fighting? Will you?

If necessary, was the answer. My Old Ones laid that on me, just as yours did. When you give the word, that is enough. Still, let us wait for the dawn.

Luchare understood him. "A false dawn," she said bitterly. "And one which means only night and death."

Hiero mastered his grief for her, so young and lovely, and spoke calmly, concealing what it cost him. "Gorm is right. Let's not die before our time. Who knows what may happen?"

His arm over her shoulder, they stood on the highest knoll of the islet and waited for the morning light. The two animals waited patiently by their sides, the giant morse "snoofing" loudly at intervals as he tested the dawn breeze. The phosphorescent glow of their enemies' bodies faded as the east grew pale and the sun rose. Their ring of reed skiffs and slimy, white shapes still covered the water, however, and they gave no sign of moving.

For the last time, the four now heard the awful wail which for them had come to symbolize the city.

"Aaaough, aaaooough, aaaooough," it rang out, from all about, its source as mysterious as ever. Far over the ruined towers it sounded, seeming to defy the very day itself. At last it fell silent, and the red disc of the sun appeared down one of the distant avenues of far-off buildings.

And those who had hunted the four so long also came with the morning. Out of the opening in the south came the hated black shape of that strange vessel which had caught Hiero. Perhaps, the priest thought, it was another like it, but it made no difference. In that black hull lay their destruction, sure and inescapable.

The pallid Leemutes, their slippery, pale forms gleaming in the morning light, paddled and swam away from the prow of the oncoming ship. A channel formed in their ranks, and the black vessel came slowly through it until, its speed diminishing, it coasted slowly toward the island. The guardian circle of monsters re-formed behind it. And all the other frog creatures followed, drawing in from all sides until they occupied only one, massed in deathly white on the side in which the black vessel lay and a hundred yards beyond it.

Hiero had never ceased sending mental darts at the ship, indeed had continually done so, even before it actually appeared. Now, as it came to a halt only a few hundred feet offshore, he ceased and merely held his own defense ready, waiting on the faint off chance that the Unclean might drop their barrier. He knew well the chance was infinitesimal. He could feel Luchare's body trembling, but he shot a sideways glance and noted proudly that her high-cheekboned face was impassive.

The adept who stood on the open bridge, surrounded by human aides and several Hairy Howlers, spoke aloud in batwah. He was not S'duna, but again the physical resemblance was uncanny. Yet Hiero was not fooled by the shaven head and the close approximation.

"Priest, we have you fast and your grimy crew as well, including your wench. Are you ready to yield without a struggle?" The voice, like S'nerg's and S'duna's, was resonant, ironic, and powerful. Its purpose was to intimidate, to weaken confidence, to inspire fear. It succeeded in none of its purposes. Instead, Hiero laughed.

"Still want my brain, eh, Baldy?" he said. The distance was so close that he hardly needed to raise his voice. With relish, he saw the pale skin of the other redden, while the Howlers started to chatter angrily. Hiero spared a glance at the foredeck. He frankly hoped the lightning gun he saw there would be used on them. The silver amulet which had guarded him before was no longer in place, and that had been a million-to-one chance anyway. It would be a quick end, and they would feel nothing.

But the two hooded men who manned the contrivance were well-disciplined. They simply stood at its controls, waiting for an order from their master.

The adept waved a hand negligently, and the noisy Howlers fell silent. The shining head inclined gracefully toward Hiero, and the priest was surprised.

"You are bold, priest of a forgotten god, courageous too. Qualities the Brotherhood values. We have you in our grip, but we need not close our hand. What if we still offered alliance? I confess it freely, we could indeed use your mind, one of power and indomitable will. S'duna sent me, S'carn, one of scarcely less authority, to reason with you, though why you still cling to the animals, especially that stupid bear, I utterly fail to see." There was genuine puzzlement in this last.

The Metz hesitated not a second. "You lie, S'carn, and so do all your dirty tribe! S'duna even now fears me, or else he would have come himself, to see my capture or to watch my doom. You have a machine in your ship to keep my mind from slaying all of you. Well, come and try with your weapons! I defy your Unclean crew, your filthy, perverted Brotherhood, and above all, you, shave-pated master of foulness. If you have us fast, come and take us!"

For a second, staring over the calm water at the ship, only a stone's throw distant, Hiero thought he had succeeded. S'carn's face became a livid mask of horrid rage, and his hands twitched on the rail of the bridge. But, to Hiero's intense regret, the adept controlled himself and did not order the instant death the priest sought for himself and his friends. His voice was now low and grating, filled with venom and hatred.

"You seek a speedy death, priest, and when we have you on Manoon, you will pray to your foolish, nonexistent god for it. And it will not come, no, it will not come!" He turned to his swarming followers, who had stood in silent obedience behind him. "Put the ship's bow on the beach and take them! Take them alive!"

Hiero freed his right arm and raised his crossbow, which had hung from the left, a new-made, bronze-tipped quarrel in its slot, the bow cocked. He drew aim on S'carn, who with his head turned saw nothing of his doom. But he never loosed,

"Peace!" The new voice speaking in batwah was so strong and vibrant that, by comparison, that of the evil adept seemed weak and sickly, With one word, the voice took the whole situation under its control.

Hiero lowered his bow and frankly gaped, amazed at what he saw.

Around a corner of the islet, unseen by anyone, there had come a small wooden canoe. In its stern there sat an aged man, a paddle in his lap, his long, white beard and hair flowing over his plain dress of brown cloth shirt, pants, and soft boots, He seemed quite unarmed, save for a small belt knife. His skin was very dark, as dark as Luchare's, and his long, snowy-white hair was also just as much a mass of tight curls as hers,

The Unclean leader seemed as stunned as Hiero by this appearance. It was a second before he could gather his wits. His glance darted about as he sought for other enemies, it seemed impossible that one ancient had come alone into his power, as if out of thin air.

"What are you doing here, Elevener?" he demanded. "Are you mad to come between me and my prey? Even your bands of crazy sentimentalists know what we can do to those who oppose us!"

Elevener! Of course! Hiero thought. One of the Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment. But what was he doing here? Was he indeed mad, to thrust himself into his enemies' power? A thousand questions jostled in his mind.

But the old man was speaking again. "Servant of evil, you and your brute horde are summoned to depart. Go at once and cease molesting these wanderers, two-legged and four. I, Brother Aldo, tell you so, on penalty of your immediate death."

This was too much for S'carn. Indeed, Hiero himself was becoming sure the old fellow had lost his wits. To threaten a huge ship full of devil's weapons. Leemutes, and Unclean warriors, while sitting alone and unarmed in a canoe was certainly madness at its peak.

"We are favored by fortune, dotard, for we have you in our net as well as these. Cease your senile maunderings and approach at once to surrender, lest I lose my patience."

Brother Aldo, as he styled himself, rose and stood erect in his canoe. He revealed himself as being very tall and lean; despite his age, he balanced easily.

"We slay no one gladly, child of the Unclean, not even such as you." His arm thrust out, forefinger extended. "For the last time, I tell you, begone, lest I loose a destruction upon you! Can you not see your allies have fled, summoned by that which rules them?"

Hiero stared in fresh amazement. It was true. As the talk had taken this new turn with the sudden appearance of the old Elevener, the frog Leemutes were gone! Stealthily, silently, their living ring of bodies had vanished. Not a reed boat or leprous white shape remained. The black ship and the tiny canoe, a hundred yards separating them, were alone on the blue, dancing surface of the lagoon-Even S'carn seemed taken aback. His crew, too, began to mutter audibly, and one of the Howlers let out a piercing wail. But the adept still ruled.

"Silence, you chattering cowards! And as for you, you old troublemaker, enough of your lies and Elevener gibberish! Approach and surrender or I will slay you!" Yet a new, sudden fear showed in his ivory face, despite every effort to control it. The old man had frightened him. Brother Aldo dropped his hand, and an expression of sadness crossed his dark, lined face. "So be it. The One knows that I do this unwillingly." With that he sat down quickly in the canoe and raised his paddle.

And the black ship rose in the air!

Rose up, held in the pointed jaws of a fish of such bulk that it dwarfed the imagination. The thing's gleaming, ivory teeth, Hiero saw in numb fascination, were each as long as his own body! Not a sound came from the crew. It was too quick.

For one second the ship hung ten spans above the heaving, foaming surface; then the incredible monster shook its vast head once and the big vessel simply broke in half. As the two fragments struck the surface, the leviathan vanished in a boil of water. From out of this, there emerged a forked tail easily a hundred feet across! With a smash that almost pierced the eardrums, it came down on the lagoon squarely on top of the broken pieces of the Unclean ship and the surviving men and Leemutes who now struggled and screamed in the water.

Brace yourselves; hold Klootz 's legs, Hiero sent, seeing what was coming. A great wave rushed up the islet's beach, and in an instant the two humans and the bear were waist-deep in the surging water. The priest's warning had come in the nick of time, for the big morse held firm and they with him. Gorm had flung his strong forepaws around a leg as well, and Hiero had held on to both a leg and Luchare.

The water raced back as swiftly as it had come, and the travelers stared out at the transformed lagoon. There was a long smear of oil, a growing slick, and vast rings of racing, foaming ripples, all coming from the place where the Unclean ship had been. Of the ship and its sinister crew, nothing remained. In less than thirty seconds they had been totally obliterated, as if they had never been. Only the small canoe, now half-full of water, lay rocking on the surging water a few hundred feet away, its solitary occupant staring sadly at the fouled area of lagoon.

Hiero let go of Luchare and strode down through the soggy grass and shrubbery to the water's edge. As he reached it, he saw the canoe shooting in toward him, propelled by vigorous strokes of the paddle. In an instant its prow grated on the sand and its tall occupant stepped onto the beach, his vigorous movements belying his apparent age.

The two men stared at each other in appraisal. Hiero looked up at a face so strong and yet so calm that it seemed to have grown almost beyond what could be called human. The very dark brown, almost black, skin was lined by a thousand wrinkles, yet the skin itself was clear and healthy. The broad snub nose surmounted a sweeping, curly mustache which merged into the white beard imperceptibly. The frizzy white locks fell evenly to the old man's shoulders and were neatly combed.

But the eyes were the clue to the whole countenance. Black as night, dancing with light, they seemed to bubble with humor and yet to be grave as a granite monument at one and the same time. They were eyes which loved life, which had seen everything, examined everything, and were still searching for, and finding, new things to examine. In them could be read great age and wisdom and also the gusto and joy of healthy youth.

Hiero was won over on the instant. He extended his right hand, and a long, lean hand met it in a grip as firm as his own, met it and held it.

"Per Desteen, I believe, of the Kandan Universal Church," the deep voice said. "A man currently much sought for, by many sorts of people, for good and ill."

With a shock, Hiero realized that Brother Aldo was speaking Metz, fluently and with no accent at all. Before he could say anything, the old man smiled sheepishly.

"Showing off again, Per Desteen. I used to be good at languages and I learned all I could long ago. And whom have we here?" He turned and gave Luchare a stare as frank as that he had given her lover.

She smiled and held out her hand. "You have killed our enemies. Father, and we thank you for saving us."

"Yes, princess of D'alwah, I had to kill." He sighed, taking her extended hand in his own left, for he still kept Hiero's in his right. He ignored the girl's gasp at his knowledge of her.

"Killing is sometimes necessary," he went on in the same batwah, now looking keenly at both of them. "But it ought never to be a pleasure. We do not need to kill for food each day, as do the lower animals. A burden on my mind, all those souls, weary with vice and evil though they were." He released their hands.

"We have much to talk of, we three. Or rather, I should say, we four." Greeting, friend, came the thought directed at Gorm, who had ambled up and now sat gazing at the old man.

Greeting, Old One, the bear brain answered. We have much to thank you for. A debt is incurred. It will be repaid.

If you feel so, a debt there is, was the courteous reply. Now let us speak to one another. l am, as the two humans have heard, Brother Aldo, an Elder, albeit humble, of the Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment. I was sent to find you, if I could, and bring you to a place of safety.

Why? It was Luchare who asked, her thought pattern ragged, but quite intelligible, evidence of her increasing confidence.

Why? Brother Aldo looked hard at her. Have you forgotten one who promised you safety long ago and passed into the enemy's hands to save you?

"How could I?" She broke into speech in her agitation. "You mean Jone, don't you, Father? Is he alive? Did you save him too?"

Yes, I meant Brother Jone, child. And I did not mean to sound so reproving. And although l am indeed vastly older than any of you and probably all of you at once, call me "brother." The fur-man here, and he indicated Gorm, knows me as an "Old One. "So I am. But being a father implies responsibility of a kind I don't have or want. A father directs: I guide, at best.

"Per" means "father" in an old language. Hiero sent in somewhat truculent meaning.

I know, and I think your church makes a mistake using it. But why do I wander so? I must be getting dimwitted. Let us sit and exchange thoughts.

When they were comfortably arranged on the fast-drying sand, Hiero asked the next question.

Are we still in danger, immediate, I mean?

No, or I should not sit here. My brother out yonder will wait if I choose. He nodded his head toward the still water. As they looked, first one battered piece of wood broke the quiet ripples and then another. As they watched, a growing collection of flotsam continued to surface.

How do you control that thing? I never dreamed a creature that size existed, or that if it did, that a level of intelligence that low could be mastered.

You have a few things to learn, then, Per Desteen, was the almost dry answer. It would take a lot of training to teach you, and I don't mean to disparage your own powers. But it happens, in this case, to be neural rather than cerebral. And it's not always reliable. But let's say that control of our younger brothers and communication with them are and always have been specialties of ours. We are continually seeking contact with any life form we can reach. Brother Aldo wrapped his arms around his knees before continuing.

Look—time is important. Before we go further, I need information. This whole part of the world is in a turmoil, mental and physical, and all because of you four. Now, then, Per Desteen, you lead this party. Suppose you tell me briefly what you are doing here and the recent history of this group. I'll try not to interrupt.

Hiero considered briefly. The question was, how much could he trust the Elevener? He had always liked the men of the order he had met, but this was no quiet teacher or animal doctor, but a most formidable old man, whose mental powers were of an order which made the Metz awe-struck. While he ruminated, Brother Aldo waited patiently.

At length Hiero looked up and met the dark, wise eyes.

"I don't know what the Abbey Council would say, Brother," he said aloud in Metz, without thinking, "but I think you are honorable and trustworthy. I will keep one secret, the reason for my mission, if you please. The rest is yours."

I appreciate the compliment, was the mental answer. Use your mind, please, for it saves time. Also, we must all listen and understand. Do not worry about a mind search by the enemy. That which lairs in the Dead City was withdrawn, both itself and its creatures, the frog Leemutes, as you call them. Nothing else is left to hinder us, at least nearby.

So, as the morning climbed into the sky, Hiero related the history of his journey with Klootz, adding the others as they had joined him. He started at the Abbey with old Abbot Demero and hid nothing, save exactly what it was he had been sent to find. On and on went the story, through the Taig forest, the Palood, the shores of the Inland Sea, the Dead Isle of Manoon, and at last, the coming to the drowned city.

When he was through, Hiero looked at the sun and was amazed that he had only taken about a quarter of an hour, for it had hardly moved.

Brother Aldo sat quietly and stared at the sand. At last, he looked up at all of them. Well, a good tale. You should all be proud of yourselves. Now I have a tale, less exciting and more historic. But one you should know, indeed, must know, before we go further. And it starts, not two months ago, or even two years, but five thousand and more, in the ancient past, before the coming of The Death.

9 - The Sea Rovers

You look about you, children, came the message from brother Aldo's mind, and you see, in the world, green forest and glade, blue sea and river, yellow prairie and marsh. In them today lurk evil things, yet they also hold uncounted sorts of beauty and wonder. The singing birds, the breathing plants, the shy animals, the savage hunters, all have a place. Alone and unhindered, they change slowly, one kind yielding place to another over the centuries and millennia. This is the ordered course of nature, the plan as the Creator designed it.

But before The Death, things most rapidly were changing, yes, and for the worst. The entire world, as well as simply here in what was once called North America, was dying. It was being choked, strangled in artificially made filth and its own sickly refuse. He pointed a lean hand at the ring of ruined towers glaring across the lagoon.

See there! The whole planet, the good round Earth, was being covered by those things! Giant buildings blotted out the sun. The ground was overlain with stone and other hard substances, so that it could not breathe. Vast man-made structures were built everywhere, to make yet more vast structures, and the smoke and stench of the engines and devices used fouled the worlds air in great clouds of poison. He paused for a moment and looked sad.

This was not all. The Earth itself trembled. Monstrous vessels, to which that Unclean ship of yesterday would be a skiff, fouled the very seas. Overhead, the air vibrated with the rush of great flying machines, whose speed alone, by its vibration, could shatter stone. Along countless stone roads, myriad wheeled machines, carrying ever more goods and people, charged madly along, their poisonous wastes still further fouling the already wearied air.

And then, there were the world's people. The warring, breeding, struggling, senseless people! The peoples of the planet could not, or rather would not, be brought to reason. Not only did they refuse to see how they were killing the life of the world, they could not even see how they were killing themselves! For they bred. Despite vast poverty, great ignorance, disease, and endless wars, humans were still tough! Every year there were more. And more and more, until the cataclysm was inevitable. Wise men warned them, scientists and humanists pleaded with them. God and nature are one, they said, and hence neither is mocked and defied with impunity.

A few listened, indeed more than a few. But not enough. Certain leaders of religion, men ignorant of any science and any learning but their own outdated hagiography, refused to heed. Other men, who controlled the world's wealth and soldiery, wished more power. They wished yet more men both to make and to consume what they sold and still more men to wage the wars which they fomented in the name of one political creed or another. Races warred against races of other colors, white against yellow, black against white.

The end was quite inevitable. It had to come! Men of science who had studied many species of mammals in laboratories of the ancient world had long predicted it. When overpopulation and crowding, dirt and noise, reach a peak, madness remorselessly follows. We today call that madness The Death. Across the whole world, by land, water, and air, total war raged unchecked. Radiation, hideous chemical weapons, and artificially spawned disease slew most of the humans then in existence, and much of the remaining animal life, too.

Nevertheless, a few had taken forethought. When the poisons had partly dissipated (they are not all so yet, even now), a few remnants of our Brotherhood emerged. Most were scientists of the day, specialists in a science called "ecology," which is the interaction of all living things. The Eleventh Commandment, as we call it, not in mockery of the Immemorial Ten, but in succession rather, was formally promulgated. It is simple: Thou shalt not despoil the Earth and the life thereon.

For five thousand years and more, we have watched as humanity climbed upward again, trying our best to aid and guide a natural, decent reascent, one this time in harmony with nature and all life.

We have seen much that was good and much that was not. Many of the pre-Death beasts now have become wise, as wise as humans (if that is wisdom). He sent a thought at Gorm alone, and Hiero could "feel" the bear's mind shift nervously. Brother Aldo's tale continued.

But long ago, a certain few survivors of other ancient sciences, principally psychology, biochemistry, and physics, also banded together. They sought nothing less than to regain the ancient human domination of the world, which The Death had finally ended. All the machine-made horrors of life which had passed away, to them were beautiful. They took many of the more dangerous, non-lethal mutations (although you call them Leemutes, Per Desteen, that is an error of language corrupted by usage) and bred them to their service and to a hatred of normal humanity, any, that is, not yet under their own evil sway. And these other groups from the past, we call, collectively, the Unclean. A fitting name.

It is the main business of these foul remnants of the past to destroy any rising groups of humanity which they do not themselves control. If they cannot easily do so, they strive to pierce their ranks, to become hidden councilors or secret allies of any who desire to rule over their fellows. Per Desteen, you no doubt guessed as much. But you, princess, have you ever thought why our people, for I am indeed one of you by birth, continually war against one another to no end but evil?

For a long while, our Brotherhood watched these evil groups, unseen and unknown to them. There is a basic weakness to most wicked people of this sort. No matter how clever and determined they are, each wishes absolute rule of all the others. Hence, cooperation is always difficult for them, a fact to bear in mind. We hoped, I say, that this flaw, this lack of cohesion, would rot them from within and cause them to destroy themselves. They were few, as were we, and it seemed possible, nay, probable.

Regrets are vain. We were mistaken. A twisted genius appeared in their ranks a thousand years or so ago and managed to forge a political device which allows them to cooperate without rending one another.

Now they form a dozen or so groups, each independent within its own geographic area. Promotion within each group lies in that group. But the Grand Masters of each group are also a permanent council, which can override any one group or minority in the interests of the whole. A sort of vicious but permanent oligarchy, well suited to evil, is the result.

It sounds like the Abbeys' organization, Hiero could not help interjecting.

It is. A good idea can usually be perverted to evil, you know. But let me go on. The old lose their patterns of concentration easily. His humor flashed at the thought.

There are several rising groups of humanity on this continent, he went on. The Kandan Confederacy, including the Metz Republic of the West and their confederates in the East, the Otwah League, is the most advanced, in both politics and science. The city-states of the Southeast, such as D'alwah, are strong in human, potential, but crippled by social archaisms and rotted from within by agents of the Unclean. They must be purged before they can be of use in the struggle.

In the far West and South and elsewhere, too, are others. With them we are not here concerned, though I can tell you that Eleventh Commandment Brothers try to watch over them.

So then, we come to the here and now. In the last fifty years, a concerted attack on the Kandan Confederacy has been steadily building. We had hoped it could be warded off unaided, without our direct help.

For I must make one thing very plain. The Brotherhood I speak for seeks to guard the whole biosphere! We are concerned with LIFE primarily and humanity only secondarily, indeed mainly as it affects all other life. I trust this is clear.

Now then, we come next to minds, minds and their powers, their powers and their abilities and even structures! Minds!

We of the Brotherhood have developed mental powers over several millennia which have aided our purposes, indeed made them possible. We grew overconfident, feeling that we alone had these secrets. As we here all know, this was folly! For the Unclean developed them too, although not in the same way, and they made curious machines and devices in their secret laboratories, devices which expanded their mental powers. And thus they became aware of us for the first time and were filled with fear and rage as a result, knowing very little but guessing a good deal of our long scrutiny of them. Ever since, they have sought to destroy us wherever they could. A number of good men and women have died to protect our secrets.

"Brother Jone," Luchare breathed aloud.

Yes, Brother Jone. But he died swiftly and in silence, as we Eleveners know how to do. And he told us of you first, princess, so that we have sought you ever since. A new factor to consider, for you, that is, since we have long studied it in fascination, is that of the radiation-spawned growth of higher intelligence in non-humans. Our friend here (he indicated Gorm with a mental dart) belongs to a new civilization. They are still observing humanity, we think. We have extended a welcome to their rulers or wise elders, but they distrust us as well as all other humans. So we wait, hoping that they will decide to aid us, eh, Gorm? l am young, was the quick answer. I go on my journey of youth, where I will, as I will. The bear folk, the new bear folk, are hidden and wish to remain so. Yet much of what I have seen will make them think. I cannot speak for the Old Ones.

Good. I hoped, we all hope, for no more than a fair look. I cannot think that the Unclean have won, or will win, your people over to their side. And there are the Dam People, too, of the northern lakes, neither friendly nor unfriendly as yet. The Unclean have their Howlers, and their Man-rats and others still. Then there are things stranger yet, if that is possible. These frog creatures you have just routed obey a different master again, something I cannot reach, which lairs in the depths of this sunken city. What it actually is I don't know, but it is both old and malignant, at least an ally of the enemy, if no more.

Stranger things yet, offspring of the atom and genetic frightfulness, alien and mysterious, lurk in the forests and marshes. Perhaps you have met some? Hiero thought of the Dweller in the Mist and shuddered.

I see you have. But not all are malignant. Some are merely indifferent to humanity, others even benign. The world is full of pulsing, seething life, and many wonders still remain, undiscovered.

At last, I am coming to my presence here. We knew you were being hunted down the coast. I have an idea by the way, Per Desteen, what it is you look for in the South. But of that, more later. He went on quickly before Hiero could even react in surprise.

At any rate, it was decided to aid you if we could. We have come, we Eleveners, to the conclusion that the Unclean are gaining great power, mental and physical, too fast for us Brothers of the Eleventh to hope we can stop them alone. Our powers primarily are of the mind and spirit. We need physical strength, mechanical strength if you will, though we dislike yielding to the necessity. I can tell you, Man of the Metz, that even as we sit here, Elevener emissaries are seeking to join formally with your Abbey Council and offer our help for the first time in battling the common enemy. This is a great concession for us, the greatest in our whole history.

I myself volunteered to come and try and help you. We did not know of the Lady Luchare, though, as I said, we have long sought her elsewhere. We feared she was dead. As such things go, I have a good deal of authority in our councils. I ask you to let me join your party and go with you from now on. Two nights past, I sensed a converging of mental forces in this place as I came up from the distant South. I struggled to reach you and was barely in time. Now we have a brief, a very brief, respite until the Unclean rally. They are terribly shaken by your mind, Per Desteen. You hardly understand your new powers as yet, but I can tell you that the ether was disturbed by you, half a continent away! The Unclean guess you seek something important. They are determined you shall not have it and that they, in turn, shall.

What does the group say? I do not ask the good deer, for, though his heart is great, his mind is not on a level with ours as yet; though that too may come in time. Thank you for enduring the rambling of the aged. His thought ceased abruptly and he sat back, looking from one to the other of the three with his sparkling black eyes.

All this tale had taken no more than a few moments. The mental pictures and concepts succeeded one another so rapidly and so clearly that no ambiguity was possible. The bear understood quite as well as the man and woman. Despite his asides about age and accompanying decrepitude, Brother Aldo's mind messages were as lucid and sharp as any Hiero had ever encountered.

Luchare spoke aloud, looking directly into the old man's eyes. "I go wherever Hiero goes, now and always. But if my word means anything, I think we are very lucky."

I agree. I am grateful for our rescue, too, but more, I think we have a great source of strength in our new friend. The future may prove worse than the past. Hiero smiled at the Elevener and met an answering smile.

My own Old Ones told me that the Brotherhood were men we might seek help from if necessary. Also, I can "feel" that this man is a friend. This cannot be a lie. Gorn stared at Brother Aldo with his weak eyes. Yes, he is a friend, this human Old One. And he is very powerful. Let us not anger him.

The priest could not tell whether this last thought was simply a sample of bearish humor or not, but Brother Aldo apparently could, for he suddenly reached out and tweaked Gorm's nose. Gorm promptly fell over on his back, paws over his muzzle, and gave a superb imitation of a mortally wounded bear, complete with gasps, tongue hangings, and pitiful moans.

The three humans laughed in unison, and only when his sides ached did Hiero suddenly remember where they were and what had recently happened here. His laughter ceased abruptly.

"Yes, humor and death make odd companions," Brother Aldo said. "Nevertheless, the chemistry of life itself is compounded of both." He stared out over the sunlit water.

Really Hiero thought (behind a shield), too much empathy can be unsettling!

"If I may suggest a change of air," the old man's deep voice went on, "I think we ought to eat and leave this area. I have a ship a few leagues down the coast, waiting for me, and us, if I were lucky enough to find any of you. The enemy will be wondering at the sudden cessation of signals from their party. They may be in communication with that which rules the frog creatures over there in the drowned city too. And I can sense very little of its purposes, save hate alone."

I can sense nothing at all of it, nor can Gorm. I marvel that you can. The priest's thought was envious.

Remember, both, or rather all three, of you are very young children compared to me. Even a stupid man can learn a lot if he has enough time granted him. This time, all three minds "smiled."

In no time they had eaten and set off again, on the far side of the island, their faces to the east once more. They took the little canoe and the old Elevener's small supply of provisions, mostly dried fruit, aboard the raft as well, and he lent a hand with the clumsy paddles. Not surprisingly, he was both strong and agile,

The sunken city came to an abrupt end not far ahead, he now told them. Another half day's travel would have brought them to it and to dry land. The Palood curved away back to the north at this point and no longer strayed down to the Inland Sea. Instead, wide lands opened out, prairie and great forest, sweeping to the far distance and eventually the great salt ocean, the Lantik.

But they were not to go east for a long while yet; rather, their route lay south, across the eastern arm of the Inland Sea itself. Somewhere to the east of Neeyana, the trading port from which Luchare's captors had sailed, Brother Aldo hoped to strike a certain forest trail, without alerting the enemy.

That evening, on dry land, around a hidden campfire, buried deep in some brush, they again sought to plan for the future.

"If you have no objection, I should like to try the Forty Symbols," Hiero said to Brother Aldo. Gorm had vanished on some private errand, and they were using speech.

"Why should I object? Precognition is an art, if that is the right word, of which we Eleveners know little. Our teaching lies in other areas of the mind and spirit. But I cannot for the life of me see why it is wrong to use such a talent in a good cause. Save for the fear of becoming skilled enough to read one's own death. That might deter some people."

"You may watch if you wish," the priest said as he drew forth the box and the alb of his office. "There is nothing secret about any of this. We don't regard it as being hidden, although we do think of it as a service."

When Hiero eventually came out of the brief trance, he saw Aldo watching him closely, and next to the old man, Luchare, her eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement.

"There is some danger to your method, some that I had not quite foreseen," Aldo said. "Your mind was quite open and the power of the thought more than enough to reveal you to a mental listener close by. I cast over you a net of surface thought, a sort of mental screen, simulating the local small thoughts of animal and plant—oh, yes, plants have thoughts, though perhaps not the kind you are aware of—to deceive any spy who might be about."

"Thanks," Hiero grunted. He opened his hand and peered at the symbols now exposed on his palm.

The Fish lay uppermost. Water again! "That's no surprise," he said, after explaining it to the Elevener.

Next, there were the familiar little Boots. "Half my life has been a journey. Now we have a journey involving water. Well, we knew that too." The hawk nose lowered over the small, third symbol. It was the House.

"What's that one?" the girl asked eagerly. "Is it good or bad?"

"Neither," was the answer. "It's the House. The sign itself is a peaked roof. Its meanings are various and unfriendly. You know, or I guess perhaps you don't, that the signs are very, very old. Many of the instructions and meanings of their first makers are obscure, open to several interpretations. This is one of them. It can mean simply '"danger indoors.' Or it can mean 'get under cover!' Or it can mean an enemy building, or even a town or city, is near. Not much help, really."

Hiero looked at the fourth symbol. It was a minute Sword and Shield interlocked. "That means personal combat for the one who casts the symbols." He looked at Luchare and smiled at the worry in her eyes. "I've drawn it three times in my life so far. I'm still here." There was no more to say. He put the signs away and called to Klootz to come and be rubbed down.

All three of them had been riding the morse, albeit at a slow pace. It was no great strain on him, and he had been feeding fairly well. Even at his deceptive amble, he covered the ground faster than a man could walk, and went straight through things a man would have had to walk around.

Two hours' jog the next morning along the shore brought them to a small cove set deep in one side of a towering headland. As they appeared on the beach, Brother Aldo cupped his hands and let out a ringing shout, startling both the humans and the bear, who had been sniffing some tracks beside the path. Klootz twitched an ear.

To the surprise of Hiero and Luchare, a section of low woodland on the far side of the cove began to move. Out from a shallow indentation in the shore pushed a stout little, two-masted ship. Tree branches had been lashed to her lateen-rigged masts and more branches and bushes woven into a great net which covered most of the hull.

Perhaps a hundred feet long over all, she was painted brown and rose high at both bow and stern. There was a tiny deck cabin amidships between the masts and various bales and bundles lying about here and there. Men moved briskly on deck about various tasks, and a small rowing boat now pushed off and came shooting in to meet them as they came down to the water.

They dismounted, and the two sailors who were rowing splashed out and pulled the boat up on the beach. This allowed the man in the stem to step out dry-shod. He did so and came swaggering up to them. Luchare put her hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle.

"This is Captain Gimp," Brother Aldo said. "He has waited for me patiently and has been of great service, both in the past and recently as well. No more-renowned captain of merchants sails the Inland Sea. Captain, let me introduce friends and your new passengers."

Captain Gimp bowed profoundly. He was extremely short and very wide, a washtub of a man Luchare thought. His original, color was hard to make out, for he was so brown and weathered it might have been anything. He was bald, or perhaps shaved, for a short, smoke-blackened pigtail thrust straight back like a bow, or rather, stern sprit. He wore a kilt of dirty, greased leather, boots of undressed hide, and a green coat of wool, much stained and worn. He limped a little, hence his name, Hiero guessed, and his black eyes were beady with impudent humor. His hands, at the end of long arms, were surprising, being as dirty as the rest of him, but with long, delicate fingers. He carried no visible weapon.

"Glad to make yer acquaintance, all," he said in understandable but accented batwah when the introductions were complete. "The Brother's word is good enough for me. Now turn your dear pets loose and let's get aboard. Wind's fair for the southward and it may shift." He spat something he was chewing in Gorm's direction even as he spoke and started to turn away.

The bear, who had been sitting up on his haunches sniffing the warm morning breeze, moved like lightning. One broad paw shot out and intercepted the wad of spittle. Next, the young bear rose on his hind legs and advanced on the dumbfounded sailor, who stood only a few feet away. Reaching him, Gorm peered solicitously into his face from an inch away, snorted loudly, and then wiped his paw down the dirty green coat. The coat now bore a new stain, as well as several leaves. Gorm sat down again and looked up at Captain Gimp.

The captain finally emerged from his trance, his face now a shade paler under the accumulation of smoke, dirt, and weather. Surprisingly, to Hiero at any rate, he crossed himself.

"Well, ride me under," he exploded. "I never see the half of that. That animal can talk! Who's he belong to?" he asked, swiveling on the others, who were all smiling. "I'll buy him! Just name your own price! I'm as fair as any master afloat; ask the Brother here, now, if you don't believe me!"

It was some time before it could be brought home to the little sailor that Gorm was not for sale and that he could think as well as a man. The captain was still muttering to himself when Brother Aldo asked him to warp his ship in near the beach so that a plank could be run and the bull morse taken aboard also. This, however, seemed to be altogether too much.

"Look now, Brother," he said to the old man, "I've carried those kaws on occasion, back when I had an old storeship, on local journeys, mind you, a day here or there. But I can't take that great ox of a thing. What would people think? My ship, Foam Girl, the finest thing in the trade, a dung barge? I ask you, now? It's not considerate of you, Brother. Talking bears, women who ain't proper slaves or wives, that funny-looking northerner-—no offense, mister—and now this animal mountain. No, it's too much; I won't do it; my mind's made up."

By the time they were aboard, it was almost noon. Once his arguments had been beaten down, the squat little captain proved both helpful and extremely efficient. A log pen was quickly built next to the deck cabin, and Klootz was secured by broad straps so that he could not slip.

The crew, Hiero noticed as the ship eased out of the cove, were a wildly varied lot. There were dark men who, with their curly hair, could have been Luchare's or Brother Aldo's cousins. But there were men in appearance like himself, though he heard no Metz spoken, and also there were others. He saw two, half-naked men with pale skins and high cheekbones, whose eyes were an icy blue and whose hair was fiery red. He had read of red-haired men in the ancient past, but had no idea that they still existed.

"They come from an island in the far North, from what used long ago to be called the Green Land, I believe," said Brother Aldo, who had followed his glance. "They were probably outlawed, to be so far from home."

"Do your Eleveners reach so far?" Hiero asked. He clutched the rail as the Foam Girl emerged from the cove and a strong wind in the great triangular sails made her heel sharply.

"We do reach there, though we are called something else, a habit of ours in many lands," Aldo said. "One of the assistant witch doctors of the white savages who were trying to kill Luchare was an Elevener. That's how I got on your track, my boy." He smiled sadly at Hiero. "Yes, he would have let the birds kill her. He had no choice, and he was next in line to be chief wizard, or shaman. You see that then he could have influenced the whole tribe, to who knows what good end. The enemy works on such primitive people, too, and we cannot neglect such chances. I am sorry, but that's the situation."

"In other words," Hiero said bitterly, "you'd turn on me if you had a change of mind about how much good it would do you. Not a very inviting thought when we're so dependent on you."

"I'm sorry," Brother Aldo said. "I was trying to be honest with you, Hiero. I openly allied myself to you and gave my word. Now, the man I just spoke of made a calculated decision to remain silent in pursuit of a long-held purpose. Can you see no difference at all?"

"Possibly," the Metz priest said in a curt tone. "I am not trained as a casuist or debater of legalisms. It sounds a bit cold-blooded.

Now I think I'll rest. I haven't slept in anything like a bed since Manoon." He nodded and walked off to the little cabin, whence Luchare had already retired, taking the bear with her, for Gorm, surprisingly, was seasick and wanted to be shut up, away from the sight of the wind-tossed whitecaps.

As Hiero moved away, he missed the pain in Brother Aldo's eyes, which followed him until the cabin door closed.

The following day and for several more, the weather held fair. The travelers, even Gorm, grew accustomed to the wave motion and enjoyed roaming the little ship. Klootz fretted, but Hiero spent a lot of time grooming him and keeping him soothed. Also, the old Brother seemed able to calm him at will, and Hiero actually felt a bit of jealousy at the morse's fondness for Aldo.

The bear became a prime favorite with the polyglot crew, who considered him merely a very clever, trained beast and fed him sweet things such as tree-sap candy and honeycakes until his furry sides bulged.

Luchare and Hiero had a marvelous time. The small cabin at last gave them some privacy and they made love constantly, with the fire and passion of superb health and no complexes. Hiero was worried at first, since the Metz Republic had a universally known drug used to prevent childbirth and he had none with him. But a quiet word to Brother Aldo about his fears produced some of it, or a workable substitute. In fact, the old Elevener had quite an extensive pharmacopeia stowed away in a small sea chest, and Hiero and he discussed various medicines by the hour.

Captain Gimp also proved an entertaining companion. Despite his funny face and bow legs, the little freshwater mariner ran a taut ship. Foam Girl was as clean as her captain was soiled, and her strange mixture of a crew, though noisy and ragged, were also well disciplined. Most of them carried long sheath knives, and stores of boarding pikes and swords were racked in lockers around the cabin. A portable arrow engine, a device like a huge bow firing across a grooved table, could be mounted on the little poop abaft the wheel. It shot six long arrows at once and looked to the priest-warrior like a useful weapon.

"Never know what you'll need, not in these waters," Gimp said, while discussing his ship's armament. "There's giant fish—-and sometimes we go after 'em with harpoons—and great beasts and pirates out for loot. There's slavers as'll turn pirate in a trice if given a chance. And then there's the Unclean. Been more of them about in the last few years. And some of their boats go by magic.

No sails, nothing. You can't outfight or outrun them, not if what I hear is true." Reflecting on the lightning gun and his stay on the Dead Isle, Hiero silently agreed.

Life abounded in the sun-flecked waters of the Inland Sea. Schools of fish leaped from the surface, driven by larger predators surging up from the deeps. Once, as the Foam Girl passed a small, rocky islet, a half-dozen sleek, giant, flippered forms, great, toothed jaws snapping at the end of long necks, roared at them from the shingle on which they lay basking. Gimp's name for them was Ot'r, and he kept a wary eye on them until the island was out of sight.

"They have good fur and meat too," he said, "but it takes a whole proper flotilla and trained harpooners to go hunting that gentry."

It was the fifth morning, a gray one, windy and full of scudding cloud, since leaving the northern coast. Hiero lay sleeping, his tousled head pillowed on Luchare's dark, gleaming breast, when a sailor's horny hand beating at the cabin door aroused them both.

Hurrying on deck, they found Brother Aldo and the little captain standing near the wheel, staring back beyond the wake. The reason was obvious. A great, dark, three-masted ship, all her square, brown sails set, was coming up behind them with the calm inevitability of Fate. Even Hiero, no trained mariner, could see that the newcomer was eating up the distance between the two vessels. Her decks were black with men, and an ominous twinkle showed among them. She bore a huge black banner at the main truck, and gaudy red and white animals, monsters, and human skulls were painted on her sails.

Hiero looked at the nearest streamers on the mizzen ratline. These showed the wind to be dead astern and growing stronger. The day was an overcast one, with a promise of coming rain, but visibility was at least a good mile. They were seemingly trapped.

Next, he stared at Aldo, their minds meshing as he did so, but on a "closed circuit," limited to the two of them alone.

Unclean?

No, I think not, was the answer, at least not directly. But a pirate, evil, yes, and cruel. And I think also, searching this part of the Inland Sea, perhaps on orders. The Unclean net is wide. When their own ship did not come back, they must have sent out new instructions, some to those they totally rule, others to those whom they merely influence and lead as yet. Their pawns rather than their servants, it appears to me. Try your own mind. Some of them seem not unprotected, which makes me even more suspicious.

Hiero closed his eyes, gripped the taffrail, and concentrated. Captain Gimp peered through a battered telescope, mumbling oaths through his quid. On the deck below, the first mate, a saturnine, black-skinned man with one eye, served out weapons in silence to the little ship's crew. The team of three men who manned the arrow engine were setting up their contrivance only a yard away.

Brother Aldo was right, Hiero realized at once. The crew of the strange ship, a large one, were indeed evil through and through. But it was the human evil of wicked men, the scum which has always infested unguarded seas since the first pirate robbed the first trader, five thousand years before the corning of Christ.

Yet their leaders' minds were guarded! All the Metz could get was an individual aura radiating from each one, an aura of power and evil. But the thoughts themselves were warded, even against attacks on the new band he had taught himself to use on Manoon. The Unclean truly learned quickly! For only they could have provided the devices and training which made his mental weapons useless. But not quite useless, he reflected. Only four of the minds on the ship were shielded from him, and the crew's were totally open.

He felt for the steersman of the pirate, for such he now knew it to be without any question. The man's name, he learned, was Horg, and his life had been evil, his mind a reeking cesspool. Turn the wheel, Horg, my boy; edge off now, that's it, away a few points, now quick! Yaw; the ship's in great danger! Hurry!

An exclamation from Captain Gimp made him open his eyes. Astern of them, the square-rigger had come up into the wind, her sails all flapping, the ship in irons. Hiero shut his eyes and simultaneously felt Horg's mind die, as the life went out of the man. The enemy wasted no time, though they had lost a quarter of a mile.

But as the big ship came around and back on course, a groan went up from the Foam Girl's idle sailors, who had been watching in fascination. A torrent of oaths from the square little skipper drove them back to their work and cleared the poop again, save for the helmsman, the arrow engine crew, Aldo, Luchare, and Hiero.

Once again, the priest probed for the helmsman. But whoever was the master of the great ship was a quick thinker. One of the four shielded minds now steered the ship. Undaunted, Hiero found a nearby sailor. His name was Gimmer, and his mind, if possible, was more repellent than that of the dead Horg.

The helmsman is your deadly enemy. He hates you. He is taking you into danger. He will kill you. You must kill him first! Quickly! Now! Coldly and ruthlessly, Hiero drove the craven will to the assault. Ordinarily a sensitive and kindly man, he had no compunction about slaying creatures such as these sealice. Wasting false sentiment over the truly wicked was no part of an Abbey warrior-priest's training. The world was harsh enough on decent folk without coddling vermin.

But this time he was frustrated. The mind he had overpowered was not allowed to consummate its fell purpose. As (watching through Gimmer's eyes) he crept upon the helmsman, a sudden pain in the captive chest, a blazing weakness of the controlled limbs, halted him in his, or rather Gimmer's, tracks. Then, as Gimmer, too, died. Hiero saw the arrow protruding from the sailor's chest.

Again he opened his eyes to the world as seen from his own body. He felt drained of energy. "It's no good," he shouted to Brother Aldo over the noise of the rising rain, "They had good archers stationed about the ship in key positions. Unless I can get one of them under control, I'm licked. They must have orders to shoot down anyone who even looks suspicious. And it's tiring me out. I can't keep taking these people over in this rough and ready way, forcing totally unknown minds to do whatever I want. It's drawing too much nervous energy out of my own body. I'll try again, but it really doesn't get easier, just the reverse."

Actually, although he didn't want to admit the fact, Hiero was a bit ashamed. He had been sure he could do a lot more than he was able to do in fact. He had felt that taking over a whole ship all at once would be easy. And now, in mere moments, he was half-exhausted and seemingly frustrated as well.

Captain Gimp chose this moment to try a maneuver of his own. He bawled an order, and the two big lateen sails slatted as the wheel spun and Foam Girl came up into the wind, pointing as high as she was able to. Instantly the ship's motion changed into a steep up-and-down chop as she began to attack the waves instead of riding with them, as she had done on the previous reach. She now was heading almost due west, seeming to charge the gray clouds racing down from the northwest.

"Square-rigger's no good at pointing," Gimp shouted to his passengers as they clung to the heaving rail. "Maybe we can get above him." He was seeking the protection of the wind itself, trying to move Foam Girl closer to the wind than the enemy vessel. The wind would provide an invisible barrier if the trick could be worked.

It could not. The great, lean hull of their pursuer came around beautifully in line with their stern. The square yards, tiny figures scrambling along the yardarms, lay almost fiat, and the trysails and stunsails set fore and aft between the mast now showed as they took the weight of the wind. With the help of these sails and a huge gaff spanker on the mizzenmast, the big stranger began to overtake them even more easily than before, for her hull's length and height out of the water made far less of the steep wave action than the little Foam Girl.

"She's really unprintably lovely," Captain Gimp shouted in admiration. The squat sailor instinctively responded to the beauty of the other vessel's design, even though it might mean his own destruction. He bawled another order and Foam Girl paid off, back on her old course to the southeast, with the wind in her quarter. At least this way she did not have to fight the seas as well, but could ride them. Behind her, close enough to see her black hull lift and the white bow wave, the pursuer came back too. She was less than half a mile away. A white figurehead, looking like a woman's body, glistened with wetness.

Can you do anything? the Metz asked Brother Aldo, once again mind-to-mind.

I am seeking what large water creatures are found here, was the old man's answer. So far, I have found nothing. But I sense motion not far away. However, it is uncertain, and I need a little time. Can you reach one of the archers you spoke of, or are you too tired? Any delay will help.

"I thought so!" Gimp shouted. His one-eyed mate had come and whispered something to him before slinking back to his control of the lower deck.

"Bald Roke is the man we have to deal with," the captain continued. "We can't be taken alive. His crew are cannibals and worse." Luchare wondered to herself how you got "worse" but said nothing. "That ship's The Ravished Bride, and she's manned by men, and other things, worse than any afloat. Bald Roke would skin his own sister alive for two coppers and a belly laugh. A good sailor, though, rot his dirty bowels, and that ship's a bloody marvel."

Hiero only half-heard him. Once again he was seeking the unguarded minds of the enemy. He passed two non-human minds, one a Howler's, the other something new to him, and then found what he was seeking. In a lower crosstree crouched an archer armed with a crossbow, his gaze sweeping the deck as he watched for any sign of mutiny or other dangerous behavior. Hiero did not seek his name or anything else. With the utmost of mental strength he had left, he simply went after the man's own nerve endings, using the captive forebrain like a pair of pliers. The archer screamed in horror as his weapon rose to aim at the Bride's helmsman despite his passionate attempt to force it down.

Once again, Hiero failed, though not by much. The bow went off and the quarrel sped on its way to bury itself in human flesh. But not the helmsman's. Instead, the bolt drove into the brain of a man standing nearby. At the same time, the archer himself died as three arrows and a thrown spear struck him in turn. Hiero clearly saw the captain of the enemy, who gave the order, through the archer's fading sight, even as the man pitched from his lofty seat into the heaving sea. Tall, gaunt to emaciation, dressed in fantastic orange velvet, covered with jewels, his brown skull gleaming in the half-light, Bald Roke was a strange and repellent figure. His thin, clean-shaven face was disfigured by a scar running across it at the bridge of his nose, a crooked weal marking some past scuffle. Hiero felt him staring even as the priest withdrew from the dying body of his unwilling ally. Something else he saw too. Around the enemy leader's neck was a heavy chain of familiar bluish metal, and from it hung a massive, square pendant of the same, almost a shallow box. This was the source of the other's protection, the priest knew, a mechanical mind shield. He felt even wearier as he opened his own eyes again. Was there no weapon he could command against the hidden skills of the Unclean adepts?

But he was, mercifully, given no time to waste on self-pity.

"In the name of Blessed Saint Francis the Ecologist, they come!" Brother Aldo shouted. "Behold the children of the great waters!"

As he spoke, Captain Gimp ordered Foam Girl again into the wind and simultaneously had the sails lowered. They came down with a crash, and ail ran to the starboard rail to gaze at the new arrivals.

Protruding from the water between the two vessels, for The Ravished Bride now also came up into the wind and brailed her sails also, were two great heads. For a moment Hiero did not realize what he was seeing, and then he gasped, for they were birds, although of monstrous size. The sleek, giant bodies were almost invisible under the tossing waters, but each was at least two-thirds the length of the Foam Girl herself. The beautiful heads and thick necks were not, apparently, feathered, but almost scaled and a lovely, soft green. The titanic beaks were straight, rounded javelins, each at least twelve feet long. The great, bright eyes darted nervously about from one ship to the other, but the enormous invisible paddles kept the two avian monsters in place, responsive to the old Elevener's will,

"I won't have them attack if we can scare the other ship off," Brother Aldo said to the priest. "Even the Lowan are not invulnerable, and that ship is full of weapons,"

For a moment the two vessels hung, bowsprits to the wind, while the crews simply stared at one another and the birds, each seeming to wait for the other to take some action. Then a human voice, speaking batwah, rose above the wind and carried easily over the two hundred feet of foaming water.

"Ahoy, there, is that you, Gimp, you little tub of rat puke? Speak up, lardguts, if you're not afraid to."

Bald Roke, his orange suit glittering even in the gray light of the cloudy sky, hung rakishly from one of his ratlines, leering across at the Foam Girl. As he shouted, his crew exploded in a storm of laughter and obscene jeers, glad to have a relief from the strain of watching the great birds, whose appearance seemed sheer magic to them.

"I'm here, Roke, you dirty corpse-eater!" Gimp yelled in reply. "Better get your carrion barge out of here before we turn our little friends loose on it!"

"Will you indeed?" Roke said, smiling" gently. He seemed to ignore the giant birds, and Hiero silently gave him credit for possessing his share of nerve, Roke went on.

"Tell you what, fatty, I think whoever runs these two pretty chickens would have turned 'em loose already, that is, if he dared. What do you think of that, now?" Again his crew screamed in delight, and a sea of edged weapons was brandished as they did. Moke waved one skinny hand and they quieted instantly.

"We could take you, birdies and all, you little blubber bag, but it might cost me some paint," the pirate continued, staring hard at the silent group on the poop of Foam Girl. "So, being inclined for fun, I'll make you an offer, a generous one. Give us the dirty-looking rat with the paint on his nose and the whiskers, and the girl. In return, you're free to depart. What say you, short pizzle?"

Gimp answered instantly, but not before spitting into the sea. "Go fry your crew of man-eaters in human grease, Roke. You'll get nought from us. But you brag, don't you, about how tough you are, skinhead? I dare you to fight me for a free passage, under Inland Seas Truce, man against man, hand weapons of choice. What do you say to that, you bony bag of slave girl's gauds?" This time it was the Foam Girl's crew who shouted and brandished weapons, while the Bride's crew were silenced. The wonderful birds still held their place, as if they were mere ducks on some farm pond, Hiero thought absently.

After a brief colloquy with two of his subordinates, Roke swung back into the rigging, a vicious look on his face, the smile gone.

"All right, you little blot of slime weed, I take you. Anchor, and so will I. But not us two alone, see. Me and one of my mates will meet you and that brown-skinned savage with the painted face. Otherwise no go, and I gives the order to attack. What do you say now, turdhead?"

"They're determined on you, Master Desteen," Captain Gimp said in a low voice. "They want you somehow, and what's more, Roke'll risk his whole ship and crew to get you. Can you fight? Are you game?"

"Try me," Hiero said, slapping him on the back. In truth, he was tired, but he saw no way out of this. "Will these dirty rogues keep such a bargain if they lose?"

"Oh, yes!" Gimp was shocked. "Even the worst sea scum will honor a Seas Truce for single combat. Oh, yes, have no fear. But Roke is a notable fighter. And who knows whom he'll bring with him? We'd better get ready." Captain Gimp turned and waved assent to Roke, who left the rigging at once.

Hiero now saw a ship's boat launched from The Ravished Bride; and while Gimp armed himself, he explained that the challenging vessel was always the scene of the combat.

"We have nought to lose," he went on. "All of the others will be slaves if we two are killed. But at least not killed and eaten. And if we win, we get their cargo or a good part of it; all we can carry, at any rate."

Luchare helped Hiero strip to his pants and soft boots. Daughter of soldier-kings, she said nothing and did not need to, but he could feel her body trembling through her hands. He knew she would not survive him by a minute, should he fall. Brother Aldo simply patted his hand and then turned away, back to his control of the birds.

Hiero weighed his short sword. He then turned and, from a pile on deck, selected a heavy, square brass shield, curved from side to side, for his left arm. His poniard was thrust, unsheathed, into his belt. With his bronze helmet on, he was ready. Gimp was now stripped to his kilt and was barefoot as well. He bore no shield, but a long, gently curved sword, rather slender, something on the order of an immense saber, save that the point was slightly angled. It was designed, obviously, for both hands. His arms were very long and rippled with muscle as he waved the big sword delicately about. He no longer appeared comic, and his square jaw was set.

The boat of the enemy grated alongside. Over the rail first came the bald head of the pirate captain, and behind him came his partner. Hiero shuddered inwardly. A Leemute, and one of unknown type! And it also wore a mind shield about its neck.

The creature was as tall as a man and, Hiero realized, might really be descended from men. It wore only a short leather jerkin, but its natural skin was a mass of tiny, dull gray scales. It had no visible nose or ears, only holes in both places, and its dull eyes were lashless under massive, bony brows. In one powerful arm it carried a single-edged, heavy axe; in the other, a small shield. The crew shrank away from it.

Bald Roke still wore his orange finery, and numerous rings glittered on his hands. Brooches and necklaces spangled his stained jacket, which had slashed sleeves for easy movement. He carried a slender, straight sword with a basket hilt and, in the other hand, a long, two-edged dagger.

The men of Foam Girl now scattered to the extremes of bow and stern, with a good few hanging on to the ratlines, but all well out of sword stroke.

"We fight around the ship, Skinny," Gimp said, "up to the fore-peak line and back to these steps. No holds barred, no survivors. You get forward now, we'll stay here. At my word we'll start for each other, you and Corpseface there against me and my friend."

The creature with Roke snarled, displaying a mouthful of sharp, yellow fangs, but Roke laughed jeeringly.

"Suits me, Low-pockets. But you and your mind-twisting magician here ain't met a Glith before. Loaned to me, he was, by good friends up north and west of here. We'll see how funny you think he is in a minute."

Hiero spoke for the first time, in a calm voice which nevertheless carried easily. "I know your fine friends, Captain Roke. They are among the living dead. The grave yawns for all of them and for this creature and for you as well." His vibrant tone seemed to carry flat certainty.

For a second, Roke appeared to pale. If the horrid thing with him, the Glith, was new to the company of Foam Girl, the Metz priest was equally so to him; and despite his new amulet's protection, Roke was unsure of himself. But he was a hardy scoundrel and rallied.

"Glad you found a voice, Whiskers. We'll mark your pretty paint in a few seconds. Come on, Daleeth, let's get forr-ard."

In a moment all was ready. The ship fell silent, save for the creak of timbers and straining cordage as her anchor line sawed the hawsehole. The two rogues who had rowed Roke and the Glith over clung to shrouds above the rail by their boat's painter, eyes glittering with excitement. A sea bird called, far off, a faint, piercing cry.

From his place to Hiero's right, Gimp shouted, "Go!" and marched forward. The four, two and two, one to each bulwark, advanced cautiously toward one another. This care alone would have told anyone of experience that trained warriors were meeting. There would be no headlong rushes and novice blunderings here. All four of them knew their business.

Hiero faced the Glith, and the two captains, tall and short, each other. They met on either side of the little cabin, almost exactly amidships. A vagrant gleam of sunshine momentarily pierced the racing clouds and illumined the foul creature's axehead as it advanced, but aside from that, it was a thing of dead hues, gray-scaled skin, gray garment, and lustreless eyes. Yet it was alert, and every rippling muscle revealed power and agility. Nevertheless, it advanced slowly, very slowly. As it came cautiously on, Hiero heard the clash of metal to his left, where the other two had commenced. As any trained swordsman does, he watched fixedly his foe's eyes for a sign of its intentions.

Those eyes! Great, somber, empty pools, seeming to have no bottom. Even as he watched, they grew larger. Larger! The Glith was no more than a few yards away, its axe poised on its shoulder, shield lowered. And all Hiero could see were the eyes, the round, lightless caverns of emptiness, which seemed to swell and grow until all else faded. Far off, he heard a woman scream. Luchare! The eyes vanished, shrunk to normal size, and the consciousness of where he was returned. Almost too late!

Reflex and training saved Hiero. The old, retired Ranger Sergeant who had first trained him had always stressed one point in the Abbey school of arms. Close in! "Look," the old veteran had insisted, "always try to close in quick, particularly if your opponent looks better than you. There's no monkey tricks with sword or spear at someone's throat from two inches away, boys. Give luck and plain meanness a chance!"

Hiero felt the wind of the heavy axe as he dived under it, not trying a blow, but simply shoving with his shield's boss at the Glith's body. Until he was ready and again unshaken, he wanted no more of those eyes!

Hypnotism! No mind shield guarded against that! Roke, or perhaps the creature itself, had been very clever. Almost, Hiero had been lured into the axe, like a calf to the slaughter, helpless to avert the death stroke. Had not Luchare screamed, he would now be dead.

He wrestled now with the scaled thing, his shield arm holding off its axe above him, its own shield keeping his sword arm locked in turn. It gave off a mephitic foulness, and its skin seemed to radiate a chill. Its hissing breath was a charnel stench, but he kept his head lowered to avoid the eyes. God, but it was strong!

Hiero summoned all his own strength and simply shoved, at the same time springing backward. The axe fell again, but he was beyond its reach. For a second, he faced his enemy, panting slightly, watching the pointed chin and the shoulders, but never seeking the eyes. He crossed his shield over so that it hid his body and lowered his short sword so that it hung at the end of his arm. Dimly, he was conscious of the clash of arms continuing on the other side of the cabin, but he kept his attention riveted on his foe. He heard Klootz bellow hideously, knowing his master was in peril, but he paid no heed.

It advanced again, axe held high. Was it inviting a low thrust? he wondered. He had trouble breaking the habit of years and never looking at the enemy's eyes, but somehow he managed it.

Then the Glith charged. As it came, the axe came down in a sweeping stroke and Hiero sprang back, ready to spring in again as the axe struck the deck. He had fought few axemen, and it was almost the death of him for the second time. The Glith's powerful arms straightened and the blade of the axe swung, cutting a sideways arc with all its speed undiminished, straight at Hiero's knees.

This time, instinct took over and the priest leaped straight up in the air. Even so, the follow-through of the Glith's shield arm struck his thigh, a second after the axe itself hissed by under his feet. The impact sent him reeling backward. The downward heave of the deck now caught him dead wrong as he went, and he stumbled away, fighting for his feet, fetching up with a ringing crash against the mizzenmast. With a grating cry as hideous to the ears as its appearance was to the eyes, the Glith charged again, axe on high, clawed toes raking the planks of the deck.

But Hiero had never quite left his feet, though now he was crouching. And this was the chance he had been waiting for. As the Glith leaped forward, the edge of the square brass shield, like some strange quoit, came spinning at its legs with all the force the Metz could put behind it. When he had crossed the shield over his torso moments before, Hiero had also freed the arm straps which held it, in preparation for just this maneuver.

The skimming shield now took the brawny legs out from under the alien creature as neatly as if it had been tripped. The Glith crashed to the deck, prostrate, arms outflung, its noseless visage striking the wood with an audible thud. Even as it struggled to rise, the heavy, short sword came down on its scaled head, splitting it as a crow splits a cobnut. There was a rush of dark matter, the great limbs twitched once, and then the foul life departed.

The priest managed to recover his shield and he ran clumsily forward past Klootz's pen, ignoring the morse's bleating as he went to where he could still hear the clash of steel. The strained silence of the crew and their eyes glued to the scene up there told him that the issue was still in doubt.

It was indeed. As Hiero arrived, winded but with shield up, he saw Captain Gimp block a high thrust of the pirate's sword and barely miss being skewered by the long dagger held in the other's left hand.

"I'm coming," Hiero yelled. "Hold him a second, and I'll help take care of him." This was no matter of chivalry. In a stark, four-handed duel of this sort, it was expected that the survivors should have won by any means possible, save only illegal weapons such as bows. No quarter!

But Hiero's voice breathed new life into the little merchant skipper. Although his hairy torso was covered with blood from a dozen minor slashes, he still possessed plenty of energy. He stood, eyeing his equally bloody foe for an instant, and then ran in with a great whoop, the long, two-handed sword held high over his head. Nothing loath, Roke came to meet him, his eyes mad with rage and disappointment.

As they both charged, Gimp proved what his long, curved blade could do. Amazingly, he seemed to fall forward on his face, but his left hand caught the deck and held him off it. At the same time his long right arm, clenched fist now holding the long hilt by itself, swept out in a flashing backhand arc, like some monstrous scythe.

It was too late for Bald Roke, seasoned battler though he was, to check himself. He tried with his own sword to deflect the terrible blow, but all the force in Gimp's squat frame was in its onward rush. The razor-edge of the great sword cut in below the pirate's elbow and severed his sword arm in turn as neatly as a scissor cuts a thread. Passing on through, it drove deep into his orange finery until checked with an audible sound by some bone. A shower of blood sprayed out as Roke strove to keep to his feet, even while life faded from his glazing eyes, He took two tottering steps toward his enemy, who never moved, spread out like a four-legged beast on the pitching deck. One arm still gripped the bloody sword, which had now slipped from the now scarlet tatter of Roke's dress.

Then, with a choked sigh, all ended, One instant Roke towered up, his poniard raised in a last defiance; the next, he lay a crumpled heap of blood-soaked rags, his severed forearm lying near him, still clutching his basket-hilt sword in its death grip. There was silence again.

Then the crew exploded. The shouting almost deafened Hiero, but he managed to lurch over and help the captain to his feet before embracing him. Then a dozen pair of hands tore them apart and carried them in triumph to Foam Girl's poop; there Luchare, her eyes blazing in triumph, waited for her lover.

Even as he hugged her in turn, forgetting Gimp's blood and the dark ichor of the Glith, Hiero suddenly began to laugh. For out of the ship's cabin, unbidden, had come a peevish thought.

What's all this noise? Why can't I get some sleep?

The lazy bear had slept through the whole night and the entire chase and subsequent battle. Now he was demanding to know what on earth was happening!

Still holding Luchare, Hiero watched in silence as the two bird giants, the Lowans, dived suddenly into the curling seas and disappeared, their vast bodies as easily handled as if they were dabchicks. He saw that Brother Aldo looked very weary, as weary as he himself felt, and he realized that the old man must have greatly exerted himself to have held the two bird-things obedient to his will for so long.

Gimp was now everywhere, personally looting Roke's corpse, bellowing orders, and calmly warping the Foam Girl alongside the Bride as if the latter were some peaceful barge he dealt with for hides every week in the year.

But his confidence seemed quite justified. Aside from some haggling over the worth of the Bride's cargo, there was no apparent animosity between, the crews. The pirates were as villainous a crew of unhung ruffians as Hiero had ever imagined, but not even the single, dirty-looking Howler offered so much as an insult. Indeed, various scurvy wretches bawled coarse praise of Hiero's skill with weapons along with sundry odious compliments to Luchare's appearance and probable amatory skills. These latter drove that young lady quickly into the cabin, her ears burning.

While Gimp checked The Ravished Bride's cargo along with a burly thug who was now her temporary new master, Hiero sat on a bench and expressed surprise to Brother Aldo that such utter scoundrels would honor anything at all, let alone freely give up valuable goods.

"A pirate ship did violate the Inland Seas Truce in my lifetime, Hiero, long ago, long, long ago, but I can still remember. Everyone, pirate, raider, and armed merchant, sought her for a season, and eventually she was found and trapped. The crew, such as were not killed outright in the battle, were first impaled, then flayed alive. The captain, who had caused it to happen, lost a joint on each finger and toe, arm and leg, every day until he died. The same severed joints, broiled, I believe, were his sole sustenance until then," the old man added thoughtfully. "If a captain even suggested such a thing now, I suspect his crew would kill him before he succeeded in drawing his weapons."

"But how about the Unclean? Surely they honor nothing? And where are those other two men with the mechanical mind blocks? I can't detect them any more. Have they somehow escaped?"

"That's interesting," Brother Aldo said, his eyes brightening. "Only one answer I can see. They're in the drink, my boy, put there by their own fellows for some foolery or other, such as suggesting a truce violation. Or maybe just simple fear of the Unclean devices by their shipmates. No, they haven't escaped."

"We'd better get the two mind locks that Roke and my friend, the Glith, had, in fact right now, while I think of it," the priest said, starting up with a groan. His side bore a great blackened bruise where he had struck the mast, and he ached all over.

Brother Aldo chuckled. He patted the leather pouch which hung over one shoulder, and something within clinked musically. "I had Gimp take care of that right away. None of the common sailors wanted to touch them anyway. We'll have a look at them, you and I, when a little leisure presents itself." As he spoke, something stirred in the depths of Hiero's memory. Whatever it was could not rise to the surface, however, and he dismissed it with a sigh. Other matters came more easily to his attention.

"Would those birds really have attacked the pirates?" he asked.

"I'd have hated to do it, but yes, I think so. I think I could have made them." The chocolate skin of his face had lost its usual glow, and Hiero saw that Brother Aldo was a very old man indeed. How old? he wondered. Now, as they watched the two crews transshipping boxes and bales of goods from the large ship down a gangway to the Foam Girl, the Elevener went on. "Who knows how it would have ended? Six tons or so of squawking, flapping Lowans would make even that big ship look smaller, especially if they were trying to come aboard! They're not at all common, you know. I've seen them only three or four times in my life."

"It was a great feat, both to summon and to control such vast things," Hiero said in honest admiration.

The old man shrugged off the praise. "My business, Hiero, and I think you have learned more in a few months about such things than I did in a great many years. But something else is troubling you."

"Yes," the Metz said, his voice lowered so that no one nearby could hear him. "That thing I killed, the Glith, Hoke called it. It was a mighty hypnotist, you know, and damned near got me under a spell. Only Luchare's shriek brought me out. What was it? The crew threw its body overboard quickly, and I never got much of a look. Surely it belongs to the Unclean."

"I got little more of a look than you, but I did try to examine it when I took the mind lock from its neck. Gimp got the other one for me." Aldo paused. "We have heard rumors of new mutations, what you'd call Leemutes, new and more dreadful ones, which did not grow by accident from ancient genetic damage. No—these new creatures have been bred and trained from birth in the Unclean laboratories and fortresses. This Glith thing could be one such. Certainly I never saw anything like it before."

"It was like a loathsome reptile crossed with an even more wicked and repellent human," Hiero said.

"A very typical, concept of the Unclean it sounds, doesn't it?" Brother Aldo asked. He seemed to expect no answer and simply continued to stare blankly away over the gray and tossing seas.

10 - The Forests of the South

Night lay over the ancient port of Neeyana. A few small craft moved on the surface of the moonlit harbor, mostly skiffs taking crews out to sailing ships at anchor. No cargo had moved on any of the long piers and wharves since sunset. In the narrow, murky streets leading to the harbor, a few dim lights glowed where a street held a few taverns for late roisterers. Now and again a furtive, solitary shape moved in the shadows, bent on some dubious errand or other, but no honest man ventured out at night in Neeyana unless well guarded or simply desperate. Too long had evil had its way with the old harbor town, and now only those under the protection of that same evil could walk unchallenged, save in broad daylight or in well-armed company. Yet cargo had to move, and no other seaport served this southeastern corner of the Inland Sea. Hence the east-west trade passed through Neeyana, in haste and fear on one side and grudging reluctance on that of the other, which ruled. A greater tribute could hardly have been paid the mercantile instinct of the human race than the fact that the trade continued and in some sense even flourished.

From high in a tower, indeed the actual highest point in Neeyana, two dark shapes watched over the nighted harbor below and the moon-rayed expanse of sea beyond, out to the black line marking the northern horizon.

"All seems useless against this fantastic crew of intruders," a harsh voice said. "Whatever we do, whatever weapons we use, it seems to make no difference, The chief enemy bursts our bonds, evades our strokes, and destroys our ships without trace. Nothing seems capable of arresting his progress, even momentarily. A pretty pass we've come to!"

"I agree," a second voice said, as like the first as a twin. "But consider. They, or he, for we have no idea what his allies actually represent, has now passed through two Circles. The Yellow, ours, lies before him, unless he turns back or goes elsewhere on a tangent. And both ideas seem to me unlikely. He has always moved in this direction since we first had word of his coming. And the Blue Master, S'duna, is also coming here!

"So he too will come here, our foe will, or at least near to here. In fact, I have news. He is coming. I just came from the instrument room. Two of the new Vocoders registered by the Blue Circle are moving this way across the sea. We have established that the Blue Brothers gave out four! Three to shipmen in this area, men we know well, led by Bald Roke. And one, mark you, to a Glith! The Glith was along to keep Roke under control if necessary."

"And now?" The first harsh voice was eager.

"Two of the instruments are gone, destroyed, at a guess. Two are turned off, but, of course, still registering on our screens. I would hazard the four original owners, the Glith included, are now dead and that the enemy, unwitting, has pocketed the two remaining instruments, perhaps for study. A guess, but I think rather a good one." There was a pause.

"Now, I believe, we can start to summon some of our own forces. The Yellow Brothers at least will not fail the cause!"

There was silence again as the two dark shapes, their hoods drawn in the moonlight, stared out over the old town. The stone parapet on which they leaned had long ago encircled the belfry of an ancient church, but the tall tower now housed only nightmare evil.

Far off in the east, a faint light gave promise of coming dawn. The figures turned and vanished from the tower.

"We will have to trust to our wits, at least as much as any Unclean chart, Hiero." Brother Aldo's long, dark forefinger pointed to a line on the map spread out before them. "For one thing," he went on, "we can't read all of it."

The bear drowsed in a corner of the little cabin's heaving deck, the flickering lantern light making him look larger than he was. At the round table, its base clamped to the deck, sat the Metz, Brother Aldo, Luchare, and Captain Gimp, all trying to interpret the secrets of the strange map.

"We Eleveners have learned to read some of their symbols, over the years, that is," Brother Aldo went on. "But things such as these maps have seldom fallen into our hands in my lifetime, which is not a short one. This must be a precious chance.

"See here!" His finger traced a thin, crooked line from the Inland Sea which inclined roughly southeast by east. "This is a trail I have not used in many seasons. It lies to the north of the track over which you were brought, princess. That particular one is the major route between the Lantik coast and this sea of fresh water on which we now ride. It goes to Neeyana, here. "His finger indicated a circle.

"Now, as you felt in your bones, child, Neeyana is wholly given over to evil. This mark I know well, an enemy mark, unchanged for hundreds of years. It means 'ours' and, see here, it overlies the whole city. Still, trade, some of it quite innocent, passes through. The Unclean suffer it, taxing it not too heavily, but gathering a good deal of information and also using the traders as a cover for their own agents and schemes.

"Well, so do we! And I would wager we generally know more of their plans than they do of ours.

"But I wonder." Again his gnarled finger traced the narrower line of the northern trail. "This goes through the forest, and Hiero, my friend, you have never seen our southern trees! Look here, now, look, a patch of another circle. Blue it is. Without trying to figure out the enemy color chart, I can tell you what that means. A desert, and deadly one, for it was caused by the radiation of The Death. These blighted deserts and similar strange, radioactive spots are generally shrinking, but they still exist, and a few even spread, so long was the life of the deadly cobalt bombs, and the stranger life they engendered. Hence the blue. For on our own maps these places are colored blue also, 'cobalt' being an ancient pre-Death word for that color.

"So, Hiero, the large Dead City you seek seems to lie near to that waste, or on its northern edge. In the distance are other Lost Cities, but much further on to the east. Still, I would feel better if I could see the map the Abbey rulers gave you. If you will trust me."

There was a brief silence. The lantern creaked at the end of its short chain. No one spoke.

"Surely you trust the good Brother, Master Hiero?" Captain Gimp burst out. He banged his fist on the table. "Why, he's saved all our lives a dozen times over in the past, and yours twice I knows of!"

Hiero laughed, his swarthy, hawk face clearing on the instant. "Sorry, Brother Aldo. You're quite right, Gimp. I apologize. But Abbot Demero laid it upon me to keep this secret. My mission, I mean, or at least its ultimate goal. I find it hard to trust anyone at all. The Unclean have so damned many disguises!

"Still, if I can't tell my real friends by now, I'd better give up! And I mean you too, Captain! Here's the map, then. What do you think, Brother?"

"Ah!" For a minute or so, the curly white beard almost touched the surface of the Abbey map as the old man pored over it. Then he straightened and looked at the others, dark eyes glowing, the whites like new ivory.

"I thought so. This is a very old map, Hiero, or rather a new copy of an old map. There are things on here I did not know still to exist and others which I know for a fact not to exist at all, at least for many centuries."

"In other words," the priest said, "a quite unreliable guide?"

"Yes and no. Alone, with no other aids, definitely yes. But with me and with the Unclean's own set of maps, perhaps not. For, as I said, there are things on here, on your map, which are now covered by ancient forest and evil waste and yet which could perhaps now be found again."

They pondered this for a while as the even rhythm of the Foam Girl never changed, rocking up and down, up and down, as she rode the long swells running to the south. Above their heads, the lantern smoked and swayed in tune with the shifting motion. It was two days after their battle with the pirates.

A discussion of routes continued. Hiero had still not mentioned what he ultimately sought and he had no intention of doing so. The fewer people who knew, the better, even if utterly trustworthy. He could always kill himself if trapped, in which case the enemy would still be left uncertain as to his true goal. He knew more strongly, as each league rolled under Foam Girl's keel, that the Unclean would lay a nation in ashes to gain one of the ancient computers. With such a device, they would be literally invulnerable.

He saw that Brother Aldo was looking at him expectantly and brought his attention back with a start.

"Sorry, I missed that last remark."

"Well, Gimp knows of no harbor, at least none inhabited, on that coast where the northern trail comes down. He says it's untouched forest right down to the edge of the sea. But we'd better try and find that trailhead all the same. Even overgrown, I feel it is our best chance, and it heads straight to that desert. And one thing about the great woods is that there we will be on my ground. The Unclean do haunt the forests at times, but even with their beast and Leemute allies, they do not know them, not as we do. And, Hiero, you are a woods ranger too, even if only of the smaller woods of the Taig, which we southerners know to be stunted and shriveled." His laughing eyes made the others smile at the jest.

"All right," Hiero said, folding the maps and stowing them away. "How far from Neeyana is that trail end, do you think?"

"If that map, or rather all them maps, are right, not much more'n fifty miles up the coast," Gimp said. His small eyes stared beadily at them. "There's sometimes a few savages in the woods around there, mostly a wee kind of red dwarf man with poisoned arrows, that like to shoot at ships when we come in for wood or fruit. I'll do my best to get you in to where that line there ends, but how you'll find it in them trees is beyond me. And the animals! Whew!"

"Good," the old man said. "Never mind the beasts, Gimp. You'll be safe enough in our good ship here. The high forest does not reach out into your beloved waters. Hiero, we have a little time now and we should make land in only a few hours more. What do you say we examine those mind locks which we captured from the enemy? I have them right here."

In a moment the two strange devices were laid upon the table before them. Luchare looked at them with loathing, but Hiero and Brother Aldo with interest, while Gimp's battered face seemed to reflect both attitudes.

The locks themselves were of the curious, oily-looking bluish metal which Hiero had noticed the Unclean favored. The heavy neck chains were of some other metal, lighter in weight, though the color was not dissimilar. The mysterious mechanisms lay inside square cases, about three inches around and a half inch thick. There were certain marks like writing incised on them, but no one there, not even old Aldo, could read them. Other decoration there was none. And there were only very faint visible seams and no catch, or opening, on them at all.

"Don't you suppose," Luchare said, looking closely at a fine seam line, "that it would be dangerous to break one? Are they guarded in some way, do you think, so that a person opening it wrong would be hurt?"

"That's possible," Hiero said. He lifted a case and held it to his ear. Was it his imagination, or did he hear an almost imperceptible humming inside?

"No, I hear nothing," Brother Aldo said, on being asked, nor did the others. "But I know very little of such things," he continued. "To be quite honest, few of my order do. We have concentrated on developing empathy with all life through our natural mental powers, and again, quite frankly, we dislike mechanical devices of any sort. This may be a mistake. I think myself we may have gone too far in the anti-machine direction. There's no reason that a limited number of machines cannot help the world, if they are controlled and properly designed. And we had better figure out the working of many Unclean devices or we'll be in real trouble. But I'm not the man to do it, I'm afraid. Actually, Hiero, you've had a lot of experience lately with their devices. You should know as much as anyone not actually in their ranks, I would think."

Hiero stared gloomily at the two shining objects on the table. Once more something gnawed faintly at his memory, some random thought, but again it seemed too elusive to come to the surface of his mind.

"The only gadgets I've seen, that is, Unclean devices," he said slowly, "weren't much like this. There was Luchare's lance, which is a thought amplifier as well, and that compass-thing I also took off S'nerg, way back up North. I had to destroy that; remind me to tell you about it later. Then there was the mind prober they tried to use on me at the Dead Isle. And the machine I call the lightning gun, which blasted me down. I think it shoots charges of static electricity, though God alone knows how. These are mind blocks and they must be miracles of design: they're so small."

He sighed. "I can't figure them out at all, and yet something keeps telling me to be awfully careful of them. Maybe Luchare's right; some explosive or poison or something of the sort lies inside for the unwary."

"Well, I better go on deck," Gimp said, rising. "Landfall can't be many hours away, no, nor dawn neither. And I don't want to run on an uncharted rock, not off this coast!"

"I'm going to bed, and so is Hiero," Luchare said firmly. "We'll need all our rest tomorrow, and only that lazy bear is getting a proper amount of sleep."

"You're right," Aldo said, also rising. "But old men don't need much sleep, princess, so I'll walk the decks with our captain. Perhaps I'll get a message or two."

Hiero yawned and pulled off his boots, sitting on the edge of the bunk. Beside him, Luchare had already closed her eyes. She fell asleep like a child, he noted, in seconds. Damn it, what is there about those mind locks that worries me so? He glared at the things as they lay, still glinting on the table, then blew out the lantern. Whatever it was could wait.

The long, wailing cry. "Land—hooooo," woke him up on the instant. Light, the gray light of dawn, was streaming in through an open cabin porthole. And then, as he sat up, he remembered! The memory was of the compass machine he had destroyed weeks ago, far up in the Palood! It had been a telltale, an Unclean homing device! And, for a dead rat's skin, so too were these damned mind locks!

In an instant, ignoring Luchare's startled cry, he was on deck, bellowing for the captain, yelling for Brother Aldo. Both appeared instantly and watched in horrified fascination as he smashed both locks on the deck, using a handy belaying pin. As he did so, he gasped out the reason, and the alarm flew in their eyes. Only when the deadly things were powdered metal did he look up and see where Foam Girl was heading.

The forest of the South! Not a mile away rose a rank of such trees as he had hardly dreamed possible, even though he had been warned what to expect. The actual shore was invisible, screened by rank growth, mostly bushes and shrubs, all of different shades of green. And behind them in turn reared up the giants of the forest, showing black boles, brown trunks, tan bark, and all the hues and permutations of brown to black, with reddish glints here and there. The Metz almost had to arch his back to see their incredible tops. Around some of the great trunks and hanging from the lofty branches, there twisted vines and lianas of every hue, some of whose girth looked greater than that of Foam Girl's hull! Splotches of color, mostly blazing reds and yellows, here and there revealed the presence of giant, flowering plants which clung to the trees far up their enormous lengths. Through Gimp's proffered telescope, Hiero could see a mass of intertwined, smaller plants festooning every vacant space between the boughs. The smells of the titanic forest reached out across the water to them, a medley of strange scents and musky perfumes. Beside Hiero's head, Klootz suddenly bellowed from his pen, as if in greeting to a wood greater than any he had ever known. The answering call of some strange monster, a thunderous roar, echoed back faintly from the distant shore, and a flight of large, white birds rose from the foliage directly in front of them. A physical wave of warmth seemed to reach out to them.

"Can you get her in quicker?" The priest turned to Gimp in question. "I'm suddenly horribly afraid. We've given someone a constant clue to our position for over two days. And we're not far from Neeyana, which they control." He ignored Luchare, who now came on deck fully dressed and moved up to his side. But she seemed not to mind and bent to adjust her boots.

"Well, Master Hiero, you can see the sails are half-brailed," the little seaman said. "I don't dare go ramming in at full speed. We've got three good lookouts in the bows and forepeak. But there may be anything from sunken logs to nice, pointed rocks just under the surface. A few moments more should do, though."

In the sun of early morning, the little ship sailed slowly in to the towering green wall of jungle ahead, a light breeze carrying her smoothly over the gentle swells. The hum of a tiny surf beating on the roots and tangled deadfalls of the shore now came to them.

Hiero finished a brief and private prayer session, but he was still nervous and inwardly cursing himself. Now he sent out his mind impulses, wishing he had thought to wake up hours before and start doing it to them. Beside him, Brother Aldo stood, eyes shut, seeming merely to breathe in the warm scents of the forest as they grew increasingly strong.

Hiero clutched the old man's brown sleeve suddenly. Foam Girl was now only a few hundred yards off the tangle of plants which made up the actual edge where forest met sea.

"There's something coming from the west! I can't probe it! There's a mind guard, a big one, like the one on that Unclean ship you sank! They're coming fast." He felt sudden anguish. What was there he had failed to do?

Aldo instantly turned and rapped out an order to the captain. "Gimp, put us ashore, the ship too, and get your crew mustered. Hurry, or we're all dead men!" There was no benevolence on his face now, and the high, black cheekbones were ramparts of the decision. His great eyes blazed with imperious will.

Gimp now volleyed orders in every direction, at the same time aiding in rigging the arrow engine personally. The one-eyed mate, Blutho, took the helm as the two great crescent sails rose and were hauled up full so they filled to the breeze. Foam Girl put her nose into a trough, rose on the next long swell, and rushed headlong for the tree-girt shore.

Over the hubbub on deck and the swirl of activity, Hiero became aware of Luchare pressed against his side, buckling on his weapons. I failed, he thought to her as he adjusted his battle helmet. It did not occur to him to speak.

Nonsense, came her calm, answer. No one else warned us at all. You've carried all the weight, mostly alone, for weeks. Even as his brain received the answer, he felt wonder at both the ease of her message and the closeness of their combined mental-physical contact. Being completely male, he could not help his mind going further. I wonder if we could yet, he thought, toying with the idea of love-making simultaneously by mind and body, something he had not so far dared attempt.

Probably, came the prompt answer, but this is no time for it, you clown! Go get Klootz ready. I'll watch the bear. It was like a (friendly) dash of ice water. He blinked and came back to the present.

The big morse was wild with excitement, and Hiero had to use his own mind hard, like a curb, to quiet him down. Barely was he saddled when they struck.

Foam Girl nosed straight and hard into a solid mass of outthrust roots and stunted, mangrovelike trees with a prolonged, grating" crunch. Many men on deck, who were concentrating on their tasks, were jolted off their feet, but nothing worse happened. Fortunately, the sea ran deep here, right up to the shore, and this made their crash landing fairly easy.

"Ashore, everyone!" came Gimp's stentorian shouting. He had conferred with Aldo constantly as they raced in, for, like any really good gambler, he never hesitated a moment to cut his losses, A squad of hardy rascals hurled themselves off the bowsprit, chopping madly with axes and heavy cutlasses at the packed vegetation. Nothing but a rat or small monkey could have got through that tangle of growth unaided. Behind this gang gathered most of the crew, now armed and loaded with hastily snatched-up supplies and emergency gear. Gimp and Blutho led them, and behind them, in turn, were Aldo, the girl, and the priest, who led the morse and the bear, though "led" was not how Gorm saw it. All of the humans, save those using the axes, were watching down coast to the west. As they looked, the black, slim shape they had grown to dread appeared, nosing around a point not a mile away, white foam curling under the sharp prow.

At the sight, Gimp himself seized a broadaxe and, shoving his men aside, fell upon the green matter before him like a fury, using great hewing strokes which severed foot-thick vines like so much string. Those of the men who could find a footing near him redoubled their own efforts. Brother Aldo noticed the arrow engine crew still stoutly manning the machine on the poop and now ordered them away with the others.

From the Unclean ship, now coming like a storm, a distant-screech came down the wind. At the same time, a flare of vivid blue light winked from her foredeck.

"The lightning gun!" Hiero and Luchare cried together. A hundred yards off the stern, a column of steam rose suddenly from a white-capped swell.

"Come on now," Gimp screamed, now out of sight in the green growth. "We've cut a path for you and it widens. Shake your stumps, you lazy bastard whoresons!" This latter epithet was addressed to his loyal crew, who now scrambled off the bowsprit like so many ants. Behind them, Hiero led and urged Klootz forward, Luchare walking on the other side of the bull's head. Gorm leaped off the deck and followed the men in a second. Brother Aldo, nimble as a cricket, clambered after him.

Klootz trod warily over the tangle of ropes and discarded gear at the bow. The priest and the girl soothed him with soft words as the great brute cautiously examined the jungle ahead. Only Aldo was yet still in sight, beckoning them eagerly on. For some reason, the forest's warmth struck Hiero only now; it was as if they were entering a furnace, though a damp one. Klootz paused, hindquarters bunching.

Whoever was aiming the lightning gun finally got his range. There was a ripping crash, and looking back in horror, the humans saw the after half of the little cabin simply vanish in a cloud of white incandescence. The wave of awful, attendant heat almost scorched their back hair.

The bull morse let out a terrified bawl and sprang straight forward off the ship, dragging the two with him as they clung frantically to the reins. More by luck than anything else, the animal headed straight into the ragged gap cut by the crew in the foliage. Brother Aldo leaped aside just in time to avoid being trampled to death and, picking himself quickly up, scuttled in their wake. In a second, the empty Foam Girl, sails and cordage slatting in the offshore breeze, was the only sign that anyone had been there. The smoke of a brisk fire ascended into the morning sunlight from her blazing cabin and midships. With a sudden rush, the fire ran up the stays to the peak of the main mast, and in another instant, the peaked sail burst into a flaming blossom of orange light. The crackling bolts of the lightning gun continued to strike through the smoke and haze, but the electric charges simply blasted holes at random in. the green curtain of plants on the shore; for the gunners, though now very close, could actually see nothing. At length the order to cease fire was given. The black ship lay hove to, close in; while from her deck, sharp eyes tried in vain to discern through the smoke what had become of their prey. It was a patently useless exercise, and soon the lean hull turned, the hidden engines started, and the Unclean ship swept away back down the wooded coast to the west. In a few minutes she was out of sight. The now furiously burning Foam Girl sent a column of reeking black smoke high in the air, from whence it was bent inland by the wind, over the tops of the enormous trees. Nothing moved on the shore, save a few small birds.

Far away, in a crypt deep under the earth and cobbles of old Neeyana, a figure turned away from, an instrument board with an exclamation of disgust. "Is this your vaunted efficiency?" the hooded shape hissed to another standing near. "The Yellow Circle would show the Blue, eh? I'll have a word with your Masters in due season!" S'duna of the Blue Circle, enraged and frustrated, left the chamber, his cold rage going before him like a noxious cloud. All who felt it shrank away and hid themselves, but elsewhere in the Unclean citadel, new orders were given and the servants of the Yellow Circle sprang to new action. Another stroke unaccountably had failed, but the chase would not be given up, not while one of the Dark Brotherhood remained.

The camp that night, set deep in the canopy of the great trees, was not a cheerful one. The seamen, long used to the open air, felt the dank heat and the smothering darkness as doubly oppressive and frightening, even though Gimp and Blutho maintained a stern discipline and also continually pointed out that no lives had been lost. Both Hiero and Luchare nursed bad bruises from being dragged through the thickets for a hundred yards in Klootz's initial panic. Two small fires kept some of the gloom away, and a low barrier of fallen logs and branches encircled the camp, providing at least some psychological protection, if nothing more.

But the vast tree trunks rising out of the limit of firelight into the upper dark, the mysterious cries and sounds of the encircling jungle, and the blazing eyes which stared out of the night at the fires, all combined to make the men huddle together and talk in low tones or not at all.

"We were lucky to find this clearing," Hiero said, stoically trying to avoid noticing his battered arms and legs. He knew Luchare was equally in pain and also saying nothing, and his heart went out to her. They sat a little apart, with the bear and the morse, the latter now peacefully chewing his cud.

Brother Aldo had vanished earlier, saying only that he would be back before moonrise, "Not that the moon will shed much light down here," he added.

"I guess he went to find that trail, that is, if anyone can find it," the girl said. Her dark face was drawn and tired in the light of the flames.

"Listen to that, will you!" Hiero said, springing to his feet, hand on sword. All the others had leaped up, too, as a perfectly appalling racket burst out not far away, hideous, earthshaking screams of rage rising above a deep, hoarse bellowing, as if the father of all cats had attacked the granduncle of all bovines. The bellowing sound alone made Klootz's loudest efforts sound like a baby's squall. As suddenly as they had begun, the frightful sounds died away, leaving everyone half-deafened. The ordinary screeches, yells, and howls of the night resumed, aided by the sounds of countless stridulating insects. The men slowly settled down again.

A large beast indeed, came a placid thought from Gorm. And it was attacked by one almost as large, which it slew. Now it is very angry, I think I would tell the men to be quiet. Very quiet.

Hiero dashed to the nearest group, hissing for silence. One look at his face brought compliance. If the bear warned, he had learned, it was as well to listen. Soon all the men were waiting, weapons drawn, not moving, but simply crouched and staring nervously around and outward.

It comes, was the bear's thought. Be ready.

The Metz stood next to Klootz, trying to shield Luchare, who faced the same way into the dark as he did. It was to the south, he noted idly, trying to detect the creature's mind as hard as he could. Presently he thought he had found it. The brain was not too unlike that of the morse, but far, far more stupid, and now filled with insensate rage and much pain as well. Hiero tried to probe it, but the animal was simply too new to him. He had not realized previously how alien the minds of the great herbivores really were and how much simple affection and long, mutual training had to do with his control over the big morse. He tried again, but the brute mind was too full of mad rage for any inexperienced hand to take over its control. And Aldo was absent. No, I'm back, came a quick, clear thought. Get one of its mind,

Hiero, and leave me alone! I'll try to turn it. Hurry!

Now everyone could hear the monster. A footfall, so ponderous it actually shook the forest floor, began to echo at a steadily increasing beat. Great snorts and grunts sounded.

Get away from the fires! came the old man's thought.

Hastily Hiero passed it on, and Gimp and the men began to scurry away to either side. Luchare pulled Klootz's head around, and the two tugged him off behind the buttress root of a great tree, clearing the flimsy camp barrier as they did.

Now the incredible steps broke into a crashing run, and almost at the same time, the creature gave voice. Its fight with the slain attacker must have been further away than he realized, the priest thought, as that awful, ringing bellow almost shattered his eardrums.

Out of the dark it came, perhaps just such a titanic bulk as must have peopled the earth for millions of years in the past, before the coming of man. Now, due to incredible hard radiation and consequent forced mutation, the same conditions of life had once again given such creatures another, second chance. Its great, brown head, short-trunked on a heavy, columnar neck and carrying upper and lower pairs of ivory tusks, towered up at least twenty feet above the terrified men. The close-furred giant body sloped from pillarlike front legs to shorter ones in the rear, and as it passed, the Metz saw its tiny tail, a mere afterthought, flapping in the air. Fresh wounds on its flanks gleamed red in the firelight, and the small, ruby eyes gleamed also as it sought for fresh enemies. But the fires seemed to distract it. It charged straight and hard at the nearest and careened right through it, sending burning logs spinning in every direction. Its voice rising to a new volume, it charged the next fire and scattered that also. Without ceasing its incredible rush, it blundered across the little clearing, through the barrier, and into a gap between two monster trees. Even as the light died, it vanished from sight. Everyone stood, appalled, in the gathering gloom, listening as it lumbered on and away, crashing a course off into the distance, still roaring hideously as the pain of its burned feet, added to the previous wounds, reached the tiny brain. Almost before one realized it, the sound had died away in the distance and the "normal" noises of the night forest once again resumed.

"All right, men," Brother Aldo's voice came cheerfully. "Let's get those fires going again and build up the barrier. It won't be back, but other things may. Hurry up now; no time for idling." The old Elevener, appearing out of nowhere, stood in the middle of the clearing, helping Gimp and Hiero direct the work, until all was as before, except that the barrier was now chest-high at least. When new watches had been set, he told Gimp to turn over command to Blutho and join them. At this point they discovered that three men were missing, all ordinary seamen.

"Probably ran off in a panic and got lost or ate by something," Gimp said philosophically. "If people won't listen, what can you do? I tell them no-good swipes a thousand times, 'Stay here with us,' but they know better!"

"I'm afraid you're right," Aldo said. "Let us be glad it's not worse. At least I can detect no Unclean activity, only the Poros, that poor, simple beast which blundered into us."

"Poor beast!" Luchare burst out. "That great horror!"

"Well, yes, I think so," was the gentle answer. "This is his forest, you know, princess, not yours. He had just been in a terrible fight and he thought he saw more enemies in us. I sent him to bathe his burned feet in the Inland Sea," he added, "and now he'll feel better." His tone was exactly that of a nurse whose spoiled charge had been soothed.

Hiero smiled to himself. The Eleveners were indeed the guardians of all life! He rather approved, he realized, though it would take a long time for him to see the Brobdingnagian Poros as the simple-minded child that Brother Aldo obviously did.

"Now that that's over, I think I can keep us from being bothered by any more of the forest people, at least tonight. And I have found the trail, you'll be glad to know." The old fellow beamed at them in pleasure and stroked his curly beard affectionately.

"I'll be glad to know a lot of things," Gimp said aggressively, "such as who's going to pay me for a new ship, not that there's another like old Foam Girl, mind. And all her cargo, too, gone in a wink, plus the juicy plunder I claimed from Roke's ship, and hard-won that was. All in all, Brother, I could have retired on that lot, and my men too. Who's to pay us, eh, and when and also where? Are you going to wander about in this wood until we're all ate by something like that walking mountain we just missed?" Despite his gloomy words, Hiero noted that the little seaman's eyes were still bright and his ridiculous pigtail still perky. Though he would have died rather than admit it, Gimp was a pure romantic, actually one of those people who revel in constant excitement and new ventures. He liked pay, of course, if he could get it, but it was only secondary, and so was his grumbling. Now he cocked an eye from Hiero to the old man in question.

Brother Aldo knew his man. "Why, Captain, can't your hardy men stand a little discomfort? Surely those who've ridden out gales and fought cannibal slavers and angry sea beasts aren't afraid of a few days' walk in the woods?"

Luchare and Hiero grinned at each other in silent companionship. "Few days* walk in the woods" indeed! But it was the right note to strike with the squat little seaman.

"I've got the toughest crew afloat," he boasted. "Why, Roke's men would all have run when that big beast come rampaging through here. No, those men'll follow me through hot pitch. But what about our pay? And where are we going now?" His voice was eager on the last question.

"Well," Aldo said, "I have no real right to promise anything like this, but if, mind you, if our Ruling Council agrees with me, all your damages will be paid, including the loss of your ship. After all, you are on Eleventh Commandment business, are you not?"

"Your word's good with me, Brother," Gimp said. "You can't say fairer than that. But what now?"

"I can supply some answers there, Gimp," the Metz interjected. "We're going southeast, the Brother and I, and I guess you and the crew had better come too." He waved his hand around at the monster tree trunks and the shadows at their feet. "I don't imagine your men are going to want to strike off alone, are they? Three are gone already. I've probed the night with my mind and so has Aldo, and we detect nothing. I fear they indeed have provided someone a quick dinner. Can you make this danger plain to those who remain? We must stay together."

"Yes," Aldo added, "and tell them Hiero will command the whole expedition from now on. This trip is land work, and we need land discipline and experience. I will assist him, of course, and you'll remain in direct command of your own people."

"Suits me," the sailor said. "There won't be no problem about that. I've got thirty men, no, twenty-seven; forgot those scourings that run off. Plus me and Blutho. We have food for two weeks, but only seven big water skins. How's this place for water?"

"I'll find you water and game too," Aldo answered. "We'll leave at dawn. The trail is less than a mile from here, overgrown but still a. good road. The beasts use it and so can we, but humans don't seem to have been over it for a long time, at least as well as I can tell in the dark."

As the moon gleamed through the far-off branches and the fires died down to orange coals, they talked on, planning as well as possible the next day's march. At intervals, Hiero probed the night for enemy mind sweeps, but encountered nothing suspicious. The high forest teemed with life, but it was natural to it, predators and prey, fur, scale, and feather.

Eventually they slept, though with watches set and regular changes of guard.

The next morning Klootz, to his annoyance, was loaded with supplies. Behave yourself, Hiero told him. I'll get to ride you soon enough. The morse bull was, in fact, trained to carry burdens on occasion, so that his irritation was a matter of pride. He had carried urgently needed supplies to more than one isolated Kandan village in the past. Now he shook his great, black antlers and brayed until Luchare's ears rang. The forest answered with a chorus of screams and yells, and the day's march began.

First went Hiero and the bear, scouting the path. Next came the mate and his picked crew of axe and cutlass men, ready to cut through any bad obstructions. The main body of seamen under Gimp came next, all armed with swords and pikes. A small group of picked bowmen followed, and last of all, the morse, Luchare, and the old Elevener. While he disliked being separated from them, Hiero himself had chosen this march order as being the most sensible. It gave them a telepath at each end of the column, and danger was more likely to come from in front than the rear.

As Brother Aldo had promised, they soon struck the old trail. Hiero's instinct told him that it ran almost due southeast; and although small bushes broke its surface here and there, it was still easy marching. The sailors cheered up and began to sing, songs which Luchare appeared determined to ignore while carefully memorizing some of the worst to try later on her lover. Part of the cheer, Hiero learned when they stopped for a noon meal, was due to a crafty rumor of Gimp's that they were in search of a great buried treasure. This artless tale has seldom failed to arouse sailors of any time or nation, nor did it now.

Hiero could not help wishing as he strode along, alert for any movement, that he and Luchare were alone to explore the wonderful green world all about them. The heat had now come to seem normal and, in the shadows of the great trees, not even very oppressive. Stinging insects were surprisingly few, perhaps because bird life was so abundant and varied.

Monkeys, large and small, chattered overhead, and other small beasts, of unknown types to the Metz, scuttled up and down the looping vines and tendriled growths which shrouded the monster trees. Occasional huge footprints in the earth, none very new, renewed the knowledge that not all the life of the forest was small. And once, the bear shied suddenly from what appeared to be a smooth, shallow ditch across the trail itself. Hiero raised a hand to halt the column and summoned Brother Aldo. The great, rounded fold in the leaf mold of the road was stunning in its implied message, but the old man confirmed it.

"Yes, my dear boy, a serpent. Let us hope we do not meet it. They are very hard to control mentally and almost invulnerable to any weapon. I should judge this one to be eighty feet." He said no more and walked away. Hiero led off again, considerably shaken and now even more alert.

Occasionally, due perhaps to outcroppings of poorer soil or perhaps of hidden rock, the forest opened, and grassy glades filled with flowers formed sunlit breaks in the green gloom. It was in one of these that a new menace revealed itself.

The priest and his attendant, the bear, were halfway across the glade, which was no more than a hundred yards in extent, when something long and lean, or rather two somethings, erupted from the edge of the wood to their left and raced for the column at a speed so incredible that Hiero never could decide on it afterward. At first heading for him, the two creatures swerved and plucked the two leading axemen behind Hiero instead, sweeping them, off their feet without even breaking stride or hesitating. Before anyone could even raise a weapon, they were gone! A vague visual impression was left on Hiero's forebrain of animals rather like giant, distorted foxes on legs like stilts, mottled dark brown on a fawn background, each one with a crewman gripped in great, grinning jaws. There had not been time even for the men to scream. Belatedly, he realized, he had used his mind to deflect the attackers from himself, used it subconsciously, as a man half-asleep raises an arm to defend himself from a blow. He explained this to Aldo when they all halted and also tried to excuse his conduct. But it was Luchare who snapped him out of it.

"Don't be so stupid! I'm sorry those men were killed, too, but you didn't kill them! And how many of us are alive because you have the abilities and courage to use them when you do! Now say a prayer for those two poor souls and go back to being our leader!" She turned on her heel and stamped off to the rear of the line again, Klootz following obediently in her wake.

"We're down to twenty-five lads now, but she's right, Master Hiero, she's right, you know. Without you, there wouldn't be none of us. No one blames you, I can tell you that." Gimp had overheard the dialogue, and his earnest, perspiring face now expressed his feelings.

Brother Aldo patted his shoulder affectionately. "Hiero, why not blame me instead? I am supposed to know these woods and the dwellers in them. Yet I never even noted or felt the minds of those swift creatures which took those two. In fact, to be honest, they are totally new to me, and not yet in our records at the Central Institute, I suspect. So take heart. And remember, we all still rely on you."

"All right, I suppose I couldn't help it. But I feel damned inadequate to serve as leader all the same. Let's go." The seamen marched in silence for a long while after that.

At dusk, they found another campsite between three great trees and built a strong barrier around it. But late that night, something large reached over it and simply removed one of the two seamen posted as sentries. The man's fading scream alerted the camp, but his mate had been facing the other way and thus had no real idea what had happened.

"His mind doesn't exist," Hiero said in a low voice after a moment. "He's dead, thank God. What are we going to do, Aldo? We can't go on this way. By odds it ought to be one of us next. These poor devils are getting grabbed because they have no concept of what dangers to expect. Should one of us stand watch, do you think? I'm at my wits' end!"

Eventually it was decided that Hiero and Luchare (she insisted on that) should keep a waking, if not talking, watch half the night, and Brother Aldo and the bear, who were great friends, the other half. This in addition to two seamen, who would walk guard on roughly each quarter of the night. It seemed to work, since for the next two nights there were no attacks, though Hiero felt that this was due to luck more than anything else.

On the fourth day since leaving the coast, they came at length to a fork in the trail. Both the left and right paths seemed to go roughly in the direction they wanted, but one inclined somewhat to the east, the other more to the south.

They called a halt to consider this matter, since in any case it was almost time for the noon break and meal. Hiero's and the girl's crossbows, and their heavy, bronze-tipped quarrels, had supplied them with plenty of small game, got by ranging only a little wide of the trail. The local wild creatures, though often savage enough, were singularly unwary of men, a fact that Brother Aldo and the priest found encouraging, for it showed that few human travelers had used this country.

As they inspected all of the maps, Brother Aldo looked increasingly doubtful.

"No fork shows here at all! Long ago, but, mind you, my memory is still fair, I used this road and there was no such fork then. Yet roads made by game, and this trail simply took one over, you know, don't change much over the centuries. Not unless the land itself does, if a river, say, should dry up or a new volcano arise."

He walked over to the fork and peered down at the actual junction of roads, where a colossal tree, against which he resembled a fly on a wall, towered up at the apex of a broadening triangle of forest. The men were eating silently, watching as their leaders debated. Overhead, the unending canopy of green shielded them from the burning sun. The mighty wood lay somnolent under the hush of noon, only an occasional bird song drifting down through the leaves.

Aldo came striding back, his eyes still downcast.

"We'll take the southern fork, I think, unless there's an objection. It would seem to skirt the desert on the map more than the old road did. I never went that far myself, but turned off before the open spaces began. But I am still puzzled as to why a plain fork like this should exist on a road no one human uses, for animals simply don't do such things." Thus they crossed over the border into the realm of Vilah-ree, unknowing.

For some miles, the new road, or rather trail, for it was no different from the one they had been using, marched steadily on, winding around and through the great tree trunks as it had for days. But late in the afternoon, Hiero became conscious of a change and held up a hand to halt the column and at the same time to summon Luchare, Aldo, and Gimp to him.

"So you've noticed too," was the old man's comment. "What do you think?"

"We're going down a very long, gentle slope, into a river valley, I guess. The trees are mostly the same, but there are many more hanging mosses and lichens and great ferns too. The ground isn't wet, but the air's damper. And I hear a lot of new bird calls and songs. What have you noticed, Aldo?"

"That animals are very few, and mostly far up in the trees. No large beasts use this trail at all, no dung, no footmarks, nothing. And yet I seem to feel something hovering at the edge of my thought, almost in reach but not quite. Your mind, boy, is more powerful than mine in many ways. Try using it and see what you can pick up. But do be careful!"

Luchare looked anxious for a second; then her ebony face became a mask as she assumed the role of the king's daughter. Gimp looked nervously about them at the leaf-strewn ground. This was out of his sphere of knowledge entirely. Hiero closed his eyes and leaned on his spear, which he had thrust point downward into the soft earth, while he sent his mind abroad.

He touched upon the minds of many small, shy creatures at first: birds high above, lizards on tree limbs, toads and snakes in the mold of the forest floor. Wider and wider he sent his mental net, seeking for any trace of intelligence with every atom of his powerful brain. At length he was sure that, for very many miles in a circle from where they now stood, no mind existed which he could contact on an equal level. He began to withdraw mentally, closing and tightening the mental circumference of his "net," but still watching closely for any trace of an observer, spy, or enemy.

Then a strange thing began to happen. He caught no trace of coherent thought, no actual communication, but he knew all the same that someone was there! And in his mind a face commenced to form! The face of a woman!

Or was it? he wondered. The face was long, the chin pointed, as were the small ears, just visible under the helmet of hair. And the hair itself? If it was hair, he wondered. The tight, almost caplike covering looked as much like feathers as it did anything else and seemed to ripple with almost a life of its own. And the eyes! Long and slanted, with vertical, yellow pupils, their color was a shifting, opalescent green. No human had such eyes! Green indeed was the overall impression which the face conveyed. The pale, smooth skin and the strange hair seemed to have overtones of green, as if the forest had exuded a mist which covered the creature who watched him. Yet it was a female presence which observed him.

For he was under observation. That much was clear. The strange and beautiful (for it was both) face saw him, and although he could detect neither mind speech nor mental contact of any sort he knew, yet he was sure that the entity behind the strange eyes was fully aware of him and his companions. And he knew too that he had been allowed to see the face of his watcher. As this thought stirred in his mind, the image vanished, like a burst bubble, one moment clear, the next utterly gone. But still the watch over them was not relaxed. This also he knew. He brought his mind back to the trail and opened his eyes, to find the others still watching him.

"You have found something," Aldo said instantly. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Something, yes, or someone. We are under close observation. But I can feel no mind touch at all, which is strange and, frankly, makes me nervous. Even the Unclean mind shields are detectable as an impression or shape, though the thoughts they hide are not. But here ..."

As he tried to explain the picture he had received, he saw a storm of fury begin in his love's eyes and instantly stopped the narrative to take hold of her shoulders and shake her gently.

"Now look, foolish one, a female seen once is no cause for jealousy. I said she was lovely in a way, yes; but, I feel, not altogether human either. So stop the female anger, eh, and let me go on?" His clear gaze met her eyes, and at length she smiled.

"All right, I guess I am jealous. But I don't like beautiful green women, whom I can't even see, looking at my man!"

"Quite so," Brother Aldo said impatiently, "but we have other concerns, princess. Hiero, does this strange creature, who must be one of a group, seem dangerous?"

"I don't know, frankly. But I do feel there is power there, and power of a kind I can't even grasp, behind that face. That in itself is quite enough to make me nervous."

"But what are we to do? Shouldn't we go back, before this invisible witch or whatever casts a spell on us?" What little he could grasp of Hiero's tale made Captain Gimp very nervous. He was a man who could face any physical danger with a bold face, but unseen (to him) green faces and mental warfare were something else again.

You know, he may have a point. This was Aldo's mind speaking directly to Hiero. Maybe we are being warned and should go back, retrace our path, and take the other trail. But he was interrupted from a strange source.

You cannot go back, came the bear's calm message. The way is guarded now. You can only go forward, where the—(his thought was untranslatable, but conveyed an impression of great power) wish you to. His mind said nothing more, and he simply sat up on his haunches and sniffed the damp airs drifting down the trail.

Can you hear—whoever is watching us? Do they, or she, talk to you? Do you know their purposes?

I cannot tell you how I know, Hiero, was the answer, I was told to say what I said, but not by the way you use your mind. It is the same way I know which is the way home. I just KNOW, that's all. Gorm's thought conveyed the idea that the process he was talking about was quite inexplicable in human terms. As a matter of fact, he was partly wrong, for Hiero's own sense of direction was almost as good as the bear's. But the sub-mental communication wave or channel being used was certainly nothing either the old Elevener or the Metz priest had ever dreamed of.

What blocks the return path? was Hiero's next question.

Listen, came the answer.

From far back up the long, gradual slope down which they had lately come, there echoed a cry. The rippling calls of the strange birds above them were hushed, and only the cry could be heard, though it came from a long, long way. It was hard to describe. Luchare called it a "cross between a moan and a growl." Hiero thought it sounded more like the howl of an inconceivable wolf in great pain. Brother Aldo kept his own counsel. Whatever it was, it had to be very large, and the note of savagery in its voice was unmistakable. One word that subsumed all others in describing the sound might have been "disquieting."

It is a great beast, greater than anything I have ever seen. And it guards the back trail for those who sent it. We must go on. The bear's message was unequivocal.

Hiero looked at Brother Aldo, who shrugged. For the first time since they had met, the priest thought the old fellow looked tired. Again he wondered how old Aldo was.

"Let's get the men moving, Gimp," Hiero said. "Tell them a big animal's behind us, that's all."

"They know that all right, Master. They can hear that much as good as you!" He turned away and barked an order.

As they marched on, the great clumps of green and brown moss, some of it lovely, others simply grotesque, increased in number. The area to the right and left of the path became obscured, both by the mosses and huge ferns but also by a greenish haze, not a fog, Hiero thought, but more as if the light off the trail had some different properties, which ordinary eyes could not penetrate. He tried probing with his mind, at random intervals, both forward on their route and back, as well as to both sides, but gained no knowledge. He could not even tap the mind of whatever horrific beast waited behind them. Those who controlled it also shielded its thoughts. A great feat, he thought glumly. His own. hard-won powers seemed those of a child by comparison.

You are needed, suddenly came a thought from Gorm.

Who—me? Hiero was startled.

Yes. I don't know why. Those who speak to me are not clear, perhaps do not wish to be. But you, and no one else in the party, have a task to do. Or else we all are trapped.

Hiero kept marching, crossbow slung loosely over one arm, his spear over his shoulder. Only his helmet was missing, too heavy for long marches for him to be instantly battle-worthy. Needed for a task? This grew stranger and stranger. He was wanted, personally, and if he failed, why, the whole party perished! He said a few soldiery words into his mustache, then crossed himself and automatically asked God's pardon for blasphemy. Neither attitude struck him as contradictory. On they went, accompanied only by rippling bird song.

Just as the light faded, they emerged into a large, moss-floored clearing. The men suddenly shouted as they saw what stood there, but Hiero, Gimp and the one-eyed mate beat them back, cursing and shoving until some semblance of discipline was restored. Still, it was hard to blame them, as Gimp said.

In the center of the clearing were three long, wooden tables. There were not seats, but none were needed. The tables were laden with steaming earthenware platters, all carefully covered against the evening damp, and on them too, at regular intervals, great clay flagons reared up, stoppered in a suggestive manner.

After almost a week of constant danger and a diet of hardtack and tough, wild game, it was an incredibly seductive display.

"Wait a minute!" Gimp screamed, waving about the heavy staff he had been carrying. "Suppose it's been dosed, you sorry catamite bastards! D'you all want to choke on poisoned grub, you miserable, mother-delighters?"

Eventually, with even Brother Aldo and Luchare, of both of whom the men were in great awe, helping, things quieted down. When they did, and he got a chance to look more closely at the food, Hiero received another message, again from Gorm.

The food is safe. We can all eat. I tell you, Hiero, the Old One says you are needed! From the bear's mind came a picture of the strange female face! So this was the Old One of whoever held them, the leader of the unknown forest creatures whom they could not even sense!

With Hiero's assurance passed on, all fell to, the majority cautiously at first, but after Hiero had tasted each dish, with more confidence. Indeed, the food was delicious, mostly strange, cooked vegetables and tubers, but also piles of some sweet bread, all very subtly flavored. There was no meat. And the clay flagons contained an odd, herb-flavored wine which managed to grow upon the palate as one drank.

"There's no poison," he told Aldo. "I'm trained to detect it. There's nothing to harm anyone, I'm sure of that. We're being helped, that's all, but why?" He had told the old man of Gorm's message, but it meant nothing to him or to Luchare either, except that she refused to move more than a foot from his side, determined that he was not going anywhere to see anyone without her.

At length, satiated, the seamen stretched out on the soft grass, groaning. Surprisingly, no one was drunk, for the strange wine seemed only to exhilarate. As night fell, under the canopy of the trees, the men were soon asleep, save for the two walking a watch and Hiero and Luchare, who shared the first guard, The bear and Brother Aldo also slept.

It was an utterly still night. No birds called any longer, no animals moved in the undergrowth. Overhead, no life could be detected. The whole forest seemed to lie under some hushed spell. Even the great, rounded piles of moss suddenly seemed tense and expectant to Hiero, as if listening in the dark. One small fire was all that could be got to light, and it sputtered dismally as the far mists of night closed in.

Hiero first felt his legs growing weak, with considerable surprise. But there was no poison! his mind cried out, even as he slumped into the mossy ground. His fading sight showed him Luchare lying next to him and, beyond her, the two sailors, also fallen. And then into his mind came only a green haze, which swirled in clouds and wreaths across his vision. He felt that some secret lay behind it, but what it was remained unreachable.

Then the mists cleared. He opened his eyes and looked into those of Gorm's "Old One," the strange creature who had watched, guided, and finally trapped them all.

He lay in a room, long, narrow, and high-ceilinged, which moved under him somehow. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, for such it was, and looked about him in amazement. In a backless chair before him, staring calmly at him, sat the woman, for such she was, whom he had seen first in his own mind and second in that of the bear. She was nude, her small, firm breasts erect and provocative. Other than a necklace and a slim belt, both of which looked like fine metal mesh, she wore no ornaments. Her greenish-white body was utterly hairless, he noted, and the strange covering on her head seemed a cross between oval, green feathers and tiny brown leaves. Yet it was unmistakably part of her, a natural growth, not a cap.

She was indeed very beautiful, yet even as the manhood in him rose to the sexual challenge of her shape, he was also driven off, repelled by her alienness. For she was not really human at all, and the lovely outward appearance of her body seemed a mask for something utterly different. To his still-dazed mind came an unbidden thought. Why, it's as if a tree or a flower had tried to be a rabbit or a cat!

Now he could see that the room was lit by candles, fat candles, which burned in wall sconces and cast a strange perfume as they burned. Save for the chair, a small table on which stood some wooden goblets and a jug, and the carved wooden bed on which he now sat, the room was empty. And it swayed! Even as he realized suddenly where he must be and the motion of the wooden floor shook him, a thought came into his mind and he knew that his captress was speaking to him.

We (are) in the trees, high, high above, as you (guessed?), /(can) tell (what) you think but not speak/tell/talk back (?) except by an (effort). We do not speak so/thus/in a manner. Her thought was painfully slow, and looking into the green, slanted eyes, Hiero realized that it was actually physically painful to use her mind this way. She was forcing herself to do it, despite the hurt it caused her.

How do you speak, then? Who are you? his mind asked. He was feeling clear of head and he noticed that he still had his sword-knife and dagger. His strange captors had not restrained him in any way, apparently, and he was becoming intrigued as he lost any fear.

She trilled at him. A string of golden syllables came from her lips, as lovely as the rippling of a woodland waterfall, tinkling over polished stones. "Vilah-ree" was as close as he could come in speech, and he said it softly. "Vilah-ree." Now he knew one source of the continual bird music they had heard.

At his attempt, she shook her head and sang again. Her teeth were dainty and small. Again he tried to imitate her voice and then gave it up. Vilah-ree, he thought, I can't say your name properly, I fear, not in your language. You'll have to accept my mind speech instead or let Vilah-ree do.

Then, even as they gazed at one another, the thought of Luchare and his companions came to him. What was he doing, talking like an idiot, while his love and his friends were drugged and helpless, God knew how far away! Were they even alive?

The calm expression vanished from Vilah-ree's face as well, and her full-lipped mouth opened in apparent distress. A stream of golden, chiming notes poured forth as she tried to tell him something. Realizing that it was futile, she fell silent, and he felt her thoughts on the edge of his mind again.

No (you are) wrong! We (have) hurt none of the other/untranslatable/(earth-plodders?). Look into/at my mind!

As she became more practiced, the flow of message and pictorial communication between them became easier, just as it once had between himself and the bear, though indeed he always felt the bear to be the less alien of the two. Next she showed him the camp where he had fallen into a drugged dream, but now it was guarded by a high fence of some thorny bushes. And around it at intervals stood silent, white figures, so like Vilah-ree as to make it plain they were her people. All, he noted absently, were female, and he thought, God help them if the crew ever wakes up!! Luchare, Brother Aldo, and the bear lay apart, on a great bed of leaves, and even the bull morse slumbered in an angle of the thorn stockade, looking as if he had been newly slain, save for the rise and fall of his great sides.

We need you, my people and I, Vilah-ree thought, when he had satisfied himself that all of his party were well and unharmed. Her golden-pupiled, fathomless, green eyes were close to his as she drew her chair nearer. A faint, lovely scent—-of flowers? bark? honey?—came to him, and her strangeness seemed to ebb, leaving her both vulnerable and desirable.

What do you want? His counterwrought deliberately was harsh, as he strove to break through the glamour, the witchery, of her near presence.

She considered him a moment, then rose gracefully to her feet, pale, rounded hips swaying as she walked to the end of the room.

Come—I will show you. She drew aside a long wooden shutter on a track, and sunlight poured into the room. She beckoned with one white arm, and he rose and joined her, striving to mask his wonder as he looked out.

They were in the top of one of what must have been the tallest trees in the great forest. Below them for miles stretched a green canopy of leaves and branches, some of the latter themselves as immense as normal trees. The room in which they stood was partly hollowed out, partly built into one such, in a way Hiero did not quite fathom, but which seemed to be a graft onto the living tree itself, one which Vilah-ree made plain did not injure it. But he had not been brought just to see the beauty of the daylight on the roof of the forest. She pointed, and he looked to the east and saw her enemy.

Far away, fringing the eastern horizon, lay a great, barren expanse of empty sand and rock, its pinnacles and jagged buttes glinting in the morning sun. But closer, between the desert and the forest, part of neither and repelling both, lay something else.

A vast, ugly splotch of color, composed of mauves, dull oranges, oily browns, and sickly yellows, it seemed to have eaten into the green edge of the tree world like a hideous, running sore. Without thinking, Hiero reached into his belt pouch and brought out his far-looker. With the eyepiece adjusted, the strange area was brought up close, and involuntarily he shuddered. It was indeed an evil landscape.

Even under the sun, the giant puffballs and huge, clustering toadstools looked diseased. Other strange fungi, both hanging and dripping foul ichor, covered all the other things in sight. He could see the shrouded shapes of many vast trees, every inch covered with loathsome growth, the trees obviously dead, their tortured skeletons serving as a prop for the bloated life which covered them. All of the colors and shapes were painful to look at, none appearing natural or the work of things that grew by nature's design. Even as he watched, a bloated bag of some monster puffball sort exploded, and the view was momentarily darkened by the billions of tiny spores scattered for hundreds of yards.

Slowly he lowered the spyglass from his eye, then turned to his silent companion.

What can I do about this? The plant world wars against itself? This looks truly evil, but why not use fire, unless you fear it, of course? Surely this plague of fungi is not invulnerable.

Look again, came her thought. See if you can see anything moving.

He did her bidding, sweeping the distant area until at length he caught sign of a movement. Adjusting the focus, he watched carefully until he had located it again, then drew in his breath in a gasp.

Over a bare patch of ground between the forest and the blight, there flowed a thing, a monster made of living slime. It had no apparent head or limbs, but innumerable, waving organs rose, long and slender, from its soft back. Its gross body seemed composed of dark, rotted velvet, and the slender rods were tipped with something soft that glowed with a putrid orange fire. Yet it was not without purpose. Its intent, quick movements bespoke intelligence and organized will. Now, as Hiero watched, it suddenly paused, and all its long pseudopods or tendrils quivered. Then the whole mass wheeled and slid over the ground in a new direction, toward a clump of bushes at the edge of the still, living forest. From these bushes bounded a creature like a huge, short-eared rabbit, running for its life. It had delayed too long, however. One of the balls of reddish foulness on the end of a slender feeler touched it fleetingly. It gave a convulsive spring and fell dead, as if struck by lightning. The slime creature flowed on until it covered the body, no small one, as Hiero could judge. In only a few seconds it moved on again. Where the animal's body had been was nothing, not even grass, only a dampness festering on the bare earth under the rays of the sun.

Again the Metz lowered the far-looker. Is there more? his mind asked.

Much more, came the answer. That thing, and (it is) one of many, is only one weapon of the House. Now into Hiero's mind there came a picture of a strange object, something perhaps like a peculiar building made of brown, still wet, soft mud. It had no truly straight lines, yet somehow it seemed to maintain a basic four-sided structure, which yet shifted from one detail to the next, though only in small ways. A vaguely rectangular wasp's nest, made of soft muck and big enough for many men to live in. But it was alive! Or at least it apparently moved and shifted, and ripples seemed to run across its surface.

If the slime-thing he had just seen was foul, at least it seemed to answer to the basic laws of life. But this object or creature was repellent beyond belief, repellent because it was utterly unnatural and ab-human in a way like nothing Hiero had ever seen before.

Then, and only then—he remembered the last cast of the symbols on the north shore of the Inland Sea. Here was the House! He looked at its image in Vilah-ree's mind again and shuddered.

11 - The House and the Trees

I want my woman and I want the old man with the beard and I want the bear! And I want them now! I need them!

The curious disagreement and discussion had gone on for over an hour. Hiero had learned much about his task, but he had not been able to make his own will in the matter felt. Vilah-ree could not, or perhaps would not, see that he wanted at the very least to consult with his partners. To her, he alone was all that was needed. Suppressing as egotistic a thought that her ideas about him had more behind them than a desire to see him defeat the House, he returned to his patient argument.

He had learned that the House—or whatever motivated it; Vilah-ree was not clear on this point—stayed hidden in the center of the fungus blight or infection. It had appeared, seemingly from out of the desert beyond, some time ago—again, how much was not clear—and at once had attacked the forest edge. Nothing seemed to harm it or its attendant fungi very much except fire, and it, or they, attacked and ate everything remotely organic. The spores raced up and rotted healthy, giant trees, the moving slime molds devoured all animal and small plant life, the toadstools grew from decaying plant matter overnight, and the great puffballs englobed smaller plants and somehow ingested them. Any organized attempt to interfere was met by bolts of mental? psychic? at any rate, invisible, force emanating from the House itself. Vilah-ree and her people were not warlike in any case and they were helpless before this foul onslaught. They had no physical weapons beyond small bows and spears; and, while they could blank out their minds to Hiero, the House somehow could always detect them and hold, them paralyzed until a giant slime mold was summoned to feed! And they needed the forest. Without the trees, they would die, Vilah-ree made that plain.

What about that very big animal guarding our trail, which you put there? Why not use that? he asked.

He had noticed that Vilah-ree never smiled, but now he detected something like humor in her mind, or at least a thinly veiled amusement. He was given a picture of one of her white-skinned women swinging a strange, flat, wooden device on a long cord, swinging it in great circles around and about her head. He had not seen one for many years, not since his childhood, but he recognized the bull-roarer he had once used to frighten his first girls. Its whirring roar sounded like a hideous monster indeed!

Your friend, whom you call the bear, had a picture of a terrible creature put into his mind. If such a creature truly lived, we would be helpless before it ourselves. Thus he convinced you in turn. He laughed, only half-bitterly. They had been ensnared by a bluff and a harmless sleep drug!

One other thing had Hiero learned, or rather, deduced. From his memory of the maps they carried, it appeared that the blight of the House covered much the very same area he wished to search! Here a pre-Death city supposedly lay hidden under the edge of the desert. This made him slightly more philosophic about his capture by the tree women of Vilah-ree. It looked as if a struggle, or at least a penetration of the horror caused by the fungus attack, would have been necessary in any case.

You attack the House with your mind, your mind which is so strong, came her thought again, reiterating this same simple theme. While you do so, we will burn the foulness of the House. Her green eyes revealed no feelings of any kind.

Hiero looked over the balcony again, over the forest roof at the distant splotch of livid colors which was her enemy. He sighed, wondering how he could get through to her. Perhaps, he thought, a new tack would be more useful.

What happens to us if we defeat the House? he sent bluntly. Will you let us go; help us in our journey?

For a moment she did not answer. Then her thought somehow seemed hesitant. Do you wish to go so much? There was something wistful and puzzled about her mental question, almost like the attitude of a child who cannot understand why it has been told to stay home alone.

The priest studied her as coldly as he was able to. She was lovely indeed, whatever she was, but her strangeness increased with acquaintance. The pale ivory body, the calm, sculptured face, and those emerald eyes were all enchantment. And. all, he reflected, seemed less and less to be human! Who was Vilah-ree, or rather, what?

Where are your men? On impulse his thought was sharp and quick. Why do they not fight for you and help destroy the House? Are they afraid? As he sensed her confusion and alarm at his questions, he continued to probe. But suddenly her mind simply went opaque, "vanished," in fact, as it had when the travelers first had walked the trail far below. Unless she willed it, he could not even detect her thoughts, let alone interpret or control them.

They stared at one another, the very human man and the al-most-woman of another race, each entity seeming to make up his or her mind, each one dueling for position. It was Vilah-ree who weakened first, or appeared to do so, at any rate.

Our men are—elsewhere, came her thought suddenly. They do not fight; no (wrong meaning), they cannot fight. Thus I was desperate/helpless until you came. Now—how soon can you fight the House?

Hiero leaned back against the wall and matched stare for stare. The question of her strange people's absent males had seemed to bother her, but the tree queen, if that were truly her role, recovered quickly.

Pay attention, his mind said. Listen carefully to what I tell you. Until the three, the woman, the old man, and the bear, are brought here and wakened, or I to them, I will do nothing. Do you understand? You know little of mind warfare, Vilah-ree. I need advice and help, help of a kind you cannot give. I will not bargain further. Release the three I named and we will try to aid you. And the others must be guarded and kept safe until the struggle is over in one way or another. They can neither aid nor hinder, but are in our keeping.

In turn, she debated with herself. Her next thought was cold, but her anger nevertheless came through it. I could slay them all, and you with them. Why should I not?

Go ahead; I quite agree that you can. But since you need us, I marvel at the stupidity of such a thought.

Again their eyes met. He saw an emotion in the green depths this time which surprised him. It was more like the anger of a woman, almost, he would have said, a jealous anger. But it passed, leaving nothing but gold bars on pellucid emerald.

Yes, she replied. We will meet at the foot of this tree. Wait, while I go to see to it. She turned and was gone, flipping right over the side of the balcony in a way that made Hiero's heart catch a beat. He rushed to the rail in time to see her pale shape dropping through the branches along a tangle of great vines at a speed he would have thought impossible. In an instant she was out of sight, but a chorus of golden, chiming notes poured up through myriad leaves. It was answered on all sides, though he could see no one, and he knew a host of the tree women must be concealed in attendance all around.

Having descended more slowly, helped by two women to his annoyance, an hour later he was embracing Luchare, while Gorm blinked in the background and Brother Aldo beamed impartially at the score of armed, cold-faced, naked dryads who surrounded them. He seemed actually delighted by the discovery of the tree people, pleased to such an extent that their own mission appeared minor by comparison. He actually patted Vilah-ree on her shapely rump, just as one might pat a dog; and stranger still, she did not appear to mind and even patted him back, her face immobile!

"Lovely, Hiero, just lovely! Imagine, a whole new race of these lovely beings produced by The Death. They must have lived here a long time, to be so adapted to tree life. Remarkable! And aren't they pretty things, too? Vilah-ree, my dear, you must tell me about your people when we can talk together, eh?"

"I can't stand the way they look at me, especially that one," Luchare whispered against Hiero's chest. She meant Vilah-ree, who was indeed staring at her with uncommon interest.

Tell your woman I wish to speak with her. Alone. Vilah-ree's mind was glacial but utterly clear. Before the priest could even frame a query, she added, Tell her she will not be harmed in any way. But I must talk to her! The intensity of the last thought was such that Hiero, who was unprepared, was almost stunned by it.

"She wants to speak with you privately. She says it's terribly important, though I have no idea why. Are you able yet to keep a closed channel with a strange mind?"

"I think so," Luchare said slowly. Something of the tree woman's passion seemed to have reached her, for, with no more ado, she released her lover and followed Vilah-ree, who strode away into the forest. Hiero watched the contrasting light and dark bodies, Luchare's being only minimally covered by her shorts and jerkin, until they were out of sight around a huge tree bole.

"Now what do you think that means?" he asked Aldo. "I have a feeling Vilah-ree is trying to pull something clever. She won't hurt Luchare, will she? If she does, by God ...!"

"Calm, maintain calm," was the old man's soothing answer. "I cannot read her mind, my boy, but I can read other things, attitudes, faces, eyes, even muscle tension. These curious tree women have no gift for intrigue, I am sure of that. And I think lying is almost impossible for them. On whom would they practice it?

"No, this is something female, purely female, if my guess is right. Vilah-ree wants more information about us and decided we stupid males couldn't give it, or perhaps understand exactly what she wanted, that's all."

To Hiero's relief, the two reappeared after not too long a time and came walking back to the group at a brisk pace. Luchare was actually smiling, though for some odd reason, she had trouble meeting her lover's eyes. Vilah-ree paid him no attention, but seemed, to a casual glance, to be more relaxed.

"Oh, she just wanted to talk. Never seen a woman before, I guess. She's not so bad," was Luchare's vague answer to the priest's question. "Goodness, how lovely it must be, living here in this great woods and never seeing another soul." Her lovely aquiline profile, etched in dusky clarity against a drooping, light green frond, seemed pensive. Whatever had happened, Hiero thought, it at least had not frightened her. He wished momentarily he had eavesdropped, but he knew he could not have lived with himself afterward, had he done so.

Vilah-ree conversed briefly with some of her attendant women, and now she came up to them again. Puzzled by her new attitude, Hiero watched her stroke Luchare's arm in passing, noting that Luchare seemed in no way annoyed by the caress. Women! Who knew what they were thinking?

"We are to go now and inspect the enemy," Aldo said. "I have been talking to her majesty here, for your guess was right, Hiero. She's the queen and apparently sole ruler. She wants us to eat first, though."

After a delicious but hasty meal of the fruit, vegetables, and bread which the tree women served, they were on the way through the aisles of the mighty trees. If they were following a trail, it was apparent only to their guides, a dozen of whom ranged in front, while a similar group brought up the rear. Even Hiero, trained hunter and accustomed as he was to forests and silent movement, had never seen anything like Vilah-ree's people. Like lovely, pale ghosts, they slipped through the lofty ferns and over the huge, moss-hung logs, never disturbing a leaf and making less sound than a hovering moth.

Twice they paused for brief rest periods. It was around mid-afternoon when the tree women scouting in front began to fall back, joining the main party. Ahead, the humans could see a much brighter light, and they knew the edge of the forest must be here at last.

Gorm, to whom the whole situation had been carefully explained, halted, sat up, and then sniffed the breeze. Dirty air, came from his mind. Something long dead, but not-dead, up there in the light.

Long dead but not-dead! The Metz drew in a deep breath and exhaled long and hard. On his palate now lay a faint film of corruption, an evil stench of some vileness or other. Drifting through the sweet scents of the forest it came, a wavering miasma of rotten life and seething putrescence, unnatural simply because it was alive and not dead, as anything so decayed long should have been. The odor of the House!

We dare go very little closer, came Vilah-ree's message. We have lost many of our people, whom the House somehow caught and held unmoving while they watched from the forest edge. Then, those things you saw came—and fed!

Now Hiero began to put into effect the plan he previously had worked out with the others. He advanced with caution, his mind probing for any sign of reasoning life, though not neglecting any lesser creatures either. With him the bear went prowling, and the priest could feel his strange mind also reaching out, feeling for alien or inimical contact of any sort.

It had been agreed that this would be the order of their approach, if not of actual battle. Remaining behind them with Vilah-ree, Aldo and Luchare would link minds and prepare to aid if they were needed. But this first move was intended to be a reconnaissance, nothing more.

"Still, we may get drawn in by this thing," Hiero said, when they had discussed the possibilities. "Gorm and I are old veterans now, but we still really know nothing of this House creature, not even what it is, let alone what it actually can do. Remember, it can detect the tree people, by their minds apparently, and we can't! That's enough to make one cautious."

"Then why can't I come, too, and help you? I won't be left in back!" Luchare was furious.

"Listen, love, we've been over this a dozen times. You haven't the mental training, although you're learning. You know that Gorm can use his mind better. Brother Aldo has to stay here to help try and anchor our minds if we need him. And you can help only there, by adding your mental energy store to his." His voice was patient, since he knew the sole reason for her anger was fear of his going into danger without her. Eventually, with Aldo helping, she had been argued into acquiescence, however unwilling. The plan made so much sense that she could really argue no longer.

As man and bear slowly advanced over the moss and through the undergrowth which ringed the great tree bases, the sunlight grew steadily. Hiero paused, seeing for the first time at close range the shrouded skeleton of a forest giant, bulging with repulsive growths, through a gap in the yet living trees ahead. There were no large animals in the area, not even small ones detectable by his mind. The exceptions were a few enormous greenish flies, their plump bodies shining in the sun with iridescent hues as they buzzed over the plants about them. Hiero brushed one away, a fluttering, pulpy thing almost three inches long, which hovered near his face for a moment.

Still his mind met nothing. Whatever lurked out there in the foul profusion of rot was quiescent. Cautiously, the two went on, their thoughts neatly overlapping as they spread wider and wider, like ripples in a pool.

As they approached the actual border of the living forest, the dead trees, each festooned with horrid growth, became more evident. For some time, the reek of the strange fungi had been growing in their nostrils, and now Hiero switched over to breathing through his mouth alone, so foul and purulent had the odors become. No warning of any attacker could penetrate that frightful stench, so why not cut it off at the source? Noses were no good here.

The great flies were still common, indeed seemed to be increasing in number, but nothing else moved. At last, unable to go further, they paused behind the last living tree near them and stared out over the awful panorama spread before them.

Directly in front, a vast puffball, its pocked, white circumference many yards in diameter, reared up in bloated isolation. To the left, a forest of monster toadstools, sterns brown and broad, mottled umbels a sickly orange, stretched out of sight, broken only by the pulp-covered columns of the dead trees rising in their midst. On the right, the dead trees thinned, for here a finger of the outer desert had long ago crept closer to the woods. But now an uneven mound of various smaller fungi, of all shapes and ocherous and bilious colors, extended into the middle distance. There was no normal growth in view, not even grass, nor any bare ground not covered by some slime or smear or leprous muck.

No sound, save for the muted buzzing of the flies, broke the silence. Under the great heat of the afternoon sun, they saw faint steams and moist clouds rise at intervals from the surface of the noxious growths.

Slowly, ever so slowly, they edged closer to the border of crawling horror that was the blight. Still nothing stirred out in the nightmare world into which they looked and also sent their roving brain impulses.

Then—having lured its prey as close as it could by sheer inaction —the House struck! And it was the man who took the brunt of the blow.

Never in all his varied experience had Hiero felt anything quite like it. An actual chill seemed to settle through his body, paralyzing his will and numbing his nerve endings. Though his personally devised mind guard had been kept at full strength, the attack passed through his screens as if they were nonexistent. Yet not quite. The very last one, the one which guarded the control of his own mind, was untouched. But though he could see and hear, no muscle of his body could so much as twitch. Through eyes which happened to be looking half that way when the sweeping assault came, Hiero could see Gorm frozen, one forefoot raised. He knew that the bear was equally helpless, and in so knowing, he despaired.

For with the attack of the House there came knowledge of the attacker. And that knowledge chilled not the body, for that indeed was already numb, but the very soul, the inner being. Steeped in evil and all vileness and cruelty were the adept wizards of the Unclean. But they were nevertheless of human, ancestry, and thus, malign though they were, they yet preserved a tincture of humanity.

But the House was other. Somehow, after The Death, but in the ancient past, a strange and awful mating had taken place, triune perhaps, between a mycelial spore, an amoeboid slime, and, somewhere, somehow, an intelligence. Or perhaps the intelligence grew from the slime and gained the spore, then took a different direction from all other life. Whatever had happened, the result was abnormal, beyond normality in fact. In some ways like the Dweller in the Mist, that seeming embodiment of total evil, yet even further from the upward path to reason and logic was the House.

Fiercely, Hiero strained to free his limbs. At the same time, he tried to link his mind with Brother Aldo and Luchare, back in the forest. Neither effort was successful. He could not move and he seemed enclosed in a curious, icy mental shell, so that any outside contact was severed and cut off. His link with Gorm had vanished as soon as the attack began. His brain was still clear and unhampered except by the screen, yet he could neither move his body nor communicate with others.

Through the screen about him, now another attack, if that was what it was, began. The House was revealing itself. As the image of Vilah-ree had first appeared in his mind, despite any real method of communication, so now the misty outline of the thing itself began to build on the beslimed earth fifty yards in front of him. He knew it was not real, but only what he was being willed to see; that the physical body or structure, he did not know what, actually, of the House was nowhere near, but well hidden, somewhere out in the depths of the foul world it had built for itself. But stay—was that world so foul? Even as the wavering shape of the House began to condense and apparently solidify before his eyes, so too a new thought crept into his mind. The House was alien, different, yes. But was that enough to make it evil? Had it too not a right to live? The siren message infiltrated his own thoughts very, very subtly. His inner screen was not so much pierced, for the House seemed incapable of doing that, as persuaded, soothed, and his mind was thus ensnared. Yet not quite.

For as the glamour of the strange spell grew upon him, his inner being realized two things. First, the House was utterly alien, something which should not be; and second, the House was not one entity at all, but many minds of things all swarming like so many maggots in and through the gelid and gelatinous structure. The creatures, whatever they were, were both in and part of the ghastly thing which now reared itself to a height of many feet in front of him, to the eye as much real as his own hand.

And he was being invited to share, to join! He too could take part in the work to come, the great work of cleansing the surface of the earth, so that only the living House remained, surrounded by the monstrous, mutated fungi which were its weapons and its seed.

The House's brownish, oily structure seemed to shake as he watched, horrified yet fascinated. Strange faces began to appear on its shifting surface, to leer invitingly at him, and to vanish again into the mass, only to be replaced by others, equally foul and evanescent. All invited him. Come, they seemed to say; leave your mortal shell and become one with us and live forever.

Then, in his despair, for though he was not tempted, he was utterly helpless, there came a new factor. It was the bear!

His thought came obliquely somehow through the mental sphere of thought with which the monster had surrounded the priest. The strong mind was like a draught of cold air. lam here. It does not understand me at all, I think, and it uses a sending or a force which might indeed hold me if I were only what I seem, a creature of instinct and emotion, as once my people were. It is afraid of you, that I can feel, but not of me. The bear's thought was full of mingled anger and also craft. Yet Gorm was giving away no points, nor counseling hasty action, Hiero realized, only waiting to see what he himself wanted.

They—or rather, it—grows impatient, came a fresh message. There are many very strange minds there, all mixed, but making one, like in an anthill or bees' nest. It will not wait much longer, he added. It is tired of your refusing whatever it is it wishes. Now—it summons something from outside. The cool bear mind was calm, detached, as if what were happening had no relation to himself.

The Metz had drawn on his own inner resources at the same time, deducing, analyzing, forming conclusions. Simply knowing that he was not cut off had given him immense strength of purpose. There had even been time for a battle prayer of split-second length, but in due and proper form—God preserve his warrior through all trial. Amen.

Can you reach outside? Get Aldo and above all tell him to bring the weapon we have ready. I'm going to keep struggling and focus the attention of this thing on myself. Hurry!

He felt Goon's mind withdraw and then he renewed his own struggle to escape, trying every level, every method he had taught himself or ever been taught, to pierce the web around him and free both his brain and his limbs.

The House now withdrew its sucking blandishments and its horrid appeals for alliance. It still sat before him, or rather, it kept its repulsive, mirage-simulacrum there, but it settled down to watchful waiting. Even as he renewed his apparently fruitless assault, he decided Gorm was right: the House was afraid of him, or at least wary. He must be something very different from anything it—or they—had ever encountered before. He wondered if the bear were having any success in reaching the Elevener. In a few moments they would know.

Now, through the ground itself, he felt a motion, hardly even a vibration, merely a faint stir, an almost imperceptible tremor. Something was on the move, and he knew, or guessed, what that something was. The slime-mold-things, or one of them, were coming to feed. His eyes locked on the House, not able to move at all, he saw and suddenly understood the cloud of bloated flies hovering in front of his face and realized then that they were the eyes of the House and had reported his coming. This, then, was how the thing penetrated the forest fringe and guarded its borders.

Suddenly the House vanished from his sight. In its place there appeared the quaking, soft bulk of the slime-thing it had summoned. He did not believe that its appearance directly before him and the envanishment of its ruler were accidents. Unable to move at all, by a refinement of cruelty he was to be made to see his destroyer coming and know what it was that devoured him alive.

Coldly, never relaxing his struggle to be free, yet to the outward eye simply standing still and peering forward, he watched the eyeless bulk glide toward him. The creature was far larger than he had realized when seen at a distance. The soft, plush mound towered far above his head, and the long rods which sprang from it, each tipped with that poisonous orange glow, were at least four times the length of his own body. It paused and then came on again, though more slowly. All the long rods were aquiver, their lengths rigid and yet soft, as soft as the purple pile surface of the unearthly shape. Now it was just in front of him, blotting out the view of all beyond. He breathed a prayer and also continued the struggle without a second's hesitation, wrenching his mind about its strange, invisible prison as an eel hurls itself against its woven willow trap, without success perhaps, yet never giving up.

Unflinching thus, he faced his doom and so he saw the horror struck down, even as it reared over him.

The blazing crossbow bolt had barely sunk to the feathers, deep into the pulpy flesh, when another followed, burying itself not a foot away from the first. Slimmer, longer arrows came in a sheet after that, each one with flaming tow tied tightly to the shaft. One of the most ancient devices of man, the fire arrow, was being used against a hell creature spawned out of science-wrought cataclysm and devastation.

Over his head, the rain of burning arrows continued, and he realized that Luchare and Brother Aldo must have brought the tree women to their aid, conquering somehow their fear of the blight.

The slime mold reared up and shook in its agony, and for an instant Hiero thought it would fall upon and slay him in its death throes. Fire ran in coruscating runnels down its rounded, shifting sides and leaped into blazing light on the phosphorescent pseudopod ends, the clean light of honest fire burning out the poisonous phosphorescence by which the thing slew its prey.

At this moment, the mind control vanished. The House, unnerved by this sudden and unexpected onslaught, released its prisoners. No less alert than Hiero, Gorm instantly turned on his own stout length and scuttled for his life, the warrior-priest racing hard on his furry heels. In a few seconds they had reached and passed the clean wood's edge. In an instant more, Hiero again was squeezing the life out of his dark love, while to her right and left, Aldo and Vilah-ree directed the dryad archers as they still launched their blazing shafts out into the territory claimed by the House, Gorm promptly sat down and began to lick himself.

Satisfied that Luchare was unharmed (and that so was he), Hiero turned to look back, still keeping one arm firmly about the D'alwah girl's shoulders. It was a wonderful and awful sight.

The ravening molds and fungi of the blight all shared one terrible weakness. How the House had guarded its territory from chance lightning, Hiero could not imagine, but it must have had some method, for now the whole border of the foul infection was ablaze. Fire wrapped the scorched body of the giant, predatory slime mold, now writhing feebly in its death agony. But yellow flames raced over the ground, smeared and barren as well and bloomed on the mushroom forest, causing the great, stalked umbrellas to explode as the heat scorched them. The colossal puffball in the middle foreground exploded as the fire struck it, and each tiny spore became an instant coal, a second later a cinder mote. The great, murdered trees became living candles of flame as they too burned, from the caught fire of the shrouding growths which had slain them. Black, greasy smoke, foul and reeking with all the unpleasant scents of the burning fungi, wreathed the scene and began to drift into the forest beyond, where it met and drowned the perfumes of the wood.

Hiero looked at Vilah-ree anxiously. Is your wood dry? Will the fire spread?

Better to burn than be killed by that, was her answer. But the forest is moist. Only two nights ago it rained. And we know how to keep water moving through the ground, my people and I. She did not elaborate and turned away to watch the holocaust of the blight. He could sense the exaltation in her almost inhuman mind and spirit as the enemy of her beloved trees and her strange people suffered the flames.

As dusk grew, though occasionally choking and coughing, they still watched the destruction of the foul growth from their vantage point at the forest's edge. When night came, the smoke and filthy vapors hid most of the stars; but at length, when the moon rose, there came a breeze out of the north, which drove much of the shroud away before it out into the waste. To their surprise, no fire was now visible in the distance.

"Do you think it raced through the whole area that quickly?" Hiero was frankly puzzled. Aldo looked thoughtful.

"No, I think not, not from what you have told me. And there is the question of the lightning, which we discussed also. I'd judge this House creature had found a way of quenching the fires and has withdrawn, hurt perhaps, but not dead. We won't know until morning how far the fires actually went. So let's wait, or rather, rest while we can."

Soon all three humans were wrapped in cloaks and bedded down on the soft moss under a clump of fern. The bear was already-snoring a few yards away. As he drifted off into slumber, Hiero's last thought was of Vilah-ree, watching the stars as the smoke cleared. Once, through half-shut lids, he saw her watching him as well, her lovely face seemingly chiseled from alabaster under the moon's rays. Then he fell asleep.

His dreams were vague and formless for a long time; then— slowly they began to take a shape, to tell a story, half still a dream, half lovely reality, but all enchantment. He was awake in the dream, walking through the darkling woods under the pale stars, all alone. Nothing menaced him and he carried no weapons. Indeed, he wore no clothes and seemed to need none. Great fireflies lit his way, and patches of pale, luminous blossoms seemed to mark a path for him under the shadow of the vast trees. On and on through the titan forest he seemed to drift. He was going somewhere, but where he knew not, save only that journey's ending meant delight. Enticing scents both followed and led him on the breeze.

At length, in a moss-hung bower under the arching branches, he caught a glimpse of an ivory form. He sped toward it, calling out, only to have it flee. But from a few yards away rang out a rippling chorus of golden notes, questing, calling, mocking.

"Vilah-ree," he called, or seemed to, "Vilah-ree! Don't be afraid! Don't leave me." Again the golden-throated notes, the song or speech of some magicked paradise bird, rang out. Driven now by burning desire, Hiero followed down the aisles of the moonlit forest, his feet seeming to have wings, seeking nothing but the maker of the song, oblivious to all else.

Now he glimpsed her poised tiptoe on a low branch, next a marble arm beckoned from a fern thicket, but always when he pursued, she would be gone.

Yet he seemed in the dream to grow in strength, not weaken; and at length, in a tiny, open glade, where short-stemmed flowers made a soft carpet of the floor, the dancing white form seemed to falter and even stumbled as she fled from him. The next instant he had caught and held her. In the strange, green eyes now raised to his, he saw such a storm of passion that almost, for it was but a dream, he woke in fear. Then his own fires flared again and he covered her soft lips with his own, crushing the cold, slim body to him, forgetting everything except the miracle of desire.

And so the dream went and so the dream ended, for Hiero lost the thread, and all the lovely images and feelings went swirling and dissolving, down into oblivion.

It was mid-morning when he awoke. To his surprise, his first sight on opening his eyes was Captain Gimp, standing and bellowing at some of his men to "look alive there, you binnacle-butted slop-eaters."

Peering around, the priest saw that only a few of the tree women were in sight, standing together against the far side of the clearing. There was no sign of Vilah-ree, and he sighed, remembering his dream. But all of the seamen were mustering before him, looking well and hearty, as Blutho and Gimp shouted and bullydamned them into place. And Klootz was snorting nearby, tethered to a stump. Hello, you big clown, his master sent, eyeing the great, polished antlers and sleek hide appreciatively, have a good rest? A wave of affection came from the bull's mind in answer, affection and a wordless question which was still very clear to Hiero. When do we leave, when do we go, when do we fight, move, get on with the struggle? All these sentiments welled from the mind of the morse and he snorted loudly, pawing the soft earth into great clods.

"I see our big friend wants to leave. Have you had enough sleep, or at least some sweet dreams?" Brother Aldo stood smiling down at him, having quietly come out from the forest behind.

"Where's Luchare, and the bear too?" Hiero got up and stretched, still feeling curiously though not unpleasantly tired despite his long sleep.

"I believe she and Gorm were invited and went for a little visit to Vilah-ree. They should be back soon. As you can see, the seamen and Klootz are in fine fettle. The men think they got drunk and have just waked up, and I have not disillusioned them. I did, however, mention that the tree women were not to be touched, being under a protective spell which would kill anyone who did so. It seems to have proved effective. Curiously, the men appear satiated and uninterested in women. Odd for sailors, wouldn't you say?" Hiero looked suspiciously at the old man, but Aldo met his eyes frankly, his high cheekbones gleaming darkly over the spotless white beard.

"What shall we do now?" Aldo went on, changing the subject. "Would you like to see the waste where the fire killed the fungus plague? I have some ideas about the next move, but I'd like yours as well. Why not have a bit to eat first, though?"

The men greeted Hiero boisterously and obscenely as he picked up some cold rations and beckoned Gimp to follow him. They all felt they were living in some strange and incomprehensible world to which he was the only sure guide, and they felt fine as long as they could see him and his companions, meaning the girl, the Sage, the bear, and the bull morse, all well and ready for anything.

"What's going on here, Master Hiero?" Gimp asked as they picked their way to a burned-over mound where a forest giant had fallen in flames the previous night. From this eminence, whence tiny curls of acrid smoke still rose into the sunlight, they looked out over the late battlefield.

Far away, rolling and undulating, the land stretched, blackened now and scorched by the cleansing flames. But in the remote distance, yet well before the crags and lofty sand dunes of the desert proper, the fire had come to a halt. Even with unaided eyes, they could see that the strident ochers, repellent mauves, and sickly orange hues of the House's crop were still in existence. From a quick glance around, Hiero figured that the House somehow had saved about a third of its realm. He pulled out his far-looker and adjusted the lenses, The edge of the fired area was five miles off at least.

The House indeed had possessed a trick in reserve, he soon saw, and as he saw, described it to the others. Gimp had been brought up to date earlier by old Aldo, so that he needed only a limited amount of explanation.

As the fire had raged down upon its lair, the House had somehow forced its brood of fungi (perhaps a special breed) to exude a gummed foam of sticky bile, which hardened on contact with the air. Whatever the stuff was, it must have been completely fireproof. Now a ragged, brownish wall of it, something like congealed glue, glazed over and pitted with holes and bubbles, formed a rampart between the toadstool forest beyond and the burned lands. Here and there in the latter, smoke curled, mostly from vast, still-smoldering logs, but the main fire showed no sign of reviving. Barren though the aspect now was, Hiero felt it to be far more cheerful than the realm of the House when that was flourishing. His mind could detect no sensation of the monster, but he knew from experience that meant nothing.

Now he could see, looking to right and left, that small parties of the tree women, armed with blazing torches, were setting" fire to any small bits of the blight which the fire of yesterday had missed, chiefly on the edge of the true forest itself. No seed of that filth was to survive if they could help it!

The day was becoming overcast, with a hint of rain to come in storm clouds building towers far to the south. As they left the mound, they speculated on the chance of carrying fire further into the territory of the House and what that vileness might do in retaliation if further provoked.

"I don't think it's at the end of its resources, frankly," Hiero said.

"Indeed not, if what you tell of its strength is true, and also what I could feel of the mental barrier it was able to erect between us. How I hate to leave a wicked, unnatural thing like that alive. In a few years, perhaps even less, it will attack again, and we will not be here to save these women and their tree world the next time."

"Have you asked where the tree women's men are?" Hiero said, his mind off on a tangent.

"No, and if I had, I'm sure the answers would have satisfied no one. These strange, lovely creatures have a secret. Perhaps their males are very ugly, perhaps timid, or perhaps the women dominate them so, they are never allowed out in public. Why not simply accept it and not waste time on profitless speculation? They seem to be our friends at any rate."

"Yes." Hiero sighed. "But I had a strange dream, strange but beautiful. It was—" He ceased suddenly, for Gimp was looking at him oddly and had stopped walking.

"Did your dream have one of them white-skinned gals in it, now, Master Hiero? just you and her maybe? A real nice dream?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Hiero was too old to blush, but he felt embarrassed. "How did you guess that, Gimp?"

"Because me and Blutho and all of the boys, mark you, even old Skelk, who's a bleeding grandfather, we all had the same dream. Each one of us had just one gal, see, and all to ourselves. Nicest dream we ever had, we all agrees. And do you know, none of them naked wenches will even talk to us this morning! How's that for a peculiar situation, eh?" His snub-nosed face looked both pleased and regretful.

As they walked on, Hiero was very thoughtful indeed.

At length, when they were back in the cathedral shade of the great trees, Brother Aldo asked to see the Unclean map again, and the three of them bent over it.

"The scale is not quite the same as the Abbey map," the priest said, producing that one also. "But it seems to me that the area I must search is quite close to us." He indicated the symbol marking the site of the ancients, "It must be here, I think, in the angle somewhere between the true desert, the southern corner of the blight caused by the House, and the very end of the forest. I'd put it, at a rough guess, between twenty-five and thirty-five miles away. You're used to charts; what do you think, Gimp?"

The squat little sailor stared hard at both maps before answering, "That's close to my reckoning also."

"And mine." Brother Aldo folded the maps and returned them to Hiero. "Now comes a time for hard decisions, my boy. Have we fulfilled your agreement with Vilah-ree? The House is wounded and driven off but hardly destroyed. And yet—I feel time presses. There were great waves of mental force used yesterday, both by us, mainly yourself, of course, and also by that foul thing out there. In Neeyana and perhaps nearer, too, there are both instruments and evil minds which would take great interest in such phenomena. You have been ruthlessly pursued by the Unclean overlords since you slew that adept far up in the North. Do you think they have given up entirely?"

"Not S'duna, at any rate! He swore he'd kill me or die himself, and I believe him. You can't lie at that close range and deceive anyone as trained as I am. No, they haven't given up. And S'duna was apparently a person of great power in their councils."

"So I think as well. The main eastern trail to the Lantik Sea lies to our south, perhaps no more than four days' good march. If I were the enemy, I would be hurrying eastward along that trail even now, and when I had gone as close as possible to the area, that is, our area, whence came the mental disturbance I had detected, I'd head north. Let us say, to be on the safe side, that a week from yesterday divides us from our foes. Maybe more or maybe less, but a week seems safe."

Yet while the old Elevener spoke, his words were being refuted. All that he had said was quite correct, but he, and Hiero too, had gravely underestimated both S'duna's cunning and his malice. An armed and armored host had been collected in the country east of Neeyana, and that host had been on the march for four days, even as the three took counsel! But of this development they were ignorant.

As they debated, the clouds overhead grew darker, and a moist wind from the south seemed to promise that rain would come soon.

Sooner than the rain, though, came Luchare. They heard her singing to herself, some song of D'alwah, apparently, for Hiero could not understand it. She emerged from a path under the trees and came up to them, her face soft and dreaming. Around her upper arm she wore a lovely, twisted torque of gold, with gems, mostly green, carved as leaves, set in its surface, so that the effect was that of a vine.

"Like my present?" she smiled at Hiero and linked her arms around his sinewy neck. "Vilah-ree's farewell gift to me. Gorm's still talking to her. She thinks he's the most interesting of all of us and wants him to come and live here."

"Exactly why should Vilah-ree give you a present?" he mused, fingering the heavy armlet, which possessed some of the strange beauty of the giver. "She didn't give me anything, did she?"

"Oh—I loaned her something she wanted. And maybe she did give you something." Her face was now pressed into his buckskin shirt and he could not read her eyes. He felt his suspicions growing as the bits and pieces of evidence in his mind fell suddenly into a pattern he had been trying not to see. He straightened up and held the lovely, dark face firmly between his two hands, so that she was forced to look at him. The other two tactfully had moved away out of earshot.

"Where are Vilah-ree's menfolk, my little vixen princess?" His voice was half-angry, half-amused, as he studied the black, defiant eyes. There was a silence, and then she made up her mind.

"There aren't any. Her people live a long time, though, when they stay in and near their trees. And they need men, poor things, to have children. But the children they do have are always more girls. They hope that someday, somehow, a boy will be born. They don't even seem to know how they first appeared here or who or what they are. But they know that human travelers pass south and east of here. And sometimes when a lone traveler or just a few camp for the night, they—well ..."

"Have a very nice dream?" Hiero asked. But he was smiling at her and, encouraged, Luchare somewhat timidly smiled back. "So you made a deal, and I got put out to stud. For a bracelet. Well, it's a nice one, I'll say that."

She wrenched herself loose, her breast heaving violently. "Oh— you-—man! I suppose you think I liked the idea of your making love to her! And I never heard of the bracelet until this morning!" She tore the lovely thing off and threw it at him as hard as she could. He was barely able to get his arms up and catch it to prevent a broken nose. Then he ran to her, for she was weeping bitterly, hands pressed to her eyes, the tumbled, corkscrew curls hanging around her face like some odd but beautiful foliage.

Come on, love, he thought. I was only fooling. You felt sorry for her, didn't you?

She gulped and buried her face in his chest again, choking back the sobs before she could even use her mind.

Yes, of course I did. Any real woman who was honest would. She's never had a man and she fell in love with you. When she said to me (it was hard to understand her at first, too) that I'd have you always, but could she have just one night, well, I forgot any jealousy. But it was still the hardest thing I've ever done, and don't you forget it!

"Oh, Hiero," she said aloud, her voice sad, "do you know what her last thought this morning was?" Maybe mine will be the first male. Do not forget me, you who have him for always. "I almost cried right then."

He patted her back and made encouraging masculine noises. "Don't cry, love," he said. "I'm not mad. Besides, I did have a delightful dream."

She looked up, saw that he was grinning at her, and finally managed a smile. "Look, I don't want to hear any more about it, all right?"

At this point the seamen appeared in marching gear and order, coming out into the open near them, jabbering, and craning their necks as they saw the burned-over waste for the first time. Blutho and Gimp halted them and came over to join the two. Brother Aldo returned as well, leading Klootz, and Gorm emerged from the shadows of a giant tree's base. AM were now ready, and Hiero took up his place in the lead again. But though the bear still went with him, the priest now rode upon the bull morse. Klootz's eyes gleamed with pleasure and he bugled, a hoarse, bellowing cry which echoed under the cloudy heavens and through the humid air until the echoes died away into silence beneath the arches of the mighty wood.

Hiero looked back, hoping for a glimpse of the wood sprite whose dream he had shared, but he saw nothing. Once from the now silent forest, a golden burst of song rang out, but whether it was Vilah-ree or not, he never knew.

They will follow us along the edge of their realm, came Aldo's thought from the rear of the column. They wish to know if the House is alive and think you can tell them. So the queen told Luchare.

It's alive, he sent back. But I hope we can avoid it, I made no impression before. Are we carrying coals?

Yes, in a clay pot. We can kindle fire in seconds and we have many arrows ready, on my order to Gimp.

Let's hope they won't he needed.

They marched south at a steady pace along the wood edge, which towered like a rampart of green, with brown bark only rarely glimpsed. Occasionally, small bursts of flame off to their right showed them where the tree women still set fire to patches of unfired blight, working their way south on a general level with the column. Eventually even this ceased, however. They stayed a quarter of a mile out in the waste; and tramping over the bare burn, which was only gently rolling, the men made very good time.

They halted for a brief meal and then went on. Toward evening, the long-gathered clouds released a torrential bath upon their heads, and visibility became so poor and the newly bared earth such a glutinous mud that it was obviously silly to carry on. They made camp under the trees and had trouble even there in getting a fire to light. Eventually one was got going, under a lean-to, and they managed a savory stew for supper. The rain was warm, though, and all there were seasoned travelers, to whom a little extra water meant nothing.

It rained most of the night. When dawn came, they knew they were reaching the end of the forest at last. The trees themselves were changing. Palms and acacia-like shrubs began to appear in quantity. The real broad-leafed giants dwindled and soon no longer occurred at all. The heat steadily increased. To the south, wide, grassy plains became dimly visible, rolling through thinning copses of trees to the distant horizon. On their left, the outlying fingers of the eastern desert drew nearer, and with the desert came the all-too-familiar livid colors of the fungus belt. Down there in the south of the forest, the fire had hardly touched anything, for the House had not come so close to the trees, indeed was a number of miles away. Perhaps the absence of the great trees made the area less attractive to it.

However, there was plenty of wild game. Beasts resembling deer and creatures like large-horned antelope grazed in herds here and there, only moving slowly out of the men's way. Most were unfamiliar to Hiero. Once they came upon a short-tailed, striped brute, half as big as Klootz, which was feeding on the carcass of something fully three times the morse's size. They wisely skirted this scene, and the huge carnivore, which looked like a cross between a bear and a ten-times-magnified lynx, was content, or possibly replete, only growling in tones of thunder. That night they built both large fires and a high stockade, making camp early in order to construct the latter. The bellowings and roarings all about them made this move seem a wise one. This was evidently not a country which either knew or feared men.

The next morning dawned clear and hot, the humid air perfumed like a breath of summer. Flowering grasses scented each step. On this day they turned and marched east, and all the leaders were in front. The time had come, by all their reckonings, to search for the Lost City. Maps were no longer of use.

As they advanced out into the semi-scrub, semi-desert area, the colors of the House drew inexorably nearer. Soon they could distinguish individual growths, gnarled objects like giant, oil-brown shelf fungi mostly, and squat puffball things of dirty purplish red and yellow, whose pocked surface exuded some shiny substance equally repellent. The things were unlike the northern growths, but the hardened muck did not exist here, evidently not having been needed. They had lost all traces of the great fire, in fact, for it had never come this far to the south.

Hiero called a halt. "I'm not putting our necks into that damned, horrid thing's trap without a very careful search," he said. He indicated the first huge magenta puffballs. "Those things aren't half a mile away. That's quite close enough, judging from my own experience."

Aldo looked thoughtful. "We should, by all that's holy, be almost on the very site you're looking for, Hiero. In fact, we may be right on top of it. I can't see anything to indicate this wasn't always a plain, but that's true of many buried cities." He patted the priest's shoulder. "I hope you've also thought that it may be hopelessly buried, son. We'll do our best, but who knows when those symbols were copied onto the maps, and maybe recopied a hundred times over?"

Luchare refused to be discouraged. A curious ally, as unexpected as he often was, was the bear.

"We can't have come this far, under such leadership, to find nothing!" the girl cried. Her faith rebuked Hiero's own, and he said so out loud.

"Well need a careful search, but let's look in an expanding arc. Gimp, you and Blutho tell the men we're hunting a city under the ground. Any scrap of human occupation, any sign, anything at all, should be marked down at once."

Gorm's slow thought was as stubborn and cool as ever. There have been many humans here once. I feel it in my hones. Somewhere, not far away, the human city is hidden.

Hiero had been afraid the men might panic over the thought of a pre-Death city being uncovered due to the possibility of disease or radiation, but Gimp reassured him.

"They've seen you and Brother Aldo do such wonders, Master, I don't doubt they'd jump into a fire if so be it was you said to." Hiero had been touched, more than he believed possible, by this affirmation of the seamen's trust and liking.

Everybody spread out now, except in the direction of the blight. No one was anxious to get too close to that barrier of evil-looking growth, and the seamen gave it a wide berth.

After some hours, the group had become so widely scattered that Hiero grew nervous about them. Some of the men were little more than dots on the southern horizon. There were few animals in apparent evidence out in this dry scrub area, but who knew what lurked beyond the next bush? He had Gimp sound the ship's bugle in the recall, and felt better when the men straggled back again with no losses in about a half hour. He ordered a rest and meal while he took counsel again with the Elevener, his girl, Gorm, and Captain Gimp. The sky was clear, but new thunder-heads piling up in the south gave warning of more rain to come.

"There's only one conclusion that I can draw," Hiero said reluctantly. "If the maps are correct and the city is not a mile beneath us and is even remotely accessible—well, we're too far to the west."

"I fear you're right. I am reaching the same unwelcome conclusion out of necessity." Brother Aldo stared at the wall of repulsive fungi rearing itself over the low shrubs and bushes to the east. "We shall have to search more closely that way. And we shall have to be very careful, eh?"

"You're not going without me!" Luchare seized Hiero's arm. "Once was enough."

"You'll do what you're told or be spanked." Hiero's tone was absent, his gaze bent on the distant but menacing barrier. "We will do exactly what we did before, Aldo. You and Luchare will serve as anchors, so to speak, again. Gorm ought to be better at reaching you this time, having had more practice. He and I will penetrate in that direction. Keep the men ready with the fire arrows." He had been keeping the bear in touch by mind as he spoke.

This is the best way, Gorm said. We have no choice, he added.

Hiero kissed Luchare gently, repeated a brief orison for both of them, and started walking toward the masses of ugly color which walled off the east. Gorm walked about twenty feet to his right, seemingly unconcerned and sniffing busily. Behind them, the girl held tight on one side to the old man's arm and on the other to Klootz's bridle, and in back of the two, the sailors gathered under their leaders in a dense knot. Smoke curled from firepots they had kept kindled, and bowmen were ready in front.

As always when going into danger, Hiero felt the old thrill and the interest of what he was doing rise and suppress any natural fear. Carefully, ignoring the blight as if it did not exist, he searched the ground for any trace of humanity's ancient presence. As he did, he maintained a constant mental link with his four-footed partner. Half an hour passed, and always they drew steadily nearer the mold lands of the House.

Wait/The command thrilled Hiero. He saw that Gorm had gone tense and now stood, weak little eyes peering about, emitting great "snoofs" and "woofs" through his twitching nose, as he sought for some elusive scent. There is metal somewhere, came his thought again. It is very faint, though; don't move, and I will try to locate it.

Slowly the bear ambled forward. This part of the scrub and sand area had a few low mounds thrusting up through the flattish surface, and eventually Gorm halted before one of these, a rounded tumulus which rose some five feet above the surrounding plain. Thorn bushes grew from its summit, and tussocks of brown grass sprouted here and there. Gorm sniffed the base of the mound carefully and then began to walk around it. Hiero followed at a little distance, keeping the bear in sight, but not interfering with him in any way.

The eastern side of the mound, that which faced the fungus realm, was steeper and less rounded than that on the west. The blight growth itself was now only a few hundred yards away, and Hiero tried to repress a shudder as he thought of it. With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the task at hand.

The bear rooted at a small pile of rock lying at the base of the mound. Still saying nothing, he moved a little farther on and loped down into a place where a long, low depression, still moist from the previous rains of two days back, lay before the now abrupt face of the hillock. Gorm rose on his hind legs and began to paw at the upright slope before him, using his long claws with a curious delicacy. A cascade of sand and small pebbles rattled down into the depression, and darker earth was revealed where it had been. Nothing daunted, the bear continued to pick away, as carefully as a woman doing fine embroidery.

Here, came his thought, as calm and unexcited as ever, here is metal, very, very old human work. I can do no more, and you will have to see what it tells you. He stopped his clawing and dropped down to all fours. Over his head, the priest now saw that a patch the size of a human face had been cleared of all earth. The smooth, blackened surface of some ancient, metal thing showed through, perhaps a wall, perhaps—even though he hardly dared to think this—a door!

The man looked thoughtfully at what Gorm had revealed. The bear sat watching, his task over, waiting for the next step. Hiero marveled at the fantastic power of scent his ally had displayed. Detecting the ancient, almost odorless metal under a good foot of earth, and at such a distance, was well-nigh incredible.

Humans simply have no noses, was the bear's answer when he was thanked. I need your eyes often enough. We make a good team. But Hiero knew he was pleased all the same.

Next he summoned the others with his mind. Now that he was actually at the site of a vanished civilization, he felt awed and in need of some help. If he and the bear should manage to find a way down into the buried world beneath, they might be utterly cut off. It was time to take a few more risks, despite the House and the nearness of its creatures and creations.

While he waited for the others to arrive, he picked at the earth with the long dagger, his excitement rising. Slowly, a long, upright surface of dark, corroded metal, white underneath when scratched, began to appear, patinated by millennia of time and by secretions in the covering earth. Even as Brother Aldo and Luchare cantered Klootz around the corner of the tumulus, he finished his work. A door stood revealed, unmarked in any way, but with the smooth stump of what must once have been a handle on the right side.

"Well, we have a success. But we are very close to the House, or at least to its minions, aren't we?" Aldo stroked the surface of the door. "Who knows what lies under this ancient thing? But—we are here and we had better make some quick decisions. Gimp and the men are coming on foot and will be here shortly. What are your ideas, Hiero?"

Eventually it was decided to leave the quiescent monster alone, but to maintain a constant watch and guard upon it. But the question of how to do this was more difficult. All four, Luchare, Aldo, Hiero, and the bear, were absolutely determined to go below if entrance could be gained. Who, then, would transmit orders to the men at the surface? Suppose trouble were encountered far below, how would any help be summoned?

A compromise was made possible by a suggestion of Luchare's. Her suggestion was simple: why not try and see if any of them, but most especially the bear, could communicate at all with Captain Gimp by using mind speech? This radical but obvious solution had been overlooked.

At once they began to practice, after Gimp had been carefully coached in what was to happen. The tough little skipper was very nervous, but he was no coward. When he was assured by the three humans he had learned to trust that he would suffer no harm, he relaxed and made his mind as receptive as possible.

He flinched visibly when Hiero's thought of a simple "good day" reached his consciousness. Finding it did no harm, he soon rallied and, screwing up his face, tried his hardest to send messages of his own. This proved impossible, though the faces he made had Luchare in stitches. But in a very short time, really, he could "receive" from all four of them. They tested his reception of the bear's thoughts over and over, at Hiero's special insistence.

"If we encounter, God forbid, the House or anything else down there, then Gorm may be the only one to get through. I would have been dead—-and he also—if he hadn't reached you the last time. His mental channel is so different from a human's, it never seems to occur to an enemy it's there at all."

All was in readiness at length, and they began to work on the door. It was a sort of white bronze, to all appearances. Iron or steel would not have lasted so long, they knew, but this metal was new to them. Not even the Metz priest had examined the particular Abbey archives which spoke of aluminum alloys.

Despite their carefully cleaning all the remaining dirt away from the metal frame, the door refused to budge. "Small wonder!" Luchare said. "If I'd stayed shut that long, neither would I."

Two spearheads were broken in attempts to lever the stubborn portal open. Its faceless slab continued to defy them. It was the little mariner who solved the puzzle, using his common sense. Gimp had been peering ail along the crack between the door and its jamb, his eye glued to the crevice as he followed it.

"See here," he said suddenly. "That there's a catch of some sort, that is. But it's not on the side near that little knob, but down here on the bottom!"

A quick glance showed them that the sailor was right. A heavy shadow showed where a bolt had been rammed into the hole in the metal jamb. And better yet, the jamb seemed slightly warped there. Another hastily requisitioned spear was jammed into the slot. The tough ash stem bent and creaked, but slowly, groaning and protesting, the door began to rise in the air! No one spoke as Hiero and Gimp got their hands under it and continued to force it up. As it rose, previously invisible lines formed across it, and it began to buckle. It was a folding door, of a kind none of them had ever seen before; and as it rose, it bent at regular intervals and then slid back into a recess just above its own top. Fortunately, no dirt had sifted into the narrow storage space above, a tribute to its ancient builders.

A last shove pushed the door up and as far in as it could be made to go. The two men stepped back, perspiring and breathing hard, for the effort required had been a strong one.

Before them all, as they stood in silence under the hot afternoon sun, a dark opening yawned. From it came a breath of cool air, not unpleasant, but vaguely stale, like that of a suddenly opened and long-unused attic or closet. More to their interest were the broad metal steps which could be seen gently curving down to whatever lay below. One seaman started a halfhearted cheer, but he was hushed by his fellows. Who knew what they had opened? They felt the moment was too solemn for any cheering.

"What about light?" Luchare said practically. No one had thought of it, of course, and they looked dismayed. But common sense triumphed. Two of the earthenware firepots were produced, which left three more in reserve. Luchare took one unlit, and Brother Aldo the lighted other. The extended wicks gave about as much light as a candle, which was deemed enough. At any rate, it was the best they could do.

Gorm went first, his small eyes gleaming with excitement for once. Then came the old man, clutching a light and his heavy staff. Hiero, sword ready, followed close. Last came Luchare with the reserve light and her spear ready, the one which Hiero had taken from S'nerg so long before and so many miles distant.

As they descended, the light from behind grew dim, until it vanished altogether. Soon they were relying entirely on the pottery lamp. Luchare carried a small skin of oil, hopefully to replenish these, but no one knew how long their quest would last.

The stair wound downward for an apparently interminable distance. Gorm's nose could detect no sign of life, and Hiero's periodic mind sweeps caught nothing either. They paused at intervals to make sure they could still reach Gimp and his men, and each time the contact with the sailor's mind proved easy. He was not alarmed, having been warned they would attempt this.

Eventually, after what seemed hours, the stair emerged from its tunnel onto a broad surface. The fleeting shadows showed that they were in a large, open space of some kind, and their very footfalls seemed to echo in the distance. Both Hiero and Gorm detected movement at the same time, high up and far away. A ghostly chittering and squeaking came ever so faintly to their ears.

"Bats!" Brother Aldo said. "This place communicates with the outside air somehow." The implications were disquieting. Where did the other entrance to this buried realm lie? And who or what had access to it?

Luchare had been examining something she had noticed while the others talked. Now she called them over to see it. On a sheer wall were set a large group of switches, each one numbered in some archaic script.

"I'm frankly scared to touch these," the priest said. "What do you think?"

"So am I," the old man said after some debate. "But I think we must. Our oil may not last long, even if we husband it. There must be other sources of light down here, and we desperately need them. I feel we must take a chance. Our whole venture is a terrible risk. This is only another such,"

Hiero smothered his doubts and pressed the first switch. For a second, nothing happened. Then, to their gasps of wonder, around them grew a dim glow of light. It grew steadily brighter by degrees, until it finally stopped, well short of direct sunlight, but casting an effulgence perhaps equal to that of a very overcast day.

They were standing on a platform set high on one wall of an immense cavern.

12 - An End and a Beginning

The view of the mighty cave of the ancients was one to make a first sight a quiet and reflective one. How far below the earth they were, they could not imagine, but it must be a very long way indeed. Yet this giant's delving was apparently artificial! The long, dimly glowing bars of pale light hanging far above from the invisible roof (reminding Hiero of the blue lights on Manoon) which now illuminated the whole great space showed that clearly, though there were obvious dark gaps where they had failed.

The walls, stretching out of sight almost, were geometric and regular, sharply cut in the shape of a pentagon from the bedrock of the planet. Above a certain height they were unfinished stone, but below that, to a distance of some thirty feet above the floor, they were smoothed and polished. The glint of metal showed where many of them were actually paneled. A wide circular space ran all around the structures in the center, separating them from the walls.

"Look at those things, will you!" Hiero's voice was low and reverent. The many great, shrouded shapes, standing about the floor, covered with the dust of countless centuries, were vast, almost beyond the comprehension of men of a later day. There was spiritual fear both in his voice and in his mind. These must be the actual devices of the legendary pre-Death era. Perhaps they themselves had helped loose The Death upon the cowering world above! Ingrained in every reasoning human, save for the Unclean, of course, was such a horror of The Death that gazing upon things such as this was very like a glimpse of Hell itself. Brother Aldo's face was rigidly controlled and might have been carved of jet, but the repulsion in his eyes was clear. Luchare had actually fallen to her knees. At only seventeen, even after all she had been through, an actual glimpse of the titan engines of the legendary and horrific past weakened her legs as perhaps nothing else could.

Hiero bent and helped her up, and as they moved together to the heavy metal rail of the platform for a better look, he kept an arm about her.

As they looked up, they also saw a spider's maze of slender catwalks and beams, strung from wires and metal cables, but so far off in the upper gloom that many of them looked suspended on nothingness. The hush of many centuries brooded over them. Above them, higher yet, glowed the lights, in turn hiding the ceiling from which they hung.

"You could put a regiment, ten regiments, of Metz Frontier Guards in here and lose them," was Hiero's awed comment, half to himself. His mind was staggered by the immensity of the place. And more than that. He knew what he was supposed to be looking for—the computers, if they still existed. But how to find them? Or anything else, in a place so huge and alien? True, he knew certain names, certain symbols in the dead languages, but would they be obvious, would they even be legible? His task, now that he had actually arrived at one of the ancient sites, suddenly seemed impossible.

Luchare had left him, and she and the white-bearded Elevener were now examining something on the far side of their platform, where a metallic, boxlike structure thrust itself out on the floor. As he was about to join them, he felt Gorm's sudden thought.

The bats have all gone. Where did they go? There is something I don't like about this place, Hiero. Bad air is entering far off on the other side. I smell, very faintly again, the sort of deadness which yet moves.

Hiero used his far-looker while sweeping the area with his mind as well. There was no real sentience in the ether, but the small minds of a few of the bats were revealed, far away and getting further still. They had left by an invisible ceiling hole, some natural crevice perhaps, and were impossible to read for direction. The far-looker showed not one opening indeed, but several, black tunnel entrances, two, perhaps a half mile off, on the opposite, eastern side of the man-made grotto. As he looked, he saw yet another far off to the left, on the south side of the cavern. And around one of those on the west were things which did not appear artificially constructed. There seemed to be dark stains, perhaps pools of moisture, there, as well as he could see from that distance and in the poor light, the upright objects arranged in clumps. He had been in caves and seen stalagmites and stalactites before, but these appeared different somehow. Was there not a dim glow about them? However, he forgot them as Aldo spoke.

"Hiero, come here," the old man said. "I think we have a way to get down, if we can still trust the incredible mechanics of a long-dead age. I have seen drawings of things like this. This box-thing goes up or down on this track set against the wall. That is why the stairs, which I imagine were only an emergency exit, go no further. Come and look."

He explained to the three of them, using his mind, how an elevator worked. He and Luchare had been cleaning off the control switchboard of its accumulation of dust, and the three buttons were now easy to see. He next tested them by reaching around and in, while himself remaining on the platform. With a creak, the ancient thing began to move slowly down. He stopped it quickly.

"I thought so! I know the words. The bottom black button is 'down,' the top 'up.' The red one I don't know, but red was often used for danger, so we will ignore it. Let's get in. Hiero, what are you doing now?"

"Maintaining communication with the surface. Gimp and his crew are still all right. They're camped now and set up for the night. I wanted a last mind check before we got into that thing."

Despite the pleased certainty in his voice, Aldo would not have been human if he had not been nervous as they all climbed aboard the elevator. The layers of dust were over six inches thick on its floor, and they had already learned to move slowly to avoid stirring it up any more than was necessary. Fortunately, the dust must have contained much powdered rock, for it both rose slowly and settled quickly.

The elevator ran on two metal tracks set deep in the cavern's wall, and these had allowed only a little deposit of any kind to adhere. But of course the machine was old, old beyond the concept of even its designers. It creaked and groaned ominously as it started down, and the noises did not decrease as they sank lower. Some long-ruptured circuit made them stop at each level, and it took an almost physical effort on Hiero's part to push the button and restart the contrivance afresh. There were five similar-appearing platform levels, and even the bear, who had been shielding his thoughts, let out an audible "whoof" of relief as they settled at last to the base of the shaft. They all felt the same. But their relief was to be short-lived.

As they left, farsighted old Aldo, who was the last one out of the metal cage, reached back and touched the "up" button. He had decided to find out if they could return again in a pinch. Now his cry of dismay alerted them all. The elevator would not move. For ten minutes they poked, prodded, and fiddled with the mechanism and tried at least to locate the power source. The latter must have been buried deep under the floor, for they could find nothing. Thus they were five storeys lower now, with no known way back to the surface.

"I would wager we must be at least half a mile down altogether," Aldo said soberly, putting their common thought into words.

We will have to find another way out, came Gorm's cool thought. At least we are on our own feet, not in that thing which moves. The alien mechanism had rasped the ursine nerves more than he cared to admit.

Around them now, in the much dimmer light of the cavern floor, loomed the dust-covered shapes of what had to be the great machines and devices of the past. From the platform far above, many of these things had looked to be of modest size. Now it was seen that all were large and many were absolutely monstrous.

Hiero walked over to the nearest, intrigued by something puzzling in its shape. He used the shuffling walk, which they had learned stirred up the least floor dust, and he gently brushed the coating of inches-thick grime away from the surface of the shrouded object, while the others waited.

"I thought it looked odd!" His laugh stirred remote echoes in the dusty aisles and corridors between the silent bulks and rebounded from cornices and projections far above.

"This is a cover! All these things are protected. Look, you can lift it and see what is underneath." He raised a corner of the heavy plastic wrapping, still moving slowly so as to avoid raising any more dust than was necessary. The soft gleam of a metal base, untouched for thousands of years, met their eyes, which by now were accustomed to the dim light.

Excited, the soldier-priest ran to the next great object and then the next. All were covered with thick plastic sheeting, a substance which mocked the centuries, and the metal underneath appeared untouched by any corrosion or other of time's ravages. Hiero drew his dagger and began to cut pieces of the plastic away, for the huge sheets were far too large to be pulled off by their puny efforts; many of the devices they covered were as high as a two-storey building and half an acre in. extent.

"Hiero," came the Elevener's strong voice. "I think we had better be told what we are seeking, don't you think? I have no wish to pry, but ..."

"Of course. I meant to tell you earlier, honestly. There's been so much on my mind, I simply forgot."

While they stood about, or leaned on the buttresses of the incredible machines, he gave them a mental, closed-circuit recapitulation of the Abbey mission, describing the lost computers, or at least their purposes, as well as he could and explaining carefully why the Abbeys felt they were so important.

"If what Demero told me is true, and I believe every word," he concluded, "we need one of these things desperately. The attacks against us are mounting and coordinated. Our defense and any counterattack won't have a prayer unless they are also completely coordinated."

Aldo had no more questions. Now that he knew what to look for, he began at once to examine the nearest mechanisms, seeking labels or identity marks of any kind. The others joined in, the bear helping him to lift the plastic covers, the girl aiding her lover in the same task.

An hour later, they paused in their work, looked at one another, and laughed. Sweat and disturbed layers of dust had covered them all with a pale mantle, and even the bear looked a furry ghost of his former self.

"Let's see," said Brother Aldo, who had been writing in a small book he had produced. "We have found nothing so far about computers, Hiero." The priest wiped a grimy forehead with an even dirtier hand and tried to concentrate. Brother Aldo's knowledge of the ancient languages was vital now, since Hiero himself had been able to memorize only a few simple words and phrases before setting forth.

"We have found 'engines,' that is, machines," Aldo continued, "and we have found other things, controls apparently. What these engines ran on, their power source, by the way, baffles me. Unless," and he looked very grave, "it is the lost power of the atom itself, which caused most of The Death when misused. But I prefer not even to think about that." Hiero did not see lit to mention that he felt the Unclean well might have rediscovered that particular power source. It was only a suspicion, but he had never ceased wondering what silent engines drove their dark, sailless ships.

"We have found 'air-conditioning' and 'thermal control', " Luchare put in.

"Yes, but these are things, as I said, which occur in other sites I have visited. They mean fresh air and artificial heat, that's all. We have no idea how they did these things, but we know they are neither weapons nor computers."

"We're poking around out on one edge of this place," Hiero said, after a moment's thought. "How about heading for the middle? If there is an information storage center, it might be there, logically. I am trying to recall how the place looked from up top, and I think there was a circular space, with things set about on it in some regular pattern."

This plan was adopted, and they began a circuitous approach toward the center. Time and again they found a pathway or aisle blocked by some rearing hulk or other and had to go around or even retrace their steps. Hiero felt they were all minute creatures trapped in some vast and incomprehensible maze.

Eventually, all coughing and sneezing by now, they emerged from a corridor between two long lines of machinery into the open space which Hiero had glimpsed from far above. For some time they had been moving up a very gentle slope, and it was now apparent that this radial point in the center was set higher than the rest of the cavern. "Probably a system of drains buried under all this dust so they could flush the place down when it needed cleaning," Hiero said.

They could see things of interest at once. Before them stood a vast, semicircular control board, its function very clear, since of all the things they had seen, it alone was not covered by plastic. Yet it had been, that was evident. For piles of plastic sheeting, minus any dust, lay here and there, as if each section had been ripped from the control board and cast aside at random. The thirty or so seats which were set in the floor in front of the board were not uncovered, however, and still retained their plastic shrouds.

On the board's center, several small, unwinking lights, three amber and one red, glowed in which was obviously the main panel, since it lay in the center of the great board's gentle arc. The three humans stared for a moment, only realizing by degrees what was indicated by all this.

"Someone's been here," the girl breathed. "Who could it have been? How long ago? Look, those lights must have been turned on." She spun around suddenly, as if to catch someone or something stealing up behind them. Yet nothing moved, save for themselves. The dusty relics of the most ancient past towered up in forgotten, majesty around them, only the three tiny lights of the board the sole indication that life was not extinct in the relics of a vanished age,

The bear moved slowly forward and began, to sniff. Come here, his mind said. Something has been here and it has left a track. Something we know, was his grim afterthought.

Stepping forward, Hiero looked down and saw what Gorm had found. A broad, grooved mark, its greasy path only slightly tinged by dust, came from off to their left out of yet another aisle in the bulking engines. This trace went along the front of the control board, occasionally broadening into a wide smear where the plastic sheets had been flung aside, and then vanished again, down into the gloom of still another canyon in the forest of silent machines. The message was clear. Something had come, uncovered and examined the board, and then gone away again. Had it turned on the lights somehow? Where was it now and when would it return? Hiero shivered. Whatever had made this strange mark was certainly not human, and even before the bear's next message, he felt he knew what it was.

That House-thing or one of its creatures has been here, came Gorm's calm thought. Can't you smell it yet? In his four-footed friend's mind, Hiero caught the irritation at his duller senses, but he paid no attention.

Swiftly, now he relayed a warning to the other two. At the same time, he bade Luchare relight the lamp she had extinguished when they had managed to get the cavern lighting system activated. Fire had been their only weapon against the House before, and it might still save them, should the monster reappear, or should it send its servants.

"See here!" Aldo had been examining the portion of the board where the three small lights gleamed. "I can read these signs, or some of them. Some words such as 'gantry' and 'silo' are new to me, but here are 'missile launch' and a long series of numbers. We have found something terrible here, Hiero. This is a place which sent out into the air the flying Death itself, the great machines which traveled over and above the whole world, shedding foul poison and radioactive destruction." He was shaken to the core as he looked down at the silent board. "Perhaps," he added in a low voice, "perhaps some of those things are still waiting, waiting to spread more death, even after five thousand years." No one spoke, even the bear's mind, perhaps appalled at the thought that they might be able somehow, by mistake, again to loose such a horror on the world.

It was Hiero who recovered first. His active brain simply could not mull over the past for too long. He had come here to find something, a weapon in fact, and instead he had found a deadly enemy, which if not actually present, was certainly not too far off. These matters transcended any brooding over vanished tragedies.

"What are those lights?" he asked, his voice deliberately brusque. He wanted to shake Aldo out of his present mood and stir him to new activity. Tough as he was, the Elevener was a very old man, and he was facing in the flesh, so to speak, things he had thought of only as the abstract components of a nightmare. But now it was a living, revived nightmare, whose return to the world he dreaded more than any mere bodily peril to himself.

With an effort, Brother Aldo returned to the present.

"Those lights? All of them are marked with one word underneath. The two yellow ones say 'standby,' which I believe means 'wait.'" He peered closely at the red bead on the smooth, black panel. "This one says 'alert,' which means 'be on guard.' A moment, though! A line of inlaid silver leads away to another area, over here to the right." Muttering to himself, he stepped around two of the chairs, still tracing the line of bright metal with his eye. The others followed in his wake, waiting for a translation. The line wandered about for a distance along the board, at last coming to rest on a black, ovoid projection. Under this bulge were more letters.

"Let's see now," the old man said. " 'Lift cover for total self destruct'." He turned and faced them. "Did you by any chance understand that?"

I did, Gorm said unexpectedly. You are becoming very careless with your minds down here, all of you. You radiate even while using your human speech. You have found an old thing which will destroy all of this whole place, and us too, I gather. His mind was quiet and amused again. One would have thought he was describing his last meal.

"I'm going to lift that cover," Brother Aldo went on in steely tones, ignoring the bear. "The best thing I know about this awful place now is that we may be able to destroy it. I frankly regret having aided you to come here." His passionate hatred of the pre-Death artifacts around him rang in every syllable of his voice.

"Let me," Hiero said quietly. "Don't forget, I'm more used to machines than you are. You look over my shoulder and tell me what you read there. I won't do anything without permission, I promise." So strained and taut had both Aldo's brain waves and his speech become, Hiero was beginning to fear the old man would do something irrational.

The Elevener closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them, he suddenly looked more at peace, and a faint smile touched his mouth.

"I caught a fragment of your thought, boy," he said. "You are quite right. I must not give way to emotion, and I was very close there. You go ahead, and I'll try to supervise if I can."

The Metz examined the almost conical, black projection. He saw that it had a knurled edge, obviously designed for fingertips, and he began to turn it. A screw mechanism slowly revolved, and as it lifted, he saw both what lay underneath and the wisdom of such a cover. With sudden death for the whole area in one control, a screw opening allowed time to circumvent a madman or an enemy bent on self-destruction. A simple hinged affair would have been too easy.

Under the cap, which he laid carefully aside, was a thing like an uncovered dial. A row of thirty numbers, engraved in the archaic system of the ancients, bordered a curved slot. At one end, set sideways in a smaller slot, was a pointer. Studying the mechanism, Hiero saw that the pointer could be pulled up, out of its own slot, and moved down the larger to any of the numbers desired.

"Those are hours, or hour symbols, I feel sure." Aldo peered over his shoulder. "It must be that one can set the thing for up to thirty hours and then—the whole place goes."

"Suppose they're minutes, not hours, or some other unit of time we don't even use any longer?" Hiero asked dryly, Luchare gasped behind them.

"It says 'hours' here." Aldo pointed to a pair of tiny letters, which Hiero had not even seen, at the base of the slot. "This is an abbreviation, but one I have seen many times."

"Sorry," the priest said. "I'm getting jumpy. What do you say we have a meal? It must be well into the night up above, and I imagine we all could use some food."

Once their stomachs had been called to their attention, all were indeed hungry, and Gorm protested bitterly that he was being slighted when Luchare gave out each agreed-upon ration.

You 're so fat you could live for a week on nothing at all, she said, poking his plump sides. Do you good to go without for a while.

Hiero wondered to himself, as he ate the dried meat and biscuit, whether the water would last until they got out. He said nothing to disturb the others. They had brought only one large water skin with them, and when all had drunk, it was only a bit more than half full. The all-pervasive dust had made everyone very thirsty.

Barely had they finished when the bear suddenly rose to his feet, apparently snifling, head erect.

Nothing comes, was his thought. It is the mind of Gimp (here a pictorial composite of the little captain was made clear). He tried to reach us. There is trouble up above.

Instantly both Hiero and Aldo shut their eyes in an effort to tap the sailor's mind far over their heads, up on the surface of the dark plain. It was full night now, on the portion of the world's surface nearest them.

Gimp felt them at once, and they could gather the relief in his mind as he did. He was not, of course, used to sending messages this way, but they persisted, probing and questioning, until out of jumbled images, emotions, and attempts to communicate, they got his story, or at least the gist of it. This was the tale:

A lone guard, for the others were asleep, had heard something moving in the brush and had the sense to keep quiet and awaken Gimp. That worthy had found two more men accustomed to moving quietly and had awakened one-eyed Blutho and put him in command, with orders to arouse the camp and get under arms in silence. Gimp and his two trusties sneaked out and presently heard a man, they thought, moving, off to the south. They stole closer and were able to see, in the moonlight presumably, a number of mounted men on hoppers. (On what?—Hiero; Never mind, I'll tell you later—Aldo.) Gimp cleverly ambushed one such person, killing the mount and capturing the rider without noise. This man, for it was a man, had been taken back to their camp and hastily interrogated. What they had learned was disquieting. A small, hand-picked army of the Unclean, both men and Leemutes, were coming from the south (the rider had been one of an outer screen of scouts) and were heading for a "buried world," one to which they had a "door." They were led by master adepts (Gimp called them "magicians") and they were hunting a terrible man from the far North, a dangerous enemy who had to be slain at all costs. The captain wanted advice fast, for he now could hear the approach of the army itself. That was all.

Hiero wasted no time. The prisoner was to be decently killed at once. The seamen were to take Klootz on a lead and move north as fast and as quietly as possible. The prisoner's body was necessary, since he might otherwise be mind-traced by the enemy. His total absence would probably be ascribed to wild beasts or to an accident. As usual, Hiero wasted no sentiment on the Unclean and their vassals.

His task done, he turned to the others and explained. Aldo had heard everything, but Luchare and Gorm had to be filled in. The girl pointed out the obvious clue, though the others had already guessed.

"They're heading for a 'buried world.' It must be this one! Hiero, Gorm told us we were using our minds too loudly. They must have been listening somehow. There has to be another entrance, and they know it. We're trapped!"

Gorm was less excited by the news and even a bit smug. I've been telling you for some time that you were using your minds too much, but it can't be helped now. We must find a way out somehow. We have before. He seemed unafraid and not even interested very much. He added: Tell me when you want to start.

Brother Aldo patted Hiero's shoulder in his kindly way. "The clue, Hiero, I'm quite sure, lay in our battle with the House. The waves of mental power that struggle gave off must have been easy to detect. Don't blame yourself, my dear fellow. The Unclean were a bit smarter for once than we gave them credit for being. Also, they must have been a good deal closer than we thought, must have been well on their way to reach us, from out of Neeyana. No one's fault, but we really have to think now."

"It's S'duna," Hiero said bitterly. "He's sworn to kill me or die trying. He must have done some brilliant calculating, all the same, to estimate where we were heading so well." He looked about at the dimly lit vastness around them. "How in God's name we can either fight or escape is beyond me." His shoulders sagged visibly.

"Think!" Aldo thundered, no longer sounding kind. "You are the warrior, as well as the priest, and this is no time for resignation. One thing even I can point out. They are still terribly afraid of you. Why else have they not used their minds, located and captured Gimp? They are using mind shields, those mechanical things they hide behind. For fear of you, that's why! Now take that fear of the enemy's and use it!"

Luchare said nothing. She came close and put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him, just looked, her eyes full of love and trust. Then she patted his cheek once, lightly, and moved away, humming softly to herself. Her man was there, and he would find a way out. How was only a detail!

The twin appeal was sufficient to galvanize Hiero out of his momentary despair. The strange, huge vault in which they were apparently incarcerated lost its brief terrors. Once again he was able to reason, to plan, to look at all sides of the problem. Brother Aldo saw the changed expression and the tightened jaw and waited, content. Their leader was back with them again.

The moment he began to think ahead once more, two factors occurred to him. The House was one and his unfulfilled mission the other.

"Spread out, but mark your path in the dust so you don't get lost, you two." Gorm, go with Luchare. Give warning of the House or any enemy. "Brother Aldo, look for signs, names, I guess, of computers, if the damned things ever were kept in a place like this."

"They were," was the answer. "We read that it was the computers which somehow sent these terrible weapons out into the world and told them where to go and whom to kill. Certainly there is one here at least." He turned and strode off, swinging his staff and clutching his own small knife, with which to cut any enshrouding plastic. Luchare and Gorm were already poking about, off in another direction. The bear was so sensitive to danger that he was a superb sentinel, and she had forgotten she did not understand the ancient languages and thus could be of little real help.

Hiero badly wanted to be alone. He had some mental probing to do and, once that was done, some very careful planning. Already the germ of an extremely grim idea had come to him, an idea fraught with horrible risks, but also one which might be of tremendous benefit.

His mind he sent roving ahead, seeking out the enemy. In a moment he found him, or rather them, and he was somewhat shaken as a result. He had forgotten to ask Gimp if his prisoner had worn a mind shield. For all the minds he now encountered had them, and he could not even make an estimate of how many there were. All he could do was estimate the physical distance from himself to an oncoming conjoint aura of defensive screens. Like a great blob of energy, it was advancing from the south and above, at hazard, no more than a mile away. It was a real feat, he ruefully acknowledged, to shield so many in such a short time.

Coldly he assessed his own and his companions* chances. One thing was clear: the Unclean somehow had acquired a good knowledge of this place and thus were coming on without hesitation. Did this mean they had been here before? He considered this. It seemed doubtful, on reflection, that they had. Only the central switchboard, of the entire complex, had been disturbed, and that recently. And he knew who, or what, had done that!

No, the Unclean Masters must have ransacked their own accumulated files and records, just as the Abbey Council had done before sending him out on his own quest. The place was marked on the enemy map he had looted from the dead adept's body. No doubt the enemy had other charts as well, with more detailed directions. This cavern would have been one of a large number of places indicated for eventual examination, when time and manpower permitted.

But that plan had been changed when S'duna and his allies had determined to follow him, now their single greatest fear and enemy, to his doom! And they had found him somehow, half by guess and half by detecting his mind's energy bursts when he fought the House, that is if Brother Aldo were right. He probably was. That struggle indeed must have registered a long way off, to those who were watching and aware.

All this went through Hiero's mind in no more than an instant. He was standing, leaning actually, on the central control panel as he thought, and he now made a sudden gesture and freed the cap on the destruct device. And as he did, he began to consider the House. From this thought, his decision hardened. His hand moved.

The Metz next replaced the cap and then walked quickly away, in the direction of the eastern tunnels or openings he had glimpsed from the platform. There was a relatively clear path and he moved fast, although with caution. Meanwhile, he contacted the bear and Aldo on a wavelength Luchare could not yet follow and told them briefly where he was going and why. He had not forgotten the House and its method of mental ambuscade. Should he not communicate at regular intervals, they would come after him.

At this point he suddenly saw the slimy track of whatever creature the House had sent out, approaching the same corridor he was on from the left. He could see that, ahead of him, it continued on down the very aisle he had chosen. He instantly chose the next gap to the right and placed himself in a parallel alleyway between other lines of mechanical colossi. No sense in going to the thing's front door. He had seated a quarrel in his crossbow and now lighted the spare firepot as well. The crossbow bolt had oil-soaked cloth wrapped around it, and he could light it in an instant were it necessary. And if I'm given an instant, he added to himself.

Now a new sensation came to Hiero. Over the musty, stale smell of the whole place, there came to his nostrils a familiar whiff of organized corruption. The bear must have detected this all along, he realized, even if it were far fainter here than up on the surface. Sickly sweet and abhorrent, it came to him, the stench of the living rot which was the hallmark of both the House and its realm.

He stooped under and rounded a lofty corner of some ageless mechanism and then quickly ducked back again. Before him was the work of the monster!

Here, far underground, the fungi were stranger even than those on the surface. It was as if the House saved its more delicate and cherished outgrowths for this hidden realm. And it was obvious that they needed no light, for many of them glowed with an evil light of their own making.

A broad, dark pool, full of floating scum, had formed where the floor had actually sunk or collapsed near the east wall of the great cave. Water trickled steadily over and down a broad area of slimy rock, for this wall was unfinished, indeed hardly even smoothed down by the craftsmen of long ago. An underground spring must have burst forth in ages past and still flowed into the pool, leaving by some hidden outlet.

Around this sinister tarn, which was many yards in extent, there grew a forest of tail, gently tapering spires of soft, living matter. Several men's height they were, colored with pallid and crepuscular shades, ugly, faded violets, insipid yellows, and debauched, bleached oranges. On top of some of them glowed round areas of foxfire and dim phosphorescence. This was the light, the priest realized, which he had glimpsed far off when they first entered the cavern.

As he watched this buried, obscene parody of a living wood, Hiero was moved by its allure as well as by its horror. Totally alien and awful were the purposes of the House, but it could still create an eldritch beauty. He checked his mind sharply at this thought and examined his own reasoning, fearing a mental trap, an allurement into which the entity called the House might be subtly trying to draw him.

But there was no contact, and he knew he was truly free. Besides, somehow he had the feeling that this was a place of utter privacy to the House, a hidden chamber of repose which the monster deemed inaccessible and utterly safe. How he knew this, he could not have said, but perhaps his terrible struggle with the lord of the fungi had allowed him to fathom, if only unconsciously, its emotions and thought processes; he had thus established a strange rapport with his enemy.

At first he thought nothing moved, and he was about to emerge himself when he caught a flickering shadow out of the corner of his eye and instantly froze. The forest of fungoid spires was truly alive!

The things' movements were so slow and rhythmic he had almost missed them, but now that he watched carefully, he could see it all. The unnatural forms were not rooted or fixed, not even as much as a mushroom, but were moving, ever so slowly, about on their broad bases. As he watched, fascinated, he saw that it was like a mockery or simulacrum of some stately dance, or even a solemn religious service. The weird beings, plants or whatever they were, would approach one another slowly until their sides touched; then a rippling motion seemed to run up and down their entire length. Those whose crowns glowed with the pale phosphorus seemed to deepen that glow in these encounters. Too, as they approached each other, a clot of slime or soft, bulging flesh developed at their bases and then dissolved as they retreated in the same, almost imperceptible fashion, to begin their peculiar gyrations anew with a fresh partner.

The ghastly things were sentient in some way, of this he felt sure. Just as the great slime molds he had met far above were able to sense enemies or their food, so too were these living fungi able to feel, to react, perhaps even to know. Had he revealed himself, he was sure that he would have been detected, if not even captured and slain. He drew back further into the shadows of whatever vast machine was giving him shelter.

The living cones, or fungus candles, for they were thinner than a normal cone shape, partially masked the black rift of the tunnel which opened on the far side of the water. It was a tunnel, of that he was sure. Its sides were regular and smooth, too rounded to have occurred naturally. Once, in remote ages, it might have been a major entrance to the underground hiding place of the great missiles. But the slime and muck which coated the lips of the entrance proved that nothing human had passed that way for many long years.

Well, he had learned all he could. He quietly slid further back, away from the stagnant water and the evil, living spires of mold. When once out of sight, he began to run, always angling toward the south. One portion of his brain, meanwhile, had kept a ceaseless watch on the inchoate but collected mental force which he knew represented the Unclean horde. Since they had steadily advanced, there was only one place from which they could be coming, and that was one of the tunnels in the southern wall. A fairly clear road must exist to it from the surface, and the Unclean leaders would be moving into and down it as rapidly as possible.

He paused and calculated various times for a moment. No trace of his mind or that of the others could the enemy now detect. This he felt sure of, for his powers had become such that he could have kept a protective shield over many more than just four minds, even if Aldo were not on guard. In any case, defense was always far less effort than attack, for it could be maintained with and by an unconscious effort of mind. No, he could check on the enemy's progress, but not the reverse. Aldo had been right. Their fear of him was such that they were relying on physical strength and hiding under their mechanical mind screens.

Now he sent messages to his companions to join him, whether they had found anything worth taking or not. He simply stood still and waited, until they came. In a few minutes the white beard of the aged Aldo appeared around a corner, and the other two came only a little bit behind. The priest was so wrought up, he noticed nothing of the small package Luchare carried.

"Look," Hiero said, stooping. He traced a design in the dust of an engine's buttress next to him. It was hard to see in the dim Sight, but there was just enough when he added that of his little lamp.

"Here's where we are. Here's a pool of water over on the east side. The House has an exit here. I'll tell you about that later. Over here," his finger drew yet another circle, "is the southern entrance. S'duna and the Unclean must be coming this way. That elevator machine is broken, and we can't go back. All right, we're going out the way the enemy comes in, to the south. But you'll have to do exactly what I tell you." He paused and grinned, his face quickly looking years younger on the instant. "Even then, there's a good chance it may not work. It depends on two things. One, S'duna's so eager to get me, he'll stop at nothing and, hopefully, not think straight. Two, so will somebody else, not think straight, I mean. Oh, yes, and neither of them knows or is aware of the other at all. That's the equation, and it has to be perfect to work."

Brother Aldo laughed, honest, chuckling laughter. "I see your plan, I think. It may work out totally, but if not, well, there's still a great load off my spirit. Tell me what you want us to do."

Gorm, who had been kept informed simultaneously, sent a quick thought. A terrible idea. Let's hope it works. Luchare simply pressed herself close to him.

"Here's what we do," the priest went on. "You go this way, over to the southwest wall, and hide the best way you know how. I'll find you. I have to go back where I came from. Now hurry!" He kissed the velvet cheek gently and then spun on his heel, erasing every thought but those needed for the task ahead. The Unclean army was very close!

Returning to the evil pool of water was easy, for his own marks in the untrodden dust of centuries were simple to follow. In a matter of minutes he was peering around the corner of another machine at the dark water and the moving nightmare garden (if such it was) of the House. In the dim light, the living candles still moved and stank.

He took a careful aim with his crossbow, lowered it, having once got the range, and raised it again. In the interval he had lighted the oily rags bound around the quarrel from the rekindled firepot. He released the trigger, and with a hiss, the now blazing dart shot across the water and deep into the pulpy substance of the tallest of the moving towers of putrescence.

The reaction was instantaneous. As he had prayed, the horrid things were every bit as inflammable as their fellow fungi far above, up on the earth's surface. The fire raced over the tall, writhing shape in seconds, and the sudden, whipping movements and frenzied gyrations of the mold beast touched and set fire to a half dozen of its fellows in hardly less time. Hiero had been readying another bolt, but so speedy was the awful destruction he had wrought with only one that he stayed his hand.

At the same time, there came into his brain a terrible shrilling, a piercing vibrato, on an incredibly high wavelength, which rose and fell like the skirling of some demoniac orchestra. He knew he was hearing the death agony of the foul things and, being a kindly man, felt momentary sorrow even for these.

Then he remembered his mission and stepped into the open!

The moving spires, such as were not already alight and writhing in their fiery death throes, were aware of him at once. He had been right, he realized; the creatures were indeed sentient! Immediately they knew him to be the author of their misery. The tall columns bent as one in his direction. He could feel an almost material wave of venomous hatred emanating from them as their fellows blazed and shook all around them. The very slime with which their movements had coated the naked rock was itself flammable, and fresh runnels and gutters of moving fire sought out many of those who were nowhere near their burning fellows.

The splendor and horror of the sight almost made him a victim himself. One of the awful spires, whose top was as yet aglow with only its own poisonous foxfire, bent until it pointed in his exact direction. Then, from its crown, a dully glowing series of blobs were launched in Hiero's direction. So unexpected was the attack that he barely had the presence of mind to leap aside as the first ball of glowing slime raced his way. Even so, it splattered almost at his feet, and one minute fragment struck his right hand. The pain was savage, and only the instant application of the oil-soaked rag he still clutched made it die down. He hastily backed away, keeping on his toes, so that the next poisonous missiles came nowhere near. Actually, if one stayed alert, he realized, they were easy to avoid.

All the while he was praying for something else. He had provoked the ruler of this foul realm, carefully and deliberately. Where was it? Had he guessed wrong? Mind and body keyed up to the highest degree, he backed slowly away from the inferno of the dying fungi. The stench of the corrupt and burning bodies, and the thick, greasy smoke, made even this close proximity almost unbearable. Where are you, House, damn you? And even as he bent his thought upon it, it came.

He had been watching the gaping mouth of the tunnel beyond the pool, a task made increasingly difficult because of the swirling smoke wreaths and nauseating reek, for he was sure this was the entrance to the creature's lair. Perhaps it was, but there were others.

Almost before he had time to realize it, a surge of filthy liquid overflowed the near edge of the buried, underground pool and sent a wave of fluid corruption racing over the floor in his direction, and the bulging, gelatinous horror of the House began to emerge out of the water. As it grew in size, it sent one bolt after another of mental force at the lone man.

It was well that Hiero had armored himself against this very time. In odd, waking moments, ever since his first encounter with the monster, he had carefully analyzed its Medusa-like power of paralysis, and he had deduced that its true strength lay in an attack on the psyche, rather than on the actual brain. The emotional centers of the body were its targets, not the reasoning process, and in the subconscious alone could it establish its unearthly stranglehold.

One remote corner of his mind registered mild surprise at the relatively modest size of the alien monstrosity. Its brownish, slimy bulk was not too much higher than his own head and scarcely more than five or six yards in total width. It still preserved the odd, four-cornered shape which had made Vilah-ree name it, but the lines moved and shook, the angles continually re-formed in peculiar abhorrent and sickening ways. Hiero saw also that it could move on its blobby base, just as the horrible candle-things did, and that it could move fast. Also now, long, glistening tendrils or pseudopods sprouted from its upper parts and waved hungrily as it slid rapidly in his direction over the floor. And all the while its ravening hatred and power beat upon his mind. His own rapport with the alien growth had become so strong that he understood why it laired so deep here and what actually he had done when he had attacked the fungoid spires. The pool was the center of not so much a garden but more (though not entirely) a harem!

The seal which he had painstakingly set upon his inner being held. Even so, he prayed for strength as he backed away from the water and into the aisle in the machinery from which he had first come. After him flowed the monster, and behind it, in turn, came the remaining spires.

No more did the House use its vile blandishments to make him an ally and thus attempt to lure him within its reach. For it recognized him. Its hatred of the one being who had ever broken its power and had helped destroy much of its awful kingdom overcame it, until its strange composite mind could think of nothing else but to obliterate the impudent minikin before it. What—did the very inner parts of its buried realm, its hidden mates' playground, hold no safety from this feared and dreaded enemy? On, on, and slay! Its speed increased, and its groping, vibrissal pseudopods flailed the dead air as it sought to rend him.

Carefully, judging his speed to a nicety, Hiero fled from the thing and its pack of followers. The assaults on his mind he repelled, content merely to ward off the House's attack and not to try to retaliate. Any such trial on his part might serve instead to open new corners of his own brain to fresh and unknown assaults. Who knew of what else the monster was capable if allowed, even for an instant, to forget its mad rage?

Down the silent, dust-laden corridors, under the dim illumination of the glowing bars of millennia-old light, the strange chase continued. The human fled; the living lord of the slime sought to overtake him and extinguish its bitterest foe from the earth. Save for the light footfalls and breathing of the man and the sucking, slithering noise of the fungoid pack's progress, there was utter quiet. The deadly race, to an observer, would have appeared some strange and voiceless charade or shadow show. The squat House and the tall, dozen remaining mold pillars sped on; the man ran; the shrouded, ancient machines were backdrop.

Always, the priest led his pursuers south, shifting a little back and forth so that it would not be too obvious and straight a road, but never going very far from the line he had chosen. And now, at length, there fell upon his ear a sound for which he had yearned. It was the distant vibration of a legion of people moving, the faint but distinct echo of many feet! The Unclean host was upon them and must even now be debouching into the great cavern!

Still, husbanding his strength, Hiero ran on; and, implacable as ever, the alien master of the mold-things and its last minions followed on his track, centuries-old dust by now coloring them all the same pallid gray.

At a certain intersection of two opposing aisles, Hiero suddenly increased his speed. His careful appearance of fatigue was suddenly shed, as quickly as that of a parent bird whose apparently broken wing has led the searcher far from, its huddled young.

Now he turned and darted away at full speed, taking the House by surprise as he did so. He flashed away toward the south wall and then—barely before leaving the shelter of the machines—darted into a narrow gap between two huge engines and was gone. One instant the House thought it had him trapped, the next he was utterly vanished!

Ravening, the unstable, shifting bulk increased its speed, layers of filth and dust flying as it sped forward in the manner of some Brobdingnagian snail on its rippling base, its slender mates coming on in its wake.

Hiero, now two hundred yards off and well to the left of his former track, peered cautiously out toward the open, the southern end of the ancient cave. What he saw made him draw breath in exultation.

Pouring into the cave, rank upon rank, file upon file, came the massed forces of the Unclean. Even as he watched, the last ones entered the great cave, and the tunnel gaped empty behind them. At least two hundred creatures were already streaming across the open, some of them men in dark uniform clothes, armed with pikes, others Leemutes in their own skins. He recognized red Hairy Howlers, brown Man-rats, and, far off to one side, a clump of the new things he had first encountered on the ship, the Gliths, their gray, scaly hides glistening. Not far from the entrance itself, marshaling their forces, were a group of men in dark cloaks and hoods. The adepts were preparing for a master stroke, and he smiled grimly as he thought that only one man was the cause of all this preparation! Truly, the enemy had not been properly challenged for a long time.

And then it happened. The first part of his desperate scheme came to fruition, just as he had planned it and willed it, but (down inside) never dared believe it would.

Out into the open from the central passageway, charging along in its blind rage, seeking the hated human and oblivious of ail else, came the House!

From his vantage point, Hiero could see it all, every stage of the weird ensuing drama. All movement ceased instantly out on the quarter mile of open, between the machines and the cavern wall Not a man, not an Unclean mutant, stirred. The little group of hooded masters of evil were frozen, standing with their heads together, as if turned to ice in the middle of their plots.

He spared a glance for the House. It too had checked and come to a halt, and for once its own unstable, wobbly outlines were not moving. A little way out in the open from the street he had just quit, it halted, its acolytes motionless also. Its pursuit was forgotten as it strove to adjust to a new situation with all the power at its command.

I'm right! the priest exulted. The strange, mesmeric power of the House was unaffected by the Unclean mechanical screens, screens which Hiero himself had been unable to penetrate. The House really did not operate on the brain at all, and the blocking power the Unclean scientists had devised was therefore useless against it.

Around him, surging in a way which to his sensitive mind was practically physical, Hiero could feel the ferocious wills of the Unclean overlords struggling to be free. But the only free brains in the House's environs now were his own and those under his protection. The monster's pressure upon his had ceased as it grappled with its new and unexpected foes. It had never had so many creatures to control before and it was having a hard time holding them immobile. Hiero, observing from the "outside," so to speak, could actually feel, with his mind, the House's efforts to maintain its screen as the swarm of enemy beings tried to break the hold it had laid on their bodies.

But now the priest was himself in motion again, running hard to the left along the southern tier of silent engines. He kept in the shadows, and neither the House nor the Unclean army seemed aware of his flitting shape, engrossed as they were in their silent grapple.

In a few moments he spied tracks in the dust ahead of him, coming from the center of the mechanical maze, and followed them to an alcove between two canopied buttresses. Here, Brother Aldo, the girl, and the bear were waiting, the humans' faces strained and intent and even Gorm shaking with excitement and shifting nervously from one paw to another.

Come on! Hiero sent. Don't even think from now on if you can help it. I'm going to keep covering your minds. Aldo—build a reserve shield under mine, if you can. Now, let's go—fast!

"Hiero," Luchare cried, trying to say something, but the blazing glance he spared her made whatever message she had die unspoken.

They were only a few steps from the open space on the south, and he led them quickly out into it. He felt Luchare, whom he was actually leading by the hand, tremble at her first sight of the massed enemy off to their right, but she never faltered. Behind them, the other two trotted in their wake, raising yet more dust. By now, Hiero thought, we must be visible. God help us if my screen drops!

The House did indeed sense their motion somehow. Despite the efforts it was putting forth to hold the Unclean ranks imprisoned, it spared another bolt for them. Hiero warded it off, using his new technique, with almost contemptuous ease. Once one knew how the House operated, its traps were not all that clever, and besides, now it could spare only a fraction of its strength.

But to the other enemy, who had never met it before, its methods were deadly indeed. Strain as they might, the Unclean army, masters and slaves, Leemute and human, could not move a muscle. Two evil forces worked to allow the good freedom!

Soon Hiero was compelled to pass close to a squad of black-clad soldiers with dark, metal helmets and long spears. They had been racing toward the northern section and the House had caught and held them in mid-stride. Their eyes gleamed with deadly hatred as the four loped by, but they could not twitch so much as a finger to impede their progress.

Another such group and another they passed, living yet locked like statues in the foul embrace of the fungoid horror.

Next they passed what had been a crouching, bounding crew of giant Man-rats, creatures Hiero knew well from the past as devilish foes, huge, mutated rodents with all of human reasoning ability and clawed hands as capable as any man's. Their fists now clutched sharp knives, clubs, and long lances, while their brown-furred bodies bore elaborate harness and equipment. But no more than their human allies could they break the grip of the House on muscle and nerve. Only the red eyes glared with hate.

Next, close to the mouth of the tunnel itself, the fleeing four came to the half-dozen hooded shapes of the enemy commanders. Of those looking his way, Hiero could see the knowledge and hatred flare in their eyes as his little group passed by. But though they would, he did not doubt, cheerfully die in order that he too might be slain, they were as helpless as the stupidest and least of the evil servitors in their forces. For it was obvious that they did not understand the House's power and methods any more than had the warrior-priest himself when he first encountered it.

His crossbow slung, he carried his sword-knife in his right hand as he ran, leading the panting Luchare with his left. But his fear that one or more of the Unclean would free himself proved groundless. On past the last of them, a pair of Howlers whose acrid stench supervened even over the drifting reek of the House, he sped, the others close behind. They were actually into the tunnel now, and he saw at once why the enemy had chosen and used it.

Before them, still clear in the remaining light of the cavern's glowing rods, stretched a smooth, level ramp, thirty feet across, curving up in a gentle spiral sweep into the gloom ahead. Many heavy feet had beaten a path down the dusty floor; the dust had hardly had time to settle, but the way ahead seemed clear enough.

The priest stopped and relit the firepot to which he had stubbornly clung ever since he had shot his flaming arrow into the living towers of the fungi. They would need some light ahead, for they were leaving the artificial glow of the lost cavern.

He released Luchare's hand, pushed her on, and waved the others past. In silence they moved, obedient to his orders. Alone, Hiero watched the scene below for a last, fascinated instant. About his head, he had never stopped feeling the surging currents and giant forces in contest as the Unclean tried to free themselves and the countergrip of the House still stubbornly kept them trapped in its invisible mesh. One look only he spared, seeing for the last time the slime-bedewed, grayish shape, its attendant pale cones towering over it, and between it and himself, the equally silent, motionless legions which had come to destroy him.

The Metz turned and ran, holding his lamp high as he caught up to the others. They had not gone far, but were waiting for him only a little above. Aldo held the other lamp, and Luchare was just filling it from the now depleted oilskin, which she cast away. They did not light it but fell in behind Hiero and began their upward journey. He set a sharp pace and no one questioned it, but they were all too exhausted to run, and a brisk walk was the best they could do.

"How long can it hold them, do you suppose?" Luchare gasped at length.

"Long enough," Hiero said curtly. "For God's sake, darling, save your breath! We're not out of danger yet. The ancient had exact time devices and I don't! Just keep walking and try to keep your mind a blank."

She did not flare up in anger, for she recognized by now that his orders had reason, and they trudged on in silence. The light showed the ramp to be almost featureless, a great tube, lined with some age-defying substance, which had been cut into the earth and rock with micrometer precision by its long-dead makers. Once or twice they passed a sealed opening in the walls, but they did not stop. There were no lights visible, and only the flicker of their little lamp lit the way.

This must have been the main path, the priest reflected, driving his weary legs forward and upward. They had been walking a long time, at least it felt like forever, but he dared not rest. The forces trapped in that place behind them were too awful to take any chances with. But talking might ease the strain.

"Did you find any computers?" he asked at length.

"No," was Aldo's answer. "Such a search might take a week, or a month. But Luchare found something. She is carrying it. Do you think the Unclean can free themselves? They have the man and beast power to find anything there. And what about the House? It is so powerful, Hiero. What might it not do with the knowledge of the past?"

"The house knows nothing about the past or machines or weapons. I know what it thinks or feels as well as anyone human that is now alive. It has no use for mechanical devices, but only what it makes or grows itself." He forgot Luchare's find as his worry reasserted itself.

"Yet it, or perhaps one of its creatures, was looking around at the control board. Don't forget that."

"I know." Hiero's laugh was grim. "And it had no idea what it was doing, I'm sure of that too. Yet it may have given us a way out by its action. How long have we been walking, do you suppose?"

"At least an hour, I should think. Are we safe yet?"

"No. Keep walking. We've got to keep on till we drop, if necessary. I can still feel the pressure behind me. And the House is weakening!"

"Can they kill it and follow us? Maybe we can block this tunnel, then." Luchare's tone was defiant, her attitude that of the princess she was. Hiero's heart warmed to her.

"Maybe we can," he said more cheerfully. "But it hasn't quite let go yet. It never had to control so many powerful minds before, all alien to it and all trying to break loose. It hasn't dared move, I can feel that, all right. Perhaps it's summoning some of its carnivorous slime molds. And the Unclean are still there too. I can feel all their minds, even under their screens, like one big ball of force."

"I also," Aldo admitted. "What an amazing creature the House is. How I would like to know it, to learn what it thinks, feels, and wants from life." His tone was wistful.

Hiero glanced at his aged ally in amazement. The Eleventh Commandment really embraced everything, it seemed!

We are close to the good air. Gorm had been waddling unhappily along, his pink tongue hanging out and his fur an inch deep in gray film. Now he scented escape from this underground world he disliked, and his spirits lifted.

Hiero momentarily covered the lamp with the edge of his cloak, and they all strained their eyes. Was there a faint lessening of the blackness ahead? The very thought revived their flagging energy.

Soon it was a reality. As the light grew, Hiero slowed his pace, may be a rearguard," he said. "They'd be fools if there weren't something of the kind. Let me probe a bit while you three rest and catch your breath."

His mind sped forward ahead of them, seeking any intelligence that might be lurking above at the tunnel's mouth. But he could detect nothing, not even the shrouded energy which he had learned meant an Unclean mind shield. Unbelievable as it seemed, the whole force of the enemy had apparently plunged into the bowels of the earth, so overconfident of his destruction it had left nothing behind.

He told the others this, and they went cautiously on. Three more great curves, and the light was quite strong enough to make the guttering lamp unnecessary.

The faint calling and piping of birds came to their ears now, and even the human noses could catch the sweet scent of the air which poured down the shaft.

"Let me go first." Hiero took the lead again and soon saw the great, opened doors ahead. He absently noted the shattered hinges and, when he stepped outside, the cleverness of the device amazed him. For the two huge doors were made of something on the outside which imitated weathered, gray rock and yet which must have been far more impervious than any granite. The Unclean had been indeed cunning to penetrate their secret and so quickly follow on his traces.

All this raced through his mind as he drank in the cool air of the tropic dawn, but he urged the others on as before.

"Hurry," he said, "hurry! We can't delay yet! We may not be safe for hours!" He gave Luchare, who was stumbling, his arm again. He was oblivious to the packet to which she clung with her other hand, for her telescoped spear was now tucked through her belt.

The four set off to the south over the boulder-strewn waste onto which the huge tunnel had opened. Limping and staggering, they went on, no one questioning Hiero's iron determination or right to drive them thus. Aldo now frankly leaned on his heavy staff, something no one had seen him do before.

Still they staggered on, their breath coming in painful gasps, their muscles twitching and burning. The ground was semi-desert, tall weeds and thorn bush growing up through patches of rock and scree. The cool air of dawn gave way to the burning heat of morning and (very slowly now) they hobbled forward. Time seemed to pass with terrible slowness.

Then it happened. Hiero, who had been listening both with his mind and his other senses, felt it first.

"Down!" he shouted and, falling, pulled Luchare close to him. Aldo, too, fell prone, while the bear simply collapsed.

First came a gentle tremor of the earth, so slight it might have deceived them into thinking it was a muscle spasm of their own overused bodies.

Then the earth began to shake and heave, rising and falling in a great wave, as if the tiny atoms of flesh which clung to it were being tossed in some inconceivable blanket. For the first time, Gorm let out a howl of sheer terror.

A distant, muffled roar filled the air. Slowly the heaving of the troubled earth died away. A ringing in their ears also ceased. They raised their heads and looked at one another. Hiero was the first to grin, his white teeth flashing in a countenance so dirty it looked like pure mud. Then Aldo laughed, a deep-throated, ringing sound. Hard on his heels a bird began to sing nearby, tentatively at first, then bursting into its full series of rippling cadences.

Luchare kissed Hiero. When she pulled her lips away, she murmured drowsily, for she was almost asleep from sheer exhaustion, "What was that?"

"That," Brother Aldo answered as he helped them both up, "was the button marked 'self-destruct* on the central control board. Right, my boy?"

"Yes. I gave it four hours. What a race of men! After five thousand years their death still works! At least the Unclean got nothing from them. Nothing but destruction. The House too. And yet—if it hadn't held them, I couldn't have done it."

They looked north in silence. Where there once had been a wide, level plain, a vast, shallow bowl had now appeared, its sides and rim of raw tumbled earth and chunks of riven rock. The low trees and scrubby bushes had vanished, lost in the rubble caused by the great explosion.

"We'd better move," the priest said. "Klootz and the men are apt to be way up north by now, and we need to push on as soon as possible."

"Your road should be easier henceforward," Aldo said, the sun highlighting the gray in his once snowy mane and beard.

"I hope so," Hiero said wearily. "But I still haven't found a computer. And this army of theirs wasn't a real percentage of what the Unclean could put into the field if they wanted to.

"Besides," he added, "S'duna's not dead. I would have known somehow if he'd been down there. He wasn't. We have an appointment to keep somewhere, he and I."

"You may not have found a computer," the old man said, "but look what Luchare is carrying. She found a stack of these things on an apparently abandoned desk. Possibly someone's study area. I could read the title. Try it yourself."

Half-numb from what he had been through, Hiero scanned the title of the small, flat book which Luchare had handed him with one finger. "Principles of a Basic Computer," he read in halting English, the lost language. Inside were plastic page after plastic page of diagrams and close-printed text. He could say nothing and felt choked. Here was how a computer could be built, perhaps by anyone! The other two smiled at the look on his dirty, sweat-streaked face.

"Look," Aldo said, using his finger in turn, "it says, 'Volume I.' Luchare found a stack of them. And she has the other two, Volumes II and III, as well. She called me over and I read off the titles. But I think she knew, somehow, even without me!"

Wordless, Hiero pulled Luchare's arm around his waist, and the three humans and the bear began to retrace their steps, moving north like cripples over the barren and shattered landscape. Gorm tried to have the last word, or rather, thought.

No one ought to move so fast, he grumbled. From now on, let's try to move at a calmer speed.

The world moves at a certain speed, Aldo answered, after a bit. We all must learn to move with it.

Glossary

Abbeys, the: Theocratic structure of the Kandan Confederacy, comprising the Metz republic in the west and the Otwah League in the east. Each Abbey has a military-political infrastructure, and the Abbey Council functions much as the House of Lords in eighteenth-century England, with all science and religion also as its prerogatives.

Batwah: Trade Lingua franca; an artificial language used throughout the areas bordering the Inland Sea, and well beyond in some places.

Buffer: Giant bovines, probably mutated bison, which migrate in vast herds through the western Kandan regions on an annual basis.

Chespek: Small kingdom on the Lantik Sea, often allied to D'alwah and equally often at war with its immediate neighbor.

Children of the Night Wind: An intelligent, bipedal species of mutated, man-sized feline; runners of unbelievable speed. Bred by the Unclean for warfare, they managed to escape their masters and establish themselves in a far country. Proud and volatile, they are in no sense Leemutes.

Circles: Administrative areas, named by color, of the Unclean and its Masters of the Dark Brotherhood. Hiero passed through three, the Red, Blue, and Yellow, as he went south and east. Until his journey, their existence was unknown.

D'alwah: Largest and most developed of the east coast states on the Lantik Sea. A kingdom, organized as a benevolent despotism, but where commoners have few rights. A debased branch of the Universal Church exists.

Dam People: Aquatic rodents of human intelligence and more than human bulk, who live on artificial lakes in the Metz Republic, under terms of mutual toleration; probably mutated beaver.

Dark Brotherhood: Their own name for the Masters of the Unclean. The fact that they use the word "dark" indicates that they sought universal conquest and, more important, gloried in it and realized that they were, in fact, basically evil. Modern Satanism, in its real sense, is a parallel. (See Circles; Unclean.) Davids: Similar to the Mu'amans in that they follow a quite different monotheism from that taught by the church and one which they claim to be far older. Found in D'alwah, Chespek, and perhaps elsewhere, they occupy positions in all levels of society. (See Mu'amans.) Death, The: The atomic and biologic blight which destroyed the major population centers and most of humanity some thousand years in the past. Still a name of dread and ultimate menace in Hiero's day. "All evil came with The Death" is a proverb.

Deserts of The Death: Patches of ancient atomic blight where there is little or no water and scant or no vegetation. Yet life exists in these horrible places, though most of it is inimical and strange, bred from hard radiation and a ferocious struggle to survive. Some of the Deserts are hundreds of square miles in size and, in Hiero's day, are avoided like The Death itself. They are rare in Kanda, but many exist in the South. Blue, radioactive glows mark the worst of them at night.

Eleveners: The Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment. ("Thou shalt not destroy the Earth nor the life thereon.") A group of social scientists who banded together after The Death to preserve human culture, love for all life, and knowledge thereof. This group permeates all human societal life and, though opposing violence, battles the Unclean, often in hidden ways.

Forty Symbols: The tiny wooden signs that a trained priest-exorcist carries on his person. By putting himself (or herself; there are priestesses of great power) in a trance state, the priest can forelock, or to some extent see the future, using the symbols.

Frontier Guards: The army or embodied forces of the Metz Republic. The Otwah League has a similar group. There are sixteen legions, self-contained units, in the Metz Republic. They are under, not the Republic's orders, but those of the Abbey Council, which, in turn, reports to the Lower House (Assembly) on its decisions, which are always approved. Priests usually lead and direct the Frontier Guards.

Glith: A recent form of Leemute, possibly bred from a reptile by the Unclean. A humanoid, scaled and very strong physically, utterly the slave of the Dark Masters.

Grokon: Giant descendants of our present-day hogs, which roam the northern forests. They are much-sought-for as meat but are very dangerous to hunt, being clever and the size of extant oxen when adult.

Hairy Howlers: One of the commonest and most dangerous varieties of Leemute. They are great, fur-covered, tailless primates, highly intelligent and used as soldiery by the Unclean. They hate all humans, save their Dark Masters. They resemble huge, upright baboons as much as anything.

Death Hart: A monster found, though rarely, in the southern Deserts of the Death. The ancestry of this foul mutation is unknown, but it is carnivorous and bears both claws and horns.

Hoppers: Giant marsupials, closely resembling the kangaroo of the present, save for greater size. They were no doubt bred from mutated survivors of The Death. They are the riding animals of D'alwah and adjacent areas.

Inland Sea, the: The great freshwater sea formed by the ancient merger of the Great Lakes and covering roughly an area of all their present outermost boundaries. Many islands exist, and much of the Inland Sea is uncharted. Ruins of ancient cities dot the shores, and much commerce, interrupted by piracy, moves on the waters.

Kanda: The area of the ancient Dominion of Canada has kept its old name, almost unchanged, though much of it is unknown in Hiero's day, save for the central parts of the Metz Republic and the Otwah League, in west and east, respectively.

Kandan Universal Church: The state religion of the Metz Republic and the Otwah League. An amalgam of most current Christian beliefs, with a strong core of traditional Roman Catholicism, though there has been no contact with Rome for millennia. Celibacy is long gone, as are many other beliefs and attitudes held by the ancient churches. A related sect, though much corrupted and debased, is the state religion of the east coast kingdoms and states, such as D'alwah, Kaw: A beast of burden used south of the Inland Sea, both for agriculture and raising, as is the Korean ox of today. A large bovine, probably an almost unaltered member of some ancient stock of domestic cattle.

Killman: A highly trained warrior of the Metz Republic, who has taken intensive training, much of it psychological, in warfare and the use of all known weapons. Killmen are officers of the Frontier Guards automatically, but also rangers of the forest and special agents of the Abbey hierarchy. Hiero is unusual, though not exceptional, in also being a priest and exorcist. This combination of talents is highly approved but rare.

Lantik Sea, the: The Atlantic Ocean, though with a much-altered western shoreline. No records exist of any trans-Atlantic contacts for over three thousand years.

Leemute: A word meaning an animal, or other nonhuman creature of human intelligence, which serves the Unclean. Gorm, the bear, would never be described as a Leemute, nor would the Dam People. The word is a corruption of the phrase "lethal mutation," meaning an animal which cannot survive to replicate under natural conditions, but its meaning is now altered to mean "inimical to normal humanity," and even normal life of all kinds. New varieties (such as the frog creatures Hiero found) are continually appearing as discoveries spread. Not all such new finds are Leemutes, however.

Lowan: A species of incredibly large, flightless water birds, fish eaters and divers, which are found in remote areas of the Inland Sea. Though very shy, Lowan have few enemies, since an adult can reach eighty feet in length, with weight in proportion. They are uncommon, and thought by many to be a legend.

Lucinoge: An Abbey drug, used to enhance the spiritual powers of its adepts and priests, especially when they are seeking mind contact. Also a relaxant and, in small amounts, sleep-inducing.

Manoon (the Dead Isle): A rocky island in the north-central Inland Sea, the place of Hiero's captivity. One of the main headquarters of the Dark Brotherhood's Blue Circle.

Man-rats: Giant, man-sized rodents of high intelligence, a ferocious type of Leemute, much used as warriors by the Unclean. Probably mutated Rattus norvegicus, which they resemble in all but brains and bulk.

Metz: The dominant race of Kanda. A corruption of the ancient word Metis, a term used for a racial stock of mixed Caucasian and Amerindian strains. The Spanish word mestizo has the same root and means the same thing. The Metz survived The Death in an undue proportion to other races, mainly due to rural isolation and the fact that they existed in small, somewhat isolated groups, in more remote areas. Atomic and bacteriological blights thus slew relatively few. The Otwah League Metz tend to be lighter in color, due to more Caucasian genes.

Morse: The basic riding and plow animal (though only scrub stock is used for the latter) of the Metz Republic, which first bred them, and, to a lesser degree, of the Otwah League. A very large and intelligent variety of the present-day moose, the largest member of the deer family. (Moose have been tamed For riding and carriage pulling in modern Scandinavia, though not often.) Mu'amans: Non-Christian, non-church-linked followers of a separate form of monotheism. Apparently confined to the kingdom of D'alwah; in the main, stockbreeders, who live on the western plains of the kingdom. (See Davids.) Namcush: Port on the western border of the Inland Sea. Much trade passes through it, but it is full of rogues as well, slavers and pirates seeking a place to dispose of loot. Both the Abbeys and the Unclean use it to spy on one another.

Neeyana: The largest port in the southeastern area of the Inland Sea. Though legitimate trade passes through it, the Unclean actually rule, through a merchants' council dominated by t heir appointees. In fact, the main headquarters of the Yellow Circle of the Dark Brotherhood is buried under the town, No one untouched by evil lingers in Neeyana. (Possibly a corruption of "Indiana.") Otwah League: The eastern sister state of the Metz Republic. The League, which takes its name from ancient Ottawa, is smaller than the Republic, from which it is separated by a vast expanse of wild land and Taig, through which run few roads. Hut close contact is maintained as well as possible, and the Abbeys are a unified structure in both, serving the League government in the same capacity as in the Republic, Palood, the; Greatest of all the northern marshes, the Palood stretches for hundreds of miles along the northern edge of the Inland Sea, It is avoided even by the Unclean, and many strange forms of life not found elsewhere exist in its trackless vastnesses. Terrible fevers often wrack those who venture in, and its boundaries are largely uncharted.

Per: Corruption of "Father." Title of respect for a priest of the Kandan Universal Church.

Poros: Monstrous, four-tusked herbivore of the great southern forest, perhaps twenty feet tall at the shoulder. Its ancestry is unknown.

Snakeheads: Giant, omnivorous reptiles, found in small herds in the depths of the southern forests. Primarily eaters of soft herbage and fruit, they will also devour carrion and anything else slow enough to be caught. Something very like a bipedal dinosaur, though bred from some smaller reptile of the pre-Death days.

Snapper: Seemingly the living snapping turtle, grown to the size of a small car. A universal pest of any large body of water, being ferocious and almost invulnerable.

Taig, the: The great coniferous forest of Kanda, not too unlike that of today, but containing many more deciduous trees and even a few palms. The trees run larger on the average than those of today, though nowhere near the size of those in the far South.

Unclean, the: A general term meaning the Dark Brotherhood and all its servants and allies, as well as other life which seeks, through intelligent direction, to destroy normal humanity and to subvert natural law for evil purposes.

Were-bears: A little-known variety of Leemute. Not truly a bear at all, but a sort of grisly, night-prowling monster, short-furred and possessed of strange mental powers by which it lures victims to their doom. The things have been glimpsed only once or twice. Though of the Unclean, they seem to be allies rather than servants. Their origin is unknown. Fortunately, they seem rare.

The End

The Unforsaken Hiero

Hiero Desteen 02

(1983)*

Prologue - A Change of Mission

There were two fires burning in the night, providing the only lights on the dark plain. A small group was scattered about one. A short distance away, Hiero and Luchare sat by the other, facing Brother Aldo. The old man was staring into the flames, his tightly curled white beard standing out brightly against skin that was as dark as that of Luchare.

"I must go north at once," Brother Aldo said at last. "I must arouse those of my Brotherhood. We have sought peace for many lives, but now there is no peace. Destruction is coming upon us, and we must take action against it, It is no longer enough to watch and study the foe." Sadness deepened the lines on his face, momentarily revealing his great age.

Hiero waited in silence. His skin was lighter and redder in hue than that of his companions, and his black hair was coarse and straight, trimmed just below the ears in a short bob. With his hawk nose and sturdy, lithe frame, he might almost have been one of his remote Amerindian forebears, save for the neat mustache; the facial hair indicated the Caucasoid admixture of his once despised ancestry.

Beside him, Luchare seemed to be drowsing, her head resting against his shoulder. He tightened his arm around her waist, smiling fondly. To his right, he could see that Captain Gimp and the sea rovers were still talking around their fire. Off to his left, the line of the great forest towered in the dark. He wondered what the strange women of the trees and their queen Vilah-ree were doing. Would he ever see one of them again? With an effort, he brought his mind back to the present as Brother Aldo began speaking again.

"We have done well, this far," the old man said. "We've blocked the Unclean, destroyed many of them, and we have this." He pointed to the packet that held the lost volumes of the ancients. "You have accomplished your mission, Per Hiero. But your work is not done. The next danger comes from the South. And it is there that you must go—you and Luchare!"

"What about the books?" Hiero protested. "I am supposed to get them to Abbot Demero as fast as I can. These southern wastes are not my territory. I came here only to get the knowledge we need in the North."

The Elevener smiled faintly. "Don't worry about Demero, my boy. The books will go north with me. Your abbot will approve. I know Demero—have known him longer than you have lived. Who do you think put me on watch for you? Why do you think I was so handy when you were trapped in the drowned city? Think about it for a moment."

Hiero grunted in surprise. But Aldo's words explained many things. It had been no accident, no fortunate coincidence, that had brought the Elevener to aid them so opportunely. How many others had somehow been alerted to watch over this mission? Hiero grinned ruefully. "I should have guessed that Demero would have a few extra tricks he never told me about," he admitted.

Brother Aldo chuckled, then sobered quickly. "I'll leave for the North at dawn. I'll take Gimp and his men with me. We'll get a boat somehow; there are many ways. But I must also take Gorm with me. Call him."

Hiero sent a rapid mind call on the wavelength of the young bear. A moment later, the burly shape of Gorm padded up to them from where he had been curled in apparent sleep. Does no other ever sleep around here? came a mental mumble as the bear flopped his bulk down beside them.

Hiero laughed. You do nothing but sleep while we have to do all the hard thinking and planning. He eyed Gorm appraisingly, It was fantastic that this strange folk had hardly been noticed by the Abbey students. Their brains were quite as good as human minds, and only their desire for privacy had kept them so long hidden. The Death had caused strange and horrible mutations, but it had also created wonders, and one of those was the race of Gorm, the silent and hidden bear folk, whose Wise Ones had sent Gorm out to gather knowledge.

You want me to go north with the Old One here, came Gorm's thought. He seemed quite placid, and his brain waves were clear and undisturbed.

"I don't want you to go anywhere away from me," Hiero said aloud, then put the idea into thought. He was conscious of how much he would miss this furry friend. But Brother Aldo thinks it might be best if you went north with him and got back in touch with the Wise Ones of your folk.

To Hiero's surprise, Brother Aldo had picked up his thoughts, those he meant to be private as well as those to the bear. Now the old man sent a message meant for both Hiero and Gorm.

Listen well, both of you. This is a great struggle between that which is evil and vile and that which we believe to be good and blessed. The high Councils of the Unclean are sealed to us. But my Order has watched them for many years, back beyond the life span of the remotest grandsire of any here. They seek universal domination and they would restore the evils that brought The Death to the world.

We must work together, we of the honest and life-preserving ones of whatever form. We must fight them wherever they appear. There is great evil rising in the South, in D'alwah and its neighbors. I want Hiero to go there with Luchare, to her ancient kingdom, the nation where I was once a native and which I know well. And you, Gorm, I want to go north and make report to your Elders, to tell them of our need. What say you?

There was an instant of mental silence. Then an ursine thought came in answer. I must go. I understand some of what you think. It must be so, for it is the charge laid upon me by the Wise Ones of my people. Now can I sleep?

Suiting action to thought, Gorm got up and wandered off into the dark, where they could hear him curling up again.

"Well, Hiero," Brother Aldo said, "we can use speech again. All this thought sending wears one out, eh?" He smiled.

Hiero found little to smile about. "Even if Abbot Demero might agree to let me go, what do you think I can do down in the South? I know little of D'alwah, save for what Luchare has told me. How-can I help in a strange country with unknown laws and rules of behavior? What can I do in a foreign land without friends, except for this one?" He bent his cheek to nuzzle the mop of tight black curls that lay on his shoulder.

Luchare looked up at him with eyes that were clear, with no sign of sleep in them. "What can you do? Look, Per Hiero Desteen, have you forgotten who I am? My father is King Dariyale of D'alwah, and I'm his only heir. You're my husband. You'll be a prince of the unknown North. Everyone will accept you." She looked over at Brother Aldo. "You have many Eleveners there, don't you? I've seen them helping the village people when there's trouble. That means we have allies there—though not in public. And we'll have Klootz."

She whistled sharply and waved an arm over her head. Hiero smiled as a towering shape paced up to the girl, massive hooves clicking on bits of gravel as it came. A giant head with blubber lips and a drooping snout lowered itself so that the huge, soft nose touched her hair briefly. Then the morse stood quietly waiting to see why he had been summoned.

When humanity began to pick itself up after The Death, the horses were gone, vanished without a trace. In the far North, the reviving structure of the Abbeys and their dependent farms tried many other animals and found these mutated descendants of the moose to be best. Hiero and Klootz had chosen each other at the annual calf-pick years before, and they had never been separated.

I wonder how he'll like the South, Hiero thought to his mate and the older man. Nothing like him there. Will the people be afraid of him.?

"Not afraid," Luchare answered, stroking a leg of the morse. "He would be admired as a creature no one had ever seen before. He would add to your prestige."

Hiero stood up and began to stroke the enormous, palmate antlers with careful fingers, peeling off the velvet where it came away easily. He could feel the heat underneath where this outer cover of the new antlers was not ready. Klootz lipped his shoulder affectionately.

Aldo resumed his argument. "Consider what you have already done in a land foreign to you and with only the help of friends you found along the way. You've saved a princess, crossed the great Inland Sea, and fought and beaten some of our worst enemies. And you've accomplished a nearly impossible mission."

"You've done what no one else could have done," Luchare added when Aldo stopped. "You have defeated the one who calls himself S'duna, the chief of their horrid Blue Circle. Now you can go on to be a leader of my people."

Hiero looked down at her, and his heart filled with this love that was greater than he had ever known before. Then he thought of Abbot Demero, the grim old warrior who had sent him on this mission. Would the ruler of the Abbey Council approve of his going south with a new wife and a new task? He seemed to see the lined old face in his mind, and it was smiling at him. A sign? Hiero shrugged at the idea and then thought again. Perhaps he was picking up a vague and transient thought from far away. He smiled and looked at Brother Aldo, another wise old man who had gone to war because he had no choice in his own soul.

"Tell Gimp that you'll leave for the North at dawn. Luchare and I will go south on Klootz. I assume that you can communicate with your Eleveners in the South? Then send me word and we'll open a channel of messages." He laughed a little sourly. "You say you know Abbot Demero. Then you can keep him off my back and not let me be cursed and expelled from the church. Now let's get a little sleep."

1 - The Kingdom of the East

Golden sunlight streamed through the narrow windows of the palace, and a great gong boomed, announcing that day had come again to mighty D'alwah. The sound was echoed and re-echoed from far and near as the watch on the walls and the patrols along the bridges and covered ways answered with their smaller strikers of ringing metal The whole walled city pealed and rang, a vibrant diapason of challenging sound. Hiero sat up in bed with a jerk, covering his ears against the clamor and muttering darkly.

"You do that every morning," Luchare's voice said. "After all the time we've been here, I should think you'd be used to the gong."

He pried his eyes open to see her dressed and seated at her mirror, coloring her lips and her eyelashes with the bluish paste which was currently the height of fashion at court. He pursed his lips and made a light spitting noise.

She looked around and grinned merrily. "Don't be so stiff. I have to look my best when I'm officially entertaining the noble ladies at breakfast. And what kept you up till all hours last night? Talking religion with our high priest again?"

"Umm." He'd found the breakfast she had ordered for him on a tray beside the bed and he began eating. "Old Markama isn't bad for a high priest—for a D'alwah high priest, that is. But, my God, what has happened to the church down here? Celibate priests! And all these so-called monasteries where the nobles send their unwanted young of both sexes to paint wooden pictures or sew and pray all day—and to live in silence and chastity! It's as if the Unclean were already in control and determined to make people go crazy." His face became suddenly serious. "And I can't be sure that this isn't a hotbed of the Unclean with their minions all wearing mechanical mind shields."

"Hiero!" Her face grew troubled as she stared at him. "I know you really believe that. You may even be right. But you haven't found any proof—just a few people whose minds you can't read. And you told me when you were training me that a lot of people have natural screens, people who are unaware of it themselves."

He sighed and dropped the subject, while she turned the conversation to the Court Ball that was being given in the palace that evening. But after she left for her official duties, he dressed and moved slowly out of the palace and into the maze of the city, still brooding as he exercised his legs.

There was something ugly and dangerous going on in the royal castle. He could feel it, though no clear thoughts came through to him. But there was a deep undercurrent of hatred, impossible to disguise from someone who had been through all he had with the Unclean and their allies.

Yet he had been treated very well. When he and Luchare appeared on Klootz, the guard at the main gate had saluted, let them through, and given her full royal honors. An hour later, he had been closeted with Luchare and her father, Danyale IX, hereditary ruler of the sovereign state of D'alwah.

To Hiero's surprise, he liked the king, and Danyale made it plain that he liked his new son-in-law.

The king was a large, heavy man, still muscular, but inclining a little to fat, now that he had passed the half-century mark. His curly, graying hair was worn short, and his face was handsome and open over his mustache and beard. His kilts and robes were of a magnificent weave and color, and he wore many rings and pendants. But he was never without a long, two-edged sword whose handle was plain and worn. His handgrip was firm and hard.

Was this the brutal tyrant whose only daughter had fled into the wilderness to avoid a marriage foisted upon her by her dynastic-minded father, as Luchare had claimed?

Danyale brought the matter up while he and Hiero sat on the edge of a parapet of the palace. The ever-present guards had been waved out of earshot and lounged some distance away, conversing in low tones and watching both their ruler and their new prince.

"Look, Hiero, I know what Luchare must have told you about that business of marrying her off to Efrem. But all my nobles insisted—the whole council, including the church fathers. What was I to do? God knows, we must have allies. Chespek was all there was. Efrem is afraid of me, and I thought I could control him, see that he didn't harm the girl. I know the bastard's reputation as well as she does. But, damn it, this kind of thing is part of being a king. And with my only son dead ..." He looked into Hiero's eyes and said nothing further for a moment.

"I understand," the Metz priest said quietly. "The realm has to come first, all the time." He rather admired the older man. It couldn't be easy for the king to apologize for something he saw as a vital, standard matter of politics.

There was no trouble in communication. Hiero was a master linguist, and Luchare had coached him in the speech of D'alwah for weeks as they journeyed toward her home.

"What will Efrem do now?" Hiero's question was only partly idle. The priests, awed by his powers and knowledge of the past, had told him much, and he had learned more by mind search. But, as a matter of honor, he could not probe Luchare's father. And he needed to know what the man thought, how his mind worked, and what his capabilities were. If D'alwah were to be protected from the Unclean and their grim allies—if it were to be enlisted on the side of the Abbeys—then much still had to be learned.

Danyale's answer was a snort of contempt. "Hell fume in private, then do whatever the priests tell him when he goes to confession for half-murdering some slave girl. Forget him." He eyed Hiero, his wariness apparent all at once. "You seem to have pull with the Church Universal, my boy. Do the nobles up your way control the priests? Down here it has been a long, constant struggle to keep the power in my hands and out of theirs—or worse, from some puppet whom they might raise up against me. You seem to know all their priestly secrets and a lot of your own as well. You could be of much help to me," he added. The attempt was regrettable, Hiero thought; Danyale was no intriguer, but a decent, if not-too-bright, soldier, trapped in a decadent court and surrounded by schemers, both civil and ecclesiastic.

"We do things differently," he evaded. "Our nobles and gentry are so busy fighting the Unclean that we learned long ago to be one pillar of the state and support the church as the other. And," he added, as if in afterthought, "of course we have no actual king, but only a noble, supreme Council with both church and civil members," It was only half a lie, since the Abbey Council was actually that. The fact that there were no nobles could wait until Hiero and the Metz Republic were ready.

"Well," Danyale said heavily, "I suppose you have secrets, too. I find the world harder and harder to understand." He looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his full lips. "One thing, though. I'm damn glad to have you as a son-in-law, prince or no prince. Oddly enough, I love my daughter and I'm glad to see her happy. But more than that—" He leaned over and tapped Hiero's knee. "I think you're going to be valuable to me, my boy—to me and to D'alwah."

He rose, clapped the Metz on the shoulder, and strode off to his day's duties. He was not an unkingly figure, Hiero reflected, and perhaps somewhat more clever than he appeared.

There were other meetings of a similar nature and meetings with the great men of the kingdom also. Markama, the archpriest, was a decent enough old man and could have exerted great power, had he possessed the basic ability to lead. But he was obsessed with ritual and hieratic obscurantism. But at least he was no enemy, being in awe of Hiero's knowledge, both of church secrets and of the Unclean, whom he truly feared and detested.

Most of the work of the church—the accounts, administration, schools, and such—seemed to be in the hands of one Joseato, a priest just below the archpriest in rank, a thin, colorless bureaucrat who always carried bundles of parchment and had a perpetually distracted air. Hiero found nothing special to dislike about the man. But Joseato had a shielded mind, which was a big factor to consider. Could he have a bluish metal locket under his robes, a mechanical mind screen of the Unclean? Of course, as Luchare had pointed out, the shield could be innate, as many were, or the result of the sketchy mental training which even the southern church had not completely lost. There was no way of telling what power, mental or physical, impelled a good mind shield, and he could hardly ask the priest to strip. Joseato simply had to be watched, as far as that was possible.

He was still pondering as he ceased wandering and turned back toward the palace stables. There were too many shielded minds that needed watching. There was Count Ghiftah Hamili, for instance, a fine soldier as well as a great noble and landowner. The youngish, quiet man had been a suitor at one time for Luchare's hand and was much at court. Although friendly enough, he had a disconcerting gaze which the Metz priest found fixed on himself far too often for his liking.

But at least Hiero had found one sure friend. A senior lay brother of the Eleveners had approached him, alerted through the agency of Aldo and the underground network of the Brotherhood. The fact that Mitrash was a lieutenant of the palace guard made things even better. Day or night, he could come and go without suspicion within the well-protected precincts of the inner fortress. The balding, middle-aged veteran exuded competence. Already, he and Hiero had held several conferences late at night.

The trouble was that Mitrash did not know very much. While eager to be helpful, he was simply a good, honest soldier who had been recruited as an acolyte by the Order and placed in the palace as an observer. He was deeply worried about the inner rot and subversion he saw about him throughout the kingdom, but he was not a mental master like Aldo. He had many contacts and could reach other members of the Order, but this took time. And he was mind-shielded—a good thing in his case. Hiero had requested that Mitrash be assigned as captain of his bodyguard, but the military red tape of D'alwah was no different from that of any other army. Meanwhile, the man was near at hand to guard Luchare if her spouse were called away.

Then the stables were ahead, and it was time to exercise Klootz and Hiero's new mount, a hopper named Segi.

The giant morse was pleased to see Hiero and butted him playfully while being led from his stall by awed grooms. No one in D'alwah had ever seen or heard of a morse, and the great, antlered creature filled everyone with astonished respect, much of which accrued to his rider. Well aware of this, Hiero took every opportunity to display himself on the huge, swart back before the crowd that usually gathered at the exercise grounds to see them.

Behind the morse came Segi, ridden by a groom. At the appearance of the jumper, the mighty barrel of Klootz swelled in rage; had the morse been able to catch Segi alone, he would have made pulp of his rival, since the idea of Hiero on another animal's back was intolerable, Segi seemed well aware of this feeling and gave Klootz a wide berth.

Segi was a hopper, the chosen mount of the cavalry of D'alwah, another mutated replacement mankind had found for the long-extinct horse. Friendly and mild-mannered, Segi towered over his rider by a good six feet. He stood balanced on two giant hind legs and a long, columnar tail. His small forefeet, each no longer than a tall man's arm, were tucked up high on his broad chest. Clothed in smooth, tan fur, with a white blaze on his forehead and great, erect ears cocked first one way and then another, he looked what he was, the prize of the king's stud and a much-valued wedding present to Danyale's new son-in-law.

Hiero knew nothing of the ancestry of the hoppers. But he loved the incredible motion they gave their riders and was determined to learn the complex movements which made mounted drill on hoppers the most fantastic sight that could have been dreamed of by any cavalryman. Segi bore a heavy, almost right-angled saddle high on his back, and its broad girth passed just below his forearms. His jaws carried a snaffle bit, and twin reins led back to the rider. But instead of the conventional stirrups, such as those worn by the morse, a hopper's rider placed his legs in long, stiff sheaths, not unlike expanded versions of the saddle sheath for Hiero's lost thrower. These in turn were secured to the saddle's base and also, by swivels, to a second girth, which was buckled below the first. While difficult to get out of, which was a drawback, these stirrup-boots were absolutely vital. The new prince soon saw why when a guard put a hopper through his paces for the first time. The very high back brace of the saddle also assumed new meaning.

Any ordinary hopper, and Segi was the best, could jump almost fifteen meters from a resting position. Further, the jump could be angled in midair, the mighty tail providing the leverage. At a dead run, or a series of bounds on level terrain, a "full-out" hopper moved at breathtaking speed. Watching a squadron of the household troops drilling at their fastest took Hiero's breath away. Moving in perfect unison, line after line charged, changed direction in the air, and landed in the same matchless formation, never breaking ranks or pausing until the blast of a small brass horn signaled an equally abrupt halt. The long, pennanced lances rose, came to a salute, and were leveled, all in one beautiful fluid motion. Highly trained soldier that he was, Hiero had been enthralled on the spot. With a division of these wonderful creatures and their veteran riders as light cavalry and yet another on the giant morse behind in close support, what an army might one have!

He could have spent the entire day with the hoppers, had he not had a thousand other calls on his time. But he only allowed himself an hour or so, sharing the time exactly with the enraged morse, who paced up and down, snorting with contempt and anger while his master leaped Segi through his exercises under the correction of a time-expired sergeant who now served as royal instructor.

The speed with which their new and exotic prince had mastered his strange mount both amazed and delighted the men of D'alwah. They knew nothing of the mental orders which Hiero used instead of the countless hours they themselves had needed on the drill ground. Segi was by no means as intelligent as Klootz, but he was far from being stupid and took to his new rider at once.

When the exercises were done, Hiero usually took a ride on Klootz, and he always tried to go through the city. D'alwah City was far larger than Kalina, the only other city of the realm, lying many leagues to the south. From his studies and the incessant questions he asked, aided by a fair share of mental eavesdropping, Hiero had managed to acquire a considerable amount of knowledge about his new country. He had taken one all-too-brief trip to the coast and seen for the first time the great, white-topped breakers of the Lantik rolling in to the beach under the high, green dunes. It gave him a strange feeling to think that he was almost certainly the first man of his race ever to have seen both the great ocean of the East and that of the West. Across that foaming sea lay the ultimate in mysteries, Europe, the lost motherland of culture, the home of the original church, long sundered from the children of the western continent. But there was not much time for musings of this nature, on that day or any other.

As he rode through the crowded streets on the great morse, with two hopper-riding guardsmen in front and two behind, the crowds fell back respectfully and caps and helmets were doffed in salute to his rank. Indeed, he looked like a prince, for he was garbed now in purple silk, both the short blouse and the gold-embroidered kilt, while his leather boots were scarlet, as were the supple riding gloves. His beloved short sword hung on his back, but was held now by a cross-belt of gold links. A thin gold coronet supported the purple cap of maintenance. One snow-white osprey plume nodded above his head, secured to his cap by a gemmed brooch of great price. The D'alwahns liked color and what was new and interesting. Their pride was stirred by their new prince and by the bazaar gossip of his adventures and the manner in which he had appeared out of nowhere, bringing their lost princess back to them.

As he acknowledged the salutes by touching his cap, Hiero wondered who in the sea of dark faces did not mean the cheers and the congratulations hurled from every street and balcony. Among those white-toothed smiles and behind some of the shuttered windows lurked enemies, the more dangerous for being unknown. Of that he was certain. Try as he would, he could detect no worse thoughts than the usual leaven of envy from some of the poor and sneers from certain of the nobility who were obsessed with their own ancestry. This was only normal. Where are the real baddies, boy? he said to Klootz, who was preoccupied with picking his way over ancient cobbles slippery with modern refuse. Where are the Unclean? They're here, Klootz, they're here, that's for certain. How do we find 'em, how do we smoke 'em out, before they come out and get us first?

A laughing, half-naked girl shouted something funny and coarse about a possible heir. Hiero shrugged helplessly in mock puzzlement, and the crowd screamed with laughter. Yet all the while, he never really relaxed. The enemy was clever, but not perfect. If he watched without ever letting down his guard, and if Luchare did the same, as he had carefully taught her, sooner or later a break might come. Meanwhile, he could only wait and observe.

There was much to observe. Now crossing a plaza before him were men of a religion other than Christianity—something he had not known, except for the Unclean. They worshiped God, but through another prophet, and they revered the crescent moon. They were Mu'amans, dressed in snowy white and with green, flat-topped conical hats. They had a big colony on the southwestern fringe of the kingdom and mostly stayed within it, being great herdsmen and famous breeders of the kaws, the long-horned cattle of the kingdom. For some reason, they despised the hoppers and would have nothing to do with them. But they were mighty runners and made up a fine corps of light infantry, being master bowmen and swordsmen of skill. With their kilts looped up, they could outrun even their own kaws and could keep up the pace for many hours.

Despite their alien rites, their loyalty had never been questioned. Aside from their clothes, they looked like any other D'alwahns, with tight curls and dark faces, sometimes broad of lip and nostril, at other times lean-faced and aquiline. They bowed as Hiero passed, but there was nothing subservient about them, and their sharp eyes carefully appraised him, his weapons and mount, but not his finery.

When they had passed, another company approached, this time a caravan of gaudily clad merchants newly come from the South and stained with travel. Some bore the marks of recent battle, and Hiero knew they would report, as all travelers did, to the court newsmen, whose business it was to know and collate whatever passed throughout the kingdom. Many of these newcomers bore a six-pointed star as a symbol, and Hiero knew them for Davids, the other odd religion of his new country. They seemed identical to all their fellow citizens, being both rich and poor and occupying all places in society. But, though believers in the one God, they had no prophets or saints at all, their priests relying only on certain secret books, never shown to any but coreligionists. Both they and the Mu'amans held high places at court, and some were hereditary nobles; but in private life they kept much to themselves and seldom intermarried with the mainstream of Christianity. Yet Luchare and Danyale trusted them implicitly. "I wish I could be as sure of my fellow churchmen as I am of the Davids and the Mu'amans," the king had said bleakly. And indeed, many of both were in the royal guard and the local militia units which made up the realm's army when assembled.

The street narrowed ahead, and Hiero saw that they were coming to one of the many high-walled bridges which crisscrossed the city. These bridges spanned the numerous canals which ran through the city and far inland as well, linking up a dozen sleepy rivers and also leading to the coastal marshes and estuaries of the Lantik itself. As he approached, Hiero again saw yet a fresh reason for the stone walls of these bridges and the similar ones which lined the canal system. A hideous scaled head, at least two meters long, with fanged jaws still agape in death agony, was thrust on a great iron spike at the bridge's edge, the severed neck dripping scarlet blood into the gutters of the street. As he reined up, Klootz snorted in distaste, stamping his great hooves until the stones rang. One of the rearguard rode his hopper alongside and spoke with the easy familiarity of the long-service man.

"May be a new one to you, Highness. That's a grunter and a damned big one, begging your pardon. I've heard 'em bellowing at the moon in the swamps so you'd think you'd go deaf. Funny, but there weren't so many when I was a lad, or so I remember. Must be the bloody things are breeding more. We'll have to build new walls, even in the out-districts, if all I hear be true."

"Have they any use?" the Metz asked. "They look nasty as hell."

"Well, the meat's not bad if you cure it, though it tastes of fish. And the hide makes good shields and such, though it takes a powerful lot of curing. Whether it makes up for the folk and the cattle and hogs the buggers snatch up is something else. If the country folk don't have a well, getting water's a problem. Even a little grunter, not a third that size, can take a kid. I lost a young cousin off a barge some years ago; opened a hatch to look out and the grunter's head come in instead. Hell of a thing, the way they keep swarming into the cities now. Gets worse every year."

Studying the brown, reptilian head and the glassy eyes, Hiero pondered. The guardsman saw no further than effect. But could there be cause as well? If the water and boat guards had to be doubled to fight off these deadly vermin—only one of several equally inimical types—would not the kingdom be effectively weakened, with no trace of the directing minds behind the assault? That the Unclean Masters were capable of such a hidden and subtle attack he had no doubt at all. He had seen too much in the North and on his most recent journey not to know better. It was one more factor to ponder over in a complex and chaotic situation.

He crossed the bridge with his little entourage and went on, looping about the city in a lazy arc on his way back to the palace. He was supposed to review the guards in the late afternoon, and there were envoys from the far South to be seen as well. Danyale had been delighted to have his new son-in-law take such an interest in things and was insistent that as many of his subjects as possible both see and hear Hiero. Then there was the great Court Ball to get ready for, the first of the summer ceremonials, with this one being used as well to put the new prince on display.

The thin mouth under Hiero's black mustache curved in a wry smile. To think that he had been forced by Luchare to take dancing lessons! Fortunately, he was not likely to shame her. He had been born with a sense of rhythm, and the dances of the Metz Republic were something he had always excelled at.

Now, as he crossed yet another square, nodding and touching his cap to the continual salutes, a broad smile came to his face. A wildly ridden hopper was bounding toward him from the other side of the plaza. A gaudy figure was waving from its back, maintaining easy but perilous control as the creature leaped over clothing stalls and farmers' wains. The panting animal came to a halt with a thud not an inch from Klootz's disdainful muzzle, and a laughing face under the rider's scarlet turban flashed white teeth in greeting.

"Salutations, most noble prince from the land of ice dragons."

This was Duke Amibale Aeo, Luchare's young cousin, come from his great southern fief only a week ago, but already a favorite of Hiero's, as he was of the whole city's. The son of the king's dead first cousin, only nineteen and still sprouting a first, thin mustache, the boy wore his honors lightly. When not galloping his hopper along the battlements of the castle for a bet, he was hunting the wild river beasts in a one-man canoe. A string of broken hearts lay behind him despite his age, and he could take the strong D'alwahn wine as well as any veteran of the guard. Under the laughter and the bubbling spate of conversation, jest, and gossip, Hiero knew there was a man, if a young one. The slanting black eyes were full of intelligence and wit, and the Metz had noted that when the face was in repose, strong lines etched the narrow, dark features. As he rode along, gossiping gaily, bare to the waist and wearing only a scarlet kilt and boots, Amibale made a fine complement to his companion. The slender, curved sword and dagger at his side proclaimed that he could fight if called upon at a moment's notice.

"All ready for the big ball, Hiero?" he asked. "Wait until you see what I'm wearing. I'll show these stuffy old types around the palace what a Prince of the Blood ought to look like for a change. I hope you and Luchare have something special to knock their eyes out with. Not that I worry about her. But you, you drab northerner, I hear it took the guard to get you out of that leather suit you arrived in."

"We're coming as man and wife in the Metz dress costume," Hiero said, staring straight ahead. "White linen robes with no jewelry. It keeps off evil spirits."

Amibale swerved his hopper neatly to catch a bunch of scarlet orchids a giggling girl had tossed him from a low balcony. He tucked one behind his ear and the others in his mount's harness before turning back to Hiero, his face a blank mask of dismay. At the sight of the broad grin on Hiero's face, the boy exploded in a volley of profanity, ending in more laughter.

"Damn you! That iron face of yours would fool anyone. For all I know—for all any of us knows—you might just do it. Seriously, what are you really wearing? It's a masked ball, you know—an old tradition, they say, from the days when everyone was afraid of being assassinated at parties or afterward. Come on," he wheedled. "I won't tell anyone, honest."

"Well, Luchare said I was to surprise people, but I suppose you don't count, as usual, you scamp. Luchare wouldn't even show me hers. I'm going as one of the Blue Men, but in silk and with a gold border. Be damned if I'd wear anything more elaborate than that. You people have a mania for fancy dress down here in the swamps. I believe most D'alwahns would rather starve than go without pretty clothes, especially on a feast day."

The young duke did not deny the gibe. "It's our warm southern blood, which you ice people can't understand." He looked thoughtful as they approached the main gates of the palace and the guard began to turn out. "Blue Man, eh? The veiled folk who live on the edges of the western desert. Pretty good disguise, that. They say they took the blue color from the Deserts of The Death, since they were the first to move back into those areas after The Death. It's claimed they can detect the fires of The Death in their own bodies and avoid the places that are still dangerous."

As Hiero returned the guards' salute, reining Klootz to a walk, he reflected that there was no point in telling his companion that he too could avoid such places of peril by the same methods. Idly, he mind-probed Amibale, confirming again that the lad had a mind screen as good as his own. The high nobles were often taught the technique in the monastery schools they attended when young, though the practice was falling into disuse, since the church saw no need for it any longer.

Hiero threw him a farewell, then forgot Amibale as he dismounted and headed for his own quarters, his mind burning with this new thought. No need for mental training? And this at a time when the Unclean were putting forth their greatest effort! The rot was deep in D'alwah, deep indeed. A lot of grubbing and wrenching would be needed to tear it out in the face of ignorance and superstition, especially if the mental masters of evil were actively on the scene, as he and Brother Aldo suspected. The Metz priest was still fuming inwardly as he came into his apartment, his expression as he passed the guard in the corridor making that experienced courtier refrain from greeting him.

"Well," his wife said brightly. "We're alone. I could feel a black cloud coming up the stairs; from your face, I see its origin. What has the mighty master of the marvels and mysteries of Metzland found to annoy him this time?"

Hiero smiled in spite of himself as she kissed him. "Call it the murk and mire of maleficent, monstrous, and malign motivations. Allied," he added, drawing breath, "to the marble-brained moronity and mind-bending muddleheadedness of your—" Here, a small palm covered his lips.

"I know, I don't even have to guess. The stupidity of the local church, the decay of moral fiber among the priesthood and nobility, the unwillingness to face facts and see how the enemy has moved among us. Right on all counts, am I not?"

"On all. And more. But I shouldn't bother you on party night.

It's mid-afternoon already. Is that your party dress?" he asked, visibly admiring the semitransparent white shift which appeared to be her sole garment.

"You idiot! This is a house robe! Party dress indeed! Why did I yoke myself to a barbarian peasant who wouldn't notice if I wore rags instead of proper clothes?"

"Well," Hiero said, "you were hardly wearing even that when I first saw you. One look at all that smooth skin, indecent though it was, and I said to Klootz, 'Klootz, old boy,' I said, 'who needs clothes?' Ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

He dropped into a broad chair and she came and plumped herself into his lap. Sometime later, she sat up and looked serious. "Is there something new bothering you? Have you learned anything today?"

"No." He rose and walked to the narrow window, to stare out over the city, whose noise reached their tower suite in a muted hum, before he answered.

"But I saw a fresh head of one of the river monsters on a spike. Old Jabbrah the guard said that the things are much more numerous and more dangerous in recent years. Could be the Unclean are behind it. Nothing there they couldn't handle in some dirty way or other. That's not the real problem, though, at least not at the moment. What bothers me is the increasing feel that there is something at work right here, under our noses. I even felt suspicious of that young ape Amibale for a second. But there's something going on and I can't find it, despite all I've learned."

"A lot of it is probably nerves, plus having to wear what you think of as silly costumes and be on display all the time. Though," she added, "if you were a local, you wouldn't jib at being suspicious of Amibale. He's a young brat; but after all, he is also next to me in the royal succession, you know. My father has a lot of plans for him, if we can ever get him to grow up a little. Thank goodness, he doesn't take after his mother. The father was a bit dumb—cousin Karimbale, that is. But Fuala—whew!"

"What was her problem?" Hiero asked idly, still staring down over the distant streets. "I mean, she's dead, isn't she? And the father, too?"

"Very," was the dry answer. "A lover, one of many, stabbed her while in the ducal bed. He was pulled between two mad hoppers until he came apart. Lese majeste and all that. Frankly, my father was relieved. She never came to court much. Too many eyes. But I remember her well. God knows, she was really beautiful, but there was something purely evil about her. She spent lots of time off alone somewhere in the forest when she was down south, and she used to take Amibale off with her for weeks at a time with almost no attendants except some scary jungle folk who were her family's personal pets. She may have been just a nasty slut, but I never trusted her, nor did Dad. He always felt she had political ambitions. She really ran the duchy, and that fool of a husband did whatever she said. Some of her punishments for slaves were drastic. No, Fuala was not nice. Amibale is far better off with her dead. If she is dead."

"You just said she was very dead indeed. What kind of a remark was that, may I ask?"

It was Luchare's turn to look away, and Hiero realized with some amusement that she was actually embarrassed.

"More than a few people thought she was a witch, and of course they can't be killed, except in special ways." Luchare turned to look him in the eye. "If you must know, she made my skin crawl. I'm not afraid of very much, but I was terrified of her. Of course she's dead, but she radiated such intensity, along with so much nastiness, all as smooth as ice, that she, well, she still makes me nervous, that's all. Karimbale died a month after she did. They said it was disease," she added with seeming inconsequence.

"Well," her husband said soothingly, "we all have a few people who get our backs up. And speaking of getting backs up, I had better see to that inspection of the guard detachment, or the southern traders' delegation will have theirs up when I'm late to receive them in audience with your father. See you back here at dress-up-and-be-a-fool time."

She threw a pillow at him as he went out the door.

The ball was indeed a thing of splendor and color such as Hiero could never have imagined. The Great Hall was lighted with lanterns and cressets and filled with a thousand fragrances. His azure and gold robes and hood were drab compared with most of the costumes. The king was all in purple and white, with a blaze of great gems. Luchare was sheathed in emerald green, almost without jewels, save for the great bracelet of the tree women flashing on one bare, dark arm; a green half-mask accentuated her lovely face. The priests of the Church Universal attended in their magnificent robes, since this was a state occasion to be blessed. And clad, masked, and jeweled in the colors of the rainbow, the nobility of the realm spun and wheeled to the beat of the drums and horns playing the exotic southern music. The women were no more colorful than the men.

Hiero had little opportunity to do more than gain a general impression. He was leaning against a marble pillar, studying the scene in real wonder, when an upper servant touched his arm.

"Pardon, your Highness, but there is an urgent message. You are wanted in the hall at once. It's from one of your guardsmen, I gather."

Wondering what this might mean, Hiero followed the man, whose face was vaguely familiar. As he left the vast ballroom, he sent a thought to Luchare. She was out in the middle of the floor, apparently being dutifully attentive to some well-connected idiot whose family controlled something important.

A message from some guard, my love, supposed to be urgent. Back soon,

There was a sense of laughter and warm love in her answer. Take your time, but not too long, love. There are five fat ladies you must dance with before you can really leave—all for the honor of the kingdom!

He grinned and followed the man through a door into a small side room off the main hall, his mind still on Luchare. He was suddenly conscious of quick movement to his right, but he had no time to turn. Then the blow struck his head, and his consciousness departed.

2 - A man alone

For a long time, there was no real waking period, but there were impressions—impressions which Hiero knew were real and not the stuff of nightmares.

Faces swam before his blurred vision. There was the face of Joseato peering down at him, while he lay strapped to a bench in some dim room in the rabbit warren of the palace vaults, a place half-glimpsed through pain and the agony of his aching head. The face was no longer that of the harassed functionary, but something older and colder, the eyes gleaming with mockery and triumph. Hiero realized that he had never really seen Joseato's eyes before and cursed himself in some far corner of his mind. Out of the familiar face glared the gaze of the Unclean!

Hiero writhed frantically against the bonds which held him fast. The movement brought another face into view, and horror stilled his struggles. It was the face of Amibale Aeo, and from the young eyes came the same blaze of pure evil, with something else added to it; Amibale was quite mad, the madness mixed with the malign blasphemy which was the essence of the Unclean. Memory flickered across Hiero's tormented mind. She was a witch, the dulled memory said, fighting the constant pain. She took him on trips to the jungle.

He felt a fresh stab in his arm and saw that Joseato held a glass tube capped with a bloody needle aloft.

"We can kill him later," came a harsh whisper. "Not now. The chances are that the princess would know and act. They are sure in the North that he can talk to her mind. But if she feels no death, only silence, that gives us time. They say this kills the mind powers, but they warn us to be wary; he is strange and powerful. He must die, but away—far away. Distance lowers the mind touch. Even he cannot reach over long distances—not yet. He must stay drugged. Then he will be silent until he dies. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes. Quite well." The beardless face grimaced, and the ghastly eyes still shone from the young, unlined face. "I will get him away. Go back to the ball. I will follow shortly. Both of us should not be away. Leave this to me. One of my caravans leaves for the west at dawn and ...."

Then the pain became too great to fight, and Hiero fainted.

During the following hours, he woke at random intervals, sometimes hot, sometimes chilled with unnatural cold. Tightly bound with dirty cloths, he lay in some strange thing that creaked, swayed, and stank. He wondered idly if he were on a ship, but it did not seem important. He tried weakly to use the mind touch, but nothing happened, and he knew without conscious consideration that he had lost it. Just as he had been robbed of his physical freedom, his mental strength had been despoiled. All sense of time and distance seemed lacking, too, and he had no idea of where or when this was. He dimly remembered being fed some vile broth. He dimly knew it was drugged, but he had no power to resist; he swallowed whatever they gave him, half in a coma. The strange, savage faces he glimpsed at times meant no more to him than any other elements of a seemingly endless nightmare. At times it seemed dark, at others light, but that did not seem important.

Then there was a sudden, hideous chorus of shrieks, followed by a wild discordance of meaningless cries, vibrations, and movements. The thing which carried him lurched violently, and a vast weight fell upon him. Some of his wrappings were torn in the convulsive motions of the weight. For seconds, pain shot through his legs. Instinctively, he kicked as hard as he could, some faint surge of adrenaline coming to his aid, and he found himself almost free of the weight. His eyes were covered, and he could see nothing. His hands were bound, but he could loose them ...

Don't loose them! Lie quiet, the inmost voice of his being warned. It is death to move.

He heard quick, almost furtive movements and the sounds of metal scraping and leather creaking. A voice muttered nearby and was answered by another farther off. There was a thudding as of beasts moving fast, then silence. Still he lay motionless, his tired mind intent only on making no sound. Presently, without knowing he had done so, he fell asleep.

When he awakened, he was hungry and thirsty, but not unreasonably so. His legs seemed free, though not his hands, and some cloth binding still covered his eyes. It was an easy matter to pull away the rag with which his eyes had been shrouded, even with bound hands. He gazed about, blinking in the light of the afternoon sun. He was lying in a hollow, under some low, scrubby bushes. Some large object pressed against his face, looming high over him and obscuring his vision. An already strong smell of decomposition informed him that it had been some animal. He was also tangled in a mesh of what seemed to be canvas and leather.

He lay quiet for a bit and listened. There was a light breeze playing through the bush above him, but the only other sound he could hear was a cackling, gabbling noise which came and went, sometimes rising to a squawk, then dying down again. He had no difficulty in identifying the voices of scavenger birds and he realized he must be lying in a place of death.

His mind was clearing rapidly now. He examined his hands. They were not bound with chains or leather thongs, as he had feared, but only with strips of cotton rag. Evidently his captors had feared no serious effort to escape.

It was no trouble to free himself. Then he pulled himself up over the dead beast whose body had sheltered him.

Five dead, gray kaws, the common beast of burden of D'alwah and the far South, lay about a small clearing. He was peering over the corpse of a sixth, and the broken-off shaft of an arrow an inch from his face was sufficient explanation of its death. Four absolutely naked men, their bodies in contorted attitudes, lay mingled with the dead cattle. Everything had been stripped from the dead, save for the battered harness of his own mount—for such he realized it must have been. He had been carried in some kind of crude canvas and leather litter on its broad back.

A flock of small, black vultures with oily, naked heads were tearing at the dead men. They looked up alertly as his head appeared, then took wing to settle in nearby bushes. Nothing else moved, and the only sound was the muted cackle of the scavengers.

Forcing his mind to throw off its dullness, he tried to reason out what must have happened.

The four men, and perhaps others, were taking him somewhere, walking alongside the kaws. They were ambushed, probably at dusk or even at night. His beast had died instantly, almost, but luckily had not fallen quite on top of him. The attackers' hasty search had missed him, sheltered in the wreckage of his litter and almost covered by the kaw's body. The ambushers had been in a hurry, probably afraid of discovery and pursuit, and they had decamped hastily after stripping the dead of everything they could find and use.

Hiero's legs were as long unused as his head, but he staggered to the middle of the clearing. The croaking of the birds had grown louder, but they did not take wing as he surveyed the scene at closer range.

The dead men were unknown to him. He did not like what he saw of them, particularly since he was now sure they had been his late captors or guards. Even allowing for the agonies of death, they were unprepossessing, being small and of a sallow white color. Their long hair was also pale, and they were clean-shaven, with narrow eyes and protuberant jaws. They somehow did not appear to be creatures of daylight. He wondered who they were and where they had been taking him.

Staring at the landscape of thorn scrub about him in the waning afternoon sun, he forced his dormant training to come back to him, despite his spinning head. Slowly at first, he began to search for anything which might be useful. No weapons lay about, though he was sure there had been plenty of them when the attack came. Indeed, nothing lay about except the corpses. Aside from missing him, the attackers had done a most complete job of plunder. Even the arrows had been retrieved, save for the stub buried in his kaw. There was nothing he could use and no clue to either his captors or those who had slain them.

Other than worn leather shorts and sandals in which he found himself dressed, he had absolutely nothing.

He was just beginning to examine the tracks which littered the clearing, finding only the rough marks of booted feet and some hoof prints of kaws, when the carrion birds fell silent, then lifted from the bushes. From, a remote distance to the east, there came the faint note of a questing horn.

Hiero stood frozen. The birds had flown off low over the thorny scrub, not high in a flock, for which he was grateful. He did not know who had sounded that horn, but as far as he was concerned, this empty waste held nothing but foes. And they might have marked the birds rising.

Again the horn sounded, a solitary call. This time it was answered from the south and the north, though both calls were far off and still well to the east of his position. There had been at least four horns, he estimated, well spaced, signaling position and future movement. Someone had been driving in a long line, looking for something. For what, if not for him?

Hardly thinking, his reflexes taking over, aided by years of training, the Metz stooped and seized a dead branch of thorn bush that was covered with small leaves. Quickly he erased all traces of his presence from the dry earth. Then he began to run slowly to the west, keeping to gravel where he could; when that was not possible, he brushed the ground gently to blot his tracks.

He ran for what he estimated was half an hour, maintaining constant awareness of where he trod. Behind him, the horns still called. The distance seemed the same as when he had first heard them, indicating that the pursuit was moving at roughly the same speed as he was.

The sun was now sinking fast ahead of him, and it showed him that the scrub was thinning out. There were more patches of sand and pebble underfoot now, and both the bush and the sparse, wiry grass had almost disappeared. The color of the earth itself had changed from a sandy brown to a bluish gray.

Later, the sound of the horns changed. At least two of them pealed out in short, summoning notes. Hiero knew they had come upon the dead and were signaling a rally. He trudged grimly on. It was agonizing to think that they might be friends, perhaps sent by Luchare to rescue him, but the chances were too small; he had no idea where he was or how far he had come since being kidnapped, but it must be a long way. If he were right, the blueness of the ground and the increasing absence of vegetation meant that he was heading into fresh and unknown dangers. He had seen this thinning scrub far to the north and knew that it portended the approach of a desert. In the latitude of D'alwah, there was only one kind of desert marked on the map—one of the Deserts of The Death.

Soon he knew he was right. The last bushes died away; there before him, glittering with fragments of mica and blue, siliceous sands, stretched the desert, unbroken to the western horizon. Behind him, the horns sounded again with their original, questing notes.

Hiero had no choice of action. Waterless, foodless, and without weapons, he set out into the waste, determined that he would not be taken again. Anything was better than his late captivity.

As night came on, the horns fell silent. But he plodded on and on, his face fixed toward the west. By now, his pace was slow and uneven, and he stumbled at intervals. Once he fell to his knees. Rising took most of his energy.

He limped across a shallow basin and reached a patch of naked rock, where the going was easier than on the soft sand. Here he rested, his breath coming in short gasps. He worked a small pebble over his dry tongue; it was better than nothing, but he needed water badly. His disciplined body could go without food, but he must have water.

He raised his head and surveyed the arid landscape that was revealed by the light of the half-moon. Broad patches of sand stretched south as far as his gaze could reach. To the east, the sands ran to the distant horizon; and the north held more sand, mingled with patches of pebbles and broken rock. But to the west, black spires showed against the stars—perhaps pinnacles of a range or buttresses of a line of low, jagged cliffs.

With a supreme effort, he rose to his feet. If there were any place of safety, those western peaks might hold it. There could be caves or at least crannies in which he could shelter through the heat of the coming day. There might even be sources of water and food, if he were clever enough to find them.

As he braced himself to continue, there came a faint, distant sound out of the south. Hiero listened intently, trying for the hundredth time to focus the powers of his mind for mental search, as he had painstakingly taught himself in the last year. His whole frame tensed with an almost physical effort as he tried to probe the night. At last, he subsided with a silent curse. Whatever had been done to him must have been permanent. He was blind in the use of his mental powers. Somehow, his talents had been stolen from him by drugs, and now he was helpless, without either physical or mental weapons on this plain. He cursed himself again, then rebuked himself. He made the sign of the cross on his naked breast and murmured a brief prayer of remorse. He had forgotten he was a priest and that a priest thanked God for his blessings—such as being alive at all!

He set out for the distant hills at a slow, steady trot, trying to ignore his fatigue and the ever-increasing thirst. As he went, he listened intently. No sound broke the silence, save the shuffle and scrape of his sandals, but he was not to be misled. His ability to probe for the minds of other beings might be gone; but, dormant in his brain, some of the synapses that had guarded him for so long still stirred and flickered, if in a dim and half-useless way. There was evil in the night! He knew it as if it were written in letters of fire on the sands. Someone or something hunted, and, since he had no defenses of any kind, he must find shelter or die in the attempt. He forced himself to plod on, concentrating on simply placing one foot in front of the other. He had no illusions about his present predicament. He was in a place of hideous danger, one from which few of the rare travelers who ventured had ever returned, one of the Deserts of The Death.

Thousands of years in the past, the hell fires of the atom had totally blighted many places. The worst of these still shone with the bale glow of radiation and were utterly lethal. Yet this was not one of those. Like all the Metz of the far North, Hiero had an inbred sensitivity, as well as some tolerance to radiation. He could sense that this was one of the barren patches from which most, if not all, of the killing gamma rays had long since evaporated. That did not mean his peril was less; perhaps it was only longer delayed.

For though no blue witch fires danced upon the sand and broken scree around him, still the area seemed lifeless and waterless. No plants grew, not even lichens, at least not in the stretch he had traversed since the previous dawn. Yet the fading radiation had left its mark in other ways. Strange life had come to be, bred from horrid mutation; all over the world, and in these deserts it was deemed strangest of all. The landscape might appear empty in the wan light but there was life, of a sort. Despite the loss of his mind-search abilities, he could feel it. There was a growing menace which throbbed in his already aching skull. Doggedly, he trudged on, his gaze fixed on the dark towers of rock which rose out of the west to meet him.

Again he paused to catch his breath, but this time went only to one knee, fearful that he would not be able to rise if he squatted. And once more out of the south came the sound. This time it was clearer, a strange, high, wavering noise, as if somehow in the night a monstrous sheep blethered on an impossibly high note. Priest and Killman, soldier and ranger that he was, Hiero felt a finger of ice trace the length of his spine. Whatever made that noise was not something he wanted to meet. Again he crossed himself and then rose and set off once more into the west. He was numb with exhaustion, but he continued on. The cry was surely that of a hunter, and it must be a hunter on his trail. How it had been summoned, whence it had come to place itself on his track, he could not guess. But he knew that it was.

Despite his condition, he kept moving steadily along. When he next looked up, he saw that the hills had risen before him and that slopes and ridges of rock were already rising to the left and right from the drifted sand and erg which had been his companions for so many weary hours. He caught a distant glimpse of a spiky thing jutting from a crevice off to his left and recognized it as some sort of plant, though of a strange and unpleasant kind. Perhaps he could find water after all, if he persisted. On and yet on he went, the last moisture in his body coating him in a crackled film of grit and perspiration.

Behind him, the evil cry quavered out under the sky once more, far louder than when last heard, alien and rife with menace, trailing off into that impossibly high note which almost physically hurt the inner fibers of his being. He did not stop this time, but drew on his last stores of energy to lope over the rising ground to his front.

Had the night been dark, he might have been totally helpless, forced to move at a crawl. But the half-moon showed him that a small canyon sloped up into the higher rock ahead of him, black and menacing, yet a haven of refuge to him. If he could only hold out long enough to get into the hills!

He reached the mouth of the ravine and lurched into it, straining at every muscle. The moonlight entered only in patches, but he could see sufficiently for his needs. The floor under his sandals was shale, worn and slippery, but he managed to keep his feet while he sought on either side for the shadow of a cave or other place of refuge. There was no further sound behind him, but he was not deceived. Whatever followed was close upon him. If he found no hiding place in the next few minutes, he was doomed.

For a second a face filled his mind, the face of a lovely woman, dark and mysterious, with masses of tight curls, soft, full lips, and dark, lustrous eyes. Luchare! Was he to perish alone and lost, never to see her smile again? Frantically, clumsily, he clambered up the narrowing gully, his soldier's gaze never ceasing to search for some place that would at least give him a fighting chance to live. Yet no cranny broke the smooth rock walls, which had now closed in until they were no more than the length of his body away on either hand. In desperation, he looked up and then saw it.

Ahead some small distance, the winding passage bent both upward and to his left. As it did so, a narrow buttress towered up from the southern wall, like a rough and broken turret, narrowing at the top to a tiny platform. But the side of the pinnacle, as it abutted the gorge, was cracked and broken! To a skilled climber, it presented an ascent of no great difficulty. Weary though he was, Hiero felt a thrill of energy course through his veins. In a second he had reached the base of the craglet and had begun his climb, placing his hands and feet swiftly and surely as he swarmed upward.

The spike of crumbling stone was not high, perhaps a little more than five times his own height, and he was soon at the top. With a gasp of effort, he pulled himself up and over the rim and flopped down on the more or less level ledge which crowned it.

But he dared not rest for a second. He did not know what followed, nor its powers, and he knew it was coming hard upon his track. To something which could climb, his new shelter might become a trap of a most terrible kind. His eyes swept the narrow top of the crumbling monolith, and a fierce gleam lit them. At arms' length there lay several massive chunks of broken stone, the products of weather and erosion in the distant past. As quietly as he could, he gathered two of the larger ones close to his chest, trying not to grunt with the effort of his fading strength. Then he sought to relax, while he peered back down the black ravine, watching as steadily as possible for the pursuer he knew to be coming, willing his body to snatch even a few seconds of rest for the ordeal to follow.

And then he heard it. At first it was simply a muffled noise in the silent night, the sound of a heavy movement, then another and another. He was listening to the soft tread of some massive body advancing up the same path he had followed only moments before, a body trying to move as quietly as possible in the hope of coming upon its prey unawares. His eyes narrowed in pure rage. At least he was not taken by surprise. The hunter would learn that a Metz Killman was not to be chivied across the sand like a hunted deer. After days of helplessness, here was something at which he could strike!

Closer and closer came the sounds. Once he heard a faint rattle on the shale, as if a monstrous claw had touched upon a fragment of loose rock. Now he could detect the sounds of breathing, deep and hoarse. And then around a corner below, it came.

Veteran though he was of strange combats, hardened to the monstrous life forms spawned by The Death, Hiero nevertheless drew a deep gulp of air as he stared down at what had been drawn out of the southern wastes to seek his blood.

In the flickering and uncertain moonlight, there appeared a shifting bulk of a strange blue tint, as if the blue poison fires of the great desert had left their awful legacy in the color of this, their spawn. The great tailless trunk, the size of a long-extinct horse, was carried on four massive legs, ending in mighty three-curved hooves which were more like vast talons. The long neck, mottled with the bluish glaze, ended in a head also not unlike that of a horse, but hideous tusks protruded from the blubber lips. And from the great, earless head there rose twin spires of bone, each pointed with a needle spike.

But the most dreadful feature, one which set the monster apart from all normal life, was its eyes. Hollow orbs of lambent flame, they were pupilless and ablaze with cold light. And the man, frozen on his ledge, knew at what he looked.

This was the Death Hart, of which he had read in the ancient records of D'alwah. Far in the remote past, these monsters had been common and had preyed on the scattered humans of the South in packs, emerging from their desert lairs to slaughter and pull down any living meat they could find, ravaging the lands which bordered the desert until the few scattered tribes that lived there had fled in anguish and despair. Not for many lives now had the creatures been seen, and they had become only a matter of awful legend, at least in the minds of men.

As he looked at the slavering jaws, Hiero knew that whatever creature had given rise to this abomination in the lost ages, it was now no eater of grass! Of a size scarcely less than Klootz, this thing was yet a carnivore, designed to rend and tear living flesh, to shatter bone and sinew to feed its incredible maw.

As he stared, his mind racing at the embodied sight of the horrific past come to life before him, it looked up and saw him. Once more, that horrid, yammering call rang through the clear night air, this time in a volume of sheer noise that left the senses numb as it resounded and echoed off the rock walls. Hiero closed his eyes for a second as the vibrations of that frightful call pierced through his body to the very marrow of his bones.

As the echoes of that ghastly cry died into silence, he opened his eyes, just in time to see the demon of the desert hurl itself upward at him, the hideous mouth open to expose both the rows of fangs and the massive tusks set at the corners of the colossal gape. Then it sprang.

Braced though he was for the attack, the Metz priest was still taken by surprise. The enormous haunches had a strength he would not have believed, and the leap carried the great body almost to his own level in one incredible bound. For an awful instant, he stared into the oily light of the brute's eyes from no more than a sword's length away, while its filthy breath spume poured over him in a wave of hot loathsomeness. Then it was gone and he heard a colossal thud as it fell back to the base of the rock.

His heart pounding, Hiero peered over the lip of the monolith, hoping against hope that the atrocity had done itself some injury in that mighty fall, only to see it crouched below, unharmed and glaring upward with the same avid lust. Not by any short slip or fall could that strange body be injured. Hiero remembered that the ancient scrolls had emphasized the invulnerability of the beasts, claiming they could tear down the heavy timbers of village walls like so many jackstraws. This thing would never fail through any efforts of its own. If he were to survive, he must carry the battle to the enemy, hopeless though that might appear.

As he watched, the monster reared up again, but this time slowly, until the great hoof-claws of the forelimbs were stretched to their fullest limits. As the three great talons of each leg clamped into the rock of the cliff, they bit in, the wirelike sinews contracting, crunching in at almost beyond a believable rate. As Hiero stared, aghast, the rock up which he had clambered ground and crumbled. Below, he could hear the terrible rear limbs crush the eroded stone in the same way. The hideous eyes stared up at him, unwinking. Even as he recoiled, the mighty hindquarters drew up. Before his unbelieving stare, the abortion out of vanished memory was actually clinging and grinding its way into the rock. It was a feat almost beyond belief, even after his sight of its capabilities in that initial leap. Next, he knew, the great forearms would extend once more, and this time they would be over the ledge of his shelter! And a remote, still corner of his mind said that would be all!

The dreadful orbs froze his blood as he crouched on the summit. As in a dream, he saw the talons of the right forepaw begin to extend upward for the last time.

He rose to his feet in one lithe, flowing movement and, high above his head, he balanced the bigger of the two chunks of scree which he had hoarded against such a moment. It was a great, jagged thing, barely within his powers to lift.

The monster gaped, the vast, fang-lined jaws open, as it once more drew breath for that appalling sound. The rock came down with all the strength in Hiero's tired body. Between the foam-flecked lips, past the cruel ranks of fang and tusk, it tore with the weight and speed of an avalanche, deep into the yawning gullet, a projectile of both murderous force and certainty. There was a sound as if some incredible axe had bitten into a vast, half-rotted log. A horrid, choked scream welled up, bubbling through ripped tissue and foul blood. Again came the thump of a tremendous fall, and then a flopping, scrabbling noise, punctuated by the thrashing and beating of giant limbs. Then there was silence, and the exhausted man felt a faint breeze stir his hair and the beat of life in his veins.

Slowly and painfully, Hiero inched his way forward once more and looked down at the base of the crag. His gaze was swimming and he knew he could not hold on to consciousness much longer, but one glance was sufficient.

The great bulk which lay below, limp and awful, could certainly never move again. The long neck writhed outward in the last agony, and a black stream of its life's blood trickled and dripped over the ravine's floor from the shattered skull, down into darkness. Hiero's crude weapon had driven deep into the malformed head and had torn into the brain and the seat of the central nervous system. Unused to any opposition from its prey, the beast had succumbed to desperation, courage, and plain gravity.

The man tried to mouth a prayer, but got no further than the word "God." Then he sank back into a drugged exhaustion. It was not true sleep, but the reaction of a totally overstrained mind and body, a sort of trance in which he knew himself to be alive, but was unable to do more than simply breathe. His eyes shut and his body slowly curled into a fetal position, while his brain reeled and spun through emptiness and nullity. Eventually he really slept, his soul adrift in the cosmos.

He awoke suddenly, all senses alert. His body felt as if it were aflame, and his tongue felt like a dry stick as he tried to run it over his cracked and broken lips.

Glancing up, he saw the fiery sun at zenith and knew that he had slept for many long hours. No more than half the night had gone before his encounter with the unholy Death Hart, and now it was once again noon. He felt faint and still utterly weary, but he forced himself to think, though even thought called for an almost physical effort. Water! Water and some cover. He could not survive another day in the appalling heat of this empty waste without liquid and shelter. He had to start at once while some faint energy remained in his flagging muscles, while he could still reason, and even search for help.

A quick look and the simultaneous realization of a noisome stench showed him the bloated carcass of his late enemy sprawled at the base of his refuge; rot had set in with blinding speed. Around the huge corpse, he caught small, flickering movements. Light glinted off lithe bodies as a horde of some scavenging vermin tore and burrowed into the foul meat of that huge decay. Focusing as well as he could and squinting in the desert glare, he could make out pointed heads, glittering green scales, and short legs, as well as the red glitter of many beady eyes. The things seemed to be some vile combination of rat and lizard, well suited to their home and as alien as the dead monster to the rest of life.

Looking about, the Metz selected yet another loose fragment of the rock on which he lay, this one a narrow splinter as long as his forearm, not unlike a crude stalactite. It was not much of a weapon, but it might be enough, should the things below be more than scavengers. In any case, he reminded himself grimly, he had no choice. He had to leave now.

He tucked the crude stone knife in his waist, where a thong supported his ragged leather shorts, and began to climb cautiously down. As he went, he watched the creatures carefully, alert for any signs that they might attack,

He was more than halfway down when they saw him, and then all movement ceased. At least a score of sharp muzzles pointed up, and the red eyes stared unblinkingly, the shimmering bodies frozen, as they watched him descend. Short-legged and no bigger than house cats, there was nevertheless enough of them to menace an exhausted and almost weaponless man. He stared at them for a moment, wondering if the needle claws and fangs he could now see could be poisoned. It would fit with everything else he had seen in this sun-blistered hell. It made no difference. There was still no choice but to go down. He did so, slowly and steadily, one hand ready to snatch the weapon from his side, should it be needed.

For one instant, as his foot touched the rock floor of the gully, he seemed to feel a wave of hate in his mind. Then, like an explosion of greenish light, the creatures were gone, and the stinking, torn bulk of the dead beast was the only other tenant of the place. Hiero leaned against the wall of the spire, limp with reaction. Apparently the things found him as alien as he them, and they had doubts enough about his powers not to challenge them.

Choking in the foetor billowing from the pile of carrion beside him, he set off up the canyon, moving at a walk, which was all he could manage. It was a relief to round the base of the rock at last and move up into cleaner air, but such relief was only momentary. He could die from the terrible sunfire as easily as from the fangs of any beast. The lizard-rats might have the last word in the end.

An hour later, he was again almost at the limit of his strength. He had reached the top of the ravine and found himself on the rim of a low plateau. The top of this mesa ran only a short distance to the north, but its broken, eroded surface stretched as far south as he could see, a brooding emptiness of umber and ebon minerals.

Short and weather-worn peaks rose here and there, and now and again shadows betrayed the presence of pits and cratered openings, as well as those of more jagged coulees and ravines, like that from which he had just emerged. The air was still under the blue vault above, and the heat of the sun burned down like a furnace on the grim and empty wastes.

He looked to the west and saw that the plateau, the worn surface of some ancient range of hills, extended for perhaps a kilometer in front of him. Raising his gaze, he noted that even more naked desert swept from the western edge almost to the horizon, but at the very limit of his sight, there to the southwest, was another faint, dark line. Could this be the end of the barrens and the recommencement of the great southern forest? He sighed. It made little difference, really. He would be helpless in a few hours if he could not find water and shelter.

Hiero looked hard at the foreground and presently noted something which caused his spirits to rise. Some distance off to his right front, there ran a low ridge which made him stare in speculation. It was hazy, wavering to a man's height above the heated stones. There was no breeze, so it could not be either blown sand or dust. If his tired eyes were not playing him false, somewhere over there was moisture!

He set off again at the same patient walk, husbanding the last of his strength. He did not allow himself to hope too much. If moisture it were, it could well be some foul pool of reeking poisons, metallic compounds, and mineral salts, of a type whose very vapor could slay him. That such things were common enough in desert regions he knew from his studies, both in D'alwah and, farther back in time, in the northern Abbeys.

There was, of course, no option save to continue, and this he did. Soon he found himself at the base of the ridge over which the strange thickening of the atmosphere had appeared. The slope was neither very high nor difficult, but he moved with great care. His bones felt so brittle and weak that it was hard to believe that they could support him at all, while the thirst in his body was held off from stark madness only by a last effort of will.

Slowly, he drew himself to the top of the ridge and peered over. A faint thrill of hope came to him as he watched, but he still held his weak body under rigid control.

Below lay a large, rounded pit, or crater, with walls which had once been steep, but which were now gashed and scarred with falls of rubble and seamed with numerous cracks and crevices. The floor of the pit was smooth and sand-covered in places, in others broken and tumbled. Here and there around the edges of the place were the irregular mouths of caves and the shadows of overhangs. And there was life.

Growing in patches and sometimes even dense clumps about the bottom were living plants. They resembled nothing Hiero had ever seen or heard of before, but they seemed to come in several types. There was a maroon and purple thing, like a vast barrel, with long, pendulous fronds drooping from its top and trailing about on the ground below. Another type looked somewhat like a huge starfish, set atop a fleshy, brown stalk. This type grew in clumps, as if distorted and ragged umbrellas were somehow grouped in bunches. Smaller growths, as if of some bristling, spiked grasses of yellowish green, waist-high, sprang from patches of sand. Nowhere was there a hint of movement. Nor was there a sign of water. Save for the strange plants, the natural arena appeared as arid as the rock to which he clung.

But it was there! His trained body, sensitive to many influences unknown by his ancestors, could feel it. His whole system knew there was water somewhere down below. That it was out of sight meant nothing. It was there and it was close, drinkable, lifesaving water!

Once more he swept the pit with his eyes. Worn though he was, the savage training of the Abbey schools still governed him. If there was water here, and he knew there was, and if there was life, even so strange as these plants, then there was danger. In an oasis, near water holes, there lurked the hunters. He glared over the crater floor again, step by step, trying his best to see into the shadows, past the cave openings, and under the ledges. Nothing moved; the place might have been some strange sculpture, the dream of an unknown artist.

He could wait no longer. He moved over a bit to his right, where one of the broken slides of shale reached almost to the rim, and started slowly down it, never taking his vision from the silent pit. As he drew closer to the bottom, he searched even harder for some sign of life other than the enigmatic plants. Surely there must be insects, even in a place as bizarre as this? Yes, there was something! just below him rose a low mound, knee-high, with many small openings into and from which tiny things came and went on incomprehensible errands. The anthill gave him a sense of comfort, the first familiar sight from his own world he had seen since his escape. He watched, entranced, as a column of the little things marched by a few meters distant. He noticed that they seemed to have paths which avoided any of the vegetation by a wide margin, but his wits were now so dazed with tiredness that he simply recorded the fact without drawing any conclusions from it.

Then he drew some conclusions with great rapidity. The edge of the column overran an invisible barrier near one of the solitary purple barrels. The reaction was rapid. The nearest of the trailing fronds whipped up and down like a flail. The intrusive edge of the column was gone. The frond folded itself over, and Hiero saw that an opening had appeared in the top of the barrel plant. The opening sucked, as a child licks its fingers. Then the frond, now cleansed, drooped and once more lay idle and seemingly harmless on the white sand.

Hiero stared hard at the barrel. This one was small, not up to his knee; but farther out in the pit, there were some which towered over his head and were as thick around as an Abbey tun of wine. Once again he turned his gaze on the ants that continued on their business, apparently undisturbed. But he saw now that they avoided all the plants, no matter of what variety, not simply the purple barrels. No doubt they had reason.

He put one foot on the floor of the strange pit, then another. No plants were close. He turned around and then surveyed the place from the ground level. Down here, the heat was not so strong, the air ever so slightly damp. Where is that damned water?

Even the mild blasphemy was enough to make him correct himself. He fell naturally into a kneeling position, arms outthrust, and let the spirit move him as it had in the past. His splayed arms pointed vaguely to the northeast. Rising slowly and carefully, he set out in that direction, carefully steering clear of any plants along the way.

Hiero limped and tottered on, some inner guide keeping him away from the vegetation. He had now reached the point of no return in terms of response, and his subconscious alone saw the quaver of the various things he came near. If a barrel plant shook as he approached or a clump of the spike grass wavered and leaned toward him, he saw it not. Along a mystic line of safety, he weaved between one danger and another, fell sidewise in one place, lurched back in another, but always kept to one direction.

In a moderately short time, he found himself under one of the overhanging cliffs he had noted from the rim. The heat, to a stranger, would have still been terrific. To him, fresh from the glow of the desert sun, it was like stepping out of a furnace into an ice palace. One moment he was in a place of raging heat; the next, he was shaded and cool. The light was dimmed and he found it hard to see. Above him, a great shelf of rock cut off the sunlight and most of the heat. He strove to peer ahead through the dimness and found himself on the edge of a still pool of clear water.

It reached as far as he could see to the left and right and back into the shadows before him. The smooth rock under his sandaled feet felt pleasantly cool. Without further ado, he collapsed on his face, falling with a splash across the margin of the pool.

Some vestige of the training he had spent his life receiving saved him from death. He took one gulp of the water, then turned on his back and allowed the coolness to soak into his skin. A man or woman of less iron will would have died on the spot, drinking to repletion. His background saved him. Something told him, even in extremity, that he was close to death, and he restrained his water-starved body. After a long while, he took another drink, less in size than the first, and after a longer period, another, this one less still. All the while he lay on the rock shelf, barely afloat.

The water tasted slightly acid, but was cool and pure. His body, trained in the detection and rejection of poisons, would have told him, had there been something wrong, even in the last extremity. It was simply water, filtered through strange rock perhaps, but nothing more. The delight of feeling it come through, or appearing to come through, his very skin held him in thrall. He floated in a sea of appreciation, reveling in the idea of wetness.

Eventually, after about the eighth cautious drink, sanity began to return. He suddenly saw the damp roof of the shelf above him and, with a great surge of emotion, realized that he was alive once more and that further plans could be made. Also, he felt a new want, one he had not permitted for a long time. He was hungry.

He took another drink, still measured. He did not want to become waterlogged.

He shot a glance at the roof of the stone above his head and another down at the pool on whose brink he had been lying. This must be a catchment basin, where the rare rains were collected and saved by nature, and where the whole ecosystem combined to create the oasis of the strange little pocket in which he found himself. Or into which he had stumbled. Or, said a side corner of his mind, into which he had been led. He examined this latter idea as calmly as he could and dismissed it. With the loss of his mental abilities, there had come a concomitant reliance on those of the body. He did not believe he could be led anywhere.

Eventually, he had absorbed all the water he could take and began to feel the first traces of a chill. This was enough warning, and he got out of the pool at once. Sitting on the bank—or rather, slope, for it was a very gentle gradient—he stared out at the rock-rimmed little valley which made up the pocket. Evening was coming, and he realized bemusedly that he had been lying in the shallows for most of the afternoon. The warmth of the sun was still strong, however, and he no longer felt any chill, despite the lengthening shadows.

As the dark of evening grew upon the landscape, he watched the strange plants of the crater; and now, refreshed and with his faculties alert, he saw other things. There was a delicate movement among the bushes, almost as if a breath of wind were moving them in the utterly windless air, and he watched them as they put themselves to sleep. The barrel plants tucked their long fronds tightly about themselves like ladies' cloaks, and the spike grasses withdrew into the ground, leaving only horny sheaths of dull brown on the surface, less than one-third of the original length. The starfish plants somehow withdrew into their own stalks, until nothing was left except a thing like a fat stump, devoid of adornment. The whole appearance of the little pocket changed, becoming even more still and silent.

As the long shadows crept across the basin floor before him, he continued watching, utterly motionless, but now from his belt he drew the narrow fragment of rock, hoarded since his descent from the crag far down the outer slope. His ears strained as the swift night of the desert fell like a mantle upon the crater. Soon he heard what he had been hoping to hear.

There were squeaks and scratching noises in the night. Hiero's eyes, trained to the dark, saw small shadows darting here and there across the sands. Close to the rock on which he crouched stood the cone-stump into which a starfish plant had withdrawn. Now something the size of a small dog, with stumpy legs and a dragging tail, waddled around the base of the plant and sat up on its rump. It began to gnaw the plant-thing, its teeth making a grinding noise. Hiero surmised that it would never have dared to do so in the light of day. At night, the metabolism of the plants forced them to withdraw in nocturnal hibernation. Then they could be made into victims.

The animal was hardly more than arm's length away and the priest struck like lightning. There was a crunch as the broad skull cracked, and the body fell before him, barely twitching. Holding it close, he gave it a careful examination. Despite the dim light, for the moon had not yet risen, he could see enough for his purpose.

The creature was not all that ill-looking, actually, though not much like anything he had seen before. In some ways, its pale-furred body rather resembled that of a squat rodent, and it had similar chisel teeth. Its round tail appeared overlong for its body, and he wondered if it might not be prehensile. There were no external ears, and its eyes were small and buried deep in the head.

It seemed clearly mammalian, and the blood which stained its fur smelled no more alien than his own. In short, it was food.

What followed would no doubt appall a person used to life under conditions of civilization. Hiero could either take or leave civilized habits; he had been raised on a frontier of strife and savage warfare, under conditions so bitter that only the toughest survived. When you were hungry, in his lexicon, you ate. What you ate and how depended on what was around. If you had no fire, you ate raw meat.

He got enough of the fur off with his stone pick to sink his strong teeth through the tough hide. It was not easy chewing, but he had eaten worse and no doubt would again, he thought to himself. After a dozen rending bites, he stopped long enough to say a rude grace, then went back to hacking and chewing once more. The stringy meat, rank and strong, went down with no particular difficulty. Any alien element, anything like a poison, would have caused him to regurgitate as soon as his body had detected it. There was nothing, though, and after a while his body felt replete. He wrapped the remnant of the carcass in the scraps of hide he had ripped off and looked about for shelter. He had drunk and he had eaten. Now his overtaxed frame needed rest more than anything else.

His eyes swept the sands and the hillocks of dormant vegetation which dotted the moonlit arena, becoming fixed on one spot off to the right. Several round holes, black circles in the paler rock of the wall, showed in the wan light. Small things still moved and rustled out on the floor of the pit. His killing of the hapless plant eater had passed unnoticed. No doubt other predators existed and fed at night also. He would have to be careful of them, as well. He rose quietly, holding the meat in one hand, his crude weapon poised in the other, and moved off toward the openings he had marked down. In forty meters, the water of the pool came to an end; at the same time, the roof of the vault which shielded it tapered back into the inner slope. He passed quietly out under the stars and the half circle of the risen moon. Still the small night sounds continued without a break around him. The oasis pursued the doubtless ancient tenor of its circumscribed life, unconscious that a new killer had come, one far more dangerous than any ever before encountered.

The killer himself felt weary, but also, despite his fatigue, he had a strange sense of peace. For the first time in days—was it only days?—he had lost the feeling of being hunted, of being the helpless prey of powers and enemies with whom he could not contend. Alone he had fought and conquered the demon of the dark; alone he had found water, food, and shelter. Alone he had survived. His God had not turned away His face, and Hiero was grateful and humble. But deep inside, he felt a thrill of pride. The Abbey training could not make a man, but it could find one; and having done so, it could teach him to help himself. That was what God wanted, as did the Church Universal—for men and women to help themselves, to struggle to the end, never to give up. It was a simple lesson and, like so many simple lessons, not really easy to learn.

He paused by the first of the openings and took a careful look at it. Too shallow, no more than a niche in the stone face. The next was barely a scrape, the third too narrow. The fourth opening, however, was something more useful. An entrance barely large enough to permit passage gave onto a rounded chamber, in which he could crouch or lie down, but was no larger than he needed. Further, a pile of rubble partially filled one end—dead sticks and small stones, with some ancient bone fragments. The place had doubtless been the lair of some creature before, but the former owner was long gone, and not even an odor remained. Hiero hastened to block the entrance with as much of the litter as he could sweep up, and soon only a small opening admitted the night air. The floor of the little cave was sand, and he saved some of the softer twigs and bark fragments, as they appeared to be, for a pillow. He dug holes for his hips and shoulders and curled up to get some badly needed rest. If some creature should menace him, he felt his senses were alert enough now to give him the instant's warning which could mean the difference between life and death. He could do no more.

Though his body relaxed and his sinews loosened for the first time in many hours, sleep did not come. He did not try to force it. Any rest, even with open eyes, was still priceless. If his body was exhausted, his mind and his nervous system apparently were not. So be it. If his mind was awake, he could make use of it. He could afford to neglect no assets at this juncture. He would try once again to regain the skills he had somehow lost in the nightmare of the past few days and nights.

He willed his mind to sweep outward, gently at first, trying to build the once mighty powers he had possessed so short a time before. He was very, very cautious now, trying only to shut his ears to the small life forms which scurried about the basin and, instead, to sense them with his brain, to catch their tiny auras the impulses that distinguished them from not-life, the minute sparks of individuality which made them different each from another.

Supposing he should be able to recapture his vanished ability, or even part of it? Would he also recapture the web of hard-taught defenses? If his unguided thought roamed the night, perhaps partially in use, haltingly effective, could it not lead other minds, other powers, to his present location? And should the Unclean find him once more, the most hated of their foes, how could he protect himself? He had no answer. Yet it must be attempted. He had, once again, no choice.

Eventually, he stopped. The blockage was still intact. He could hear and see, smell and taste, but the years of Abbey training, the genetic ability of the telepath with which he had been endowed at birth, all were gone. So too were the far, far greater powers he had learned on his own during the last year, the strengths which had enabled him to defy and even overthrow certain of the great adepts of the enemy, Masters of the Circles of the Unclean. He could not repress a moan, choking it back in his throat even as it came. Unfair! It was unfair that a man should be reft so, unfair that he could be torn asunder from his greatest weapons, trapped without the force which alone might enable him to go to war! Unfair! Curse the Unclean and their foul science!

With an almost physical effort, he beat back the self-pity. He had lost his mental powers, but not the strength based on moral fiber. Had not Abbot Demero long ago warned of the curse of whining, the sin of believing oneself an object of special care from the Almighty? The thought of the stern old face of his master came into Hiero's mind, and a reluctant smile crossed his sunblackened face. Yes, Reverend Father, he thought, I am a man again.

True, his hard-won mental powers were gone, but in many ways he had been incredibly lucky. Drugged, bound, and helpless, he had yet escaped his enemies. Though no longer telepathic, his brain was clear and he could think and plan ahead. He could reason, puzzle out what had happened to him, and take action for the future—action and revenge. His black eyes narrowed into burning slits. His enemies would pay for this—pay dearly!

Eventually, Hiero slept, his thoughts still and the memories of recent days mercifully forgotten for the time being.

The little hollow went on about the business of the night. The strange plants were dormant, while the small lives about them pursued their own midget dramas of life and death. Once the stars above were blotted out by something large and dark, passing high and far into the north. But the night shielded the hollow, and the man slumbered on, free of distressing dreams.

3 - Summoned—and Followed

A gleam of light, reflected off a piece of shiny rock, glanced into the tiny cave, striking the worn, unshaven face of the silent human. With a faint sigh, Hiero awoke and peered out of his refuge through the screen of rubble he had built up the night before.

The hollow lay under the morning sun as he had first seen it the day before. The strange plants had unfolded again and were soaking up the warm blaze. A few of them looked gnawed, but none seemed seriously injured. At the moment, however, his own needs were paramount. He inspected the remains of last night's dinner with no great longing, but started to tear at the high-smelling flesh. He must have food, and this was all there was available.

His brief meal over, he wrapped the now scanty remains of the animal in its scrap of hide and walked over to the pool to have a long, filling drink. Then, crouched on his haunches, he looked about.

The first thing he noticed was that the remains of the animal had been stripped of any scrap of meat by the foraging ants. But the skin was intact, as were the white bones. He eyed the surrounding rocks. Sharp flakes of stone lay here and there, and he noted some with the greasy sheen and flaked appearance of some flintlike material. He stirred himself and became busy. Less than an hour later by his inner clock, he prepared to leave the oasis, but in far better guise than when he had stumbled into it.

On his head was an odd hat, contrived from the slender bones of the beast, with leaves of some of the small plants woven over them. From his shoulders hung two crude bags made from the same hide, one filled with water from the pool and leaking only a little, the other containing the remains of the meat, some crude bone needles, and a number of sharp pieces of flint. He was clean and had even managed a rough shave with a bit of fat and some sharp shards of flint. Best of all, his bag held a small, heavy pebble of some massive, iron-bearing mineral which he had tested with the flint to form sparks. Should he find suitable fuel, he now had fire!

On the western rim of the strange little bowl, he paused and looked down the gentle slope. He felt an odd pang. When he was lost and helpless, the oasis had succored him. Again, he bowed his head in prayer, then turned and topped the rise, to set off down the gentle slope of the bowl's western edge. He moved at a steady lope. In his right hand was the stone fragment he had picked up where he slew the Death Hart. Now it had a crudely chipped-away grip and looked not unlike a rude sword, though the thing was all point and no edge.

He found himself back in the full glare of the desert heat once more. The light struck off the blue sand and broken black rock of the surface. But there was an encouraging change now. Tufts of scrubby weed, brown and even greenish in hue, sprouted from shaded crevices. Here and there, barrel-shaped cacti had begun to appear. They contained moisture which could be squeezed from the spiny pulp at need. The land was definitely improving. He jogged on while trying once more to draw a rough idea of his present location.

The stars he had seen the previous evening appeared only a little different from those of D'alwah, so he was probably not very much north or south of the palace. But he had come a long way on that damned kaw litter. Joseato's murmur to Amibale was easy to recall. They wanted Hiero far off and deep in drugs before his throat was to be cut! They had known that the shock of his physical death might well reach one as attuned to him as Luchare. The fact of his disappearance would frighten and wound her, but she would retain hope. So again—where was he now?

West. He must have been brought almost due west, to the very borders of the kingdom or beyond. He recalled the maps he had studied of the realm and its borders, then concentrated once more on his memory of last night's stars. He had come somewhat south, he was sure. Not much, perhaps, but enough to throw his directional sense off a bit. Should he turn north now, he would probably find himself in plains of some length. There he might find men, maybe friendly, maybe not. It was too big a risk to take.

Further, he had to assume that Joseato and Amibale, plus whatever Unclean minds gave them orders or advice, were very careful; their meticulous plot proved they could be just that. Would they assume he was dead when the pallid dwarfs who had conducted him west did not report? Those bodies had not been found by the folk who blew the hunting horns. Even now, the enemy might be issuing new orders to track him down, if they had not already done so.

Where would they look for him? Why, toward the North, from which he had come originally and to which he could be expected to return for aid. Unarmed, he dared not go south or east into the waiting nets of the Unclean. He had to go north!

Well, he would return to the North—but not by the route they might be watching. He must strike even farther west, into the country off the map. Then he could turn north, becoming lost to his foes, to reappear when and where they could not expect him.

He was leaving Luchare behind, and his inner soul winced at the thought. She was not dead, he knew, despite his loss of mental strength; they were linked forever and he would know if she were dead, just as she would know if he were to perish. She had Mitrash of the guard and the hidden help of the Eleveners to protect her. She had Klootz, who would obey her when Hiero was not there. She had her royal father, who had been told enough to alert him. The mad young duke and the cunning priest would not find it easy to outwit her.

Trouble was coming to D'alwah—indeed, was already there. As prince and heir, he had tried to rally the southern kingdom against the Unclean peril. He had been interrupted, his plans broken and set aside, if not destroyed. But he was the sole emissary of the Metz Republic in this strange world of the far South. It was his duty to go on, to find new weapons, to keep up the fight. His lost mental powers might be reborn someday, but if not—so be it. Something else, other weapons, would have to do instead. While life lasted, he must go on, ignoring all personal calls in the interest of the greater task the Abbey Fathers and Brother Aldo had laid on him.

All day, under the burning sky, the bronzed figure trotted patiently along. His sharp eyes missed nothing of his surroundings as he ate up the miles. Small, dun-colored birds appeared, peering at him from rocky outcroppings, and the different types of cacti and desert shrubs increased. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the bluish tint was fading from the soil. A colony of little striped rodents chattered at him from an assemblage of holes in a sandy bank, but did not seem really concerned at his passing. Looking back, he could see them return to their own affairs while he was still within easy vision. This was an attitude on the part of the locals that he welcomed; it meant that men were little known in this land and hence not feared.

What he wanted at the moment was anonymity. Each league put behind him took him deeper into country where he would be lost to his foes. There would be time enough later to look for allies. This was a time to hide, to vanish utterly from human knowledge.

As the day drew to a close, he began to look for shelter. Food was no longer a problem. In his pouch, along with the rancid meat, he had a dozen cactus fruits, their needled fuzz carefully rubbed off. There were cacti of a different, smaller sort far to the north in the Kandan woods, and he knew them to be highly nutritious. Further, he had found a hollowed-out nest of some fairly large bird or reptile and had cracked the four hen-sized eggs and gulped them down on the spot. Metz Rovers were past masters at living off the country, and he had no fear of starving, especially since the land before him grew more benign with the waning of the desert. He sensed more life all about him. With the coming of night, there would also appear prowlers. It was a time to seek shelter again. Presently, in the red glow of sunset, he thought he saw what he sought.

An hour later, he felt he could relax, at least as much as anyone could relax in an unknown wilderness. He had found a low hillock of rock with one steep side. Halfway up this face was a shallow ledge, shallow but deep enough in the rock for him to lie down under the small overhang. There was also a little hollow in the ledge itself, well back from the lip. In this cavity, protected from most of the rare desert rains, Hiero found the remains of ancient ashes. The sides of the shelf curled around to enclose him as he sat over his tiny fire, made with a bundle of easily gathered twigs from the dry soil below. Only from the south and very near could his small light have been seen. The smear of ash looked incredibly old, made from fires created Heaven only knew how far back in time.

As he stirred his tiny glow with a twig, Hiero could have posed for the figure of some Apache hunter of the immemorial past, only the black mustache testifying to the mixed ancestry of the Metz. He had finished the meat, now charred into something resembling palatability by the fire, and a half dozen of the sweet and fully ripe red cactus fruits. Half his water, foul from its skin container, was untouched. He did not need it, but it would be saved; nasty as it was, it was still water. Beside him on the rock lay several long, dead cactus branches, their dried spines burned off with care. Thrust into the tiny fire, they would become instant torches, a potent weapon should any wild creature try to clamber up to Hiero's perch and use him for its own repast.

Half-turning his body to gather a few more sticks from the pile behind him, he saw something which he had missed on his first exploration of the ledge. Faintly etched into the rock behind and above his head were pictures, revealed by the glow of the fire striking up at them. They were worn, old beyond reckoning, and he could read little of them. There were stick figures of men and four-legged beasts, though what they were was impossible to say. He felt strangely cheered by this fresh proof that men had used this place, however long ago.

He looked out over the flat landscape before him, stretching out under moon and stars until it was lost in the dimness of the South. The stars burned far and bright. The black of scrub and rock made the shadowed country seem a monochrome illusion, a sharply limned mirror image of the bright world he had traversed under the azure sky of the day.

A howl rang out from the middle distance, to be answered by a chorus of similar yells farther off. From the sounds, the Metz judged the makers to be pack hunters of some size. He hoped they were not on his track, though he had protected himself as well as he could. The calls were not unlike those of the wolves of his own Northland, though higher in pitch, and he smiled reminiscently. Whatever the creatures sought, however, it was not he, and he listened with only part of his attention as the hunt swept away south out of earshot. As the sound died, he allowed his minute fire to do the same, leaving only a bed of glowing coals. He would wake, he knew, at frequent enough intervals to renew it.

Not for the first time, he wondered what lay ahead of him. It was useless to speculate, he knew. His Forty Symbols, the precognition markers he had been trained to use since childhood, and the crystal globe that accompanied them were far back with his other belongings in D'alwah City. Even had they not been, his ability to use them was gone, and they would have been so much useless trash. He would have to face the future as most other humans of this day and age did and take what came as God and His Son sent.

Presently he fell into a light slumber, knowing his senses would awaken him at need. At first his sleep was dreamless. After a while, his fist clenched and his jaw tightened. His slumber remained unbroken and his breath still came evenly. Nothing moved out in the plain below him, save for the ordinary life of the waste places of the earth. No menacing sound broke the silence of the night.

Yet deep in the mind of the warrior, a faint alert flickered. Perhaps not all of his former powers had quite been silenced and suppressed. Some minute synapse had been started up or impinged upon, some blanketed circuit half-alerted. Into his mind came a thought of hills—smoky, purple hills, with mist rising from folded valleys, their rounded tops a mixture of forest and steep meadow. Strange hills, never seen in life, far lower than the mighty Stonies, the great Shining Mountains of his far-off home, but-—hills! He sighed in his sleep and threw one brown arm across his face. In his dream the hills receded, but not altogether. Somewhere deep in his subconscious, their memory lingered. He would see those hills. They were very beautiful.

He awoke before dawn the next day and went hunting. The faint coolness of the desert morning dissipated quickly, and he was warm in a few seconds as he searched for tracks. Soon, under some flat-topped trees, a new sign of better ground, he found a slot, the mark of some dainty, hoofed mammal. The tracks were fresh, and his fine nose could even catch a faint musky warmth where the beast had rubbed itself against a scraggy trunk and left a few brown hairs. He followed cautiously, noting that the animal was not afraid, but lazing along, snatching a mouthful of leaf here and there. The faint breeze blowing came from its direction to him. Soon he saw it moving ahead in the dawn light, a lone antelope of small breed, with lyrate horns and brindle hair.

Now he readied a new weapon, made the day before as he trudged across the scrubland and finished to reasonable perfection before he ate on the ledge he had found. It was a new weapon to him, or rather, for him, one he had only read about in Abbey books. Yet to humanity and throughout history, it was so old that it had no age. Three cords hung from his right hand; at the end of each was a rounded stone, tightly secured to its own cord of leather. The three strips of hide were joined at the base where his hand gripped them.

Suddenly, having stolen as close as he could in safety, he rose from a bush and hurled the device in a whirling motion at the startled animal's legs.

He was amazed at his easy success, but not so much that he did not leap forward and brain the poor brute as it struggled to escape the twisted thongs which held the forelegs fast. His stone spike, reversed, was more than equal to the job. As he began the butchery, he stole more than one respectful glance at the crude bolas which lay beside him on the ground. Nor did he forget to give thanks to God.

Minutes later, he was loping back to his little hill, a full load of meat slung over his shoulder in the beast's own hide. He had buried the remainder to avoid drawing scavengers, though he had little fear of daytime hunters in this remote wilderness.

The Metz priest relighted his small fire and, cutting as much of the meat as he could carry with ease into strips, began to smoke it. Meanwhile, he ate hugely, strength pouring into his wiry frame with each swallow. As he did, he contemplated the two curved, black horns he had dug free from the skull. They weighed little and he had no doubt he would find uses for them as well, though each was no longer than his forearm. Finishing his meal, he packed the meat in a new hide bag, swallowed the last of the murky water, and brushed out traces of his passing as best as he could. He also examined his sandals with care. Though scratched and scuffed, they were still very sound and had no need yet of patching or mending. Soon he was on his way again, threading a path through the bushes and scrub, once more with his face set to the distant West.

For four days the land rolled past him. The bush gave way slowly but surely to denser and taller vegetation, so that, though the terrain was still flat and open, it had now become a prairie interspersed with groves of trees and no longer even semi-desert. Water appeared, first in the form of rare pools, then as shallow, muddy streams, winding here and there in sandy beds. The land was rising too, hardly more than an inch a mile, but steadily and constantly.

Hiero saw no sign whatsoever of any human activity. The camp on the tiny ledge was the only sign that human beings had ever been in the land at all. It was hard to realize the truth of his teachings in the Republic's classrooms and remember that all of this vast country had teemed with people millennia ago—so many people that his whole nation would have been lost and unnoticed among them. Not for the first time, he mused on the mighty past and the awful changes brought by The Death. Whatever its sins thousands of years before, humanity had paid an awful price; the fires of the atom and the scourges of the plagues had exacted a toll beyond conception. And this was what the Unclean wanted restored! He tightened his lips and vowed yet again that he would do whatever was possible to see that they did not succeed.

If human life was absent, animal life was certainly not. The Metz could have eaten at fresh kills three times a day, had he chosen. He could also have served as meat himself, had he not been constantly wary.

Antelope of many kinds now appeared, roaming in vast herds, some so large that he felt it wiser to skirt them. It seemed to be calving time for many varieties, and he had no wish to challenge the forests of horns, either those of the mothers or of the great males who guarded the rim of the herds. There were deer too, and they were in herds as well, though he saw only antlerless bucks at this season.

But there were other beasts totally unfamiliar to him. Some were small, but others were so huge that he gave them the widest berth possible. One gathering of giants recalled the great thing that had blundered through his jungle camp on the journey south, months before. They had great trunks sprouting from their huge brown heads, vast pillarlike legs, and mouths with great, curving, ivory tusks. Along the increasing streams he saw other beasts, smooth-skinned, with heads prolonged into enormous snouts, in bulk no less than the other kind, though with shorter legs. All seemed to be more or less peaceful plant eaters, and he took care to disturb none of them. Once in the distance he saw a group of animals leaping with tremendous bounds of their long hind legs and realized they must be some variety of hopper, perhaps the ancestral type of his lost mount, Segi. He thought sadly of Segi and Klootz, then put the thought behind him. He could not bear to think of Luchare and he needed all his strength of purpose to proceed, knowing that every league took her and her country farther and farther away.

Around and about these thousands of plant eaters, there prowled and lurked the carnivores. Again and again, Hiero had to take to a handy tree and, on one occasion, to fight for his perch on the tree itself. This was when a tawny, catlike beast, as big as he was, followed him into the branches in one flowing bound. A smashing blow with the stone spike, glancing off its flat skull, left it half-stunned and bleeding at the tree's foot. From thence it limped off, snarling, in search of easier prey.

In this encounter he had been lucky, however. Some of the meat eaters were of a bulk far beyond his strength to battle. There was a far larger cat, with a short bobtail and striped spine of black and gold, so huge it could attack all but the most enormous of the herbivores. It had gigantic fangs, protruding well below the lower jaw, and seemed to haunt the watercourses. Hiero grew very wary indeed about drinking and filling his water bag. There were also wolves, big beasts very much like those of the Northland, but lighter and ruddier in color, and a host of smaller, jackal-like hunters as well. These and most of the other killers were, fortunately, nocturnal to a degree; though they made the night ring with their wild screams and roars, by then Hiero was careful to be high in a tree fork, selected well in advance by sunset.

It was true that he could have stopped and made himself better weapons than he now carried, but somehow he did not want to stop at all. Some compulsion, very faint at first and growing only by almost imperceptible degrees, made him want to travel as fast as he could, stopping only when absolutely necessary. He killed such small beasts as were on his line of march and lighted fires only to smoke the barest minimum of parched meat. He had commenced moving more to the south than he had planned, but he seemed to brush the thought aside, when it occurred to him, as being somehow unimportant. Ever so faintly, beyond his blurred abilities to recognize, a control had been set on his movements. Yet it never interfered with day-to-day business, and he was in no other way less alert and ready for what came.

On the sixth day after leaving the hillock where he had seen the ash, he topped a ridge somewhat more lofty than any he had observed in the days before. There, far to the southwest, was a distant line of blue. It could only be hills, and the sight sent a thrill through him. These were the hills of his dream a week back, though he did not consciously recall either them or the dream itself. How beautiful they looked and how desirable! He must go there and see them, must walk their slopes and forested heights. This wish, now imbedded in his mind, was no bar to his ultimate purpose. The fact that he was, in truth, straying away from the line to the west and north he had planned for himself days earlier simply did not register in his conscious thoughts at all. Lightly and delicately, the fisher had laid the lure, and the fish swam forward, unknowing.

The next thing that came to his notice was far different and an entirely practical and down-to-earth matter. He was being followed!

Several times during the day he had felt that something was on his trail. It was now late afternoon again, with the sun hovering over the far lands before him, yet he knew the thing was still there. Twice during the past hours he had noted birds rising in the distance behind him, and the notice had been filed in his memory. He had not seen or heard any other sign of whatever it was, but he sensed its presence still coming. The powers of his mind, the telepathic networks, might be dead, yet he had no doubt. The skills and feelings of a lifelong hunter had not been dulled, and he knew, as an animal knows, that he was being tracked.

He wondered if it were one of the giant wolves. The members of the cat family were not scent hunters; they never had been, and this faculty had not changed since the beginning of time. But there were many other possibilities. He did not discount the chance of something entirely new, some creature he had never seen before. The wilderness of what had once been called North America was full of strange life, as he had only too-good cause to remember.

Still, he was puzzled. Whatever it was did not seem to be moving on at any great pace; indeed, there were times when the feeling that it was there at all grew very faint in his awareness. It was as if the thing had turned aside or simply stopped. Then the feeling would recur with renewed strength, as if what followed had picked up his marks and was advancing again at an increased speed. This dallying was not the hallmark of the wolf or dog family. Could it be another human? He had seen no smoke of any fires, but the thing or person might have lighted as few and as small ones as he had.

He decided there was nothing he could do at present, save to be even more wary and to see that his march stayed closer to useful trees. Whatever, or whoever, was tracking him down would at some point draw near enough for him to get a look, hopefully from some safe position. He continued on his way toward the southwest and the distant hills, but his eyes roved in search of good ambush locations as he went.

That night, secure in the fork of a lofty oak, he spent a good part of the dark hours awake and listening. But the cacophony of the savanna and the teeming night seemed much the same as ever. The howls and shrieks of the hunters and their prey were no different from what they had been for recent nights past. Once a group of the great, trunked giants meandered near his tree, on their way to some water hole, no doubt, and he stayed very still as the vast bulks drifted by. His tree was tall and sturdy, but he had no wish to see what those titanic shoulders could do if aroused. Presently, with soft squeals from their huge calves, each three times the size of the man, the monsters passed on. Long afterward, Hiero roused to a concerted bellowing of fury which, distant though it was, made the earth tremble. He guessed that some carnivore, possibly a great saberfang, had tried for a calf and that he was hearing the herd in response. Otherwise the night was normal, and he slept at last, undisturbed by any other sounds, however furious.

With dawn, he was on his way again toward the hills, one eye cocked for signs of pursuit, the other scanning the route ahead, so that he was never too far from a tall tree or a great termite mound. The latter, some many times steeper than the surrounding bushes, had begun to appear more and more frequently, and they provided useful places of quick safety and good lookout points.

He took position on one of these at noon, pausing both to rest and to eat his frugal meal of dried meat and berries. Much of the lower scrub was full of the latter, and he had found many of them edible and tasty.

A sudden uprush of a flock of birds, calling and piping in alarm, came suddenly from a few meters off, back on the track by which he had come. Laying down his meat carefully, he crouched just below the far side of the termite hill and watched keenly along the line of his previous march. He had no doubt that his mysterious tracker was close upon him and he was determined to get a look. He had a clump of tall trees at his back, picked out well in advance, should the sunbaked anthill prove inadequate as a defense.

Presently he saw some dense bushes move. Something large was pushing slowly through them. His legs tensed, ready to spring into instant flight. The bulk of whatever was advancing seemed formidable.

Then a glint of something bright and flashing caught his eye, and the next moment the thing moved into the open. A grin of mingled joy and pure amazement broke over Hiero's features, and he could hardly restrain himself from yelling aloud.

Hopping sedately toward the mound, as if wanting to gain the shelter of his comfortable stable, came the shape of a giant hopper. On his back was strapped the owner's saddle, stirrup-boots lashed to their girth so as not to swing loose. Various articles of gear hung on the harness as well, also securely fastened in place. Segi had come to seek his master.

There was no mistaking the great brute. Hiero knew his own harness. If more evidence were needed, the sharp point of his beloved spear, once a part of Klootz' saddle in the North, thrust up along the hopper's withers, tied so as not to catch on branches as the animal moved.

Hiero rose and then slid slowly down the face of the mound, calling to the hopper as he came. Segi put one ear back in mild surprise at the sight of the man but seemed in no way disconcerted or inclined to flee. When Hiero came close, he lowered his great head and sniffed the man thoroughly. Satisfied, he raised himself to his full height again and leaned back on his great tail, looking proudly and haughtily about, as if to say, "Well, I've done my job. The rest is up to others."

For a long time, Hiero stood with his face buried in the hopper's great tan shoulder, a prey to raw emotion. That out of the empty wastes such a thing could happen! He had to control himself for a number of minutes. Segi stood patiently, his long ears twitching at flies, but otherwise quite content to wait and see what his owner wanted next.

At length, the man got himself in hand and, patting the great flanks, began to inspect what the hopper had brought him.

First there was the short spear, its broad, steel head and crossbars catching the light, a copy of the medieval boar spears of far-off and forgotten Europe. He freed it from its wrapping and laid it handily by on the ground. Next, also strapped to the saddle, he found something else and again almost whooped with delight. There, leather sheath and all, was the pick of all his weapons, the terrible short sword of the North, the ancient weapon given him at graduation from the Metz Academy. As long as his forearm, curved on one side and straight and edgeless on its back, the bolo of the lost empire gleamed with oily sheen in the sun. The worn badge of the circle with its flaming top and the faded "U.S.A." marks seemed to him a pledge from the past of future victory to come. When he had strapped the shoulder belt on and the heavy weight had settled across his back, hilt ready to his hand over his left shoulder, then indeed did he feel complete.

Spear and sword—yes, here was his dagger, the six-inch, two-edged blade with buckhorn handle—all complete. Next he found a broad leather belt, and then a leather box, heavy though small. His casting pieces and crystal! There were two packs of dried meat, sealed for long journeys. His excitement blazed. He knew who had sent this!

Where was her message? His fingers fumbled as he went over the saddle again like a squirrel going through a pile of nuts. Here was a leather water bottle, a small one, wisely chosen for use on foot and also when mounted. Damn it, where was that message? He knew it was there as well he knew the sender's scent and the feel of her skin!

He forced himself to stop and think finally, while the patient Segi leaned down and snooted at his black hair. Use your head, stupid! Suppose Segi had been killed? Would she leave a note pinned to his right ear for anyone, including the enemy, to read? Think, the way she did for you, you oaf!

Eventually, he found it by sheer patience. It was wrapped in a tiny packet of fine, oiled leather, no bigger than his finger joint and jammed up into the far side of the saddle horn itself.

With trembling fingers, he unwrapped it and, with the sun beating down on his head, began to read. Above him, the hopper's nostrils flared at intervals, picking up the varied smells eddying past in the light breeze. But none seemed to convey any danger, and the towering figure stayed relaxed on his great haunches while his master read and reread the parchment message from his far-off mate.

"My Love," it began, "I know you are not dead. Where you are, what they have done, I know not. The Unclean have done something, somehow. If you are not dead and I cannot reach your mind, they must be the ones. I would have sent this by Klootz, but he is gone. The stablemen said he went mad in the night, rearing and bellowing in his stall. When they tried to calm him, he broke the stall gates as if they were matchwood and fled through the stable yards into the night. Some guards say he tore through the northern gate at the hour before dawn, and he has not been seen since. He may follow you, so be alert. An assassin tried to kill Danyale at the end of the ball. The man has not yet spoken. The king is hurt but will live. My cousin Amibale has vanished also, and none can or will say where. The priest Joseato is missing too. The high priest says he knows nothing. The troops seem loyal, and Mitrash is with me. He says to tell you that he has sent messages. God help you, my love. Segi has my message planted in his simple mind. If he can find you, he will. Come back to me." It was unsigned, save for a single sweeping "L."

Hiero was glad that none but Segi could see him now. Whoever heard of a Metz Senior Killman, the pick of the woodsrunners of the North, with two runnels of water flowing down his sweaty face?

After a while he could see again, and he marveled at the wonder of his wife. Hardly out of girlhood, but what a woman! She had never lost her head for a second. Hiero was not dead, so send a message. Klootz was gone, so send the next best thing, Segi, the pick of hopperdom and a beast who had already learned to know and love him. He shook his head in admiration. He would be willing to bet that she had issued all the right orders to the guards as well and that she and Danyale and the kingdom were in as good a state of defense as could be managed. And she had found the sudden departure of Duke Amibale and the priest suspicious, that too was clear. They would not find it easier to surprise her, even with her mate gone.

Mitrash had sent messages, had he? A good man. The messages had gone to the Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment, Hiero was sure. Even now, a long way off somewhere, Brother Aldo and his fellow councilors might well know what had happened and be moving in their turn. The Metz felt a tremendous sense of relief. Luchare and her father were safe, as safe as anyone these days, and the kingdom was alerted. He had all the help she could send, and now the rest was up to him. Only Klootz's fate puzzled him. Where could the morse have gotten to?

He patted Segi again and talked soothingly to him. The big hopper had really done wonders. Hampered by his saddle and harness, he had come hundreds upon hundreds of leagues, somehow patiently following his vanished master. He looked fine, too, hardly gaunted at all. Despite all that Hiero had been taught about the hopper's capabilities, he was still amazed. Segi must have crossed the dreadful desert, too, going without water for days; and when through it, he had come unflinchingly on, dodging predators, snatching bits of leaf as he hopped, and never ceasing until Hiero was found. How many men, Hiero mused to himself, would have done as much, would have persevered into an unknown wilderness out of pure affection? Do I, does any man, deserve such devotion?

In a few seconds, he had run up the termite mound and secured his few possessions. In another, he freed the stirrup-boots and mounted. His head behind but on a level with his steed's, he gently urged the hopper on, south and west, their heads pointed into the sunset and at the distant blue line. The calling hills still held Hiero in their grip; unthinking, he urged his strange mount forward to whatever fate lay hidden in their distant folds.

4 - Dark Perils, Dark Counsels

In an underground place, a large screen covered one end of a room. Blue bulbs set in the bleak stone walls shed a pallid light upon a great table of polished black marble. Around the table and under the screen were arranged four black chairs with legs carved into contorted shapes and bearing strange arabesques and flourishes along their broad arms and backs. Pulled away from the head of the table was a fifth chair, larger than the others and more ornate. It alone was unoccupied.

In the four chairs in use sat or lounged four gray-robed men. A stranger entering the room might have thought that he had encountered four offspring of a single birth, so alike were the seated men to one another. All were bald, or with heads and faces so shaven that no hair appeared. All had pale ivory skin. At sight of those faces, a child would have screamed in instant horror. The eyes were dead, gray pools of nothingness, in which there yet glowed a baleful fire. The faces were expressionless, carved in a sickly marble, set in grim lines and yet smooth, seeming ageless and yet old beyond memory. Only the flickering of the awful pairs of eyes to the great screen and back toward each other seemed to betray life, together with the writhing and uncoiling of the long white hands when they rested on the smooth surface of the table. The men's attentions were fixed on the screen, but occasionally one would mutter to another or inscribe some notes on one or another small square of writing material laid before him. The Great Council of the Unclean, those who called themselves the Chosen Masters, was in session.

Though the men appeared identical at first glance, a further look would have discerned differences. Each bore upon the gray of his breast an embroidered symbol, worked in threads of metallic, glittering stuff. Each had a different color, one being red, one yellow, one blue, and the last of all green. None of the colors seemed normal somehow, being oily and iridescent, at once too pale and too dark, changing constantly but always sickly and abhorrent. The livid green of the fourth man's mark seemed the worst of all, a ghastly parody of the fresh and limpid hue of spring in the ordinary world. But that world was what these monsters were sworn to destroy or, as they put it, to bring to order. The symbols were spirals and coils worked into mind-bending twists which the eye could not follow, as if they faded in some impossible way into some other and fouler dimension.

The screen itself was covered with a maze of fine metallic wire which, like the symbols of the robed men, was worked into impossible bendings and anglings, back and forth in a weird pattern which changed by the moment. It contorted itself each instant into something new and even more peculiar. Here and there on the wires glowed tiny lights of different colors, like minute bulbs. Yet if they were bulbs, they were as strange as their background, for they also moved, appearing and reappearing at what looked like random, but was not. It was clear that the four could read the board and understand it, as one would read a printed page. None but they and one other could have done so, however. For this was the Great Screen, and all the lore and memory of the Unclean was embedded in it, as were all their plans and contingencies of the future. It would have taken the life of a normal human to learn the basic elements necessary for the interpretation of its easiest and most accessible secrets.

At length, the one who wore the hellish green turned away from the screen and examined his fellows thoughtfully. Just as the one who wore the blue seemed in some indefinable way the youngest, so did the creature of the green seem older than the others, though exactly why, no one could have said.

"I will speak, according to the rules of the Great Council, where no mind can be deemed safe and thoughts cannot be trusted with our deliberations."

It was clear that this was a formula being recited, a formal opening of the meeting. The voice of the speaker was thin yet resonant, toneless and yet vibrant. It was also chill, the timbre gelid and ringing like the slow grinding of ancient glacial ice.

"As the Senior among you, I call on the Lord S'duna, First among the Brotherhood of the Blue Circle. Upon him mainly has fallen the brunt of the most recent events. He and his bear much of the responsibility for them. This is said not in blame, but only is strict accountability. This is also said," he added as S'duna stirred and shrugged, "under orders."

As the others looked up in sudden interest, the green-symboled man touched his brow and inclined his head toward the large and empty chair at the head of the table.

"Yes," he went on, "to me, S'lorn, First of the Green, in my fortress in the South there came in the night, on the One Circuit, a message. The Unknown One, That Which Is Not To Be Named, that which is not, but was and will be, sent a message. Any of us could have received it. Why I was chosen, save for age, I know not, but can perhaps guess." He paused. "I think, and I have spent much thought on this matter as I journeyed, that I received the message to summon the Council because I am the farthest away in the body. My thought, and it is no more, reads thus: In many, many lives of the outer world, we four, or they who taught and preceded us, have seldom found it necessary to meet in the flesh. Now, I think, the matter grows urgent, and thus the importance is stressed that I who live the farthest off should summon us together. The Nameless One, the Chosen of the Chosen, has many secrets. There may be other explanations, but I think mine will suffice." He folded the pale hands in the lap of his robe. "Let the Lord S'duna speak to us and unfold his reading of the recent past."

The Master of the Blue Circle did not flinch. While he was not on trial, still the others were watching and judging. All were equals, the Great Council having been devised to still the ceaseless internecine warfare which had so long crippled the Unclean plans in the past. All were equal, but it was not in the nature of such beings to spare another pain, nor was it the way they had all been taught since birth. The troubles of the recent past had involved S'duna far more than the others. So they would watch, not being hostile, but if there were any sign of weakness, or indecision ...

And then there was the Nameless One, their unknown ruler, who had sent instructions. Could those instructions have to do with the failures of this time, and might they also carry orders on dealing with faulty leadership?

If a shudder ran through the Blue Master's frame, it was not detectable. He began. "First, we had warning that all was not well from the death of S'nerg of the Red Circle. For long, his body was not found, though we knew that he must be dead or somehow taken, for his self-seeker was moving away from us. We loosed followers, mere animals, on the track. They too were slain. That was the second warning, though the death of a high Brother was more than that, surely." No one said anything, no features moved, but the point had been taken. The Blue Circle was not the first to be struck.

"Next, the creature or creatures vanished into the Palood, the great marsh where even we do not go. Yet we alerted something which had dwelt there from time out of mind, a thing we feared and scarcely understood, yet thought could be used for our purposes. And it too was slain." The level voice paused. Another point made.

"Now we began somewhat to worry. The thing or things had entered the area. I control. It or they had managed to pass through the marsh, no mean feat in itself, as all here know. I estimated the track it might take, for it had discovered and destroyed the self-seeker it bore and we could no longer follow it. And, as all know, I trapped it.

"Surprise upon surprise and wonder upon wonder! What had we caught but one of the despised Abbey priests of the soft religion of the past, the cross worshippers. One of the vagabond pack of woodsrunners, half soldier, half hunter, whom they send about on their stupid errands. For allies, it had two animals and a slave girl, the latter seized from savages on the coast as they were about to eat her. And this motley crew was what had shaken the North and frightened our Councils to their depths!" He stared at each of the others in turn, as if weighing his next words before continuing.

"And there I erred, I freely admit. And if the Great Plan has suffered for it since, I accept my full share of responsibility. For I simply could not believe that this very ordinary human, however brave and skilled in the combat of the forests, could be the thing he was. I felt, as did all who studied the matter, that the Abbeys, or perhaps this man alone, had found a secret in a Dead City of the past, something to enhance the mind powers, some machine, perhaps, or even some strange drug. This secret we would extract at leisure on Manoon, the Dead Isle, whence none had ever gone, save at our bidding and direction. We completely ignored the escape of the slave girl and the two animals; let them perish in the wastes, we thought. They meant nothing." His ivory skull wagged slowly as he shook his head.

"Mistake upon mistake, error upon error. The man had inborn or somehow inbred powers locked in his skull, some of which, with training, might have brought him here, into this chamber, my Brothers, even as we. That was the sum of our greatest error—not ( to realize the appalling strength that this seeming woodsrunner, this half priest, masked and kept hidden in the inner part of his mind!" The emphasis, even the passion which had crept into his voice, drew a faint hiss of incredulity from S'lorn, but the older man suppressed it when he saw the expressions of the Masters of the Red and Yellow Circles. For they seemed in total agreement.

"What occurred next, alas, is too well known," S'duna went on. "He escaped. Escaped from the Dead Isle, taking his weapons and slaying still another Brother! A dumb brute, the captain of my Howler pack, sensed the escape on some level we could not and he too was slain, though a doughty fighter trained by me for many years. Now, think on this matter, Brothers, and think hard. We have not yet discovered how or by what powers this was done! All of our science, all of our records, which we thought the entire sum of knowledge here today—all of these tell us nothing useful. Oh, yes, the man used his mind. He slew the Brother with it. That was obvious. But without weapons or machines and hardly even with them, could we do the same? No, you all know we could not.

"What next? More by guesswork than by anything concrete, we traced him again, this stupid priest-assassin, this Per Hiero Desteen, of whom we now know so much. And what occurred this time to the band of ragged wanderers? For he had found the girl and the animals by mind touch, though again we do not know how. What next? This time a whole shipload, one of the very few new ships, driven by the powers of The Death itself, ship, crew, and yet another high Brother, S'carn, third under me in rank and no weak foe, all vanished!" This time his pause was both unstudied and longer. Nor was he taking such trouble to conceal his rage and bafflement. The others listened soberly, their own faces now eager as they digested all the meaning of his words. S'lorn of the Green was as attentive as any.

"We did what we could. We issued as many of the hand-wrought, personal mind screens as we had and warned all those that had dealings with us or were under our control on or near the Inland Sea. We alerted our Brothers of the Yellow Circle to the south. And now, too, I went southward myself. For I was convinced at last of our terrible danger from this man who had such strength that he could throw his mental force about like careless bolts of lightning, Oh, yes, by now I had become thoroughly convinced!

"What follows next is not certain, but we have some clues, painfully assembled and collated. The reading seems thus;

"Somehow, the priest crossed the Inland Sea. During this crossing, he again fought, having a ship and crew under his command, found how and where we know not. He fought a pirate long under our control, slew him in personal combat, and with him a Glith, newest and most powerful of what the enemy call Leemutes, the animal slaves we long have bred as our servants. The pirate crew surrendered. Not even fear of us could break their Sea Law, that to the victor goes the spoil. We have interrogated such as we could catch since and have learned a good deal, but gaining information has been slow and tedious.

"This battle," he said, "caused mental storm. Also, there were self-seekers taken. We detected the area, plotted a course, and again sent one of the new ships, this time from a hidden harbor of the sea, near Neeyana on the south coast. It found the enemy and destroyed his ship, homed in on the self-seekers, the mind screens he had captured and forgotten. But we were too late! We gained nothing but the ashes of the paltry boat. All those aboard escaped into the deep forest, a place we go not and know little of. So now, at last, we know, from, the sea scum we captured later, much we did not and could not know then.

"Listen well, Brothers!" His voice, never pleasant, had become a susurration, a hissing of pure venom. "Eleveners! Into this comes the so-called Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment, our most ancient enemies, the animal and plant lovers, the grubbers in the dirt, the beast minders, the midwives of all that creep and crawl, the adorers of useless life, the pitiers of the weak, the tenders of the helpless and soft! Arrgh! Eleveners!" His rage seemed almost to choke him for a moment, but he mastered himself.

"One of these vermin was on that ship with the priest, his woman, and the two animals. He was seen. An old man, he must have been one of weight in their rotted hierarchy, for he could control the great sea beasts. Mayhap he had something to do with the lost ship in the North.

"I was in Neeyana then and I called upon Brother S'ryath, my fellow and Master of the Yellow Circle here, for aid and counsel. And since I had abandoned direct control to him, I would that he tell of what we devised and what transpired as a result of it."

S'duna leaned back, as if glad to be done with his part. His anger had brought unaccustomed beads of sweat to his pallid brow.

S'ryath, on S'duna's left, hesitated for a moment, as if wondering where to begin or, perhaps, how. But he took up the tale readily enough.

"We tried, S'duna and I, something which should have been done far earlier, if only there had been time, which there had not been." He looked about, as one would do if perceiving a challenge, but he seemed to see none and went on.

"Our thoughts ran thus: Why had the priest been sent, or why was he going to the South, far beyond the borders of his barbarous land? Indeed, had he been sent at all, or was this all his own venturing? We thought not, we two. S'duna had indeed made it plain to me that this was no false alarm but a grave and sudden danger to us and to all the Great Plan. What did he seek, this priest? Remember, we knew nothing of any Eleveners then. That knowledge came much later.

"We assembled such knowledge as we had. This Rover had S'nerg's maps; that we knew or guessed. On those were the locations of many places of the Great Dead, the masters of the world before The Death. Could this creature be in search of one such, for some purpose of his own? It seemed a good chance, and we had little other information. S'duna's spies were ransacking the North and so were those of Brother S'tarn across from me, the Master of the Red Circle. But spies, even such as we have in the North, take time to gather news, and we were and are stretched to the limit. We had to guess and meanwhile assemble forces for any eventuality. This we did at great speed—men, our animal slaves of all kinds, all we had at hand. It was a powerful force, and there were a half-dozen Brothers in command. And then we had a message, though undesigned by the sender!

"On the eastern edge of the great wood, this priest and his pack used their minds, having some apparent struggle with the strange life of that area. We knew that grim things laired there, bred by the atom and yet not of us. It was an unknown place to us, save for dark rumor. Many had disappeared in that country without trace, both of us and of the ordinary human scum, traders and such.

"We studied our maps, and there was a pre-Death site there, one, moreover, with an entrance marked, one we ourselves could open. It was but one of many marked for future research. We have hundreds of such, some being treasure troves, but most are useless. This is all well known." He looked about again, an expression of defiance on his face, the control slipping as he tried to justify what came next.

"No, S'duna and I did not accompany the army. Perhaps we should have done so, in the light of hindsight. I do not apologize, though. Why do we breed and train servants and inferiors, if not for such tasks? I ask if any here question our courage, before I continue." Seeing no disposition to do as he asked on any of the other faces, he continued, his voice lowered as if in involuntary awe.

"There was a destruction brought upon the army such as we have never seen or dreamed of in our entire history. We received messages from our Brothers of the Robe, mind messages, that they had found the place, just as the maps showed, and that they would enter. Then—nothing! All mind voices ceased, as they went underground, presumably. And there fell a great silence, one still unbroken.

"Many days later, one of our scouts, reconnoitering with all caution, found a vast area of blight and rot, full of foul growth, all of it dying and giving forth a stench which rose to the clouds above. Where the lost cavern of the Mighty Dead had lain was a smoking, tumbled waste, which still gave off heat and reeks of horrid vapor from beneath. Not the atom, not the forces of The Death, for those we can detect, but something else, perhaps older still, some great secret of the ancients, we deem, had been unloosed. And we have learned no more of what befell. My tale ends here." He fell silent and stared at the table.

The silence continued, as if none cared to break it. The sheer magnitude of what they had heard, even though all knew the body of it in advance, seemed to have cast a spell. When a voice finally did speak, the actual sound appeared to have no place there.

"But Jean add to the tale, Brothers, and in a way that will give us a new strength." S'lorn of the Green was actually smiling, a nasty rictus of no humor but of immense satisfaction. "Take heart, Brothers, while I unfold news from the South, from my own distant lands. Much of it came to hand only today, from my own trusted messengers. But it makes a pretty picture."

He leaned forward as he spoke, and his long white fingers arched and touched each other upon the cold smoothness of the table.

"We all have been told that the priest arrived in D'alwah, throwing years of patient work by our minions and allies into confusion. For lo, as we could never have guessed, the ragged slave woman this woods rat had found in the distant North was the lost princess, daughter of D'alwah's stupid king, one thought by us to be dead in the jungle long ago. The priest knew this, nurtured her, and finally married her by their absurd rites. Thus in one incredible stroke, he had himself made the de facto ruler of the kingdom.

"I had ascribed much of this creature's past success to sheer luck and, I honestly confess it, to complaisance and bad planning in the North." He looked around, meeting every eye firmly before going on. "I offer my profound apologies to any here who may have thought me somewhat disdainful of their efforts in the past. This stroke of genius, this mating with the seat of power, changed my views of Per Desteen overnight. If he was a mere Abbey servant— and I know little of them, save what is passed to me from your realms—who and what are they in turn? Yet if, as I suspected, he was a strange mutant, a spontaneous appearance, as it were, unplanned and unplanning, then some opportunity might present itself.

"I too took counsel and devised a plan. We have powerful allies in that kingdom, even among what they call royal blood, and their strange church is rotted with our servants, who are deep in its secrets. A new drug was under experiment in our hidden centers, a drug which kills the mind powers, even of the most powerful. We have experimented on such." That the experiments probably had involved the death of at least one Brother of the Order who had merited Slorn's displeasure seemed obvious to all there. It meant nothing to them. Thus was power attained and kept.

"I met with our allies far from their city," S'lorn went on. "For I allowed no mind work near this priest creature at all. I wanted him to find nothing to suspect, and that is what he found—nothing!

"Now listen to this good cheer, Brothers. Today I have the following to tell. Per Hiero Desteen—this prince of D'alwah, this titan who has so shaken our great Order—is dead!"

There was at least one gasp. It did not come from S'duna of the Blue, whose cold face was unchanged.

"This prince-priest, this vagabond ruffian, this mental giant, was simply struck on the head, drugged with the new drug I spoke of, and spirited far away into the wilderness. He was not killed at once, lest his wife, the royal slut, sense his passing and attack our allies before they were ready. But that is the real and inescapable fact. He is dead, finally, totally, completely dead. He is gone from the gaming board, Brothers, and we can once again plan as in the past, this random and ruinous factor forever disposed of!"

This time the silence was not brief. The purring voice of S'duna cut in, and there was no pleasure in it, only coldness.

"Before we rejoice, Elder Brother, I, the youngest of you, but nevertheless the one who knows this man best, indeed the only one of us ever to see him and live, have some small questions. Who saw the body? Yes, and also, how and where was he slain? Do your allies have the body in their possession? And if so, what was done with it? When I hear answers to these humble questions, I too shall perhaps rejoice."

A faint hint of red colored the pale cheeks of the Green Master. It was obvious that S'lorn was both angry and unaccustomed to be so taken to task. There was a noticeable rasp as he answered.

"Our chief ally in the kingdom was trained under me as a child. He sent the drugged priest under guard far to the west, by hidden paths known to none but himself. He sent trusted men, childhood servants, in two parties. This proved wise. For the second party found the bodies of the first. All, I repeat, all were reported dead and still warm. I see no reason to doubt any of this. Who slew them all is not known, but is thought to be local outlaws who haunt the western marshes. Are you answered?"

"Yes," S'duna said slowly, "I am answered. But I warn all here, with due respect to yourself, Eldest Brother, that this man is very hard to kill. I would a Brother, and a high one at that, had seen the corpse. I shall be honest, if nothing more. I like it not. Yet I may be wrong, and none hopes this more than I. That, at least, you may believe."

"Should it prove in error, then I will answer for it," the other snapped, annoyed by the doubt thrown on his triumph. "But we have wasted far too long on this matter already. The fact that the priest was what he was and did what he did is part of a much larger scheme. We have an organization, Brothers, now plotting against us, moving actively to challenge us, who have always been unknown to our enemies. Seldom even has an enemy ever glimpsed a Brother and lived to speak of it in the past. None knew of us, save the Eleveners, curse them, and them we scorned. Their creed of nurturing all life, of harming nothing—that, we thought, was sufficient protection from their lurking and prying. Let them skulk about, we thought, until the Great Plan comes to pass, and then let them be swept away, along with all the other vermin of no use to us!

"But now ..." His voice hardened. "What do we learn? At least in part, they have abandoned their foolishness at last. They are actively helping our foes. And this is bad, could not be worse. They know much of us, and only the fact that they were passive and stupid held our hand in the past, for they have studied us a long time, longer maybe than we know. Their mere knowledge, imparted to others more prone to violence, could be a deadly weapon against us." He paused, then went on.

"The priest is dead. But what sent him is not. He came from the North, from your Abbeys that were thought under control, Brothers. Two states of the North, both under Abbey rule or guidance— the Metz Republic to the west and the League of Otwah in the east —are the source of this one deadly troublemaker. Whence came he and—more to the point—are there more like him? We must plan quickly. This peril must be crushed at its roots—at once! It is for this, I know in my inner being, that I was told to summon this Council."

The other three leaned forward and listened as he began to expound his plan.

In another place, far from the dark and gloomy tunnels of the Unclean, stood a grove of mighty pines or related conifers. Of vast size, their immense boles were stained with lichen and hoary with age. In the heart of the grove lay a ring, bare to the rising moon and padded with many layers of fallen needles. Nothing grew in the ring, though the bed of needles was always fresh and clean.

No sound broke the silence of the night, save for the faraway hooting of a hunting owl and the sough of the soft wind in the lofty branches. Yet the glade was not empty. Here, too, there was a meeting. Shadowy, ursine shapes lay about the ring, only their glowing eyes proclaiming life. Great, furry sides heaved as the bear people kept their attention on the smaller figure of Gorm in the center.

Deep thoughts moved through mental circuits that others in the wild could not follow. Patiently, these Wise Ones of their people studied the new information brought to them. They had long remained hidden from the other sentient races of the world. Now they were not to be hurried in any decision which might affect their future.

The night passed slowly as thoughts moved from one reflective mind to another. The moon waned. After a time, it vanished behind a large drift of cloud. When the white light illumined the clearing once again, the smaller figure of Gorm was gone from the center, but the outer ring of bodies remained, fur-covered sides heaving gently.

A still pool lay deep in the jungle, as far from the tunnels of the Unclean or the grove of the bear people as those places were from each other. Here the trees which arched over the brown water were of such size as to make the great conifers look like saplings by comparison. Their incredible branches did not start to leave the main trunks until they were almost out of sight from the ground below. Vast cables of liana and veritable forests of parasitic plants clung to the towering sides of the giant trees. In the noon warmth, insects buzzed busily and bird calls rang out.

From down a well-trodden game trail, a great, black beast came quietly to the pool. He paused and surveyed the surroundings, his wide, flaring nostrils testing the air. Upon one shining haunch lay the still-bleeding marks of some savage claw. The mighty palmate antlers which crowned his huge head were stained and smeared with caked blood. Yet he did not look fearful in any way, only alert.

Eventually, he decided that the area was safe and slowly slid into the small pool until only his head protruded, the eyes always watching, the huge ears and blubber lips twitching at the slightest sound.

At length, with antlers and hide now clean and glistening, Klootz heaved his bulk from the far bank of the pool where the game trail continued on. As silently as he had come, he vanished down it—going north.

Hiero awoke and looked about him, then stretched and yawned. Another day had come. From his tree fork, he could see far over the savanna, his vision obscured only by other clumps of towering trees like his own. With each day of travel, the ground rose, and the trees grew thicker, but there were still wide spaces between them. He could see many drifting herds of game filtering here and there down the lanes. Most were antelope and related beasts which would spend the day in the bush, avoiding both insects and the runners who preyed upon them in the open. Others were returning to the grasslands after a visit to a water hole and a night of peril, the prey of grim hunters who struck them down as they drank.

Hiero leaned down from the branches and gave a low, echoing call. He had scanned the neighborhood and seen no sign of inimical life.

Presently an inquiring head peered over a tall bush; then the great hopper bounded into sight, as perky as if he had spent a night in his straw-filled stall.

The man climbed down and dug the saddle and other gear out of a thicket where he had cached them the evening before. He was always relieved that Segi was still alive when morning came.

"The fact is, my boy," Hiero said, scratching between the long ears as the hopper leaned down and nuzzled him, "you are something of a problem. In fact, I wish you weren't here at all. How's that for gratitude, after all you've done for me, eh?" A long pink tongue swept over his face, and he spluttered and then laughed.

But he was only half-jesting. Segi's safety was something that indeed did worry him, and he could see nothing much that he could do about it. It was all very well for the man to climb into a tree at night, but Segi, bred for the great plains, had no such defense during the dark hours. There was still a good deal of open ground around them, but with each dawn it grew less as they neared the hills. With the encroachment of the forest, it was going to be harder and harder for Segi to look after himself at night, with the wood alive with hungry maws. A hopper's only defense lay in his nose, ears, and huge hind legs. For the last, he needed room, room to leap and dodge, to spring and evade. And this sort of room was becoming increasingly scarce.

All that Hiero could think of was to take off every bit of the harness at evening, so that Segi had at least the total use of his freedom. The Metz hoped with half his mind that each morning would find the animal gone, drawn to his distant home and at least possible safety. Fully girt with saddle and weapons, he had found his way to his master through trackless country alive with predators. He would have had a fair chance, then, with nothing on, of making his way back alive to the distant East.

But Segi would not leave. Whatever Luchare had impressed on his simple mind, allied to plain love for Hiero, was too strong a bond. He had found his man and he proposed to stay with him. No amount of slaps and orders could make him take the trail back. When Hiero crept from the tree one night and, risking his life all the while, tried to steal away, he found the big brute hopping along in his tracks, thereby doubling the risk. It was the last time he tried that maneuver. Had Hiero's mind power been intact, he could have sent the hopper away in an instant. As it was ... He sighed and patted the warm, brown flank absently. He had come to love the big animal a great deal in the last few days. Before, back in D'alwah, Segi had been a cherished and interesting pet, but nothing beyond that. Now there was much more, a deep, mutual affection. It was not the same as it had been with Klootz, of course. Hiero and the great morse had been raised together, and Klootz' mind, after centuries of Abbey breeding, was far superior to Segi's. Indeed, the Abbey men were uncertain just how clever the morses were becoming. As he ate his simple breakfast, Hiero wondered if Klootz were alive. He stilled the thought for Luchare which came next; he had no time for vain regrets.

Some hours later, he reined in Segi and peered under his hand at the heights in the west. They were in a long ride of the forest, and the trees were very tall. Hiero knew without being told that he was coming to a tip of the great jungle again, the forest of the South. The trees around him now, which would have been considered well grown in his northern home, were but the scrub and the outliers of the incredible growth of the real forest, the greatest jungle Earth had ever known. The strange life of the atom fires, spawned by the horrors of The Death, had, among its many effects, the vast increase in bulk of many of the plants. Above all, the great trees of what were now the northern tropics, aided perhaps by what the ancients called the Greenhouse Effect, had reached a size and majesty never known in the planet's past.

And beyond those trees, no more than a good day's march, he thought, there loomed the purple hills. He ached in his bones to be among them, and only his native kindness and good sense restrained him from spurring his mount on at too fast a pace.

Had the Metz even a third of his former powers, he would have known at once that he was being drawn and not acting under his own volition at all, though the thought that had pulled him gently but inexorably to the southwest for days was clever and subtle. But Hiero knew that he had lost all his skills-—the thought reading, the shields, the forelooking, and the sheer force of his once mighty mind—weeks in the past. He had tried, over and over again, to reach out, to listen, somehow, somewhere to detect the presence of another intelligence. Every attempt had met with failure. The foul drug of Joseato's administering had done its work only too well. Mentally he was as blind as a newborn baby, and maybe more so if the baby possessed innate powers.

Being this mentally blind himself, he had the feeling that he was a blank to those outside, as well. He was right, but only in part. The drug had been effective, horribly so. To most of the outer world, and certainly to the Unclean, Hiero was a mental nullity, a blank. Not even Luchare could have detected him. The hopper had followed him by scent, his fine-tuned nose able to pick up the man's tracks even after several days. Dogs, some of them, could do as much.

But there were minds other than the Unclean's, also sprung from The Death. Hiero knew this well, none better. But it had never occurred to him that he might still be reached, be tapped and beckoned on a hitherto unused level of his brain, one which had lain dormant all his life and which he had not, even in the last year, realized was there at all. Yet so it was.

All day he and Segi moved steadily if slowly into the uplands, using great care to avoid dense clumps of foliage and timber. With each mile, this became harder and harder. The land itself was no longer a help but a hindrance. Folds of ground appeared, at first shallow, but then growing deeper and more precipitous. These ravines were no strong barrier at first, but Hiero knew them to be fingers thrust out from the heights ahead, the channels from which the tropic rains rushed down to the plains below.

Many of the ravines had water in their bottoms, though it was the dry season. At nightfall Hiero made camp on the lip of a sizable gorge, down which sped a small river, flowing fast over boulders and beds of gravel. He found a pocket in the stone, well above the river, and this he blocked, after penning Segi in with him, by dragging all the heavy, fallen timber he could find to barricade the entrance, making it at least partially secure. There were trees in abundance all about, but he could not leave the hopper alone on the ground overnight with no defense in this thick country.

Segi did not care for the small enclosure at first and grew restless, but settled down when Hiero lighted a small fire. There was good herbage, and succulent vines grew down the walls of the place. The big beast finally lay down after feeding, to chew his cud.

The moon was not out, but the stars were bright, and Hiero passed much of the night awake, studying the black outline of the hills, which now actually loomed high above him. They were old mountains, he surmised, worn and rounded, not like his great, sharp Stonies, which towered in white-capped chains in the distant Northwest. Forest reached to the tops wherever the soil was dense enough. He had already seen rock faces, though, bare of trees but hung with matted ranks of moss and fern. He could guess that there would be plenty of cliffs as well, making for hard climbing. As he had done for the last few days, he pondered the problem of the poor hopper. How could he make Segi leave him? As long as they were together in this steep, wooded country, the danger to himself was doubled. He had to care for both his mount and himself at all times, for Segi no longer had space to use his limbs in the colossal bounds which were his only defense.

Twice during the night they were disturbed. Once a sharp, feral reek told them of an intruder, and the hopper snorted and crouched away to the back of the little bay, eyes rolling in fear. He made no effort to flee, relying on his master for defense, thereby showing good sense. Had he bucked or struggled, their shelter would have become a nightmare.

Hiero watched from a crouch, weapons at the ready. Presently, with no sound, a great paw, covered with scarlet fur and ending in huge yellow claws, came gently over the log barrier and felt cautiously about for a hold. This, the man decided, was quite far enough!

Scooping a few red-hot coals from the dormant fire with his broad spear blade, Hiero carefully emptied them over the wide, groping paw. There was a second of silence; then the paw was snatched back, and a hideous roar, almost deafening the Metz, crashed in turn over the barricade. It was followed by equally deafening snarls and growls and the crashing of brush and timber as the paw's owner blundered about in pain and rage. While Hiero grinned hugely and the hopper still froze in panic, the noises died away downhill; the creature, whatever it was, sought distance and possibly the river to quench its burns.

For long afterward there was relative peace, and Hiero dozed, like his mount, crouched on his haunches, stirring only to renew the tiny fire at intervals. That the surrounding foothills were full of life needed no further emphasis. The night about them rang with howls and screams, as hunters and hunted fought through the dark hours. Sometimes the sound of great padded feet came from close by, and the man tensed, coming wide awake automatically. But most of the meat eaters seemed deterred by the fire, the barrier of wood, and perhaps the unfamiliar, mingled scent of man and hopper.

It did not pay to relax completely, and Hiero never did. This was just as well, for the next attack was unfamiliar and might have succeeded by its very strangeness.

The Metz had been conscious of an odd sound for quite a while before he grew alert. It was a soft, fluttering noise, like the flapping of a large fan waved with great speed, and seemed to come from out over the gorge to his left. Sometimes it went away and sometimes came quite near, so that the purling of the small river in the depths of the gorge was almost silenced. He only heard the noise when the chorus of the jungle had momentarily died down; but though it vanished at times, it always returned. Segi, if he noticed it at all, paid no attention, but drowsed, eyes half-shut, staring at the fireglow.

In the dark, just before the first coming of dawn, Hiero heard the soft flutter drifting toward their nook once more, and something impelled him to throw a few more sticks on the dying coals.

The sound grew suddenly louder, and the beat of monster wings forced a blast of wind into the little angle in which Hiero and Segi crouched, causing the fire to flare and the man to start to his feet, his gaze widening in amazement and horror.

Poised in the air before him hung a demon's face, great fangs bared below glowing eyes, wrinkled snout, and ears carved as if in oiled leather. A naked body was held aloft by the roaring beat of the vast, leathery wings. The nightmare head alone was the size of a small wine keg.

As the savage jaws snapped at him, Hiero shrank back, his spear raised in defense. Again the thing wavered in at him, the giant fans of its finger wingers flapping the fire into yet brighter flame. The hopper gave a squeal of utter terror at the sight. But this time, the Metz warrior was ready.

His spear licked out in a short, vicious arc. Despite the ability of the giant bat-thing to change direction, the sharp edge cut deep, not in the face, but in one shoulder, where a great wing joined the hideous body. Screaming on an impossibly high note, the haunter of the night winds fell off and away, down into the misty canyon from whence it had flown in the first place. It was all over in seconds, leaving man and mount staring into the void. Then, even as they stared, Hiero saw the first paling in the east. The long night was over.

Limp with relief, yet not losing his grip on his spear, he slowly sank back to his knees. As the sky gradually brightened around him and the volume of noise shrank with the coming of day, he remained there, eyes shut and giving heartfelt thanks to the Almighty for his delivery from the perils of the dark. Crossbarred spear held before him, the priest prayed for the future, not only of himself but of all mankind and of the world of beasts and the untamed beauty of the land. He asked for strength in future trials and aid for his loved ones. At last, his orisons done, he fell asleep with the sun's first rays just touching the cliff above his head.

Segi, all terrors forgotten with the approach of daylight, flicked his ears and reached for a tender weed. He would keep watch.

5 - The Spinner and the Web

When Hiero awoke, his head ached. He did not feel tired, exactly, but a bit sluggish and stiff. He wondered if it was due to the damp; the day was not cold—indeed it was quite hot—but a thin, light rain was falling. It was this which had finally awakened him, though he had slept in the rain, and heavy rain at that, many times before. Perhaps some miasma had risen from the river spray during the night. He enjoyed superb health as a rule. There was little disease in the old sense abroad in the world these days. Some of the ancient places of The Death still harbored plagues of horrid sorts, so the tales said, and all such were sedulously avoided when known to exist. But other than a cold or two and a broken leg, the hardy Metz had never known a day's illness. Still, his head ached!

He shook it angrily, as if to drive the aching away by sheer force. It was not all that bad, just a dull throb, but he was unused to such things and resented it all the more for that reason. He would have to do something, he supposed, if it persisted. That an ache might come from his subconscious as it battled on his behalf with an outside force never occurred to him. In his state of mental stasis, as far as his innate and taught powers were concerned, there was no way it could.

Meanwhile, he fed himself, thinking gloomily about Segi and the hours before as he did. A few more nights like that would put paid to both of them! Segi was strictly diurnal, and though Hiero could travel in the dark, it was a terribly dangerous thing to do in this unknown land. He thought of the flying horror of the night and whistled to himself. Never before had he been attacked from the air, unless he counted the great birds from whom he had saved Luchare. But that had been an artificial situation, the creatures being lured by human torturers to their prey.

That devil bat was under no one's control but its own, of that he was sure. What a place the world was, with things like that in it, unknown until they struck at one!

He eyed the gorge as he saddled Segi, but nothing flew there save some small birds resembling swallows, seeking insects in the drizzle and fog. The chorus of the night had gone too, only an occasional distant howl or roar attesting to the presence of the hungry bellies of their owners as they slunk back to their lairs. Strange birds sang sweetly or called in mocking echoes from the slopes above, the thin patter of the falling water hardly muffling the sound.

Nevertheless, Hiero was very cautious as he dismantled his barricade and led Segi out. But, save for some torn bushes, no trace remained of the brute which had clawed at the barrier. The man mounted, and the big hopper obediently set off down a narrow alley in the towering trees which gave promise of leading to a gentler slope upward.

A long time later, the two were deep in the folds and ravines of the rising hills. Hiero could not have said where he was going and, indeed, seemed to be proceeding at random. His headache had increased, but he paid it no outward attention. Had an observer been there to note what transpired, there would have seemed a strange look in the man's eyes, one of puzzled concentration, as if some thought were being explained. Or imposed.

It was the beast and not the man who was growing uneasy. Long since, the last bird calls had died away behind them. The thin rain no longer fell, but swirls of increasing fog curled about their bodies now, and visibility had dropped to a few yards in front and to the sides. Great moss-covered stones loomed out of the mist at them and then fell away as they passed. The trees had been largely replaced by monstrous arums and broad-leafed plants like vast rhubarbs. Ferns were everywhere, some with trunks many feet thick and with heads far out of sight in the gray mist overhead. The footing was spongy, and the hopper's pads made a flat squelching sound each time his weight hit the damp soil underfoot. His eyes rolled nervously and his long mule ears flickered constantly as he sought for some sound over the drip and plash of the water, the noise of laden rivulets trickling into their path from the surrounding gullies and heights far above.

Even a normal man without Hiero's skills as a woodsman would have been nervous by now, whether or not he possessed any added powers of the mind. But Hiero seemed caught up in a trance. One part of his brain noted absently that they were in the bottom of a deep ravine or canyon which was leading them upward on a slow incline. Yet the fact was simply recorded as having no relevance of any kind. Segi's snorts and fidgets were firmly but gently controlled, and the big beast, trembling yet obedient, went on at the man's behest. His mingled affection and years of constant training mastered his fears and his animal awareness that all was not well.

For some hours more, they went on in this manner. The ground underfoot, or rather the mixture of moss and mud, began to level off. The upward incline ceased and now took, after a while, an equally shallow downturn. The dribbles of water through which they splashed began to run gently in the way that they themselves were going.

The silence was not oppressive. Save for their own breathing, the creak of leather, and the splash of Segi's feet, nothing stirred in the mist about them. Only the lonely fall of water from heights above and the drip from the leaves surrounded them. It was as if they were lost in some strange world of silent fog, some place where active life never came, but which, since the beginning of time, had been given over to the pearl gray of the mists and the silent, watching plants. It did not seem a place that wanted or would endure movement and the bustle of everyday sounds and stirrings. Here there was only the still life of water and plant, moss and stone. Yet they continued, over marsh and boggy stretches, broken by reaches of smooth, wet rock where even the carpets of omnipresent moss could find no rooting. The mist, light in one place and darker in another, curled in ever-thicker coils around them, deadening even the sounds they made, as if trying to blanket them with its own silence.

Presently, Hiero knew, they were to come to a wider place. The pale fog was no thinner, but his inner knowledge was sure, They were no longer in a narrow ravine, but in some opening, a bowl of some sort in the heart of the hills. Here something waited for them, as it had waited for countless others. Here they had been drawn over vast and empty leagues for some purpose by that which ruled this land of mist. All thinking suspended, all purpose stilled, Hiero reined Segi to a halt and looked about him in idle wonder. The mists lifted slowly as he did so, and he saw the water.

Before them, black and smooth, a tarn stretched out of sight until the fog rolled in upon it and hid its farther shores. They were on a low bank, a sort of reef which projected out into the silent water, its basis something firmer than the moss and ooze through which they had come for so long. It was not rock, but mass upon mass of something white and rounded, with here and there a sharp projection rising above the other rotting matter. Stretching out around them as far as they could see was a shore of bones, moss-covered and old, with a few whiter and newer additions. They had come upon a graveyard of a strange and horrible kind.

How many generations, how many lives of the world outside, must have been spent to create that vast and moldering wrack of skeletons, not even the inhabitant of the lake could have said.

There was no discrimination among the relics of the past. Skulls of the giants, with crumbling tusks many yards in length, were piled in heaps, mingled with the slender crania of the hoofed runners on the grass. Savage fangs, half-buried under the lichen and mildew, showed that meat eaters were not exempt. The femurs and hoofs, the occipitals and astragali of hordes of smaller beasts were inextricably entwined through and over the huge ribs and metacarpals of the greatest brutes. From dead eye sockets, the ghosts of reptiles stared in empty equality at the mammals. All of evolution had met in the common fate of their mortality. The only conquerors were the dampness, the mold, and the swirling mist. The only epitaph was silence.

As quiet now as the dead around them, man and hopper waited. Even Segi had stopped his nervous trembling and had lapsed into a cowed stillness. Hiero simply sat, a copper statue on a bronzed steed. The two heads stared before them at the dark lake, seemingly as patient as the hills which held them captive. The mist dripped unregarded from the leather headband of the Metz. He had discarded his now useless hat days before. His dark eyes looked fixedly forward at the water, never wavering, with no emotion stirring in their depths. He was waiting for a summons. Yet when it came, it came so strangely that his body trembled with the shock. For it came in his mind.

Welcome, Two-Legs! You have been a long time upon your journey, as you and yours count time. That which bears you has helped to bring you to me. Leave the animal now. It has served its purpose, or part of its purpose. It has no further use in our dealings together. Follow the shore around to the right and you will be more comfortable. We have much to discuss, we two.

As the voice entered his mind, Hiero became a changed man. Outwardly, he remained what in fact he had been for a long time, a prisoner of his own body, obedient to the will of that which had summoned him. But the strange voice in his brain had alerted all the long-silenced circuits that had been killed by the drug of the Unclean. They were not operating under his control, but they were activated. He could feel all his emotions again, sense the brain of that which addressed him, plan on the future with his full mentality, review the damage done by the drug, and, above all, feel that he was no longer a prisoner in his own skull. Yet he must obey.

He dismounted as he had been told. The hopper remained squatting on his haunches, as immobile as a statue, his great, gentle eyes fixed in a blank stare, as if he were seeing nothing. The man began to walk along the edge of the dark water, picking his way over the slippery masses of the crumbling bones with care. All the while, his brain was still captive, but racing furiously, considering the voice in his mind and the implications thereof.

It was no human voice, this mental alert. In some ways, it was not unlike the House, that amalgam of fungoid intelligence he had slain in the cavern to the north. The resemblance lay in a sense of coldness and of great age. But there it ended. The House had been all furious malignancy, hating and despising all that was not of its own foul nature, determined to swallow the whole world in its sporate growth. This mind was quite different, being as placid as the mountain tarn before him. It was remote, non-caring. It envied and despised nothing, too aloof and withdrawn from the scheme of things for such pettiness. If it had any deep emotions, it hid them well.

While Hiero was considering the voice and trying to sort out the burst of galloping thoughts created by the sudden awakening of his mind, he was still clambering over the moss and lichen-strewn bones. Presently, he came to the end and found himself in a little bay on the shore of the black lake. Over the water, the mist still clung to the damp air, wreaths and swathes of it folding and refolding in gauzy tendrils. The light was growing brighter as the sun once more began to make its appearance, and shades of pearly opalescence colored the fog.

Hiero seated himself on a convenient bank of thick, green moss and stared at a narrow ridge of grayish rock which had become revealed some yards from the shore as the mist cleared a little. The voice had been silent for some minutes now, and his brain registered nothing. Yet he was well aware that his summoner was not gone and also that he could make no move save with permission. Far back down the shore, whence he had just come, he heard the sound of a heavy splash. There was no other sound, and he wondered at the noise. While he sat in silent puzzlement, the voice came again to his mind.

So, Two-Legs, you are at rest. I feel in your mind that you do not hunger, nor do you thirst. Good. Very good. We can have speech with each other.

The strange voice was not speaking in words, but rather in instantaneous images. Moreover, the images were halting and somewhat labored, not at all like the clear mind speech Hiero could use with Gorm, the absent bear, his mutant comrade. It was as if the being had developed little or no skill in what it was doing. It had plenty of ability, but the ability was theoretic, not practiced.

You can speak to me, Two-Legs. Not to anyone else, at least not in this manner. And there is no one to speak to with sounds, as you do with your own sort. Here, in my place, there is none other. You must speak with me or with none.

Hiero tensed as he received this, then attempted to use mind speech. As he did so, he tried to throw up a guard as well, so that whatever addressed him could not read his hidden, innermost thoughts.

Who are you? he sent. What do you want? Why cannot I see you? What is this place?

He could swear he had felt amusement or at least irony from the voice. But there seemed to be no malice, no feeling of evil, directed toward him. Yet he knew the creature was right. He was sending to it alone. His powers had been restored only on this one "channel." Aside from his unseen interlocutor, he was still cut off from the world of the mind.

Many, many questions, came the reply. There is no need for so much at once. But I will try to answer. You will see me in due course. I have my own reasons for waiting. You are most impatient —as are, I guess, all those like you? It ignored its own half question and went on. This is my place, the only place I have ever known. And perhaps ever will. I have brought you here, as I see you perceive, by pulling on your mind slowly at first and then with more power, increasing the pull by degrees. For I could see that your mind was not such as I have ever encountered before. Many wanings and waxings of the moon have come and gone since one of your two-legged kind was brought here. It has been so long that I have lost count. It did not seem important. Very few ever came, and their minds were blind and foolish, unthinking and so full of terror. In the end, when I could not reach them and their minds, I gave them peace. What passed for their brains was full of blood, full of fear, and yet cruel also, in a way that the simple beasts who come are not. So—like these others, they passed.

Hiero was made conscious of the sea of mossy bones. He felt a sudden chill. How long had this invisible presence been here, and was this damp charnel house what it meant by "giving them peace" and "passing"?

But the thing which spoke to him detected his fear at once, and he knew that in his present state no mind screen he erected could bar it from any of his thoughts.

Do not be afraid!' it said with surprising emphasis. You are no use to me if you panic like the other things of your species. I mean you no harm. When I felt the strength of your thoughts, which burned in the atmosphere—for even though your mind is bent and silenced, I can still perceive its lost power—I tried to draw you here. You were very far away, Two-Legs, so far I could barely detect you at all. I had to strain my own senses to the uttermost even to reach you. It exhausted me, the first time such a thing ever happened. And then, when I found your brain, I found it blocked, sealed off from all thought outside, even mine. There was a pause, as if the voice were trying to assemble thought and concepts unused or never used before.

But the ones who shut your mind from the rest of the world—for I see that it was done to you, and not for your benefit—did not know of me. There was a note of actual pride in the message, Hiero noted in turn. The voice had accomplished quite a feat, and it knew it.

I found a small place that the blockage did not cover, a hole, you would think. And into this hole I sent my own thought, calling you to me. It took much energy. I was always hungry. Even now, after just feeding, I am hungry still. I must summon more food before we talk again. You also, Two-Legs, are ready to eat and rest. Go back to where you came from first and get the food that you have brought with you, then return here to eat and rest. Later we can have speech together. Fear nothing. I alone rule here, and no enemy or beast can enter or leave unless I desire it. None has ever left.

There was silence in his mind, Hiero realized. The voice was gone. He thought of the message and shuddered inwardly. "None has ever left." Was this to be his fate as well, trapped by some nameless being in the far mountains, to perish alone and unknown in this lake of fogs, his quest undone, and Luchare and all who loved him never even to know? He crossed himself. If he ever needed the Lord's protection, this was the time. It was not fear or even the loneliness of his plight which unnerved him. Rather, it was the thought that he had surmounted, so much, only to come to this obscure and hopeless end.

Then, as he thought of the past, both recent and more remote, his spirits began to rise. He recalled the thousands of leagues he had come from his home in the North, the successes he had achieved, the foes he had overcome, and, above all, the woman he had saved and won. It was enough. He was still a human, and one bred to battle since youth. A warrior knows when to fight and when to wait upon events. This was a time to wait. The being whose shape he had not seen had not harmed him, only withdrawn somewhere. It had bidden him to eat and rest. Very well, he would do so. Then, refreshed, he would see what came next.

He began to retrace his steps to where he had left Segi entranced, as he had been himself a while back, staring out into the mists. Even with the increase of pallid light and the cessation of the rain, he had the same trouble picking his way over the pavement of bones, cracked, broken, and beslimed.

He saw a brown heap on the foreshore in front of him and decided that Segi was lying down, though the hopper looked curiously fore-shortened through the mist. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that the animal was not there at all. He broke into a run, careless of his footing, and arrived, panting, at the object he had glimpsed so mistakenly. There at his feet lay the saddle and bridle, all complete, with reins, boots, socketed spear, and saddlebags. But of the brave creature who had followed and carried him for so long, there was no trace. The hopper was totally, completely, gone, as if he had doffed his own well-laced and buckled gear and gone for a cooling swim. Over all the gear was a smear of glutinous slime, clear and odorless!

Hiero drew the great sword-knife from his back and whirled to face the black lake. He remembered now the heavy splash he had heard while seating himself in the mossy bay to which he had been directed. He knew now what had caused it!

Damn you! he raged in his mind, sending the signal as savagely as he could. Come and get me! Leave off hiding and skulking wherever you are! Here's someone ready to fight, not a poor, dumb animal that did you no harm! Let's see you fight a man, you foul spawn of whatever! "Come on, I'm waiting for you!"

So enraged was he that he brandished his sword at the lake and shouted the last words aloud. His fury at the sly murder of the helpless Segi—for he was sure that not only was the beast dead but that it had had no chance to defend itself—made him shake with baffled anger.

From the still water there came no reply. No ripples arose on the calm surface; the colored mist, now gray and pearl, now pink and shot with faint golds, swirled as silently as before. The far shore of the tarn remained hidden from view, and nothing moved save for the eternal drip of the trickling droplets from the rocks and leaves, running through the rnoss channels and lichens until they merged with the substrate and entered the lake far below.

Hiero was trembling with silent rage, though he made a strong effort to master himself. He had been gulled with smooth words to take him off guard, while Segi had been dragged, helpless, to some horrid den to serve as a feast for God knew what atrocity. It made him wild. Soon, however, a new mood of cold anger replaced the hot fury. What was done was done. They had been lured here by some power which had boasted that it never let go of its prey. His hapless mount had trusted him to the death—and had followed him to that death. His memory working at full throttle now, Hiero had no trouble remembering how Segi had tried to warn him on the long route up the mountain's throat, checking and snorting in a last attempt to make his master see the peril and take action. But, insensate, befooled, his brain under the spell of what laired here, Hiero had simply urged the poor brute on. And this was the result!

Well, then, he would take the being's advice, just as he had done earlier. He took dried meat and some edible roots from the saddlebags and ate, watching the water while he did so. He did not really expect anything to materialize from the silent mere; it was simply that he knew that what had taken Segi came from there. The shore of bones was enough clue to that without any other evidence. Over the centuries, whatever had spoken to him had collected prey, and it was no accident that the lake was the epicenter of its activity. There was no way he could reach it now, but he could at least be ready when it came again. For it would come, he felt sure.

Arriving at the mossy bank, he selected the driest section with care. In the dying light—for he could feel the sun setting through the cloudy reek—he laid himself down, His spear was across his breasts and his sword to hand. Not that, having overcome his first wrath, he felt material weapons were going to be much use to him. They were a symbol of readiness, nothing more. And the crossbar of the spear, forming a cross with the blade, gave him the added security of his faith. He was suddenly drowsy, though not suspiciously so. He remembered, just before full dark fell, to say his prayers and he silently mentioned the good beast who had served to the end and done his master's bidding to the last.

Out in the dark waters of the lake, something listened to the prayer—something both alien and lonely.

When Hiero awoke, it was mid-morning, according to the built-in clock in his head. The mists were far thinner than yesterday, and he could see the lake shore stretching much farther in both directions. Overhead, the sky was still hidden, but the light that came down was golden with the sun, even though strained through the coiling vapors.

He stretched and yawned, then remembered the previous evening, and once more the anger returned. He drew his knees up, cradling the spear across his arms, and stared malevolently at the water before him, now a silver gray in the glow of the morning. His blast of mental rage received an answer at once.

I have done you a wrong, I perceive, the voice said in his head. I have seen somewhat of your mind as you rested. This I cannot do with the same ease as when you are awake. Yet when your brain was at rest, I saw in the dark hours great anger against me. That I slew the animal that carried you here is a fact. That I knew that this would anger you is not. Somehow, in some way hidden from me, this creature and you were linked. Yet it was not your mate, not of the same kind at all. It was something that bore you as a burden, a matter which cannot have been agreeable to it, though useful to yourself It carried you as a larger animal carries a smaller which sucks its blood. Yet you got no sustenance from it, nothing beyond a slight increase in speed and ease. There was a brief pause, as if the thing were trying to formulate some new thought. At last it said, or sent, I do not understand the cause of your anger, but I will do what I can to make amends if you will explain.

A good deal of Hiero's anger evaporated on the instant, for reasons hard for a non-telepath to understand. He knew at the very moment that he took the message in that whatever spoke to his mind was telling the truth. His mind had been too well schooled over the years, and particularly in the recent past, for him to be mistaken. The invisible being which addressed him was not lying. Everything that it had stated was true in the context of the creature's understanding. It was honestly puzzled. The relationship between man and mount was a complete mystery to it. The old, cool—why did he think of that adjective?—brain which questioned him was quite genuinely baffled. It was seeking an honest answer! He dropped the spear, almost without thinking, and then stood up, his own thoughts all askew.

Then he saw that, by the long rock offshore, the water was moving. The invisible voice had an owner. And, as the voice had promised, the owner was going to reveal itself at last.

A round, shiny surface, dull brown and glistening, broke the surface first. It was the top of an enormous head, several yards across. The eyes came next, large and round, with brown pupils and yellow rims. Above the eyes were two lumps of matter which extended slowly; as they rose, they became long tentacle horns with the same skin as the head. This in turn was smooth and yet grainy, all in mottled shades of brown. There was no nose, and the mouth was only a slit under the chinless head. Ears were also absent.

As the eyes steadily gazed at the fascinated man, the great head rose higher and higher on a smooth, columnar neck. Still the mighty neck rose, and now the head was inclined and looking down at him. The water moved before it as it advanced slowly and majestically. When it reached the rock, the neck lifted farther still, and the thickening of a giant body began to follow. When its body was partly out of the liquid, it stopped and came no farther. Runnels of lake water were pouring from its sides as it finally came to rest.

Now you see me, Two-Legs, with your own eyes and not in fear, as all the others, the countless others of the past, have done.

Hiero stared up at the titan. Whatever its mental powers, which he knew to be great, the colossal thing before him could have smothered a buffer bull like an ant. That its greatest bulk still lay below the surface was obvious. It was simply resting its forepart on the rock so that he could converse with it at ease. There seemed to be no limbs of any sort, unless one counted the two great pseudopods that extended and contracted over the eyes. For a moment there was a pause as the two beings examined each other.

It was the man who sent the next message. It was a somewhat confused one.

Who are you? What are you? The thing you killed was my friend. It trusted me and came here at my bidding, though it did not wish to. Do you know what a friend is? Even as he spoke to the mighty brain before him, he realized that of course he had answered his own last question.

Many, many questions again from the little Two-Legs. Now that Hiero could see the actual possessor of the mental "sound," it seemed to boom and echo in his head, though this was only illusion,

I have never thought of who lam, the giant of the lake went on. I have always been alone. I perceive that if there are many of one kind, then there must be ways of distinguishing. But there are none like me. Call me what you will. I shall know who is meant. It seemed to pause.

As to what I am, I cannot be sure. My memory goes back far, Two-Legs, so far that I had not even begun thinking. Back in the time of my beginning, I could not think, I could only feel! I was, I must have been, as one with the dumb beasts, my food of now, whose bones cover the land.

Hiero wondered how long it must have taken to pile up the countless skeletons he had seen and had stumbled over.

The lake creature caught his thought. Yes, it took long. And longer than you think! For these bones that you have seen are but the latest. The whole shore on which you stand and all around and out of your sight, that too is bone, bone under the moss and the plants. When I began to feed, there was naught here but naked rock!

Hiero stood, silent and awed. How much time had there been, to have allowed the creation of the very shore of the lake from the detritus of this thing!

So much time, it went on, catching his thought again, that I, who have never had the skill or the need to measure time, cannot tell how long. But I can dimly recall something. And that something was fear! Even I, the One, I too have known fear. There was a great light in the sky, and lesser lights passed across it. The earth trembled and the mountains fell. And there came a heat and a burning in the air. And the heat was strange and not of the normal kind, which comes from the sky in quickness when there is a storm. That heat I know well. But this other, this heat of long ago, it made the waters hot in turn. I had to leave the lake and burrow deep under hidden rocks. At last, I dared to come above and seek the light again and the cool waters. Now, all this my body remembers, but not my brain. Do you understand, Two-Legs? It was only then that I thought, "I am. "And I was not as large as you, not then, and I bore something with me, something which grew from me and which I needed for my own defense. Long, long ago that was. And as I learned to find food, for I suddenly needed much more, I discarded that which I bore. I grew too large to carry it. Yet I saved it, for it was all I had to remember the ancient days, the days of fear, when I too trembled as the mountains shook. I have it yet, for I keep it safe in my body. Perhaps this will tell you in turn of my age and the ages gone before.

A ripple seemed to pass down the giant neck. Then there came another and another, almost as if the vast body were somehow stretching. As the Metz watched closely, a bulge appeared—not large, but projecting upward from the mottled brown of the smooth, slimy hide. From the place where the body merged with the water, the bulge traveled upward until it was at a level with Hiero's eyes. Then the skin simply split, and that which had caused the bulge was extruded to the surface. It lay on the great body, gleaming in the soft light filtered down through the mist, a lovely golden snail shell, no bigger than a small melon.

As the priest watched, the skin opened again, and the thing was gone. He could almost have smiled, had he not been struck with such wonder. A snail! This deity of the hills, this titan older than memory, was a snail!

He sobered quickly. Whatever the thing was, whatever it had been, it was certainly not to be despised now. And what had it not seen! Why, it was itself an actual, living child of The Death! For what were the fires and the heat, the passing lights and the shaken mountains, but a living memory of what had destroyed the Earth countless years in the past? Ever since that time, this creature had stayed here in the hills, growing and growing, accumulating wisdom as it grew in size, teaching itself by experience, wondering, studying, groping for knowledge. And always it was alone! What must it have been, that life of millennia, always alone? Hiero's pity was stirred, even as he considered that incredible existence. Here was living proof of the thesis of Brother Aldo and those of his fellow Eleveners that ail life had purpose. But yet what purpose was there to this?

All the while he thought, the great amber eyes, lidless and lashless, stared down, considering him in turn. And the brain of the giant was still logical, its memory of recent events still functioning.

I have tried, Two-Legs, to tell of what I am. I see that you have understood, as I had hoped you might. But there is yet the matter of the animal which bore you on its back. I took it for food. I removed the things it carried, for those I deemed to be of you and necessary to you. Then I drew it into the water. It felt no pain, but fell asleep. And I fed. Thus have I done since I first knew that I was. I meant you no harm, nor do I now. If I could restore the animal to life, I would do so gladly. I wish you contented, Two-Legs, for I did not bring you here to do you harm. I wish speech, the first speech I have ever had with a fellow mind, and that is my sole purpose in trapping you, as in ages past I learned to lure my food hither.

Not without an ache for Segi, Hiero dismissed all thoughts of vengeance. The tragedy of the hopper's death was no one's fault. The mind of the giant mollusc could not lie to him on this, if indeed on any matter. It had no training in lying, anyway. Why should it mask its purposes? The ages it had lived were enough evidence of its statements in themselves. Emotions had been foreign to this being that had lived without companionship for many thousands of years. In all that stretch of lonely time, it had possessed only one thing to keep it from going mad with boredom. This was its desire to gain knowledge of the world outside, to know what else there was to existence besides its lonely mere, lost and forgotten in the far reaches of the hills. A seeker after knowledge all his life, Hiero could not but sympathize with the desire of the titan for new learning. It had not meant harm, but only to bring to itself the brain it sensed for the first time in its history.

He thought rapidly, You tell me that without knowing you slew my beast, who was dear to me in a way that you cannot know. I think I believe you. But in addition to this deed, and I will admit that you were ignorant, you spoke also of repairing the harm that you have done. You may have done more harm than you know, even now. For I am on a mission, a journey. There is great need for haste so that my enemies, the enemies of all that is good, will not achieve what they plan. From this path you have diverted me, for you have drawn me countless leagues from my true path, which lies in the far North. Both this and the death of my hopper stand against you, if your mind is honest.

The reply was instantaneous. I have told you the truth, if truth is what I believe. I have no way of measuring the truth, as you call it, though I perceive that you have and that so do others. Attend, then. The creature paused once more, in what Hiero now knew to be its way of marshaling its thoughts in order. It did not like disorder, this solitary mind! And as he thought this, a name came to his lips almost involuntarily. "Solitaire."

The great, cool voice again reverberated in the endless corridors of his mind. So—you have given me a name in your sounds! I, who have never had or needed a name, accept it. Solitaire! To the man's continued amazement, the actual letters of the word were formed, in good Metz writing, in his brain! The titan was still sending a message, however.

I have learned much, so much from your mind already! I took such knowledge as your brain would release easily while you slept. I feel—and that is new in itself—that you understand what this means to me. I have new thoughts, new concepts, thousands of them!

The burst of enthusiasm was almost like the shout of a giant in the man's head.

Now listen to what I have found out while you lay in sleep. Hiero. Again, the actual name floated in formed letters in the astonished human head. But the thought went on, unheeding his marvel. There is a risk, but I think a small one. With much to gain for you, if you are willing to make the attempt. If you have the strength and will continue to trust me, to believe I mean no harm but only that which is to your benefit, then perhaps, but not certainly, for I do not know all that I should, lean help your mind.

The Metz was seated again, comfortably lounging back on a mound of deep moss while he stared up into the soup-bowl eyes looming over him. But his brain was racing as soon as the last statement registered.

Help my mind? His black eyes flickered away, out over the vapors of the lake and then back again. My mind, if you mean my powers of thought, my ability to see far off, to communicate with others, is dead. My enemies killed the power with a drug. This is the main reason I am a fugitive in this wilderness and not leading my people in more open battle. And, Solitaire, you yourself have told me that you found only one small gap, with much effort, by which you could reach my thoughts. What, exactly, do you mean?

The great, calm voice was reassuring. I mean this, my— There was an almost shy hesitation—:friend. In the endless time since what you call The Death, the terrible fires that your folk once loosed—for I know now that it was you, small and feeble though you seem.—I have had much time to learn. I did not simply draw the lower animals to me for food, though at first that was the only reason. I did other things with them, as I did also with the plants.

Your name for what I did is—study! And once more the fiery letters formed.

With your bones inside and your hot blood, your furry coat and your quick movements, you are not so unlike the beast which carried you. Yes, and the hordes of others which have come before. I have looked into their minds, Hiero, and I have learned much. I can do things you have not seen as yet, things with my own body, things I have taught myself. For when I began to grow in size, my mind was not so strong. When the fires stopped and life returned to the hills, there came many great beasts as well, some no doubt quickened to new life, even as I. I was not alone in the heart of the hills then! There came things then which hungered also for food, even as when I was small and bore my only defense upon my back. I had to hide often then, so far back in time! But I studied my own body and I learned a great truth concerning that body. I learned that such as I can mold the basic units of life, what you call cells! Yes! Even as the smallest and lowest of the tiny things that swarm in the waters about me, so too can I!

Riveted to his seat, Hiero watched what followed in new wonder. That such things were possible was beyond his dreams.

From the mighty neck, if Solitaire possessed a true neck, there began yet another bulge, such as had heralded the shell. But this one was much larger. It continued to grow and reach, as thick at the base as a great tree. Soon the huge tentacle or pseudopod was as long as the trunk of such a tree. It waved in the air above the man's head, its end a tapered point no bigger than his hand, dripping cool water on him as it did so. Then, with a movement that took his literal breath away, it swept down.

He felt a cold circle about his waist, and the next moment he was high in the air, suspended in front of the great, round head and only inches away from it. Before he had time to draw in fresh air, he had been lowered with the same lightning speed and replaced on his moss bed, while again the colossal limb waved back and forth overhead. The pressure had been as gentle as a lover's embrace.

Next the incredible "arm" shot off down the shore whence he had come, so short a time before. In a split second, it was back, but now in its serpent grasp was the yellowed skull of some long-dead beast, three times Hiero's size. With a casual flick, it released the thing as if from some enormous catapult. Moments later, from far beyond the range of Hiero's vision, there came back the echo of a great splash. The voice of Solitaire rumbled in the man's mind, and this time there was no doubt about it—there was humor in it, and satisfaction, too.

Even if the great beasts could resist my mind now, Hiero, I have a few other ways of keeping myself from being eaten! Now pay yet more attention to what I show you.

The mighty, brown pseudopod came gently down. It stopped no more than a foot from the bronzed, aquiline nose. Then slowly the tip began to narrow and grow smaller and smaller, even more slender and pointed. Soon it was needle-tipped, finer than the smallest surgeon's probe the Metz had ever seen. This was not the end of its marvels, however.

When it had become so thin that Hiero could barely define it with his eyes, it moved closer to his face, so close that his quickened breath could have warmed the end. From the bare tip now sprouted wirelike tendrils, so fine in texture that the man had to squint to focus on them. They waved before his eyes, so ethereal it was hard to be sure he was seeing them at all. Each one had independent movement, though; each one was under the control of its colossal owner, as much as the sensitive horns or any other part of the titanic mollusc body. A wild idea began to form in Hiero's mind, an idea so impossible that he tried to dismiss it before it could take full shape. The mighty message in his brain told him that he was wrong to do so.

Yes. You have grasped what I propose. Far back over the lost years, I made these from my own body. I, who have no hands, no limbs such as yours, must perforce grow my own! It took many of your lives, Hiero, so many that I will not weary you with the account. Bit by bit, effort by effort, I learned to use these tools, fashioned from my own flesh. Look again, now!

The threadlike tendrils seemed to vanish. But where they had danced, there was still a faint haze, something the eye could not quite catch, a flicker almost at the bare edge of visibility.

You cannot see them now, or perhaps you can just do so. But they are still there, still under my command, made so small that there is almost nothing, save the very smoothest and hardest of stones, that they cannot pass into.

Hiero waited for what he now knew was coming.

Through the small, ever-so-small openings in your body, those of what you call your skin, through the bone underneath as well, these can easily go. With your consent, Hiero, my first friend, my first mind partner, I will go into your mind with these! I will study what has been done to you by your enemies. And perhaps, though I cannot be sure, I can do something to right this terrible desecration.

Hiero sensed something new in the mind of this strange ally, something he had not noted before. It was anger, pure and simple. The calm, vast brain of the great mutant was infuriated that anyone could tamper with the mind! This was the ultimate outrage! In all the countless centuries it had devoted to pure thought, waiting and hoping for another mentality to contact, it had never imagined such a thing as possible. Why should I? But now it knew such things not only were possible but were done. It was as close to fury as it could be, and the Metz warmed to his newfound friend.

You make an extraordinary offer, Solitaire, he sent. Had I not seen what you are capable of, I should never have dreamed such abilities could exist in the world. But, he added cautiously, I have a few questions to ask. I do not any longer doubt your good will toward me. But can you be sure that what you do will not harm me further? Better, far better to be blind as I am, with at least the physical senses of an animal, than to endure a fate of mindless, total idiocy!

The response was encouraging. lean be sure. Even with my long practice, I may not be able to repair the hurt. But you will be no less than you are at this moment. Thai I—promise! Solitaire wrote the word in Hiero's mind, seemingly intrigued by its implications. What are your other doubts? You had questions.

Have you no conditions of your own? the man replied. You brought me here, after all, to gain knowledge. Surely you have other demands?

The mind speech was now innocently eager, if such a word could be used about any of Solitaire's mental processes. I have no demands, no conditions. Some requests I have, but only if you choose. I too have a few questions. If you would answer those, I would be more than repaid!

I certainly can answer a few questions, Hiero thought. If that's all, go ahead and ask them. I'll do my best to give you honest answers, although I hope the questions are not too hard. What are they?

I would know all about your human affections, came the reply. Also, the complete history of your race, its physical and mental accomplishments and, above all, its past. I would know of your own mental abilities and how they came upon you. I would learn of the other minds with which you have spoken, both of your kind and others, those that have grown like my own since the coming of The Death. Then there is The Death itself and its workings and how it came. Next there are the wars of your people and the one in which you are engaged now. I would learn also of your enemies, those you call the Unclean, and of your allies in those places whence you came. What else you can think of that I have not mentioned, I should like to learn as well. And then, too, I must learn whatever you know of the most important question of all.

The stunned human rallied at this last point, long enough to interject a question of his own. What on earth is that question?

It is not on Earth, the answer came. At least, from what I sensed in your mind when you—prayed—before you slept, I don't think it is. I want to know the nature and meaning of God.

"Oh, well," Hiero said aloud to himself, "I guess I asked for that!"

Then, when I am finished with your mind, we shall talk, Solitaire sent. And after that, you must be gone on your urgent journey.

6 - Runners in the Night

A week's journey northward from Solitaire's lake, Hiero leaned on his spear and looked back up the long pass down which he had just come. He rested and relaxed as much as anyone could and still stay alive in the wilds. A few small birds twittered in the dense green scrub, and a hawk almost the size of an eagle peered suspiciously down from its nest in a cranny of the rock wall to his left. Small rodents and lizards skipped among the undergrowth. But there were no dangerous animals near him.

Hiero knew. He was no longer mentally blind. His stolen powers were back and he could once more see with his mind! He could penetrate the small, wild minds around him and actually see, with some effort, through the eyes of the scurrying wildlife.

He polished his shield absently on his arm as he stood in the sunlight of the morning. He had much to be thankful for, and the shield was further evidence of the gratitude he owed, for it was a present from a very new friend—but one whom he had been sorry to leave.

I give you this, Hiero, Solitaire had said at their parting. You have pictured your battles for me in your mind. In them, you have used things such as this. Long ago, perhaps when your kind ruled the world, a large chunk of this matter fell deep into my lake. I found it, also long ago, and kept it because I knew not what it was. But now you may need it, so during the dark when you rested, I shaped it for you. Carry it and may it guard you, as my own shield once did for me when the world was younger and the fires had not come.

The Metz eyed the small shield fondly. It was round and very light, only about two feet and a bit across. Its color was a dull hue, between gray and brown, and it reflected little light. He knew what it was, and he tried to explain it to the great mollusc, who was deeply interested. Bits of plastic were always turning up when ground was broken, mostly brittle and useless, but sometimes in good shape. Hiero's dead mother had once owned such a plate, with a strange creature, a flat-billed bird in human costume, figured upon it.

Even in the vanished past, however, few would have seen plastic this hard and dense. An experimental piece from some lost forgotten laboratory, it had now been put to a new and unforeseen use. The giant brain had even remembered to shape holes in arches on the back for the leather arm straps Hiero needed. And in the center of the boss, Solitaire had somehow set a sharp stone of dull, glinting black. This is the hardest, densest thing I have ever found, he told the man. Had your head been made of this material, we would have had no success in bringing back the lost strength to your mind!

Hiero had seen a few diamonds, always sparkling in women's hair or on their hands or wrists. This big piece of industrial bort was something unknown to him. But he did not care. He would have happily taken anything that the great master of the lake cared to give him. For the greatest gift of all had been to have most of his mind power and senses back.

Not all, regretfully. When he had awakened the morning after the operation, he found that Solitaire felt it had been done badly. The giant persistently interrupted Hiero's thanks with apologetic remarks. I failed to understand all of the connections, the purposes of each and every one. Those which I could not understand I dared not meddle with. I am deeply aware that I did less than I should or than I promised. Nothing the man could tell him made the great creature feel better, though what had been accomplished was well-nigh incredible.

Solitaire had put the man into a deep sleep, using the hypnotic power of his great eyes, with Hiero unresisting and doing his best to relax. Through the whole night, starting at sunset and going well into the following day, the strange surgeon labored, his rnicrotools the minute extensions of his huge body. Knitting, splicing, mending, and operating only by memory and tactile sensation, Solitaire had labored on and on. At last, convinced that all possible had been done and daring no more, the titan aroused his patient.

In growing delight, Hiero found that his lost powers were restored. The mental blindness was gone and his awareness of other life was again intact. When Solitaire lured a young buck from far down the slope, the Metz was first able to sense it and then to feel inside its mind as it drew nearer. After that, he could not let the giant eat it. When Solitaire mentioned with some illness of ease that he was hungry and must eat something, Hiero went out of sight down the lake shore. What came in answer to the giant's call, the priest never knew, but he hoped that it was both large and foul-tempered.

When Hiero returned, Solitaire still seemed to be worrying over the fact that there was one power that he had been unable to restore to the man. This was the newest of the skills Hiero had won, the ability to seize another mind and compel it to his will. He could "see" and communicate as well as in the past, or perhaps even better. But he could not do mental battle. The medicine of the Unclean had damaged that ability beyond even Solitaire's skill to repair it.

Then it was question-and-answer time, and Hiero found himself hard-pressed to satisfy the giant's need to know. His Abbey school training was put to undreamed-of tests. What was everything and how did it get there? That, in essence, was what the mutant snail wanted to know. Hiero writhed inwardly at what his preceptors in the church would have said about his statements on the nature of the Almighty. Still, he did his honest best, beyond which no one could do more.

It was not as hard as he had thought it might be, either. Solitaire could pick up a clue from any of a dozen angles. That incredible brain, stuffed with five thousand years of memory and thought, needed few aids in following an explanation.

It was while they were discussing some of the nature of the Unclean that Hiero learned of what Solitaire called "the Other Mind."

It comes rarely, this sending, Solitaire said. It is not as old as I, or at least I never detected it until recently. By the last word, Hiero gathered, Solitaire might mean a thousand years or so; the mutant snail had little idea of lapsed time.

It seems to change somewhat, this power, at long intervals—at least, by what you and your kind would think of as long. It stays the same, this force, and yet changes as well. What exactly was meant, Solitaire could not explain, but about other aspects of the strange force, he was very emphatic.

Whenever I felt its presence, I hid my own mind. For it had something I feared about it. Now that you have taught me what rage and evil are, I know what I feared. For I have never felt its presence free of anger. It has black anger against all and everything. And it is strong! You have given me much knowledge of your enemies, the Unclean. This is like them, I feel, but far, far more powerful. It may be of them, for what you tell me makes them seem one and the same. I felt it last not long ago, shortly before you came to my calling. It was very quick, like the bolt of fire from the sky in a storm. I regret that my skill could not have given you back the power to kill with your mind. You will need it. The worry in the great brain was very real.

Solitaire was quite amazing. Hiero had discovered that the giant, like most snails, was bisexual, capable of producing both eggs and sperm. On learning this fact, the man had suggested that an obvious thing to do was to raise some young, for company if not for anything else. This was surely not beyond its amazing biological powers, was it?

The reaction to this idea both surprised and amused Hiero. It was not right, not a pleasant thought. It was not—proper! The colossus of the hills was a prude! The more one learned about life, Hiero decided, the more one was amazed.

The last message from Solitaire came when Hiero was already far from the lake into which the giant had again retired.

Farewell for now, Hiero, new friend. Remember the direction of the men which I placed in your mind. I cannot reach them, but I know they are there. I can sense them at intervals, though they are not skilled with their minds as you are. Be careful!

And do not forget the Other Mind, the message went on, the one I have felt over the greatest distance from somewhere far to the south. What it is I cannot tell. But you have taught me well, and I know now that it is a great mind, even greater than mine, I think. Yet it is utterly, horribly wrong. It is evil. It means evil. Beware of it!

Farewell, once more. I have much to think about. We may meet again, sooner than either of us plans or imagines. I feel it!

Then the link was dissolved and the final contact was broken. Again, Hiero was alone. But now his mind was alert, and he was well armed, ready for any eventuality, as this last week of travel had proved.

Now fully rested, Hiero set off northward again at a steady lope, his gear swinging as he ran. The new shield was hooked firmly over the sword scabbard on his back. In addition to the spear in his hand and his belt knife, he bore the small canteen of leather. The bag slung over his shoulder held firestones, his seeing crystal, and the Forty Symbols, all wrapped in oiled leather. It also held a small supply of freshly dried meat and some roots, but they were for emergencies. In this game-filled country, he should feed well. Leather breeches, sandals, and a headband completed his possessions.

He sped along, his broad chest rising and falling easily. As the miles were eaten up by his steady pace, he rethought what little he had learned about this northward road he was following. He was rapidly leaving all trace of the heights behind, coming down the last gradients to another of the wide savannas once more. Dense clumps of heavy jungle broke the rolling waves of high grasses. Livid scars of green in the distance betrayed patches of marsh—or he had never seen their like before. He knew that he would find lazy rivers trailing here and there across the land as well. He hoped none would be too difficult to cross if one barred his path. The heat was bringing the sweat to his brow, used to the cool of the hills.

If possible, the animals were even thicker here than in the eastward country he had traversed weeks before. There were great red wolves and spotted cats of various sizes. The stripe-backed saberfang was here, its thunders drowning out all lesser feline noises. The mighty-trunked herbivores were also present in quantity, and the kinds and sheer numbers of antelope and grazing varieties of deer simply defied any coherent description. Hiero saw new things often, his active mind doing its best to catalogue each and every one.

There were herds, for want of a better word, of monstrous shelled creatures, their armored backs higher than his head. But they had ears and three-toed hooves and were warm-blooded. He entered their dull minds as they grazed and found them mere mountains of sluggish flesh. They saw nothing his size as even a menace. Once for pure fun, he ran up and down over the backs or a whole group of them. They hardly noticed.

Thousands of birds fluttered and sang. Many kinds followed the herds, feasting on stirred-up insects, while yet others perched on the animals' backs, searching for ticks and lice. But not all avian life was so harmless.

His first encounter with another kind of bird nearly ended in disaster. It must have been watching him for some time; when it burst from a clump of tall bushes, it caught him almost off guard. It was twice his height, with a savage, hook-beaked head surmounted by a fan of lurid purple plumes. Its tiny, useless wings beat furiously as its clawed feet pounded down upon him. He parried one furious slash of the beak with his hastily whipped-off shield and then, dodging like a hare, fled for the nearest stand of tall trees. Behind him, overtaking fast, came the bird, now screaming raucously.

Fortunately for him, the closest tree had a mat of trailing vines, and he swarmed up them like one of his simian ancestors, the last stroke of the awful beak missing his sandaled heels by a hairs-breadth.

Breathing hard, he looked down at the angry monster, which was still screeching and venting its anger by tearing up large chunks of ground at the base of his refuge. He realized what must have happened and firmly resolved that lack of caution would not occur again. The great bird thought on another wavelength from that of the mammalian predators he had been guarding against. As a result, he had almost been betrayed by carelessness. He decided to monitor not only the mammals in the future but the birds and reptiles as well. In a world filled with mutant life, some of it unrelated to anything coherent or recognizable, all precautions were in order. He remembered that dead horror, the Dweller in the Mist, only too well, and the way it too had stolen on him unperceived.

After a long while, during which he composed himself in the tree with all the patience he could, the bird wandered away. When he could see, with his mind, that its presence was far off, he descended and resumed his journey. There were no more ambushes during that day. He stayed close to the trees, or to the tall termite mounds, which had also reappeared. This plan had its own hazards, since many of the carnivores lay up in the tree borders, but with his mind alert, he could usually make wide enough arcs to avoid any such. And he always selected a good crotch in some wide-limbed giant well before sunset loosed the main packs of night prowlers on the land. Still, he spent a lot of time in hiding.

Without his mental alerts, crossing this land on foot might have been impossible, except for an army.

As the days passed, sunny and clear with occasional violent thunderstorms, he fixed his mind on the area to the north. There, if Solitaire could be trusted, were human beings of some sort, though of what kind the titan had not known, beyond a vague feeling that they were not like Hiero. Each evening, then, the Metz first said his prayers and next tried to reach out with his mind, seeking contact. He was very, very careful. He had no real idea what he was searching for, and the last thing that he wanted was an unlooked-for encounter with the Unclean.

Hiero had deliberately not tried to use the crystal, which would perhaps enable him. to see far ahead in a purely physical sense. By staring into it and concentrating, he often could enter the brain of some bird, miles aloft in the blue heavens. Using that creature's own vision, it was possible to spy out the land beneath. But in this strange country, he simply dared not. The process was too random and sweeping. Who knew what other mind he might encounter? Once before, in the distant North, he had tried this kind of viewing and had ended up in the brain of an Unclean adept, aloft in a winged craft in the sky! Once was enough. It was simply too risky at this time.

There were the Forty Symbols, though, each carved with a different sign. Although he had not used them for many months, and though they were not one of his own special talents, they had been some help in the past. The workings of the tiny precognition markers were not entirely understood, even by the Abbey servants, since their origin was lost in the past. Using them with any certitude was a highly individual skill, and it was not something that Hiero had ever excelled in. Still, there was no harm in an attempt.

One evening, therefore, a week after quitting the southern foothills, he arranged the little things in a loose pile on a slab of bark in his lap. He had previously strapped himself high in the branches of a forest lord, so that he could not fail, even if disturbed in a trance state. He had not seen his priest's stole for months, but that was merely an external and not a vital element in what followed. He prayed for guidance and for help in discerning the future. Then he threw himself into a self-induced cataleptic state, now oblivious to all externals. His mental guard still protected him and, in this condition, no one could either read or control his mind. Before blanking himself out, he laid his open left hand on the pile of wooden markers.

It was fully dark when he awoke, stiff and cramped. The moon shone down on the savannas below, and the night was hideous with the sounds of both hunters and prey.

As he had expected and hoped, his left fist was clenched tight around a number of the little symbols. He freed himself from the thongs which held his body to the branch and, putting the remainder away, moved out into the full moonlight on an open limb. Only there did he open his palm and examine the three tiny pieces of ebon wood.

The Spear he knew well. It meant battle or hunting, sometimes both. Nothing new there. The next was another old friend, the tiny, stylized Boots. This too was familiar to him from the past. It meant a long journey ahead, another thing he had no trouble anticipating without aid. The last one was a bit of a puzzle, though. It was a leaf, and across it was superimposed a sword! Moreover, as he looked closely, he saw that the sword actually pierced the leaf, in and out again, as a pin does a robe.

He put the little things away and sat for a long time, trying to remember the possible meanings of the last marker. They each had several alternates and, when taken in conjunction with others, each could assume still newer meanings. What a pity he was not better at this! He had once had a classmate who could draw as many as twelve and get really complicated predictions from them.

Peace and war! That was it. But since the two signs were interwoven, it seemed there must be a choice. Peace or war, journeys and battles, or maybe hunts. He laughed quietly. When had his life contained much else? At least it seemed that things would go on as usual. In some distant future, perhaps he would awaken from the trance to discover signs which meant only peace and quiet. What a hope! He laughed again and then made his preparations for slumber, still chuckling. The nightly uproar all about and below he simply shut out of his mind, and he fell happily asleep, eager for what tomorrow would bring.

In a lamplit chamber, somewhere in Sask City, capital of the Metz Republic, two old men sat on oak benches and eyed each other alertly across a narrow wooden table. Each held a large foaming mug in his gnarled fist and each was robed and bearded. There the outer resemblance ended.

Abbot Demero's aged face was the color of burnished copper, and the white beard and mustache under the hawk nose were straight and wiry. Over his angular frame, he wore a snowy robe, and on his chest was a heavy cross of hammered silver, suspended from a chain of massive silver links. On his left ring finger, he wore a great ring of plain gold. His dark eyes, over high cheekbones, were lit with intelligence and an air of command.

Brother Aldo had a longer beard; it and the mustache which flowed into it were curled, rippling and waving down over his plain brown robe. He wore no jewelry or mark of any kind. His nose, though not snub, was rounded at the tip, and his skin was far darker, almost the color of the oak slab on which his elbows rested. Wisdom and a dancing humor sparkled in his every glance.

Both men had the lines of many strenuous years engraved on their brows, but their strength had not been sapped, and the vigor of their movements, while not that of youth, was neither that of senescence.

Now the Most Reverend Father Demero spoke, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "A health, your Majesty, and welcome once again to the North. I only wish this meeting didn't have to be held in secret. I'm tired of this damned skulking around."

"Demero, you old fool, I curse the sorry day I ever told you what I once had been. So they lost a king in D'alwah a few generations back. They long ago forgot the crazy creature. Quit calling me that, will you, Most Reverend Abbot?"

"As you wish, Brother Aldo. Perhaps a republic always likes kings, having got rid of its own. We had a king here once, you know, before The Death. I don't remember who he was, or even if he lived here. I have a feeling that he lived far away and only visited now and again. The Abbey archivists could probably tell you."

The sage in the brown robe laughed. "That's the way kings, or queens for that matter, ought to be, frequently absent." His face sobered at another thought, and he straightened on his backless bench.

"We should be talking about a prince, not a king, Demero. We have a lot to go through. I have to be on my way tomorrow, you know. So let's get to present business. I have bad news from the South, and you won't be happy."

Abbot Kulase Demero, Senior Priest of the Abbeys of the Metz Republic, Hierarch, First Gonfalonier of the Church Universal, and leader of the Republic's Upper House, bent a piercing gaze on his friend, "It's Hiero, isn't it? I've been uneasy all week. He's so far away and so alone. What's the news? Out with it, man!"

"He's gone. Maybe missing, maybe—worse!" Brother Aldo, who had once borne a very different name and title, had lost all the humor in his voice. "The Order sent me the news only this morning, filtered through many strange routes from the South. I gather there has been a rebellion, led by a young hellion of a duke with a fair claim to the throne, if Luchare and her father were dead. That sounds like old D'alwahn history so far. But there's more. The pretender has Unclean help. Danyale is badly wounded, but alive. Luchare is running things, and her husband has simply disappeared from the face of the earth!"

There was nothing slow about the Father Abbot. "If he were dead, she would know, right?"

"Ye-es," Aldo said slowly. "She swears he isn't. That's our best hope, as far as he is concerned. I pray to God she is right. I'm fond of him. But we have other things to think about. I trust Luchare. She'll hold D'alwah, if it's humanly possible. Danyale can help, if he gets better in a hurry. He's not so dumb that he can't see through a blanket. But the Order says the Unclean are moving fast, too. And they seem to be heading in your direction, toward the Republic. We, the Council of the Order, think you need help fast. How is the work coming on what we brought you from the underground place?" Despite himself, he glanced at one corner, where a small, ivory pendulum hung motionless from wooden crossbars.

Demero followed his glance. "That warding device hasn't failed us yet, and I trust it. Any Unclean mental probe would set it off, so we can talk in confidence. As for the computer, it is showing progress. At first, when we studied the books you brought, it seemed impossible to create the tiny devices—chips, they're called—on which it is based." For a moment, a smile came to his face. "Then one of our brighter young men realized that many of the pieces in our archives, recovered from the sites of the ancients, were really parts of the thing described in the books. We think now there must have been millions of computers around before The Death. But even with the books and the parts, it takes time. We have to re-create a whole new way of thinking. And when finished, the computer is going to need what is called programming. My young men say they can do the job—but again, it takes time. The same old story."

He leaned across the rough table. "How many years ago was it,

Aldo, when we first met and determined, even as young men—or youngish men, I should say—-that the church and the Order ought to be allies? And even then, we knew that time was working always in every way against us. Well, it hasn't changed. Here you are, high in the Council of the Eleventh Brotherhood, and you know where I am. But it's still time, with them ahead and us behind. Nevertheless, we must get ready, as well as we can. That bear creature, now, the one you call Gorm. Is he really going to be of any use?"

"Very great use—I hope," was the prompt answer. "But he has to get the backing of his people. I gather they have rulers, too, these new bear people. We know of them, though they have never contacted us directly. And before you ask, let me read your mind, dear fellow. Yes, they are as intelligent as we, though also different. On how different hangs their willingness to help. And that will, as you have already guessed, take more time."

"Red tape with bears!" the old Metz snorted. "That's all we need! And I've had no reply from the Dam People either, speaking of odd allies. But they never budge without months of fumbling around. The bears will be fast by comparison."

"I hate to bring this up, since you must be sensitive," Brother Aldo said, "but what about your personal problem on the Council? The two—ugh!" He hesitated.

"Don't mind my nicer feelings," Demero snapped. "The two traitors. Well, I have almost enough evidence to hang them. A week or so should do it. And meanwhile, they don't blow their snotty noses without my knowledge."

"I suppose they can't just, well, disappear?"

"No, they can't, you peace-loving Elevener! This is not your barbarous ex-kingdom in the swamps of the South! We'll get them, but they have to be tried. Fairly!"

"Too bad. The rough old days had their points. I find in retrospect. A symptom of advanced age, no doubt. Well, what next? How many regiments can you field and in what order? And the new ships you have been building? And, above all, what of the Otwah League? They have traitors, too, you know."

The discussion continued, growing both acrimonious and technical. And when, in the small hours of the morning, two old men said their separate prayers, Hiero would have been comforted to know how largely he figured in both sets.

The prince-priest, the exile from everywhere, as it sometimes seemed to him, had other things to think about. He was currently atop the tallest tree he could find, studying the distant prospect and trying to figure out exactly what he was seeing. The scene in the distance before him was in some ways an odd one, and he wanted to study it carefully before venturing closer.

He had sent out his cautious probes the night before as usual. This time, he had very quickly picked up a human response, the aura of an awake man. Then, widening his search, he had found many others. There were the minds of women and children too, and he sensed as well the massed presence of domestic animals, probably some variety of kaw, such as he had known in D'alwah. There must be villages ahead, or some sort of settlements. He resolved to probe yet further and to see what, if anything, he could learn from one individual mind.

He picked one at random, that of a man who seemed to be slightly closer than others. He settled down and very carefully inserted his thoughts into the brain of his specimen, watching with all his trained ability at the same time in case the man was somehow alerted. The mind was one of a very stupid fellow, indeed. Moreover, it was so full of fear that there was almost no room for anything else. Intrigued, Hiero sought for the source of the fear, which was so overpowering that it seemed a constant condition.

At first he thought that it was a simple fear of the dark. In this savage land, the night with its terrible beasts would be a logical thing to fear. But following the traces through the peasant mind, he found that the situation was more complex. The man knew of the beasts, of course, and was well aware of their danger to himself. But he equated them with other natural terrors, such as lightning, floods, and forest fires. They were to be guarded against, but only that. What he really feared, to the point of acute psychosis, was—ghosts!

Searching the simpleton's memories, the Metz tried to learn about the ghosts, but he was largely unsuccessful. The fear was most deeply ingrained in the man's system but also suppressed to a degree. The fellow couldn't bear to think consciously about his fears. On the surface, he simply feared the night. All would be well for those who lived until dawn. Night was an evil to be endured. The good would survive until another day brought safety. This was the sum of his surface thought.

Hiero dug deeper. There were clues, but ones hard to find. Real though the terror was, the man actually knew very little in the way of fact to bolster his nighttime state of constant panic. He had never seen a ghost. No one he knew had, either. Ghosts came in the dark. No walls, no huts, could exclude them. They took what they wanted. If they were annoyed for any reason, the person who annoyed them disappeared. They were wandering ghosts, for they were not always around. The priest of the community knew much more about them, and the priest said they were not always bad to have as neighbors, these ghosts. They kept away dangerous animals, if they were treated properly. Thus it made sense for the man and his fellows to sacrifice an animal of the herds once in a while when the ghosts wanted one. There was a smoldering resentment in the mind, Hiero noted, at this particular thought. One of the man's own animals had been taken recently. This made the ghosts seem even worse!

The Metz withdrew, puzzled and rather annoyed. A crowd of superstitious cowherds was going to be no help to him at all. He had learned other and perhaps more useful facts from the dull mind, however. The southern fringes of the great jungle, the incredible forest of the South, lay no more than two days' march to the north. Hiero had no idea how far to the west of D'alwah he had come in the last weeks. But north of the jungle, at some distance, of course, must lie the Inland Sea. The brain he had examined had never heard of it, but the lummox had never heard of anything beyond his horizon. Apparently traders never called in this remote area at all. Maybe, Hiero thought, they had heard, of the ghosts! He smiled ironically as he fell asleep.

He did not sleep as well as usual and, when he awoke, he felt strained and stiff. His dreams had been full of running and leaping, wild dreams full of excitement. Through his mind ran the thought of a hunt, for some reason. It must be the memory of his cast of the symbols and the little Spear. He stretched himself vigorously and did a few simple exercises to limber up before descending to start a hearty breakfast of yesterday's kill.

At noon, he was staring at what must be the village of his mind search on the previous night. He could see for at least three miles, barring the blanks caused by other tall groves of timber. Then the heat haze closed in. But the sight before him was not half a mile away.

There was a stockade, a good, strong one, with sharpened timbers planted facing out as a chevaux-de-frise. Even the great, tusked beasts would have found that hard to penetrate. Inside the stockade rose the smoke of small fires, and he could see the shapes of rounded huts, seemingly thatched. There were corrals for the kaws, and several small herds of these grazed not far from the village, watched by the tiny figures of men. One great tree grew in the heart of the village, but there were no others near at all. A small river lazed over the plain only a short distance on the far side of the village, and he guessed that this would provide all the water they needed, save for times of extreme drought, which was a rare occurrence in the well-watered land. The last one in D'alwah had been over a hundred years in the past.

It was a peaceful scene and one that he had no desire to interrupt. But he needed information badly. This priest of whom his unwitting informant of the night had thought might be able to provide it. Hiero sent out his mind probe again, but soon learned that the man he wanted was away on some errand to another village just over the edge of sight on his left.

He brooded for a while and then decided that he had little to risk by showing himself. He could see some small but well-tended fields on the outskirts of the village, and his keen nose had long since detected the smell of baking. He had not tasted bread for a long time and he needed salt as well. These simple folk with their fear of the night would find little to affright them in the appearance of one man alone in the heat of the day. They would be able to see quite clearly that he was not a ghost! In this supposition he was one hundred percent correct.

Long before he was anywhere near the village, he saw men swarming out of the one great gate. Now that he was closer, he could see a small platform high in the big tree in the village and he realized that these people were not as unprepared as he had thought. They had seen him and taken action accordingly, and now a line of the men was slowly advancing on him.

As they drew near, he laid his spear carefully down so that they could see it. Then he raised both empty arms, in the oldest gesture of amity. At the same time, he searched their minds for any trace of hostility. He found wariness and surprise at his appearance, but no anger. They were, as he had assumed, not afraid of one man.

They were a short, swarthy people, heavy rather than graceful, but sturdy and not ill-looking. They wore simple leather kilts and sandals not unlike his own and also carried spears, though they seemed to have no shields. The spears were mostly stone-tipped, but here and there he saw the light catch a metal point. They had lowered them now and seemed to be waiting for him to make the first overture.

He selected an. older, gray-bearded man and addressed him in batwah, the trade language used over thousands of leagues. The man jabbered an answer, though in a different tongue. But Hiero had rioted a look of surprise in his eyes and caught the fact from the fellow's brain that batwah had been heard before. He listened carefully as the man spoke again and this time he heard a few words that sounded familiar. While on the deck of the Foam Girl, a year back on the Inland Sea, he had spoken with her mongrel crew, culled by her owner, Captain Gimp, from all over the known world. Later, in the forest, he had gotten to know them all even better. This speech recalled a dialect he had picked up from an escaped slave who had become one of his especial admirers. In a few minutes, using the enhanced ability of his mind to read the fellow's thoughts, he was chattering away with enough skill to make himself easily understood.

They were perfectly friendly and more than willing to give him any information that they possessed. Yes, they had bread, and he was welcome to take all he could carry. But he had better hurry. It was past noon now, and he didn't have much time.

"Time for what?" Hiero asked. "I planned to get some sleep in your village tonight. I'm not in that big a hurry."

The elder, whose name was something like Grilparzer, with a grunt in the middle, looked first baffled, then sad, and finally thoughtful.

"I was afraid of this," he said. "You're like the others, the ones who came when I was a child. Come along and walk to the village. You cannot stay with us. I'm sorry, but it is not permitted. Only those born to us may live inside our walls. I'll send one of the boys along to get the bread, and it will be waiting when we get there. Then, Hiero, you have to go. For your sake, I hope you're a good runner." Several of the others, trudging along close by, shook their shaggy heads in agreement.

"Why?" the Metz asked. "Is there some danger? Why can't I stay in your village? I don't eat babies." He was tempted to add that he certainly bathed more frequently than most of his new acquaintances, but decided against it.

"No, no," Grilparzer said. "You don't understand. We won't hurt you. But you have to go. You can't stay in the village. That is the law. And if you're found outside when it's dark .....!" He shuddered, and Hiero caught the very real fear in the simple mind.

"I can climb pretty well." He pointed with his spear to a distant herd of game. "Nothing that kills those things has been able to catch me yet. If you have some taboo about strangers, why don't I camp under your walls or in a tall tree over there in one of those groves? Then I can come and have a talk with your priest in the morning."

This time, those walking close by suddenly picked up their feet and went on ahead at a faster pace. It was obvious that the conversation was one they chose to avoid.

Grilparzer was made of sterner material. He was unhappy, but he felt he had a duty to this pleasant-spoken foreigner and he was going to do his best. He halted and put his hand on Hiero's chest, to make the Metz halt.

"When I was a little lad, other men came. Not like you, but they spoke the way you did at first. They wanted to trade things with us. For hides and fur, they had metal and cloth such as we almost never see. When we do, well, we get it the way we got theirs." He was obviously wrestling with a concept of utter horror to him, and again Hiero felt the sweat of mental fear. In fact, the man was sweating physically! But he persevered.

"We tried in every way we could to get them to leave. They were well armed and laughed at us. They camped by the gate and lighted many fires. They put out guards and we locked and barred the gate." He paused again. "In the morning they were gone. All of them, as we knew they would be. A great company, two tens of strong men and all their beasts of burden. Most of their gear was left. After a while, we went out and took it and covered the ashes of their burned-out fires." He tapped the bronze hilt of a dagger thrust into his belt. "I got this knife then when we shared their goods among us."

Hiero was silent as he thought. Whatever drove these people, there was no doubt of their sincerity. That could not be concealed. Ghosts! He still stood poised in thought, however. The ugly story he had heard must have had some basis in fact. Whatever had happened to the unfortunate traders of long ago, it appeared to have something besides irrational fright behind it.

"All right," he said at length. "I see that you fear the night and what may come in the dark hours." Some stray thought stirred in his subconscious and he added, not quite sure why, "I do not fear that which runs in the night."

The man who stood before him shrank back as if lashed over the face. Spinning on his heel, he ran for the village gate, bawling something as he went. An approaching youth hastily deposited some burden he carried on the earth and also turned and fled. All the other men were running full out, too, as if Hiero were some demon who would devour them on the instant.

The gate, which was only a few hundred yards away, began to close as the last of the running men passed through it. Hiero heard it thud heavily shut behind them. He walked slowly forward and stooped to examine the parcel that the youngster had dropped so quickly. As he had thought, it was two loaves of the promised bread, still hot from some crude oven and wrapped in a piece of hide.

He stood up and looked about him. The distant herdsmen also were gone, and so were their herds. The westering sun was now slanting down with the light of late afternoon. Hiero looked curiously at the palisade and the sharpened stakes of the village. Neither there nor on the platform in the great tree was any head visible. Some distant antelope raised a small cloud of dust far off in the path of the red sun. Aside from these, nothing moved, save for a few vultures, black dots in the high sky.

His mind went out and he sought to probe the village. All he could get was an amorphous mass of stark terror, even for him almost impossible to penetrate and pick out individual minds. The strength of the fear amazed him. Why, it's as if it were ingrained, hereditary or something, he thought.

Picking up the bundle of bread, he shouldered his spear and set off at a walk for the nearest trees, perhaps half a mile away. Be damned if I'll run, was his last thought.

7 - Hunters and Their Prey

Hiero lay stretched along a great fork, far up on the outer limb of the tree. In the distance, the roar of the saberfang rumbled, to be followed by silence. It was a cloudy night, and the moon came and went fitfully from gaps in the racing clouds. He was staring in the direction of the distant village, but he could see only its outline, a black and lightless mound in the intermittent moon gleams. No sound had come from it since he had found his present perch, save for the occasional restless mooing of a kaw somewhere in a pen.

He lay at seeming ease, but his spear was firmly held in his right fist, and his shield was strapped on the other arm. In need, he could drop the haft of the spear and draw the ancient short sword from over his shoulder in a second. There was no way he could get into a better position for defense. Now he could only wait and see what the night brought.

The tree had been reached and his site selected well before the last light faded in the west. He had eaten, and the coarse bread tasted fine, after many weeks deprived of grain. With the coming of dark, he had cautiously begun to probe with his mind, sending out his thoughts on an ever-widening sweep. And it was then that the surprises had commenced. Almost instantly he had touch with another mind!

As soon as his own feather caress struck it, the strange mind withdrew, flinching away and out of reach like a snake whipping back into a coil. There was no communication, only the instant retreat. He felt that it had neither known what had touched it nor sought to know. It had simply used a trigger reflex, one as good as his own, an automatic cutoff, so to speak. Whatever the mind was, it had a built-in safety factor, which snapped it out of any contact almost before the contact had been established. This gave one to think. His own abilities along those lines had been patiently learned under pressure, the pressure of the Unclean. But he had a feeling that this mind needed no such training, but was born the way it was.

In the coolness of the night, with a fine, fresh breeze rustling the leaves all about him, he set about trying to find the mind again. And this time he received a fresh surprise. His muscles tensed in reaction as he felt the new contacts. There was a whole group of similar minds, perhaps as many as a dozen!

Again came the trigger reaction as they evaded him, hiding behind mental shields so tight he could gain no opening. This time, though, he felt that at least one of the strangers had sensed him, but only fleetingly. He caught the shadow of awareness as it vanished. It might not know what had touched it, but it knew something had done so. He decided to lie quiet for a bit and try nothing further. Perhaps he could learn something by different methods. His mind stayed open, receptive to any outside thoughts at all. If he waited thus, the elusive creatures he had detected might come to him, hunting for contacts in their own way.

For a long time thereafter, nothing happened. When something finally did, it seemed to have nothing" to do with him. His first notice of it was a physical one. Far out on the savanna, to the northeast of both the Metz and the silent walls of the village, he heard the squeal of a frightened animal. Hiero had idly wondered earlier at the absence of the larger animals from the vicinity of the village. Earlier, there had been plenty of them about, but only in the middle distance. Now in the dark hours, there seemed to be none at all of either predators or those they hunted. All the life about him was small in size. There were snakes and lizards, rodents and weasels, plus a few foxlike beasts. The cry from far out in the dark was that of something large, something hunted and terrified. He felt for it with his mind and also listened with his ears. Presently, he detected it with both. He could hear, though only faintly, the drum of racing hoofbeats, and in his brain came the panic of a big herbivore of some kind, running at its hardest, running until its heart was bursting. He could feel the direction and knew the animal was coming closer rapidly.

The moon broke through the flying clouds and he now actually saw the chase, etched in black and grays. The figure of a big buck with tall lyrate horns was galloping for its life. Behind it, the hunters came—and they were an amazing sight.

They were bipedal and they were running at a speed the man would not have believed possible. The fastest Mu'aman racer of Luchare's kingdom would have been left far behind such runners. Hiero knew well what a pace one of the big antelopes could set, and these things were hauling it down!

Straining his eyes, he could see that there were perhaps a half dozen of the pursuers and that they were very thin and tall. Whatever they were, he decided not to try to probe their minds at this time. The hunt was rapidly drawing close to his clump of trees. If they were the elusive minds he had tried to track earlier, and he was quite certain that they were, this did not seem the time to call their attention to him. Then he realized that he was to have little choice in the matter. He saw suddenly that the hunted beast was not trying to reach his area at all! Being a creature of the open, it was attempting to flee to the outer savannas. It was coming toward his trees because it had no choice. The incredible runners were driving it there.

As he watched, Hiero saw the big antelope try repeatedly to check and break away. Each time, one of the tall bipeds increased its own already fantastic speed and closed the gap, forcing the prey back on the track they had chosen for it. Moreover, it was not being herded to the clump of trees, the Metz realized in a hurry. It was being chased specifically to his tree!

Still as a stone, he watched the end. The buck turned at bay, its back to the trunk of his own refuge. He could have dropped a stick on the heaving sides or the lowered horns.

The end came very quickly. One of the shadowy hunters charged straight at the horns and then, with a movement so rapid that the man could hardly follow it, darted away at right angles, no more than the thickness of a knife blade from being impaled on the points. This was all the opportunity needed by the others. At the same incredible pace, another one darted in from the side and merged with the neck of the buck. There was a flash of light, glittering under the moon, and the second killer sped on, hardly seeming to pause.

The antelope shook its head and tried to brace its forelegs. A dark stream was pouring from its throat. With one final shudder, it collapsed, kicked once or twice, and then was still. Hiero thought he had never seen a neater, quicker kill. He looked quickly away from the body to see what the alien bipeds would do next and got another surprise. They had vanished.

One moment there were six tall, lean shapes in a semicircle around his tree; the next, the night was empty. It was as if they had never been. Were it not for the corpse of the antelope, Hiero might have thought he was dreaming.

He waited warily. It hardly seemed likely that a mere accident had caused the strange chase to be led so unerringly to his hiding place. No, something else was coming, and he had better be ready for it.

What came was nothing physical. He simply began to feel a sensation of fear growing in his mind. It was not a thought of any kind, nothing so clear and identifiable. Rather, it was more like a feeling of oppression, a sensation produced when the barometer was dropping and the air was hushed and heavy with the presence of an oncoming storm. Only in this case, he felt afraid!

Something was coming, something was stalking him, and he was helpless to defend himself. The shadows were full of yellow or orange eyes, all piercing the dark and all concentrated on him alone. A whiff of a curious odor came to him on the night wind, musky, fetid, and also vaguely familiar. The scent seemed to heighten the fear, and his hand even loosened the grip on his spear for an instant.

The movement of his hand served as a bracer. His brain cleared, and he realized that he was falling under a spell of a kind he had never before encountered. He, who had hunted all his life, was now being hunted. Worse, he was being treated as if he were already a helpless victim! He rallied himself and began to trace the strange glamour which was falling over him.

It was not his mind that was under attack. That type of assault he could easily guard against, and no warnings of such a thing had occurred. What, then? His body? Save for the acrid and feral odor, he had detected nothing physical at all. Yet he knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that he was the focusing point of a planned attack. The sensation of great fear was still there, but now he had mastered it, and it no longer had the power to make him do anything he did not choose.

The eyes were an illusion, created by fear. He could not actually see them. The bile rising in his mouth and the sweat starting on his skin were also products of fear, the irrational fear which his brain could control, but which seemed to have nothing to do with any ratiocination. Incredible as it appeared, he was under attack on his will by chemical methods aided by a mental assault on his emotions. His eyes narrowed in thought as he began to break down the course of this biological onslaught. At the same time, he mentally apologized to the villagers whom he had thought so stupid. If this was a sample of what they had to live with, he had much maligned them in his previous views on the subject!

Somehow, these runners in the night could take aim at: the deep animal levels of the psyche. The scent, probably a natural weapon, was the second weapon, used to enhance the fear started by concentrated will Intellectual ability was no defense at ail against such an animal barrage. It totally bypassed the brain and struck at the root of feelings, the same basic emotions that made a child cry or a dog salivate. By the time these creatures had got a good hold on the emotional centers of their prey's inner self, he was doomed. He was literally frightened to death, long before the actual kill took place. The dead buck could probably have been reduced to utter helplessness, had the hunters chosen, so that it would have been able to make no defense at all.

Now, why had they not so chosen? Hiero thought he knew the answer. For the first time since he had felt their presence directed at his own, a grim smile crossed his lips.

The hunters were growing impatient now. He could feel the irritation coming to him almost as a palpable wave. Why did he not come down from his perch and offer his naked throat? The irritation was growing into anger, and Hiero could feel the heat of the frustrated rage rising from below. There would be some action soon. These beings were not patient at all when thwarted. So be it. He had the fear under perfect control now, holding it in easy check even while he examined the effects on his nerves and body chemistry. He was angry himself now, but in a cold state of anger. Somebody was going to get a sharp lesson in very short order.

He slid down the branch and climbed carefully to a lower fork, the breeze ruffling his hair as he did so. This was far enough. He had not forgotten the unbelievable speed he had witnessed. Yet if his guesses were correct, he would only have to deal with one adversary at a time, at least to begin with.

A rack of clouds began to cover the moon again, and he braced himself. He had mentally measured all the distances to every branch. His sword was drawn and the spear leaned on the main trunk at his back. This ought to be close work. That was what the attackers liked, if he were not mistaken.

As the moon vanished, the faint scrape of claws gave the alert. The dark figure swarmed up the tree like a flitting shadow, scarcely a whit slower than its pace on the ground, but he was quite ready for it. With great care, he used the flat of his sword on the round skull, even as it whipped up to his own level. The dull noise of the impact was followed by a long, slithering, scrambling fall as the half-stunned thing tried to catch itself on the way to ground at the bottom. He heard the thump as it hit, and this time he laughed aloud, deliberately and contemptuously. He knew that this gesture would reach attentive and enraged ears and got ready for the next rush. The fury from around the base of the tree beat up on his senses almost as if it were something tangible.

The next foe came more slowly, though still at a very fast rate of climb. This one was really hopeful; as Hiero struck with the blade's flat again, he saw that in one arm there was a rope or leather lasso of some sort. They wanted him alive, did they? The same crashing, scrabbling fall followed, but there was a cry as well, a high, squalling sound. The fall sounded heavier this time, too. Hiero laughed again, the derisory sound calculated to induce a mad outburst of insane rage in those who were meant to hear it. The reaction was as prompt as he had thought it might be. They had swallowed their pride a little, though, because this time their attack was doubled.

Lightning-fast they might be on the plain; but, with his feet firmly set in the broad tree crotch, Hiero could move his arms and body with equal speed. The first one got the shield in its face and fell back, half-stunned, as had the others. The second, coming up the opposite side of the bole, managed to gain the crotch before getting the flat of the sword behind one ear. A knife tinkled on wood as the hand which held it opened and fell limp. This particular hunter was going to stay in the tree for a bit!

At the same time, the moon burst from behind the clouds, and the warrior-priest was able for the first time to see what lay at his feet. In the light filtering through the tossing branches and leaves, she was a lovely thing.

As tall or taller than Hiero, she was covered with a fine, close fur, a mixture of small spots and blotches on a lighter background. The tips of her small breasts were bare skin, and so was the nose, which was very blunt, with wide nostrils flaring back and sideways. The forehead was broad and shallow, with a black bar of darker pelage running across it; the chin was slightly receding and also shallow. The closed eyes were large under the heavy brow ridges, and the delicately pointed ears were set higher on the skull than a human's. The narrow skull had plenty of occipital room for brains.

Listening intently for any new movements below, Hiero examined the long, slender limbs. The feet and hands were very human, save for the fur, but no human had sharp, retractile claws rather than nails! She was quite nude, save for a broad leather belt which held a small pouch and an empty dagger sheath. Hiero stood up, his suspicions confirmed.

Cats! Since the first faint reek of the hunting odor and the elusive mind touches, all his memories, all his knowledge of the world of animal life, studied since birth, had screamed one thing at him—cats! This was a mutation he had never before encountered or even guessed at. He was sure there was no record of it in the Abbey files. These night runners were something new to most human experience. Probably only the lost villages out on the plain had ever encountered them and lived to tell of it! Hiero remembered the elder's tale of the traders who had so silently disappeared. He could easily imagine the scene around the fires as the fear and the musk wafted down on the unsuspecting men. This, then, was the source of the herder's inbred night fear. Eyes in the dark, growing terror, and finally—death!

Now, from the foot of the tree, he could hear very faint movements. If enough of them attacked when the moon was next hidden, they could almost certainly overwhelm him. A lot of them would die, but the end would be an inevitable one. It was time to try something new and quickly.

He reached out with his mind, one foot resting on the body of his captive, feeling the faint rise and fall of her breath through his sandal. This time, on their odd wavelength, he got a mind which did not flinch, a very angry and aroused mind. It was already reaching out, not for him, but for the she, who had so suddenly disappeared. This was the leader, a male mind that had not been challenged so in all its life. Hiero could almost see the blazing amber eyes and the ruff on the back of the neck, the bared carnassials and the flattened ears.

The reaction to Hiero's sudden appearance on the private mental band that the cat people used was first startled, then furious. But—there was a brain there, down below. The link was not broken.

Where is the young she? Come down from that monkey's perch or we will kill you slowly!' The message was quite clear to one with Hiero's training. These beings were used to mental speech among themselves, and their Images were fast and well formed. The contempt in the words "monkey's perch" was also plain.

Killing me is not so easy, the man sent. Some of your folk have sore limbs and heads to prove it. I could have killed them very easily. Yet I sheathed my claws. Why not use their own images? Think about that. And remember this. I have your she up here in my power. Beyond another sore head, she is unharmed, but only as long as I choose! Me made his defiance flat and unequivocal. These creatures had had things their own way for far too long!

The mental link snapped off, in the way he had come to associate with these cats. But he could hear a purring murmur far below. They were not stupid. He could hardly eavesdrop in their spoken language, and they had no idea what else he could do. So they were being careful with a new discovery. This mouse had teeth! Best to wait and consider for a while.

Meanwhile, Hiero could feel the first stirring of awareness in the body under his heel. Bending swiftly, he unhooked the catch on his belt and tied her arms behind her back at the elbows. With a short length of thong from his pouch, he lashed her feet together at the ankles. If an attack came, he wanted no interference from an enraged wildcat of this frantic race.

After a time, the ruling mind below suddenly sent another message. Send the young she down. If no harm is done her, we will think again. If not, we will come and kill you.

In the wan light of the cloud-flecked moon, the Metz considered. Was this simply an arrogant bluff? The creature below had promised nothing. With the young female back in their hands, they could still attack and would have gained rather than lost. He, on the other hand, would have lost a hostage whom they obviously valued. His mind raced, balancing what he knew and had guessed about these folk, above all considering their ancestry and the probable way they would react to any new situation. There had been a merciless confidence in the mind of his rnenacer, but something else as well, or rather, two somethings. One was a feeling of integrity, as if the mind had never needed to lie. The other, and perhaps the more reliable, was something the man had been hoping for all along. Curiosity, that was it. It might not kill these cats, but it could help. Not for the first time in his turbulent life, Hiero decided to take a chance.

His captive was awake now, and the oval eyes, a third again as large as his own, glared defiantly up at him, the slitted pupils contracting in fury.

The wide, almost lipless mouth bared its sharp-looking teeth in a mute threat of what she would do to him, given the chance. Absently, he noted the fine whiskers on the upper lip and along the slender muzzle. It really was more that than a nose, he decided.

Peace, little sister. I mean no harm. I release you to those down on the ground. Your leader—He sent a picture of the dominant male mind—has asked for you back safely. He slowly unfastened her feet, next the elbows, and all the time kept his reflexes tense for any sudden moves. He had no real fear of being caught in unarmed combat by this slender thing, but those teeth and claws were no mere ornaments.

She rose equally carefully, watching him all the while. The wide eyes were now baffled rather than enraged. When he handed her the long knife he had earlier picked up from the tree crotch, the eyes widened further. But she thrust it into the sheath at the refastened belt and slid out of the fork and down in one easy motion. He settled back on his haunches and waited. He had a feeling that it might be a long wait.

The night waned and the moon sank until it disappeared. A few jackals barked in the distance, and a large owl flitted into Hiero's tree, noted the silent man, and flew away, hooting mournfully in disgust. But Hiero knew that he was not alone. He had no intention of leaving his so-called monkey's perch to see how many eyes glared up into the dark. The individual minds were closed to him, but he could feel a group aura growing as more and more of the night people arrived and went into conclave. The ground below must be thick with them by now. He wondered if he were going to die bloodily this night and said his prayers with especial emphasis on the virtues of charity and forgiveness. He was not thinking of his own efforts along those lines, but of others who might possess them!

The summons came as abruptly as all the other reactions he had observed from the catfolk. If you don't want to be harmed, come down at once, came the leader's message. We are leaving and will take you with us. Grudgingly, it added, You may keep your weapons. Do not try to use them.

As he clambered thoughtfully down the tree, Hiero exulted deep inside. It had worked! So far, at least, his guesses were paying off. The next few moments would see whether his throat would gape. He had no illusions about being able to handle a swarm of these extraordinary mutants on the ground. He said a last prayer and touched earth with his feet.

It was dark at the base of the tree, but not so dark that he could not see the ring of tall figures around him and the open anger blazing from the fiery eyes. He wondered how many humans in the past had seen such a group as their last sight, before dying as they knelt paralyzed with terror and incapable of defense. His hand tightened on his spear. He was not kneeling, at least, nor was he in any way paralyzed.

Come! It was the mind of the ruling male who gave orders. You can goat your own speed. We will go slowly, as slowly as your kind of plodding thing out there. The contemptuous thought was directed at the silent village.

I am not from out there, Hiero sent, as perhaps you have learned tonight. He felt the renewed anger at his open defiance. These people were totally unused to being countered in any way, and certainly not by mere humans.

The tall chieftain kept his temper, however. He was leaning over Hiero now, at least seven feet of him, if the estimate in the poor light were correct. No, you are certainly not as they. You can speak the way only the (Hiero translated the strange vocal image as "Eer'owear;" he could get no closer) can do. This is unheard of You resist our killing thoughts and even the Wind of Death, This was obviously the terrible scent, the pheromone, which sapped the will to resist.

No, the catman continued, you are not of those out there. You may he of another kind altogether. Perhaps you are something much worse! We have certain legends of the past of such as you may be. Our elder folk, some of them, remember these as I do only dimly. If you are what I think you may be, you had better have died in your tree!

They were moving off now, over the tall grass of the open plain, headed east under the dark clouds. Hiero was in the center of a loose ring, and they moved at a gentle lope that in no way stretched his running ability. He decided not to mention this. It might just come in handy.

The leader spoke again in the man's mind, and Hiero could feel the doubt.

Personally, I hope that you are not what we all suspect. There was a pause, almost a reluctant one. You have courage. You came down on my word alone. Also, even those you struck with that big knife admit that you could have easily killed them and did not. Another pause. The young she likes you, even though her head is sore. She is a Keeper of the Wind. Hiero gathered the title or honorific was important.

Young shes, even Keepers, will play with anything. They steal the cubs of those apes back in the wooden wall and try to make pets of them! They always die, though. Hiero said a silent prayer for God knew how many lost babies of the unfortunate villagers.

Say your name aloud, in your own speech, he suddenly shot at the chief. The answer was a rumbling, purring, grunting sound that no human could really hope to approximate. Hiero tried, nevertheless, and finally achieved something like "B'uorgh." He could feel the amusement at his attempt in the other's mind. Any small gain of that sort might pay off in a handsome way later on.

A mile or so farther on, B'uorgh's thoughts came again. You are a hunter, like us, stranger. The term really meant "oddity/enigma." Those creatures back in the wall, they hunt with traps and covered pits. Can you hunt, as we do, in the dark?

Yes, Hiero thought. I hunt more slowly, though. I cannot see at night as your people do. Nor can I run thus. I have never seen such running, he added quite honestly.

None can match us, B'uorgh's thought ran, full of pride. We are the Children of the Night Wind. Still, he added, there are good hunters among the lesser folk, some of whom lie in wait. At times we hunt them! And at such times, some of us may not return.

Hiero realized that the catman was rationalizing an attempt to accept a mere human, however odd, as a kind of equal or at least something only slightly inferior. This was a necessity to the arrogant chief. There was another factor as well, and this was one the Metz had been counting on all along, one he had figured out long before. The chief was curious. He found the new puzzle most intriguing and wanted it to continue. The kitten had found a new ball of string! Not only the young shes liked to play with new objects, it seemed. Hiero stifled a smile in the dark at the thought of the lean giant padding beside him ever having been a kitten.

We do not like the apes in the walls, living off plants and their tame beasts. Though the milk of the beasts is good, and we take what we want of it. You have met a young she, the one whose head you almost cracked. Soon you will meet another kind of she. Perhaps you will learn why we do not like the creatures which are far more like you than like us. I am beginning to remember bad things, things of long ago. We will speak no more until we come to the home place/lair. The last thought tones were not at all encouraging.

A darker shadow had been rising to meet them for some time. They were approaching another grove, such as the one Hiero had taken shelter in. It was larger, though, and the Metz could feel that it was not empty. The catfolk could silence their individual minds to him; but in a group, they gave off a sort of cloudy miasma, a mental mist which he was finding easy to recognize. This, then, was the home place. He hoped firmly that it would not be his final place!

In a few moments they were in the shadow of the great boughs and plunged into a narrow path through the undergrowth at the edge of the wood. It twisted and turned like a demented corkscrew but, after a short while, emerged into a densely shaded clearing. Hiero's night sight was good enough to see narrow ladders leading up into the trees. Toward one of these, he was gently but firmly urged.

The ladder was quite steep and led a long way up. Eventually, he found that he and B'uorgh were alone at the outer edge of a large platform made, from the feel of it, of woven vines and slender withes. Alone? No. There was another watching, brooding presence there, crouched under a mat of branches at the far side. From the gloom, orange gleams studied them, then an arm was waved. Sit!

Side by side, the catman and the human squatted, while the being in front of them stared in silence. There was no attempt to touch his mind, Hiero knew, or to communicate in any way with the chief. He had the feeling that the person before him was simply ruminating, remembering and estimating, considering and rejecting. She took her time. Finally, she rose from her mat of branches and moved forward into the dim light until she could crouch only a small distance from them.

She was old, the Metz saw, old and worn. But she was vibrant with life, her mind and spirit burning, even as her body slackened and her sinews loosened. B'uorgh was no doubt a fine fighter and the capable leader of a hunting or war band. But this was the real ruler!

I have no name, even in our own tongue, Strange One. Her mental voice was fine-timbred and steely, with no age in it. Her great eyes were lighted with an inner fire, but there was no loss of control and no impatience, such as he had noted even with B'uorgh. I am the Speaker and the One Who Remembers. Since the vanished time when we became free, such a one as I must force the Folk to recall that which was past. They must never forget the Bad Time, which was in another place far away and happened before my mother many times away saw the sun rise and the moon set. Now you come, mayhap for the first time since a Speaker was trained and named, and you may be, in your single body, the sole reason that I and all those other Speakers who are now gone into the Wind ever existed. She reseated herself in one fluid motion even closer before them. Hiero felt that it was incumbent on him to answer. A vague idea of this race's past was coming to him, but he concealed it and sent a bland concept.

At least I am no enemy of your people. I have told the chief here that I am not of the people out on the plains, the village dwellers. I think he believes me.

The response was quick and cold. It is not what he believes, Furless One! It is what I believe! That is why I am here. Her mental pitch lowered and calmed, the challenge having been met. She changed her tack.

We are not, as you seem to think, the foes of those creatures who herd together out in their sties, less alive than the beasts that feed them. No! We use them! And they have another purpose, which directly concerns you, for you are far closer to them than you are to us. Can you guess that other purpose?

The priest thought both rapidly and privately. This was a loaded and horribly dangerous question. He was standing on the edge of a figurative precipice. He might be dead in seconds if he gave the wrong response! Yet he had to do something fast. He chose to gamble.

Those people out in the open land, who are of my kind, though simple and harmless in themselves, they serve as an—example. They help us to remember times long ago. Times when others, who looked like them in the body, at least, were not harmless! He held his breath, his eyes locked on the vertical pupils of the Speaker.

She drew in her own breath with a faint hiss, a sound of mingled appreciation and recognition. You know, then? And if you know, how much do you know? And, most of all, if you do indeed know, whence does your knowledge come?

Hiero framed the concepts in his mind with exquisite care. He was still balanced on a knife edge. One wrong move and the big chief, so silent beside him, would attempt to rend him limb from limb before he could move. All the aged female would have to do was nod.

Believe that I know nothing, he sent. Still, I have traveled far in my life. I have fought and journeyed in many lands, with stranger allies than you could begin to imagine. Against us have been pitted even stranger foes, some like me in appearance, some not. The worst of these evil beings, my greatest and most terrible enemies, are outwardly of my race. He paused for effect. Only outwardly. And even then, they have no trace of hair, being truly furless, on their heads and bodies. Was there a momentary contraction of the barred pupils? He continued. In secret places, usually far from the light of the sun, they breed slaves, many of them of other races, whom they would warp and change into servants of evil. Such as these: He formed an image of one of the Hairy Howlers, the monkey Leemutes, and when she had had time to absorb it, another of a scowling Manrat, one of the giant, intelligent rodents. Ever so slightly, the Speaker relaxed, her posture slumping a little. But her eyes never left his.

Her next thought had something of supplication in it. The anger was gone, at least from his direction. So—if you do not know, then you can guess at least at the shame that we, the freest of the free, still bear?

I hold it no shame to be kept captive and tortured against my will by the servants of all that is bad. I have been so held and tortured. And I escaped! Indeed, I am fleeing even now, to join my own folk far to the north. As once, long and far in the distant past, the Children of the Wind fled also, seeking the open sky and the fresh air of freedom. Hiero was now fairly relaxed. His shrewd postulates, buoyed by hints dropped all evening, were being proved correct. The Speaker's next thought confirmed him in his assurance.

Show me an enemy in your mind! One of those who command the others!

This was easy for the man. The hated face of S'duna, the Unclean Master, his inveterate and deadly foe, was often in his head. The pale, hairless face, the almost pupilless eyes, burning with a dead fire, the whole aura of malign purpose, were displayed for the cat-woman's view.

She hissed again, and the chief beside him did also, a susurration of venomous rage, an anger that many generations of freedom could not kill, the hatred of the proudest and most independent of the mammalian breeds for those who had once presumed to chain them!

It is they! May they burn in the fires of the lightning! Death to them in their caves, death to them who brought the pain, who slew the cubs and the old, who worked with their cunning tools and their sharp knives! For they held us helpless with their minds, frozen in place, and they laughed as we suffered! They would make us useful, they said. We would be good servants when our wills were broken to their taste. Listen, Strange One, you who hate them also. I, the Remembrancer, the Speaker of the Eastern Pride, will tell you of that time, as my mother told me, having learned it from hers in turn! Learn the tale, as all our cubs must. For if you hate them, and I sense that you do not lie, then you are our friend and I offer you the help of the Pride!

Now, at last, Hiero could lounge back and allow all tension to leave his body. The Unclean, who would have writhed at the very idea, had found him new allies!

As the night finally faded and the dawn came in the east, he heard of the capture of the cat people in another land, many hundreds of leagues away in the southwest somewhere. He guessed, but did not say, that the Unclean had bred them for enhanced brain power as well as for physical stamina, feeling that they had acquired a splendid race of warriors.

What a mistake! With the increased brain power had come increased self-will. The catfolk learned that they were slaves, mere chattels, considered no more than tools of the Great Plan. From their enforced captivity, they learned cooperation. From their pain and loss, they learned patience. From their captors' lies and cunning, they learned deception. They organized.

There was a night of blood. They broke from the caverns and buried laboratories, suffering and inflicting much loss. They had so taken their overlords by surprise that those who survived were hardly pursued. And they ran, the proud ones, the free, ran until their hearts almost broke, ran with their shes carrying the cubs. At last they were beyond the mental reach, the invisible chains, of their former masters, but still they went on, until one day they reached a new land. Here they stayed, but never forgot what had passed. They would never be taken so again. Their grim history was taught to every young one until it became a permanent scar on his racial memory.

When a wandering group of human settlers appeared in the area with their cattle, slitted eyes watched in the shadows. The only men the cat people had ever known were the Unclean. Almost, the decision was taken to kill them all out of hand. Wiser counsels prevailed. They studied the loathed creatures and decided that these men were in essence harmless. The milk and, when wanted, the flesh of their beasts were useful. Let the settlers stay in their villages. They would be taxed—and ruled.

The rule was not onerous, but it had a few strict laws. Any human being who saw one of the Children of the Wind, except at very long range, died. There were no exceptions. Among the ruling elders of the cat people, the thought was that the humans would serve a variety of purposes. Aside from the food easily taken, they would be a living reminder of the past. Also, if the Unclean or their allies should ever reappear, the villagers would mask the presence of the catfolk, thus allowing them time to plan. And so affairs had continued for what Hiero estimated was perhaps some two hundred years of his time.

The villagers were invariably inside their stockade by dusk. Then the People of the Dark, naturally nocturnal, emerged and took over the land. Their skilled hunting kept the area largely free of dangerous animals, thus benefiting the three villages. And the catfolk separated into three packs, or Prides, one for each village. It was cruel in a way, but the villagers did not live too badly. They soon learned the rules. One lived with the ghosts and put out food and milk at certain hours and in certain ways. Any who simply disappeared or vanished after dark had seen a ghost. Their fear kept them in their villages and discouraged exploration. Once in a while, a man trapped by night in a tree would see the hunt sweeping far away over the savanna and know that the racing figures he had seen were the gods of his tribe, thus reinforcing both awe and the observation of the law.

Hiero philosophically reflected that he had seen plenty of people who lived worse, in what they called freedom. One day in the future perhaps, he or others would be able to take thought to this odd, disparate set of cultures and attempt to modify things and bring some changes.

Eventually, her tale done, the Speaker allowed the man to be led away to a branch-shaded platform to sleep with the coming of day. This was their own sleep time, though they needed less sleep than humans and interrupted their drowsing with minor tasks, such as leather work and the making of rude pottery and baskets.

The next afternoon, B'uorgh awakened the man. All of the Pride were assembled in an open space, and Hiero was formally introduced to all of them, down to the smallest cubs. A messenger was sent to the other two Prides, telling them what had been done and why. After this, Hiero had the freedom of the land and began to enjoy himself hugely.

They were a simple folk in terms of physical culture, at about the level of the ancient aborigines of far Australia. They used no weapons save for long knives, of metal when they could obtain them, but otherwise of sharpened flint. These they took from the villages. In truth, as the Metz had witnessed, they needed nothing else. Their incredible agility plus the Wind of Death made hunting almost too easy! Everything they needed was at hand, and they lived very well, wanting no more than they had. They used fire, but only for warmth and light, preferring their flesh raw. They ate certain tubers and berries when they felt they needed them, and they knew which plants were useful in their rude pharmacopeia.

Two cubs were the normal birth, and Hiero found them enchanting. They decided the new, furless person was a fine toy; as he strolled through the encampment of an evening, he usually had a bouncing, wiggling, furry bail in the crook of each arm.. Behind tagged a trail of older children and shy adolescents, racking him with so many questions at once that his head ached from trying to sort out the thoughts and answer them. He was welcome at every hearth and tried to eat at different places every day.

In the evenings, he always paid a formal call—for the catpeople were very formal—on the Speaker, where he chatted for an hour or so with her, B'uorgh, and the young Speaker-to-be, she whom he had clubbed on his first encounter. Her name, as close as he could form it, was M'reen, and she bade fair, in his opinion, to being as smart as her teacher.

The personal relations of the catfolk were subtle and often hard to understand. There were pair bonds and also deep affection between couples, but sex seemed to be indiscriminate. Any mother's cubs were hers, but some shes stayed always with the same male and others changed mates. He gathered there were festivals when all rules were abrogated for brief periods. At such times they burned the leaves of a certain herb and grew wildly excited, if not actually intoxicated.

The Speakership was selective and took long training; but, as Hiero might have guessed, B'uorgh had fought his way to his position as hunting and war chief and would someday be challenged again by one of the younger males. Should he survive all such combat, as sometimes occurred, he would become one of an honored circle of elder males who advised the Speaker and helped to preserve tradition.

On certain nights, the Pride held group sings, for want of a better word. These were mixtures of poetry, chanting, and, Hiero thought privately, just plain yowling. Sometimes the massed rumbling and purring was soothing and at others made his ears ache, though he always gravely expressed vast appreciation. During the week he spent with the Pride, they held several in honor of his arrival and alliance.

Hiero found the catfolk delightful. He was even able to help with a problem that had been concerning the elders, that of a slowly declining birth rate. He discovered that the Pride, being so group-minded, had more or less stopped intermating with the other two Prides. There were obvious results in terms of inbreeding. He politely told the Speaker and her council of old males that this simply had to stop and that the younger folk of the three Prides should be made to meet more often. Outmating should be strongly encouraged, and the reasons for it should be thoroughly gone into and explained to all the folk. He was solemnly thanked for the advice and told it would be adhered to in the fullest way possible with personal independence! He wondered about this, but M'reen told him privately that it would happen, though probably slowly. One did not give Pride members orders, only veiled and delicate suggestions. This would result in the idea's seeming to be of their own origination.

Every other night or so, those able to do so hunted. Of course, the new friend had to be taken along, not that he needed any urging. He could not run at their pace, so the game came to him. The Wind of Death was not used, since the adults of both sexes preferred not to utilize it unless they were in a hurry or at war. Hiero never found out what it was made from, but he strongly suspected a natural secretion of the glands, enhanced by the juices of a rare plant. It was a secret held by certain of the females, who alone could release it. It had been discovered long ago and had been used to help them escape from the horror of the Unclean.

Their favorite game was becoming scarce in the neighborhood, but they located a specimen and took the Metz out one night under a bright moon to see how he felt about it. He was positioned in a certain place, not too far from the trees, which he thought tactful, and told to get ready. He understood that the honor of the kill was to be his and wondered what it might be and if, indeed, he were capable of holding up his end. The catfolk would not tell him what it was. Knowing their whimsical humor, he wondered if one of the trunked giants were being herded in his direction.

He was therefore considerably relieved when he heard the drumming of hooves and the angry snorts of a fast-running herbivore. However, when the moon gleams showed him the prey, he was not so sure.

From the head down, the form was that of a giant buck. Over the deep-socketed eyes grew two long, straight horns, mighty enough weapons in themselves. But on the broad muzzle rose another, a straight stem which forked into two more evil-looking points. As the enraged animal twisted and darted at the tormentors who were herding it in his direction, the man wondered how they escaped, even with their speed, from the vicious and lethal lunges. When at length it sighted him, a solitary and fixed target, he had no more time to think. Meeting those terrible horns head-on would obviously be insane. As the brute charged, he hurled the heavy spear straight at the broad chest and then dodged, whipping out his long dagger and poising it.

The broad spear sank to the socket, for a brief moment bringing the great beast up standing. In that moment, he aimed and threw the knife from no more than ten feet away, not at the body, but at the nearest bulging, bloodshot eye. The blade sank to the hilt. With a final bellow, the animal fell over, its brain pierced instantaneously. The other hunters let out a wild, squalling cry of triumph, and Hiero felt that his knees were somewhat weak.

On examining the kill while they cut it up to carry back, Hiero thought his knees felt even weaker. The animal's eyes were surrounded by rings of heavy bone, and a very slight miss would have proved useless! He thanked his Creator silently for the good shot.

You did very well with old Four-Horns, came B'uorgh's jovial thought. We could not have helped, not at that range. One reason we like him so much is that he frequently gets the hunter. Always good sport when we meet him.

Hiero formally thanked all the hunters for the wonderful opportunity they had provided. They did not need to know his private feelings, which was just as well!

8 - Any Port in a Storm

The hoppers, even the picked beasts of the royal Guard, were very tired. All the interminable day, they had sped from one end of the battle line to the other as the guard followed its royal mistress. The princess had been everywhere, her gilded mail and bright plumes shining like an oriflamme of war as she rallied lagging spearmen here and sent fresh lancers there. Each threatened point had seen her, cheered her to the marrow, and then fought the harder as a result.

But the day was lost, nonetheless. The royal army, outnumbered and with its flanks turned, had been forced to withdraw. The rebel duke, or one of his advisors, had planned shrewdly and moved far more quickly than either Luchare or the king had believed possible. Also, the cunning Amibale had used several unexpected tricks, either through his own sharp wits or through Unclean guidance. Joseato was in it somewhere, but Amibale, Luchare reflected glumly, was quite clever enough on his own. A revolt of the beggars and thieves, allied with disgruntled petty shopkeepers, had erupted in the city as the army was setting out. It had been put down quickly and the ringleaders promptly hanged, but this cost both time and lives. As a result, when the two armies finally met, twenty miles south of D'alwah City, the royal troops were already tired from street fighting and had sustained losses.

Amibale, who to do him justice was brave, had brought not only the troops of his dukedom but also hordes of savages, some of unknown races, to assist. A particular menace was the swarm of small, pallid men used as skirmishers, who fired clouds of poisoned arrows from both bows and blowguns. And there was worse. The Unclean wizards were coming out into the open at last. A regiment of the ape mutants, the Hairy Howlers, stormed against one wing, while a mob of shrieking, chattering Manrats assaulted the other.

Moreover, so quickly had Amibale moved that the full resources available to the royal army simply had not been there on time. The Mu'aman infantry, summoned from their western plains, had not arrived. Would they come late or not at all? Had they, too, been rotted with treason? The village militia and the frontier guards had not had time to draw back, either, nor had most of the hardy boatmen of the bays on the Lantik, stern fighters and badly needed.

So the battle had been fought and lost with the household troops, plus the personal armies of the loyal nobility who lived near the capital. Indeed, at one point the center had almost broken under a heavy onslaught, and only the unexpected arrival of Count Ghiftah Hamili, charging in person at the head of his two lancer squadrons, had saved the stricken field. Any doubts that Luchare might have had about the silent count were cleared on the spot as, fighting like a demon at the front of his hoppers, he drove back Amibale's infantry.

But it was not enough. Sullenly, unbroken but unable to maintain the fight, the royal army fell back, covering its flanks and snapping at the enemy as it did so. There was no choice. By nightfall, Luchare was conferring with her commanders while the battered troops were being entrenched on the outskirts of D'alwah City itself. There was still no word from the outlying districts, and rumors of a new and dreadful attack from within had started in the city. There was little talk and no laughter at all in the tired ranks that night.

Around a tiny fire, four silent figures crouched. The fire was burning in the mammoth crotch of a tree so vast it could have shaded a small town unaided. A fifth person, posted as a sentinel, peered from a branch a little higher up. Far below, out of sight even in the daylight, hidden by innumerable leaves, vines, and limbs, lay the nighted swamp from which the tree had sprung, ages in the past.

Hiero was conferring with M'reen, B'uorgh, and Za'reekh, a powerful young warrior. On watch above them, Ch'uirsh, the other youngster, could join in the mingled thoughts when he chose. Usually the two young males were silent when their elders spoke, but they sometimes disagreed and they had the right to be heard. There was a mental silence now, for they were all listening to the sounds of the morass many hundreds of feet below.

A hideous bellow erupted upward, croaking and guttural, but so enormous in sheer volume as to make the very perfumed air of the trees seem to shiver. All the myriad forest noises appeared to hush at the terrible cry.

What is it, Hiero? B'uorgh had learned as had the others, that their new friend could tap the minds of many other beings, while the catfolk were restricted to those of their own species. Above the man's head a great, scented blossom waved, giving off a wonderful aroma as he concentrated. Once more the monstrous, raging grunt reverberated up through the foliage. At length, the Metz relaxed again and smiled.

I don't know. An Elevener, one of our friends whom I have told you of, well, one of them might be able to find out. They specialize in all life, everything that breathes, you know. I can't distinguish between lots of the lower types, the ones with little or no brain. This may be a reptile, like a snake or lizard. But I rather think it's an amphibian, something like a frog or a salamander. They have even less brain than the reptiles. I get a feeling of blind, fumbling anger on a very low level. I met something like that once before, up in the Palood, the great marshes of the North. Their intelligence is so sluggish you can't detect them at all. At least, I can't.

A frog! If that's a frog, it could jump up here. The thought came down from Ch'uirsh.

Nothing that makes that much noise could jump anywhere, M'reen retorted. It might just push the tree over, though. She shuddered appreciatively, the firelight catching the smooth muscles under her dappled coat. I'm glad we can travel up here and not in that muck down there.

Hiero decided not to mention that some of the incredible frog monsters of the Palood could jump very well. Anyway, he felt that it was not one of them, making the night hideous, but some vast, crawling thing that lurked in the mud and water at the bases of the great trees.

The little party had been on its way north for over two weeks now, and the past two days had been spent traversing the swamp. The jungle at the foot of the giant tree boles was quite dangerous enough, so much so that they had always to be on the alert, by day or night. But when they encountered the beginnings of this huge bog, it was an obvious impossibility to continue. They had seen tracks on its edge which made any such idea unthinkable. The catfolk were runners of the open plains, and they knew nothing of this shrouded murk and its inhabitants. The trees went on as if the dark water at their feet were simply a new form of soil, so the travelers simply did the logical thing. They went aloft. They lost time, of course. Sometimes the vined highways and the mighty limbs came to a dead end, and they all had to backtrack. But Hiero always knew where his home lay, his built-in compass never ceasing to function. He could get a rude sighting on the sun through the leaves as well, and thus their course, to the north, stayed pretty constant.

There were other advantages. The cat people and Hiero were good climbers. Then, too, the really monstrous things, such as whatever wallowed far below at the moment, were not apt to be climbers at all. The air was cool and fresh, and there was plenty of game, in the form of unwary birds and mammals. Only that afternoon, B'uorgh had scurried up a nearby trunk and neatly cut the throat of a large nesting bird. It and its half-grown young had made an excellent dinner, with plenty left over for the morrow.

Nothing in this life was completely safe, of course. Once they had been forced to scamper for their lives when a nest of tree vipers had all leaped or slithered at them. At another point a colony of malignant-looking apes, far too much like the Hairy Howlers for Hiero's liking, had followed them a long way, obviously nerving themselves up to an open attack. They were big, stump-tailed brutes, glossy black and with savage, naked, green faces and horrendous fangs. But just as Hiero had been about to kill one and risk losing his spear, the whole gibbering crew reached the end of some obscure and invisible boundary.

Hiero's group hastened away, leaving behind the barking and chattering mob in the sea of verdant leaves. The two young males Were furious at being chivied along in this manner and pleaded to be allowed to go back and wipe out the horde, but B'uorgh's coughed orders put an end to that nonsense at once, and they subsided.

The man realized how lucky he was. He certainly had not been looking forward to his lonely but inevitable journey through the incredibly dangerous southern wood. For one thing, he had to sleep at times; for another, he had been there before, though in another part, and had some idea of the perils which lay hidden in the depths of the giant trees. He had been taken wholly by surprise, therefore, when the old Speaker called him to a sudden meeting and blandly informed him that four of her people would go with him. The war chief, the young Speaker-to-be, and the two younger warriors were all volunteers, but also came with her full consent and approval.

You go into great peril, as great as any you have been through, we think. Hiero had informed the tribe, through necessity, of some of his recent adventures and had not even been sure that they believed him. The art of telling tall tales was well developed among this strange people.

The soft-furred hand laid its naked palm on his as the Speaker continued. Hiero, you go to fight the ancient enemy of us all. Your she fights for you far away, and so do others. You are our friend. If the defilers, the cub-killers, the naked-faced mind-warpers, if they should be the victors, how long would we be safe, we whom they have forgotten, perhaps? Not long, we all think. We are few in number, and none outside knows of us as yet, save only you. But how long would that last if the enemy with the terrible machines you tell of were to conquer all who now oppose them? No, we must help, for your errand, even though we do not fully comprehend it, is of the utmost importance. It must be so, for you do not lie and you have shown us how they hate you and have tried to kill you, not once but many times. You must be one of their chiefest foes, if not the most important. Friends are for help, and you shall have ours. This chewed-up, old scar-fur of a B'uorgh can be replaced easily enough. The doughty individual in question simply purred; he knew what condition he was in, moreover, looked it.

The Speaker sighed mentally. I would come myself to see new things and learn much of the outer world I will never know. But I can send M'reen. She will be my eyes and ears. l can train another, should she be lost, though she is a good mind. The two young males are idiots, like all males, both the young and the older. Still, they are among the best hunters in the pack. They can help guard you. And M'reen has the secret of the Wind of Death!

It had been hard to thank them all, especially since he alone knew, or at least had some idea, of what they were getting into. And they had done another thing without being asked, which made him feel even more warmly about them. They had sworn, quite simply, to leave the humans out in the villages alone and, while remaining secret, to kill no more of them for any reason. No more babies would be removed as pets, nor would solitary hunters be hounded to a terrified doom. This was a great concession.

Now here they were, Hiero mused, watching the blunt faces with their brows black-barred and lively, lambent eyes, the rippling muscles, and the ivory claws stretching as their owners eased their limbs. Who would have thought this only two weeks ago? For indeed they had been a fantastic help. It was very hard to winnow out thoughts in this life-infested jungle; though he did his best, not all inimical creatures were detectable in time. The great ape-things were very intelligent, and he, concentrating on lower carnivores and other predacious forms of existence, had missed them completely. It was the young Za'reekh who had heard the rustle of branches, unswayed by treetop breezes, and thus had warned them in time to turn from the ambush. The catfolk had no noses worth speaking of; indeed, Hiero's was far better. But their eyes and ears were fantastic and, in the often dim light, invaluable. It was M'reen who had heard the whispering rush of the oncoming brood of vipers and thus had turned them back, fortunately to a series of broad, flat limbs.

Their aid was well worth having, and they were good company too, though Ch'uirsh was going to get nailed one of these days for his practical jokes! Finding a giant worm from a bromeliad growth on one's chest in the small hours of the night was a bit much. The priest-warrior grinned to himself. He had flung the supposed serpent off with a yelp of horror before even getting a good look at it. B'uorgh, also wakened, had wanted to scalp the young hunter, but M'reen had given him a good talking-to instead. A Speaker-to-be, even a young one, in a female rage, had made Ch'uirsh's ears go back in instant regret for his folly. Hiero contented himself with a very brief lecture on the idiocy of frightening people who had a lot of real dangers on their minds. And that was that. It had been funny, though.

I wonder where we are, B'uorgh sent, after a companionable silence, while they listened to the monster in the slime below, now retreating noisily. Can this sea, this mighty water, be far off, do you think, Hiero? I have viewed it in your mind, but frankly, I find it hard to believe, even so. So much water in one place!

Oh, it's there, the man answered. We have to cross it somehow. I simply have to get back to the real war, to find out what my own people are doing, to say nothing of the Unclean. I don't know if the weapon that I found, the machine that thinks for all—this was as close to describing the computer idea as he could get—ever arrived in my country. I don't know if my country is even still defending itself I don't know if any messages have come from the South, from, my she and her country. The only thing I do know is that going all the way around the edge of the Inland Sea would take many months, assuming that we ever got there at all. We have to cross it and cross it fast.

There was a silence again as the cat minds considered yet once more all the marvelous new ideas. The great waters alone were wild enough in conception for folk who only knew the lazy little rivers of the savannas. But the idea of going on things that floated, like sticks on a rivulet! It was frightening, yes, but also wonderful.

These boats, these ships, I understand, I think, M'reen sent. But the way they move! I can understand that if many people put sticks in the water that push, the boat-thing moves forward. But that the wind itself can make the boat move, that is almost beyond any belief For perhaps the fiftieth time, Hiero tried to explain what sails were and what it was that they did. The real joke, which he could not share, was that he was sure that the cat people would make marvelous sailors! They had no fear at all of heights and moved up and down smooth branches, well—like cats. He felt sure that a crew of trained catmen would rival the finest human sailors in existence. Probably they would need little or no training, either, once the principles were understood. Of course, there was a possible problem of seasickness, but he doubted that such a small thing would stop his friends for very long. As they fell into a drowsy slumber, he was still chuckling to himself at the thought of a great barque, such as The Ravished Bride, her rigging full of flitting, dancing figures, like spotted sprites.

The following day brought Hiero to a sudden halt. It was midafternoon and they were moving rapidly along a highway of the world aloft, a series of interlaced branches of great size, almost as easy to run on as a town street. The man suddenly held up one hand, and the others stopped in their tracks as the message penetrated,

Hiero's mind had gone roving ahead in its usual manner, but he had been pushing it a bit harder and farther than he normally did. Then he realized they were already near the Inland Sea. There could be no other explanation for the void in the life auras he was accustomed to gathering into his head. The vast, teeming mass of sheer life which made up the collective biota of the titanic forest suddenly halted. There was a clear limit beyond which, with sharp finality, all surface life ceased. All normal surface life, that was!

Motioning the others to stillness, he crouched on the branch and listened with all his mental ability, for he was operating his power at extreme range. He was sensing men, men of so-called civilization, for the first time in months. And they were very much the wrong kind of men!

He was detecting the crew of an Unclean ship! No other explanation made any sense. They were closely grouped physically; that he could tell with ease. And they were out in the emptiness that he knew from the past, which could only mean the sea. The sea had many forms of life, but they did not as a rule operate on its surface, certainly not on bands of mental energy used by humans. And none of the natural forms of the great freshwater ocean would be likely to own an Unclean mind shield! One assortment of people, of whatever stock he could not tell, had such. He had learned in his flight from the North to detect these things when they were being used to send messages. In their closed or defensive condition, they revealed nothing. But the creature of the enemy was using this one to send. This left him open to detection by Hiero and, more than that, enabled the Metz to read the message. What was being sent was most interesting.

None of our ships have been sighted. Not even a trader of the common scum. It is as if the coast west of Neeyana had been swept clean somehow. I have received messages only from yourself. Suggest that a Brother be sent in one of the secret ships to investigate. We are two days' sail from Neeyana, but we are hampered by bad winds. There is a strong feeling among both the officers and the crew that something very funny is going on. We should have sighted the front-runners of the spring trade by now, but have seen nothing. We return to port unless I receive further orders. Message ends. Sulkas.

Hiero listened intently with every fiber of his senses, but could detect no answer. If there were one, it must be coming on some wavelength too attenuated, possibly by distance, for him to reach. But he rather thought not. Whoever Sulkas was, he was no member of the Unclean Brotherhood. The mind, though intelligent, was not of the same caliber, nor was it of the same "feel." This was some trusted servant, a pirate, perhaps, like the late Bald Roke, whom Hiero and Gimp had killed. While the catfolk chatted quietly among themselves, the priest settled down to try to analyze what he had heard.

The message had probably been sent at a fixed time. No reply was thought necessary for the present. Clearly, the Unclean, whom he knew controlled the port of Neeyana on the southern coast of the sea, were uneasy about something. This vessel, which had a crew of no more than a dozen, was sent out as a scout. The crew had found nothing save an empty ocean, and this made them in turn uneasy, for it should not have been so, not at this time of the year. The report had gone to home base, to Neeyana, for further action. A suggestion had been made that one of the Brothers, a robed wizard of the Unclean, should be sent on one of the "secret ships."

Hiero had no trouble guessing what was meant. He had been a prisoner on one of those secret ships, powered by some force he did not as yet understand, but of which he had many suspicions. He was reasonably sure, as was Brother Aldo of the Eleventh Brotherhood, that the Unclean had atomics! Both men felt that the metal vessels they had encountered were driven by the powers of the atom, the shunned, the abhorred, the unspeakable! In their hidden laboratories, the scientists of the Unclean had wrought many horrors. They had bred mutated animals as slaves, as they had tried to do with the cat people. But this was the Ultimate Crime. This was the final horror of The Death, something so awful that normal humanity shrank from even contemplating it.

Hiero remembered their group thrill of nausea when he, Luchare, Aldo, and the bear Gorm had first glimpsed the buried cavern of the past, where the great, plastic-shrouded machines had lain, the dispatchers of the ancient terror throughout the world. Aldo, the lover of all life, had almost fainted.

As Hiero sat now, brooding over what he had learned, his determination hardened. The Unclean were going to perish, root and branch, down to the last serf, the merest acolyte in the most minor degree. This was his mission, and he would not fail.

At length, he turned to his fellow venturers. He knew what he wanted to do, but it might prove a trifle hard to explain. Yet he must make the attempt.

We must be just south of the main road from the west to a city held by our enemies. One old road runs from the southeast to the northwest, springing from many other roads far away in the South. We must have been moving roughly parallel to it, though a goodish way off. It is the only way from the east to the port of Neeyana, at least through the forest. West of Neeyana there are other roads and eventually, I think, also more open country, at least in part, but I have never been there or examined detailed maps of that region, except in the most casual way. The shores are very dangerous, and most traffic goes by ship.

He explained further what he had just been doing. There was an enemy vessel present out on the waters, and they must all be very, very careful from now on. If the Unclean ship were no more than two days' sail from the harbor of the foe, then there would soon be contact with someone, probably a someone they had no wish to meet unawares.

We must guard our minds, he went on. Use your speech aloud to one another and talk with me only if urgent. You people use an odd mental band and not one likely to be constantly watched, which is good. But the Unclean have many servants who are not human and with whom they must speak, so be careful! Also, the nonhumans watch and listen, as well as send messages on their own account. We must go like shadows from here on. Something strange out on the sea seems to have disturbed our enemies. I have no idea what it is, but anything that bothers them is likely to be in our favor.

The catfolk had no trouble understanding him, though they grew wildly excited at the thought of actually coming into contact with the legendary wizard lords, whose crimes had been instilled into each of them in their youth. When Hiero explained that he had no real plans other than somehow to steal a small vessel and escape with it, they seemed to feel that this would prove easy—a simple matter of overpowering whoever stood in their way.

I will loose the Wind of Death on them. Then we will cut their throats! This was M'reen, tapping the pouch which hung at her belt. It took a while for Hiero to quiet them down, to explain the numbers of the Unclean and their servants, and to make sure they would do nothing rash, but would follow his orders. After a while, he felt sure of them. The first rush of hatred would not make them behave in an irresponsible way.

They continued on for the remainder of the day with redoubled caution, using hand signals when they wanted to tell Hiero something and conversing in their own purring murmur among themselves.

That night they camped on another natural platform. After Hiero had grilled his share of the meat, they put out the fire, remote though the chance was that it might be observed. Water had never been a problem to date; not only did the tree crotches often hold it in quantity, but many of the large, epiphytic plants contained small pools as well.

As the catfolk dozed through the dark hours, the man. continued to reach out with his thoughts into the night, not only in the direction they were moving but on either side as well. He was beginning, if his senses were operating in a correct manner, to feel what he thought was the town of Neeyana, a way off to the north and east of their present position. He could not read any individual minds, but the sensation of grouped humanity gave off a feeling almost of heat in his head. He was fairly sure he was right.

It was not in his original plans to approach the place at all, at least not closely. There was far too much danger of Unclean detection. He now realized that it might prove to be the only sensible course, especially if they were to steal a small boat. He knew of no other towns to the east; Captain Gimp, on the previous voyage, had mentioned none, though they must exist somewhere along the coast. But he knew nothing at all of the western and southwestern coasts, either. There was a port, known to and used on occasion by the Abbeys, but it lay a thousand leagues to the northwest. He had been warned to avoid it by his superiors when he had set out a year before, for it was full of spies, and only a few of the traders could be really trusted. This was the brawling port of Namcush. A river led down to it from far up near the borders of the territories of the Republic, a river along which trade ran in both directions, though uncertain and often interrupted. In any case, it was of no present use to him, though it might prove a place to steer for in an emergency.

Eventually he slept, but the guard on his mind never relaxed. In the morning he felt there would be much to do.

They had not been on the march for more than a few hours when the road he had been seeking appeared below them. On Hiero's orders, the group had been traveling through the lowest level of the arboreal highway, though even that was far above the ground. The bog had come to an unheralded end sometime during the day before, and firm ground now lay at the base of the mighty trees.

It was M'reen, taking a turn to scout ahead, who signaled the break in the trees. The others joined her to peer down at what lay below.

The trade route was well trampled and wide, though circuitous, for the tremendous task of felling the forest giants had never been attempted, at least not in these parts. The track simply wound about among their bases, back and forth, but always holding a rough course from east to west. Hiero had never before seen it, since he had left it leagues off to his right on his previous venture south. He knew, however, that it connected after Neeyana through a maze of other paths and roads with distant D'alwah, and that goods passed along it of every sort, ranging from fabrics and furs to dried fruit and spices, and not excluding slaves. It was most probably along the eastern part of this route that his wife had been taken as a slave to Neeyana. At least, from her description, it had sounded like this way.

The trail lay empty and silent under the green shadows of the giant trees, with dappled sunbeams illuminating patches of it here and there. While the others waited patiently, the Metz scanned the immediate surroundings with his mind, using the utmost care. The Unclean would be sure to have a watch on this route, a. main artery of trade to both east and west, and the last thing the little party needed now was to stumble on some outpost or other. He could detect nothing, however, in either direction, and this puzzled him. The distant mass of mental activity which he felt sure was Neeyana had grown increasingly stronger throughout the morning, but why was there nothing nearer? Surely some traders or one of the Unclean patrols ought to be within detection range,

He considered. The mental shields that the Unclean had begun to issue when last he was in the North might account for the silence all about. This seemed implausible, though. He knew the shields were rare and probably very costly in both time and skilled workmanship. He felt sure such shields would be issued to only key personnel—commanders, members of the Unclean Brotherhood, and others in high authority. A simple unit of watchers on the trails would be most unlikely to have one; or, if the captain possessed one, then Hiero ought to be able to pick up the thoughts of the other, humbler members of the group. It was most perplexing.

Keeping his thoughts to the catfolk on the lowest energy level, undetectable save at close range, he issued his orders. They would scout along on either side of the path, moving east and going very slowly and with the utmost care. His allies would signal in their own speech, which was highly unlikely to be sorted out from the myriad forest noises around them, if they found anything worthy of reporting. Meanwhile, he would bring up to the rear and screen everything in a circle with his own mental nets, M'reen would stay close to him on the left side of the trail with B'uorgh, while the other two would take the right. So it was decided and they set out, descending a mighty tangle of lianas and interwoven aerial roots until within a few feet of the earth. Then they dropped and separated.

Their progress was slow, but they covered the ground nonetheless. Every cluster of the widespread roots and great base flanges of the colossal trees had to be scouted and then circled after investigation. Since many of them were enormous in circumference, making the redwoods of the past look like saplings by comparison, this took time. They tried never to lose sight of the trail, while remaining invisible from any eyes that they might somehow have overlooked. Hiero had warned them to be especially wary of any attack from overhead, and he was soon proved right, even though they were not attacked.

A faint yowling call from Ch'uirsh on the far side of the trail brought them up short. Following B'uorgh's hand signals, the three crept closer, until they were on the edge of the broad path and could see the spotted forms of the two young warriors on the other side. Ch'uirsh and Za'reekh were pointing upward along the route, to something in the fork of a great tree, overgrown with cable-sized vines and even bushes. Straining his eyes, Hiero finally picked out something alien in the mass of tangled foliage, some darker and more structured shape.

They spent five more minutes scouting the neighborhood before climbing cautiously upward. In another minute, they were in the neatly concealed watchtower of the enemy. It was a roofed platform of logs, cleverly bound about with living plants of all kinds and providing a clear view of the path below in both directions—and it was completely empty. That it had not been empty long was obvious. There was a pile of ripe but not yet rotten fruit in one corner; a rude cabinet in another held dried meat and even some hard biscuit. A perfectly good belt of heavy leather, with a brass buckle and studs, had been dropped under a half-full wineskin near the leaf-covered entrance. Smelling the wine, Hiero found it perfectly drinkable.

Over all the place hung a faint, sour odor, and it was one the man had no trouble identifying. Manrats, he sent, using the lowest energy level of brain waves. The enemy has had a garrison of the foul things they bred here. There was at least one human as well, since they do not drink this stuff in the leather bag. They have been called away suddenly, and I would badly like to know why. He thought hard and came to a decision.

The other four crouched on their haunches, and, very carefully,

Hiero sent a probe out in the direction of the Inland Sea. It could not lie more than a few miles to the north of their present position, and he wanted to know what was going on off their flank as they continued. Presently, he found a thing of interest, although exactly what he had found, he was not sure. There was something out there or a number of somethings, maybe, but the whole embodiment of whatever it was lay under a mental blanket, a cover concealing the nature and identity of what was hidden therein. All Hiero could detect was a mass like a huge mental cloud, an inchoate something which he could not pierce. Beyond all shadow of a doubt, the thing was moving; and it was moving, though not fast, in his direction.

He had felt nothing like this in his mind since the year before, when the Unclean ship with the lightning gun mounted forward had caught them all in the drowned city of the northern shore. After a while, he gave up on the area. He could do nothing more, and the mysterious, cloaked patch of energy could not be penetrated. He switched his attention instead, if possible using even more care, to the direction of what he felt sure was Neeyana. This was a real change!

Neeyana was boiling, in the sense of turbulent mental energy. It was as if an ants' nest had been stirred with a stick, so violent and numerous were the thoughts he detected. His group must be even closer than he had thought, no more than a few miles out of the town boundaries. Now the empty trails and the missing guards made sense. From the various minds that he tapped, Hiero quickly learned that the place was under or about to come under attack! Everyone who could be mustered was being sent to the sea, to man defenses along the waterfront. The threat which had so galvanized the Unclean was coming from the water, and it took little deduction to identify it with the strange mass of sealed-off minds that he had just been searching out. What on earth could all this mean?

He managed to isolate one mind at length, that of a man, a thoroughly nasty man at that, who seemed to be some kind of under-officer of the town garrison. The man was directing a group of underlings who were putting up barricades of logs and sandbags on a street near the water's edge, and they were working frantically. From the fellow's brain, the Metz picked up the image of a great fleet, as many as thirty ships, coming from the North. Further, he learned that the Unclean wizards had not been able either to detect or to penetrate in any way the minds of the people on board those ships. This fact had become generally known pretty quickly, and the ordinary soldiers didn't like it one bit! They were used to having things all their own way, casually killing anyone who disagreed, protected by their Dark Masters' corrupted science and weapons, both mental and physical. Something had gone wrong, and the Unclean Lords had let the fact that they were taken by surprise become public knowledge a little too fast. Hiero probed further, his excitement growing as he did so.

The man whose skull he was ransacking had not lost all confidence, despite his evident worry. Two of the secret ships were coming. The strange fleet would see what would happen then, when the lightning guns began to speak.

Sitting back and closing his mind to all externals, Hiero made his head stop aching with the effort he had been using and simply tried to reason out what he and the others should be doing next. It was not easy. Yet with all this excitement and the attack corning from those who must somehow be his friends, a better opportunity to escape to the North might never reoccur. If his group could not get to the strange fleet, they might at least be able to steal a decent boat and flee during the confusion of battle. It had to be risked.

Quickly he informed the others of what was taking place ahead of them. We have to get into the town, near the great water somehow, while they are all concentrating on the sea. They must have had a bad scare, because I'm sure that they have pulled out all the landward patrols and guards to reinforce the town defenses. They may have left some small body of troops on this side, but there can't be many of them. Kill if you have to—quietly. Don't hurt shes or young; stun them or silence them only.

They now moved off at a much faster pace, with Hiero leading on one side of the trail, while B'uorgh took the point on the other.

As they passed along like shadows, in and out of the tree gloom and through the patches of mottled sunlight, Hiero concentrated on the road immediately ahead. He wanted no encounters with anyone and he was desperately afraid of running into someone or something protected by one of the Unclean mind shields, the lockets of bluish metal he remembered from the past. At his strongest, when he had possessed the power of mental compulsion and even the ability to kill with his mind alone, he had not been able to penetrate one of these mechanisms; he was sure he could not do so now. At the same time, in the back of his mind some half-remembered thing, also from the past, was stirring. He had forgotten something, and it was something he needed right now, this instant. What the devil was it? He shrugged mentally. It would not come, whatever it was, and he would have to wait until it surfaced of its own accord.

They loped along for a mile or so. Then B'uorgh suddenly raised one long, spotted arm and signaled a halt. The catman turned and sped across the trail and took Hiero urgently by the arm, at the same time holding his other hand to a furry ear. They all stopped, and Hiero listened for the sound that the catman's better hearing had detected. Presently he caught it also, a distant surge and roar, with an occasional higher, more piercing note at intervals. It was the sound of a battle, or he had never heard one. Occasionally there came a heavy crash through the other noises, as if a building or a great tree had fallen. All animal sounds around them seemed hushed now, as if the forest were stilling itself in fright at the unaccustomed uproar in the distance.

Hiero signaled for more speed, and they began this time really to run, though still avoiding the trail's center. It was a risk, but, Hiero thought, not much of one. All mental activity was enmeshed in the swirl of combat ahead of them, and he could pick up individuals more clearly with every step. The thoughts of frightened women and children were coming through now, as well as those of men who were not fighting and who were baffled by what was happening. The Unclean Masters of Neeyana had stayed pretty well hidden in the past, and the sudden surge of fighting men and Leemutes had come as a shock to a lot of traders and townsfolk who had never known—or preferred not to investigate—who actually ran the whole place. Now these neutrals or noncombatants were panicking, terrified by the fighting and running about trying to get out of the danger zone.

As they drew nearer and nearer, Hiero could pick out with his ears the screams of the unfortunate population whose world had suddenly been overturned. What he could not pick out were any thoughts of the Unclean Masters of Neeyana. He knew the reason was that they were shielded by their mechanisms. Any hope of learning anything from them of what went on was useless. He tried again to reach the attacking forces, whoever they were, but they too remained shrouded by their large, protective shield. He could feel the weight of them out there, but that was all.

Trying to keep watch on his own immediate way was growing wearisome, and he could not scan everything continually without exhausting himself. The physical drain of constant mental search was a very real one.

The roar of battle was now loud in the ears of his group. As the forest drew to an. end in front of them, they began to smell smoke, acrid and greasy. Veils of it were sifting through the last trees, and it grew constantly thicker, cutting off much of the sunlight and making the catfolk choke and sneeze. They were skulking and running through brush now, with Hiero in the lead, his sword in. hand, his spear and shield slung on his back. Killing would be close work, but he hoped to escape without fighting at all. Through the shouts and yells ahead of them came the roaring of fire and another noise, the echo-crashing sounds he had caught earlier. At times these were regular, but at others seemed to be spaced irregularly. Mixed with the burning wood smoke was another unfamiliar smell, sharp and bitter, a reek of something he had never scented before.

Almost before they knew it, they were in the town itself. One moment found them in a sea of low bush, and the next they were in a narrow lane between rows of shabby huts, half-blanketed in the heavy smoke. The smell of filth and ordure was strong enough to contest with the burning wood.

B'uorgh hissed, and they all tensed as several shapes loomed out of the murk ahead. At the same time, a gust of wind, driven down the alley from the sea, revealed the two parties to each other.

Two of the great Manrats, hung with weapons and carrying sacks filled with either loot or supplies, stood blinking in amazement at the blade of the man and the four scowling masks of the first Children of the Wind they had ever seen—or ever would see. Before the great ears could twitch or the greasy paws even loosen their hold on whatever they carried, they were dead, throats cut and naked-tailed bodies jerking on the grass in death agony. The incredible speed of his allies once again left Hiero gasping. Za'reekh and Ch'uirsh had moved so fast that they were back on guard, daggers ready for a fresh assault, even as the two loathsome were still falling to earth!

Kill anyone armed, Hiero sent. We must get on and try to find a place from which we can see. Look for something tall. There will be no trees, but these folks build tall huts, many times our height. There are too many minds here and too much excitement for me to listen with my own. We must use our eyes and ears instead.

He was trying to remember what Gimp and Brother Aldo had told him long ago about Neeyana. Luchare, too, had been there, on her way to be sold as a slave. What had they told him? It was a very old town, so old that it might even have existed in some form before The Death. The Unclean were everywhere in the town, but usually hidden. And there were some old churches, decayed-looking, with no priests about. These were stone-built and had towers. Such towers would probably have an Unclean garrison, if only for purposes of observation. Still, something had to be tried. Everything was a risk in this smoky maze full of foul odors and the panic of the inhabitants.

Even as he weighed various chances, another of those explosive crashes came from ahead of him. Something heavy fell to the ground, making it shake beneath his feet. Farther off, he heard other booming noises. What could they be? He had to find some place from which he could see! He glanced at the catfolk. They stood silently behind him, then-ears laid back and their neck ruffs bristling. It must, he mused remotely, be terrifying to be brought from the clean forest air into this stench and murk, filled with horrid sounds and unknown dangers. But they were not flinching and were ready to fight. He found the trust heartening, though he wished, not for the first time, that he did not have the responsibility for them on his shoulders.

Slowly and carefully, they began to grope their way through the dirty clouds of smoke, testing each comer before they crossed it, straining every sense to locate any possible foe before they themselves were discovered. A particularly heavy wave of black fog engulfed them all, and Hiero signaled, though he was increasingly nervous of using telepathy. Link hands with me and stay close. B'uorgh, you bring up the rear. Kill any not of us.

The flat command made him regretful, but he could take no chances in this foul dark. The enemy had held Neeyana for too long, and their only hope was to remain unseen and unsuspected. He felt his way along a wooden fence of palings, now shutting out the multifarious cries, both in his mind and in his ears, trying only to locate some more substantial structure. He could feel the trembling of the hand, a delicate one, clasping his, and he tried to send strength down his arm to the Speaker-to-be. M'reen had never anticipated all of this, or indeed any of it.

He halted in one moment as his left hand, outstretched, encountered something new. He was touching smooth, greasy stone, worn and slippery in a way that only age can create. He paused and he knew the others down the line were also halting, feeling his excitement and the hesitation.

None of the yells and cries were nearby, though the overall noise was a constant. The hot blanket of fumes and dirty vapor covered him and his friends, but what else might it cover? He tried to guess the hour and decided that it must be around midafternoon. How much time did that leave them and what were they to do with it? He shook involuntarily as one of the explosions shattered something he guessed was only a few streets away. The series of reverberations that had more or less gone on continuously while they advanced seemed to be dying off. The next one he heard was much farther off, probably in the direction of the waterfront.

He hand-signaled for a slow advance and, with the smoke stinging his half-opened eyes, felt his way farther along the stonework he had touched a minute back. For perhaps twenty feet, the wall remained unbroken and featureless as high up as he could reach, save for minute gaps in the aged mortar. The large stones held by this cement seemed irregular and not cut or beveled in any way.

A new wave of smoke blew down on them, and he choked and gagged, still creeping along the wall. Then he paused. He was tracing with his hand the edge of a massive doorpost, of heavy and polished wood. He stooped and made sure. It was not a window, but an open door. Blinking in the dirty haze, he listened both with his ears and with his mind.

9 - Winds of Change, Winds of Chance

There was no one nearby, unless shielded by a mental block or guard of some sort, as Hiero could tell with ease. He and the others were now in the lower room of some high building, almost certainly one of the abandoned churches that Luchare had described. There were minds, alien and inimical, below and above them, in the vaults and what must be the tower. But there did not seem to be more than three or four in either place. Making up his mind, the man began to feel his way through the gloom and smoke to where a faint gleam of light showed the beginning of a narrow stair. Behind him came the others, quivering with excitement.

I have to see, he sent. B'uorgh, you stand guard at the bottom of this tower. If one or two come, slay them. If more, send a warning and follow us up. He knew the big chief would probably resent being left, but would also have enough discipline to understand why the best warrior ought to stay as a rear guard.

With the others in his wake, sword at point, he began to climb the narrow steps, which wound upward in a tight spiral. The steps were cracked and greasy, as well as being worn with great age. The smoke was drawn up past their heads, and they had to fight to keep from coughing at each cautious step. They passed the first Sanding in silence and went on. Hiero could detect no sign of life on that floor, though a battered door yawned open. It grew lighter as they climbed, and the smoke thinned. Another apparently vacant floor was passed in silence, and Hiero sent a hand signal along to get ready. The roof lay ahead, and daylight was visible through the last door. At his nod, they burst out onto the platform of the ancient spire, perhaps once the bell tower of the long-abandoned church. Now, however, it was a watchtower, and whatever the occupants had expected, it was not this sudden onslaught from the depths of the building.

There were four beings on the small square of the turret, and all had been gazing north to the waters of the Inland Sea, visible even through the smoke and haze which enveloped the lower parts of the town. The two Manrats and one of the humans died, their throats cut before they could take in the fact that they were attacked. The fourth human fell limp as the iron edge of Hiero's left hand chopped at his neck below the base of his metal helmet. In seconds, the place was taken. Telling the two young males to watch the stunned man, Hiero strode to the wooden rail of the tower, which surmounted the ancient stones of an even older wall, and peered eagerly out. Below and before him lay an amazing sight.

He already knew that large portions of Neeyana were on fire, the aged wooden structures which made up the larger part of the town having the quality of tinder. The fires raged, whole blocks and streets spurting flame where wooden sidewalks passed the fire from house to house. Here and there, stone structures, probably older by far, resisted the heat and thrust up through the smoke. The wind was constantly shifting from east to west and back again, a light wind, but fluky and varying in force.

Down the narrow streets ran companies of Unclean troops, battling to reach the waterfront and being forced back by barriers of fire and by mobs of the civil populace, who seemed to have given in to complete panic and were struggling to get away in the opposite direction, to the south. There had obviously never been any plans for the defense of the place from a serious attack. The conceit of the Unclean Masters had not envisaged any such happening. Now they were having to improvise, with the usual results of such attempts. Appalled, the Metz saw a pack of Hairy Howlers hew their way with swords through a band of ragged humans who disputed a path with them, sending the bloodied survivors shrieking in renewed terror off into side streets and alleys. The cries and screams were nightmarish from all over the city.

It was toward the Inland Sea that Hiero's attention turned, the rest being observed only in passing. The entire waterfront was under attack, and most of the ancient warehouses and crumbling docks were on fire, with only a wall of stone or some ruined jetty of the same material resisting the heat. But it was the water and what was on it that fascinated the man.

Five rectangular shapes lay out off the town, clearly visible through the veils of smoke. From their sloping sides belched fire at intervals as ports opened and closed. They had no sails, but carried squat twin funnels and one short mast at the stern. It was these masts and what flew upon them that brought Hiero's heart into his mouth. Out there, green upon white background, waved the Sword and the Cross of the Abbeys! The Metz Republic was at long last taking the war to the enemy!

His mind racing, Hiero noted the many anchored sailing vessels out beyond the five strange warships. This was no mere raid; this was an invasion fleet. He spared hardly a thought for the black muzzles whose projectiles were exploding in the town. There had to be a source of the continual crashing that he had heard in the last half hour. How the weapons operated was of small concern to him. They seemed larger variants of his long-lost thrower, the hand-carried rocket propeller which S'duna had taken from him in the North.

Vainly, his hands clenched against the railing, he tried to contact someone out in the fleet. It was useless. A powerfully held mind shield, as good as anything the Unclean had ever managed, kept all the ships under a mass shroud, one that his thoughts simply could not penetrate.

And he had knowledge that they needed out there, he knew something vital, concerning which they ought to be warned! He beat upon the railing in his despair.

A furry hand timidly touched his shoulder and brought him back with a rush to the personal situation. It was M'reen. B'uorgh has come from his post. He says that many of the evil ones have come up from down below, under the earth, and then gone away outside. They did not see him. Unless more come now, we are alone in this place. Behind her, the tall shape of the chief loomed through the thinning smoke.

Almost absently, Hiero noted that the wind was rising and also backing, blowing with increasing strength from the south, from the forest and out to sea. What to do now?

He looked out at the attacking fleet again. From the mind talk he had caught the day before, he knew that there were at least two of the Unclean warships in the neighborhood, the metal-hulled craft driven by what he felt certain was the fury of the atom. And they had on their decks the dreaded gun which fired electric bolts, the weapon he called the lightning gun. If they appeared, could the Abbey fleet withstand them? The new ships, formidable though they were, appeared clumsy, like waddling turtles. He noticed that they were anchored in a line, bow to stern, and he shrewdly guessed that, although there was almost no sea running, they needed all the stability they could get in order to fire with any accuracy.

He turned and looked down at the prisoner, who was now squatting and rubbing his neck while he stared with frightened eyes at Hiero and the People of the Wind. He was a nasty-looking specimen, but he wore good clothes, and his boots and helmet were excellent in fit. Also, he was clean in his person. Around his neck hung a metal replica of the yellow spiral the Unclean Lords bore on their robes. He was an officer, then, and one of some rank in the enemy hierarchy. Hiero probed the man's mind and, not to his surprise, met blankness, an impenetrable barrier.

Strip him! he sent on the mind wave of the catfolk. In a moment, the keen claws had left the man's body bare to the waist. The sealed locket on the bluish metal chain contained the mechanical mind shield the Unclean used to protect their servants and allies. In another second, Hiero had whipped it off and thrown the device over the parapet. Now he addressed the man aloud, using batwah, the almost universal trade language.

"Speak the truth and only the truth and you may yet live. Lie, and I give you to my friends here." He saw the shudder as the other took in' the avid, yellow eyes. "Where are the secret ships? How many of them are there? What strength of troops is in the town? Are there more on the way and how many? Where are your Masters and how many of them are here?" As he fired the rapid questions, hardly waiting for the answers, he listened to the now unguarded brain as well, a technique in which he had grown so practiced that his ease, compared with that of the previous year, was automatic. He could not compel his prisoner to do anything; that power was gone. But he could sense his thoughts.

The man was not a coward and he was indeed of some rank, the equivalent of a Metz regimental commander. His name was Ablom Gord, and he knew a great deal, all of it interesting. He tried to lie, but it made no difference to Hiero, though the Metz masked his face and never indicated when what his ears heard was not the truth.

It seemed that no more than two of the deadly gun ships were anywhere nearby, but those two had been summoned and were close at hand. The garrison of the town still was holding but might crack if and when the invasion took place and the Abbey warships were not successfully challenged. No lightning guns were in the town itself, only on the ships. The Unclean forces were rallying in great strength, having been summoned from far and wide; they were not mustering at Neeyana, but rather at a secret base many leagues to the east. More forces were coalescing in the north on the far side of the Inland Sea, and a mighty assault had been planned. But this sudden attack on Neeyana had been totally unexpected. No help could be summoned in time unless the ships with the lightning guns could alter the balance of forces.

Hiero stared coldly at the officer when he had learned all he thought useful. "You have lied to each question," he said finally. "You were warned." His signal to B'uorgh was sent so swiftly that the knife was in the man's throat before the mind could realize a death sentence had been passed. Hiero dismissed the matter. He had read enough in the fellow's past to sentence him to death a dozen times over, murder of helpless women being only one of the charges.

He stepped over the twitching body, realizing with distaste that his sandals were slippery with blood, and once more stared out at the Abbey war fleet, still engaged in softening up the waterfront with methodical, well-aimed fire. Behind him, the wind rose in increasing strength, ruffling his hair as it blew—steadily now and, aside from small gusts, always to the north, to the sea. The wind, he thought idly, now why was the wind on his mind? The enemy was undoubtedly coming fast; their grim, speedy ships, driven by silent motors in the sleek metal hulls, must even now be close upon the town.

Why on earth was the wind so much in the foreground of his thoughts? Then his thoughts clarified. That was the answer!

He wheeled and began to rap out orders, punctuating them with an occasional question. In no more than a minute, so rapid was the mental interchange on the catfolk's mental band, the decision was made and the little party was groping its way down the stairs.

The lower part of the building still seemed silent and deserted. Smoke fumes swirled in through the ancient door. The shrieks and cries, the crackle of flames, and the roar of the bombs and shells outside, all came from a distance. The impetus of the attack, Hiero thought, seemed to have shifted a bit and was coming more from the west, as if the Metz fleet had moved in that direction. So much the better for his purpose.

As silently as so many ghosts, the five departed from the old building and darted off down the narrow street, all senses tensed to the uttermost. Hiero led, along with B'uorgh, for his human abilities were more needed here in this human-built maze than the more finely attuned nerves of his allies. Soon they came to a small square and shrank back against reeking walls as a mob of shouting people crossed in front of them. Its members seemed to be some of the bewildered and terrified human populace, running with no clear aim in view, and soon disappeared in the smoke off to the east. Hiero signaled, and the five ran swiftly across the square and vanished into the gloom of a smoldering building on the far side. They were heading, insofar as the man could tell, on a slight downward slant. If his judgment, backed by a view from the tower, was at all accurate, they would strike the water in a fairly short time. Once a running figure, shapeless in the murk, loomed up in front of them; but one sight of the five grim shapes, their size magnified by the poor light, was enough to send the runner shrieking away down a side alley.

We must be even more careful now, the Metz sent. The main body of their troops will be down here near the water. We have to get through them and find a boat.

M'reen answered. The water is not far. I can smell it. Even through this dirty air and smoke, it smells clean.

Suddenly, more quickly than the man had thought possible, they were there. They had been slinking down a narrow runway, lined with cracked brick underfoot, when it came abruptly to an end. Before them lay a tangle of ancient piers, some half-rotted and leaning drunkenly in the mud of the shore's edge, while others burned sluggishly, ignited either by the shells of the strange fleet or by chance-caught sparks. The wind still blew from behind the group's backs, and the wreaths of smoke wafted straight out before them to the open sea beyond.

Hiero scanned the scene, his eyes intent for one purpose. There were no Unclean about, at least not near. He could sense them on either side in strength, but none were close. He knew that if the catfolk had seen or sensed why, he would be told at once. He listened intently, but the gunfire was still off to the left, down toward the west. Here where he stood, due to some trick of acoustics, it was even quite quiet, and he could actually hear the lapping of tiny waves on the muddy foreshore at the foot of the street.

Then his roving gaze fixed on a small, pointed shape, half-hidden under one of the crumbling docks, moving gently to the action of the water. It was this slight movement that had caught his eye. He stared harder and again checked the immediate neighborhood for other movement. He could see nothing, yet instinct now began to warn him. There was another presence somewhere near, something watching!

It made no difference, he told himself. Time was too important for these vague fears. The decision had to be taken.

Wait here and keep watch on all sides, he sent. If that thing out under the wood, that thing which sits on the water, is what we need, I will signal. Without waiting for assent, he darted out into the open and sped across and down to the mud and the lapping, oily tide. In a second, he was over the side of the small boat and staring at its sole occupant—doubtless some local fisherman.

The man must have been trying to flee, for there were both oars and a net in the skiff. He was unarmed save for a belt knife and was clad only in a leather vest and a loincloth. Either in the act of fleeing or earlier, he had been shot, and the vanes of a crossbow quarrel thrust up from the center of his back. The oars were still bundled, and it looked to Hiero as if he had been carrying them to the boat when he had suddenly taken leave of life, one more unnumbered casualty of the war.

The Metz breathed a quick prayer, in case the man should have been honest and not one of the Unclean, then tipped the body over the side into the shallows. He turned and waved once, a beckoning gesture, then seated himself on the central thwart and began to cut the leather painter which held the boat to a cleat on one of the crumbling pilings. Seconds later, the other four were wading alongside and clambering aboard, to huddle excitedly on the bottom. In another instant, Hiero had the oars between the crude rowlocks and was easing the little craft out under the pilings toward the open sea.

Behind him, eyes glared in impotent rage from the narrow slit of a window set high on a ruined wall. A white hand fumbled with a neck chain of bluish metal; then, a decision taken, it dropped again. A hooded shape whirled and departed in haste on an urgent errand.

The little boat was about three times Hiero's length, high of prow and with a pointed stern. She rode the water sweetly as the Metz pulled hard away from the shore. The People of the Wind, nervous and yet stoic, crouched silently, two in the bow and two in front of the man and aft. All four were trembling with excitement and the newness of the experience, but they would have died rather than admit it. As the waves increased in strength, they simply laid back their ears and waited for whatever their new friend had to tell them.

Hiero was constantly checking the wind while calculating the course. His scheme was so filled with holes that he could only hope that it had a bare chance of succeeding. If only the wind would keep blowing from the south! Meanwhile, he watched over his shoulder for what the thinning smoke and reek of the burning town would reveal.

Ah! Sure enough, there was the Metz fleet! The five warships, looking more than ever like turtles or even the roofs of barns come adrift, were slowly steaming back to the east in his direction, firing as steadily as ever. If the offshore breeze obscured their targets, they gave no sign of it. Gaps in the smoke probably afforded them all the aiming points they needed. Farther out, the armada of sailing craft still moved sluggishly under light sail, waiting for a signal to close in. The offshore breeze held steady over the brown water.

Hiero rested on his oars and stared as hard as he could to the east, using his mind at its utmost, as well as his eyes. Was there something there? On the edge of his mind, that something came, then went, then came again and steadied. It was like a cloud, a moving shroud in his mind. He could detect no thoughts, nor did he need to do so. Once before, on the far side of the Inland Sea, he had felt this sensation. Ships were coming from the east, faster than anything driven by either sail or the engines of the new vessels of his country. The secret ships of the enemy were coming to the rescue of Neeyana, summoned by the devices of the Masters of the Unclean. The lightning guns were going to be opposed to the crude armor of the Metz warships.

Hiero had no hope in his own mind as to which would be the victor. The Metz ships were powerful and had taken Neeyana by surprise. But he did not for one moment think his people could stand up against the forces of the Unclean ships. That Abbot Demero and the Abbey Council were the source of the new war fleet, he never doubted. But he felt that, in the short time the Abbeys had had at their disposal, they could hardly have matched the strength and speed of the Unclean warships. Wonderful as it was to see a Metz battle squadron, those crude floating forts would be horribly outclassed by what was speeding from the east!

M'reen, he sent in haste, get ready with your preparations. Hurry! The enemy comes! We must all lie down so that this craft appears empty. If our foes see nothing but a drifting skiff, they may pass before us to attack our friends.

It was B'uorgh who answered. She is working. And I can see our enemy. How fast they come!

Hiero could see them now himself, two dots rushing at tremendous speed from down the coast to the east, growing larger by the minute. He almost wrung his hands. If only he could break the mental shield of his friends and tell them what was going on! He ducked below the gunwale with the others and tried to free his mind from worry. At the same time, he felt a sudden wave of fear come over him and secretly rejoiced. For M'reen's bag of hide was open and her hands were stirring, mixing, and blending. The fear was coming back from her, ignored by the cat people but acting on his human body chemistry! The Wind of Death was churning and drifting out over the open sea to their front. The veils of smoke from the burning port had something far more lethal than a throat irritant mixed in with their dark shroud.

Hiero stole a look to the west, then ducked back hastily. So far all was well. The Abbey fleet had formed a line well down the coast and was preparing to receive the Unclean forces. The ships were no longer firing at the town, and the sailing vessels had moved even farther down in order to take shelter behind them.

They come, B'uorgh sent. Now we will see.

Hiero shut his eyes and began to pray. He had done all he could, and only God could help now. Perhaps the Unclean wizards had learned long in the past how to nullify this awful weapon, back in the days when the catfolk had broken free and fled from their bondage of torture and enslavement.

As he prayed silently, he heard the sound he had been waiting for and dreading, the hissing crackle of the enemy weapon which had once struck him down—the lightning gun! Was it aimed at their little vessel? One blast could incinerate them in seconds. He could no longer restrain himself and peered over the side of the boat. So did the others, and all five beings watched the panorama of a sea battle in silent awe.

The Unclean ships, sharp-prowed and slender, had no tactics for pitched battle on anything like an equal basis. They had never had to learn any, since their mysterious craft so far outclassed any possible foe. As a result, they simply charged at the Metz fleet, bows on, the weapons on their foredecks firing as fast as they could. The two ships were quite close to each other, as if racing to be first for what they thought was the inevitable kill. They apparently never even noticed the drifting boat which floated on the oily sea a quarter of a mile to their south and well out of their path. And they were scoring hits. As the Metz priest had feared, the strange weapon on their bows, which somehow fired sheets of static electricity, outranged the crude cannon of the Metz fleet. Already one of the clumsy vessels was smoking from a great rent in its sloping hull, although it held its line along with the other four. None of the Abbey ships were firing now, and Hiero knew they were holding back until their outranged weapons could bear. He prayed again for the miracle he had tried so hard to conjure up, his eyes smarting both from the smoke and with unshed tears for the discipline that held his countrymen in their silent line.

And, as miracles sometimes do, especially when backed by courage and forethought, it happened.

The two slender Unclean war craft were well past the drifting boat, still pointing at the enemy fleet, when they seemed to go mad. Hiero suddenly saw one of them yaw wildly and head at full speed for its consort's unprotected flank. At the same time, the crackle of the lightning guns ceased abruptly, and the group in the boat could hear a screaming outcry come over the now silent waters. Black dots, which spilled and sprang from the metal hulls like demented fleas, showed where the crews of the stricken ships fled in sheer madness from their hitherto unconquered craft. And then came the final act. With no one—or perhaps a fright-driven lunatic-—-at the helm, the ship nearest the shore drove at full speed into the side of her racing neighbor, the sharp prow cutting like a gigantic plow, two-thirds of the way back from the peak.

There was first a small puff of smoke as the locked hulls drifted to a halt, then a blaze of white light which made the five cover their eyes. The roar of a tremendous explosion followed the light, and all ducked once more under the shelter of the gunwale. A whistling noise in the overcast air made them try to flatten themselves on the bottom even further. As they crouched in terror, splashes of water all around them sent a spray over their flinching bodies.

Fighting his panic, Hiero looked up and was in time to see the wave coming. He sprang to the central thwart and, in one motion, shipped the oars and turned the boat bows on to the wail of water sweeping down upon them. They rose high on the crest and rushed deep into the valley beyond, but the Metz had acted in the bare nick of time, and hardly a drop of water was taken in. The second and third waves were far smaller, and he had no trouble meeting them. Only then did he once more rest on his oars and wave the cat people up so that all could see the results of their work.

Where the Unclean ships had met in their final and horrific tangle, now a vast and greasy circle lay on the water, widening as the south wind sent the gentle waves to spread it yet farther out. Bits of wood and rubbish floated here and there, none of them large. Of life, there was no sign whatever. The grim vessels, which for so long had haunted the south shore of the Inland Sea, were totally gone. With them went their adept commanders of the Dark Brotherhood, their crews of ghastly mutants, and the human scum which served on them..

In the bow of Hiero's fishing boat, M'reen sat smiling, her leather bag on her lap, her furry ears cocked, and a broad and sharp-toothed smile on her expressive face. The Wind of Death had triumphed over the enemies of her race in a total victory, one on a scale of which she and her folk had never conceived. There would be songs around the hearth fires of her clan for countless generations over this! A keening purr of triumph rose from four lipless mouths, a wild rhythm of exaltation, as the freest of the free rejoiced at the death of their sometime masters.

Hiero smiled as he watched the swelling throat muscles and the blazing eyes. He would have liked to join in, had his vocal chords been capable of so doing. He had already remembered to give thanks to his Deity in his own way, silently, but no less heartfelt. He had no illusions about their luck. They had been lucky indeed! The timing, the weapon, and the wind had all been just exactly right. One could not count on such things forever, or even more than once. And there was still a lot to be done. This was only the first skirmish of what promised to be a terrible war, one extending far into the future and over many thousands of leagues.

Reluctantly, he called the catfolk back from their paean of joy and brutally brought them to the present.

Friends, he sent, the war is over. We have much to do, and first we must meet my other comrades. This is what I have come so many weary paces out of the South to do. He pointed with one bronzed hand at the Metz fleet, which was milling in some disorder, shaken by the totally unexpected end to the battle. Sit quietly now, and I will row us out there. And pray to your wind gods my own folk don't turn their thunder weapons on us before I can tell them who we are!

Actually, it was not that hard, The Metz warships were steaming slowly east once more, and an alert lookout spotted the little craft rowing toward them almost at once. The lead vessel slowed as Hiero and his party approached, the smoke from its twin stacks dying down as it did so. From a wheelhouse set forward, a group of figures emerged to gaze down at them. Noticing that several of the round muzzles set in the slanting hull were also pointing downward in their direction, Hiero shipped his oars and stood up, arms over his head. Then he lowered them and slowly began to cross himself with his right hand, moving it over his broad chest so that all could see his action clearly.

There was a moment of silence as he stood there and the fishing boat drifted closer. Then, over the narrowing gap, came a bull's bellow of a voice. "Look at that sword! Look at that dirty face! Look at that dung-eating grin! I told everyone they couldn't hang the worst priest and the most useless bum in the Metz Republic! He's alive!"

Hiero laughed with relief. "What are you doing on that hulk, you big moron? I didn't know they let you near water. You never bathed in your life and you're not smart enough to learn to swim!"

The big man smiled down at him with a weary benevolence. Per Edard Maluin was a head taller than Hiero and twice his weight. He had the thews of a bull morse and the chubby face of an innocent child, vastly enlarged. He was a veteran of the Frontier Guards, a murderous killer at need, and one of Hiero's best friends, having roomed with him in the Abbey Academy when they were only in their teens.

"Who are your friends, Shorty? And are you lucky! Did you see what we just dealt with? This ship, which I command, please note, and the others?"

Hiero took one oar and sculled over to the hull of the big vessel. Then he looked up, his face incredulous, at the small group above.

"You dealt with? You'd be so much garbage at the bottom of the sea, my friend, if it weren't for me and these four chums of mine. What do you think made the Unclean go crazy, then ram each other? The distant sight of your ugly face?"

Per Edard's eyes narrowed. Behind his broad forehead lurked a very good mind, and he was suddenly thinking hard. "So that was you, was it? I might have known. You always were the king of the dirty tricks league. And thank God for it! Now listen, come aboard quickly. We have a war to finish and we have to clean out that rats' nest. We have new mind shields and they're being held tight, so I can't talk to your pals. Come up on the bridge with me, and we'll get back to work."

In an instant, the five had leaped aboard, abandoning the little boat, and passed through a narrow entry port on the side of the sloping hull. Moments later, they stood, while Per Edard rapped out orders, peering through narrow slits at the smoke-covered town they had just left. And moments after that, the roar of the big cannon below and the trembling of the ship in response made them all wince in reaction. Between commands to the helmsmen, the gunners below, his signalmen, and many others, Per Edard threw questions and snatches of talk over his huge shoulders. He wore the leather breeches and shirt of the Frontier Guards, but on his head was a leather band with a short visor in front. Above the visor was an insigne the Metz had never seen before, picked out in silver. Looking closely, Hiero saw that it was a square-sailed ship, shown head-on, as if coming at the viewer, and that behind it again, as a background, was a slanted anchor with a twist of rope around it.

"Oh, that? We all wear them. Demero found it in some old book as usual. Lot of nonsense, I suppose, but the men like it. The admiral is Colonel Berain from over on the Beesee coast. His is gold, if you please. Lower ranks wear it in copper. I'll try to get you one in lead. We're a navy now, Hiero." He rambled on while all of them watched the shells burst in the distant town. No answering fire of any kind was coming out.

"We had a hell of a time getting enough metal for the guns. It's a bronze alloy from some old city, I guess. No, the hull's not metal, just wood. But it's got thin plates of some ceramic fitted over it. Damned good protection against most things, though not those bloody electrics. I must admit, I think you saved our necks there, my boy.

"The ships? Steer small, you copper-plated numbskulls! Think this is a canoe? How can they aim below with you barging around that way? Oh, yes, the ships. Well, Demero started moving seamen from the Beesee area over to a lake northwest of Namcush. A fair-sized lake, and the Dam People helped dredge a big outlet. They're working with us now, you know. Lot been happening since you went off" gypsying down south." He aimed an affectionate cuff at Hiero's head, which would have stunned him if it had landed, then went back to bellowing at the men who manned the twin steering wheels. In a moment he was talking to Hiero again.

"None of this stuff is new. God alone knows where the knowledge got dredged up from, but it was pretty complete. Ail we had to do was ask a question and the answers came quickly. The Abbey files, I suppose. They gave us everything. How to build the damned things, how to build the engines. They call them 'high-compression steam engines,' and we blew up a couple before we got the hang of it. No one got killed, though. The old ships, the ones we copied, were built the same way, but with iron sheathing. We had no way of getting all that iron, at least not fast. But we got the formula for this ceramic, like a pottery dish but twenty times as hard, and it works fine. Now that I think of it, I'm kind of glad we didn't have the iron. That lousy electric thing on those Unclean ships would have fried us all, maybe.

"Anyway, we got five of them built, the Dam People opened their sluices, and down the river to Namcush we came, early one morning, let's see, about three weeks ago. We towed two regiments in barges along behind and we had that town in one half hour. Not one ship got away. Not too many of the Unclean were there, but a lot of crooked traders, frontier scum, and some just plain pirates. We threw everyone into a prison and interrogated the hell out of all of them. We hanged the pirates and locked up all the ships of the others. No way the Unclean were going to get warned. Then we began to move down the coast to this place. We couldn't tow all those sailing ships, so we had to move fairly slowly for the others to keep up. And here we are. What's that, son?"

A teen-aged boy had appeared from aft and stood at the salute.

"Signal from the admiral, sir. Move slowly in toward the town and conform to his movements. He is going to pass the troops through our line and start them landing while we give any cover needed."

"Right. Cease fire and wait for commands below there." He straightened from the voice tube and for the first time stared hard at the Children of the Wind. "Your friends are going to have front-row seats, old buddy. One big tough, two young toughs, and a real cutie. Now, where did you find them? Never saw or heard of anything remotely like them, and I know more than most about Leemutes—sorry, aliens."

His admiration as his twinkling black eyes roved over M'reen's supple shape was so obvious that it transcended the barrier of species. The young priestess bridled.

"Down, boy," Hiero said. "The young lady you are leering at was solely in charge and responsible for ruining those two loads of Unclean, who otherwise would have happily blown your little toy boat here completely out of existence. Shall I turn her loose on you instead?"

Per Edard's eyes widened at this astounding comment, but he knew Hiero too well to doubt a word of it. Instead, he bowed and addressed the four catfolk formally.

"I am honored to meet such brave warriors, the friends of my old companion. Please accept the thanks of all of us for your destruction of our mutual foes. You will receive more formal thanks later from our chiefs and wise ones. In the meantime, you are our honored guests and allies. Anything that we can do for you will be done at once. You have only to ask."

Hiero translated and waited to see who would answer. It was B'uorgh, which made sense. The big war chief was the senior, despite M'reen's rank in the Pride structure.

We thank you in turn. We have corns far to help our friend Hiero and his people. We wish to be led to battle against those you call the Unclean. Our name for them is worse. May we soon talk to you with our minds in true friendship. Meanwhile, is there any way we can breathe clean air? These stinks from that town and this floating thing are choking us. We ask only if this is possible. If not, we can endure. We will eat and drink when you do, go where you go, fight when you fight, and, if necessary, die when you die.

As he translated the answer, Hiero could see that Edard was impressed in spite of himself.

"Please tell them, Hiero, that I'll get them on one of the outer picket ships as soon as I can. The air should be clean out on the sound, and those are sailing craft, so they won't have the engine-room coal dust and oil to contend with. We have plenty of lignite coal, but even I think it stinks. Eight now I have to cover this landing. Here come the Guards going ashore."

While Hiero spoke again to his friends, they all watched as the Metz Frontier Guards sailed through the armored steamships and cautiously approached the rotting wharves in front of them. There was no talking now; all stood silent, waiting to see if there were any counterattack coming. Hiero tried to reach out: with his mind and learned something new. The mind shield that the Abbeys were using to guard their war fleet blanketed his own powers as well. He could neither send nor receive on any mental band beyond the limits of the ship! He mentioned this to Per Maluin in a low voice.

"Yeah, that's right. Abbot Demero told me about you, Hiero. I sort of gathered you had become the grand champion of the world at this sort of thing in the last year or so. Well, we have a lot of people trying to do the same trick now ourselves. And, man, are they going to be glad to have you back! But that's by the by. When we got these shields for the fleet, the top people, which means the Council, of course, decided that we might just have one or two nasties in our own. ranks. As a result, this thing clamps down on everyone, so no one has a chance to pass any little leaks which might get us killed in an emergency. Get it?"

Hiero nodded, and they returned to watching the disciplined ranks of the Abbey infantry disembark and scatter out through the smoke-laden streets toward the inner part of Neeyana. Aside from distant screams which came dimly to them through the haze and the crackle of fires burning nearby, there was no sound. No evidence of any enemy action, organized or otherwise, was apparent. A second sailing ship, a two-masted coaster like the first, appeared and unloaded troops. Officers, several of whom Hiero recognized, gave quiet orders on the foreshore and then followed their men inland. One ship after another disembarked its human cargo, until Hiero estimated that at least two full regiments, perhaps four thousand men, had gone ashore. He watched, somewhat jealously, as they passed. He had the rank of Major (Reserve) in the Scouts, the elite of all the Abbey forces; hence he found himself wishing— childishly, as he reminded himself—that he were going in with them. Part of this feeling, he knew, was simply the trained reaction of a professional soldier on seeing others going into battle. But he was wise enough to know that there was more to it than that. For more than a year now he had been alone, in the sense that none of his own people had been with him. He had journeyed thousands of leagues and found new friends, a mate, new rank, new everything. But all had been new, and what he really was feeling now was simple homesickness. As the bronzed files padded down the narrow gangplanks and vanished into the murk, he simply wanted to be one of them, to be a part of the master unit that he had been trained to serve-—the hive, the swarm, the legion, the corps. His feeling was as old as mankind, and he had no way of knowing that a legionary of the Imperial Tenth, stuck at Vindobonum, watching his cohort cross the Danube to take on a swarm of Gothic horse, had felt the same sensation.

However, he was not simply a soldier. He was a priest. He made a silent orison of thanks to God and also silently confessed to pride and ingratitude for the many blessings he had received. He knew that the discontent which had welled up in his soul was unjust and based on pride. He had been blessed in many ways, far more than he deserved, and he admitted that he had less than no right to his feelings. But—oh, how he longed to be with those silent files!

His reverie was interrupted by a stiffening of all those on the bridge. Someone had entered by the rear companionway—in fact, several persons. But the man who came first riveted all eyes. He was not young and he was almost bald, a rare thing for a Metz. He might have been an old fifty or a young sixty and was clean-shaven. He wore no band and visor, but on his left breast was a badge with the fouled anchor and the sailing ship, only this time in gold. His iron face, seamed with scars, acknowledged Maluin's palm-up salute with a nod. He wore the same simple leather they all did, and a short hanger hung by his side. No one had any doubt that the Man had arrived. He turned quickly to Hiero and answered the salute with his own at once.

"Per Desteen? Congratulations on being here at all. Justus Berain, for my sins, the commander of this squadron. I have heard strange things about you—" He paused. "—and your friends here. Do I understand that the Unclean vermin destroyed themselves through your efforts? Let's have the story."

It took a while. After Hiero had formally introduced the Children of the Wind and all the mutual compliments were over, the admiral began to pick their brains. While he did so, messengers and couriers came and went, interrupting the interrogation at spasmodic intervals.

Hiero listened as they reported and formed his own opinion of what was going on. There seemed, from what he could gather, to be little fighting. The town had emptied itself in a very short time and in what appeared to have been a panic-stricken rout. The Abbey troops were all reporting in with no trouble. A few of the enemy Leemutes had shown fight and had been disposed of in short order. None of the Unclean wizards, the Masters of the Circles, had been glimpsed, but there were many corpses and hundreds of terrified civilians of both sexes. Some looting had been going on but was being put down with a firm hand.

"If I may suggest it, sir," Hiero said, "have the officers interrogate for headquarters locations and also personnel. This was a pretty big base, and they can't have had much time to destroy things. There aren't that many of the real top scum altogether, you know. They had to have lots of clerks and lower staff types. We could learn a lot. But they'll probably be underground, so for God's sake, tell our men to be careful if they go down to look."

Berain looked at him in silence for a moment. He was not used to junior officers who spoke quite so firmly. Hiero hardly noticed. He was the prince of D'alwah, and what he had been through in the last year made him the equal of anyone. Already he had turned away to look at the burning town. Per Maluin noticed and held his breath, waiting for an explosion. But Justus Berain was not the admiral for nothing. A slight smile touched the comers of the iron mouth; that was all.

"Quite right, Per Desteen. Should have thought of it myself. Are you in good enough shape to go ashore? I can give you a squad, and you might have a better idea where to look than most of us."

In minutes it was arranged, and Hiero eagerly led ashore, the four Children of the Wind padding behind him, ten Metz borderers and an NCO in turn following them. Led through the smoke by a young lieutenant, they were at the central square of Neeyana in no time, despite the smoke and confusion all about. Over a hundred prisoners were huddled under guard in the middle of the square. As soon as Hiero had identified himself, he began to look them over, both with his eyes and with his probing mind.

He suddenly pointed to one figure, a tall man who seemed to be trying to shield himself behind some others. Get that one and strip him. He is trying to hide and he wears one of the metal things around his neck.

Before the fascinated gaze of the Metz soldiers, the four catfolk fell upon the cringing shape and shredded its leather harness in seconds. One more of the blue-metaled pendants and its chain were handed to Hiero, who crushed the thing underfoot, his gaze fixed on the Unclean officer as he did so. He spoke in batwah.

"Tell me no lies, Master of the Second Level. You have one chance for life and one only. Where is the Central Vault? Where are the records kept? You have only a second between yourself and eternity."

The Unclean officer might have fought in open combat. He was evil but not a complete craven. But being suddenly assaulted by the awful catfolk, being stripped, and having his disguise and his shield removed in public-—all this was too much. With a sob, he prostrated himself at the feet of Hiero.

"Mercy!" He embraced Hiero's sandals until the priest spumed him away.

"You shall have life as long as not one lie crosses your dirty lips. Answer my questions."

It was better than might have been hoped. Though no adept, the wretched man had been third in command of the city's military force and he knew much. With a rope around his neck, he led the squad, Hiero, and the catfolk to a small door, sunk in the side of a nearby stone tower. They had to force the lock. Then, as Hiero had expected, they found themselves at the top of a winding stair. Worn and slippery steps led down into darkness.

The party waited for a moment while torches were procured, and then, with the prisoner in the lead, they began to file downward, weapons held at the ready. Down wound the stairs and down. There were landings, but no doors issued off them. Down, until Hiero knew they were far below ground level. Now bluish fluors appeared, and they crushed out the smoking torches. They had emerged in a damp stone corridor which ran in both directions, off into shadowed distances. The dim blue light of the fluors, set in the ceiling at long intervals, revealed nothing. No one had to be told to keep silence. Hiero prodded the prisoner with his spear point. The gesture was enough, and the man turned to the left and marched numbly off. Silently except for an occasional clink of metal and the faint scrape of leather, the others followed.

They had come a long way and found nothing save emptiness before them when Hiero suddenly halted everyone by raising his left hand. His mind could touch something. With a grimace of disgust, he realized what it was. He led off again at a run, prodding the captive before him ruthlessly. They burst suddenly into a larger room, a great oval, around which were set many barred doors. And the doors were all open. From them came a stench of death and decay which made the entire party retch. One quick glance in each cell was enough. Men, women, even children— here were the choicest captives of the Unclean. All were chained and all were dead. The savage blows and sword cuts which had so recently killed them were in all probability the kindest death they could have asked for after their torment. Hiero had caught the last flicker of a dying brain back down the buried corridor.

"Fresh wounds, sir," the NCO said. "They must have just got it."

"Yes, and we'll follow. Look sharp, now. The tunnel goes straight out the other side. This scum here says that their main Council Chambers are just ahead, so—watch it!"

The few pale chiefs of the Unclean, no more than three in number, who had not been able to flee on the surface, had waited just a little too long to try the secret exit tunnels. Had they not paused in one last spasm of sadistic cruelty to slay the helpless captives in their chains, they might have gotten away. When Hiero and his pack burst into the great room at their heels, they had not yet opened the far door, which was hidden behind an arras. Instead, they were engaged in trying to destroy the great wire screen. Though its moving lights were all dark now, that nerve center of the Yellow Circle was an obsession with them, and they had not realized that a foe so deadly might follow them so soon. Their gray robes dabbled with the blood of their victims, they turned to fight. Their weapons were hardly raised when the Children of the Wind were upon them. Then three limp shapes lay-in their own filthy gore, while Hiero looked about him and tried to imagine what he had found.

10 - Of Musterings in the North

The Most Reverend Kulase Demero, Abbot Supreme of the Metz Republic and General-in-Chief of its armies, was a busy man. His lean, bronzed face was worn with care, and he slept little. His temper, never all that equable, was now tinder-dry, and woe betide any hapless subordinate who wasted his time.

At the moment, he was in council and he was having difficulties, both in keeping his temper and in understanding what he simply had to understand. Not for the first nor for the fiftieth time, he wished that Brother Aldo, the Elevener chief and his secret friend and ally for years, were present. The abbot had a fine mind, and so, no doubt, did this being before him, but one was human and the other was not! The abbot could use his mental powers and exchange thoughts as well as any man in the Republic. But only with men!

He sighed and once more tried to grasp what the other was telling him. Charoo, the chief engineer—for want of a better phrase—of the Dam People, was not all that easy to understand.

Charoo was as tall as the old human, even crouching on his haunches, and far vaster in bulk. His blunt, chisel-toothed head was keglike, and the small, short-furred ears were laid back tight against the long skull. He wore no clothes and needed none, being clothed in dark brown, rippling fur from his head to the base of the great, naked, paddle-shaped tail. He waved his clawed hands now, curiously delicate for the great bulk of his body, and his bright, beady eyes glittered as he tried once more to explain his thought to the man. A wave of pungent musk eddied from his body, and Demero managed to avoid coughing only with difficulty. The scent of castor filled the small room as it would have one of Charoo's own lodges out on a distant lake.

Cannot—indescribable—make evil things go away if not—unknown thought—improbable image—water. Water people not—negative something movement—we must—thought of a specific place—negative again—cannot leave. Must be HERE—positive thought now. Silence.

The great, mutated beavers had appeared like many other creatures, soon after The Death. Shy and unaggressive, they had steadily spread over the remote, northern lakes. Slowly, as they occasionally helped stranded hunters or returned lost infants, the people of the Metz learned to respect them, and a system of silent barter had existed in areas where the two cohabited for many years. No Metz would have dreamed of harming one of the Dam People, but they were not exactly friends, either. Each kept to its kind. Humans avoided their lakes out of courtesy, and the great rodents did not frequent the Metz towns. They traded timber and roots for knives, tools, and vegetables, but that was all. That they were highly intelligent was well known, though only recently had it been realized that they had a written language.

It was Abbot Demero, prompted by his Elevener friend, who had made the first overtures and had been well received, since the Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment had laid the groundwork. The Unclean had taken to raiding the Dam People in the recent past, and the great creatures had only two things the Dark Brotherhood and their allies wanted. Meat and fur! This made the Dam People natural allies of decent humanity, but the alliance was not easy. They were simply not warlike by nature, and it was very difficult to explain to them what was needed.

They had willingly helped dig the dams and channels to bring the new Republic fleet down to Namcush, but the abbot wanted much more. And he was not getting through. The hierarchical system of the Dam People was a mystery, for one thing. Charoo appeared to have authority of some kind, but how much authority was a question. Could he speak for many of his people or only for his own village?

Sighing mentally, the abbot leaned forward and prepared to try once more. He was interrupted by a low laugh from the door of his chamber and whirled in a rage, to blast the presumptuous fool who had dared to break in upon him. His fury turned to joy in an instant.

"Hiero!" He embraced the younger man heartily, patting him on the back over and over again. "I knew you were coming, but I had no idea it would be this quick. But listen. You can perhaps help me. I am having the greatest of difficulty in understanding what this worthy person wants to say. Do you suppose ...?" He stopped talking, for Hiero had freed himself and was standing before Charoo in utter silence. Then his hands began to move in certain complex gestures.

Charoo in turn began to move his own hands, and his round eyes were now sparkling even more brightly. In the silent room, the old man felt the pulse of thought, moving on an alien level and far faster than he could grasp. The four hands continued their strange movements; now they were touching and interweaving in a queer way as they did so, as if an invisible cat's cradle were being formed. For another moment this went on; then both stepped backward and stared at each other.

"Chirrup," the great beaver said. Dropping to all fours, he scuttled past the two men and out the half-open door. They heard his claws in the passage, and then he was gone into the night.

"Well," the abbot said at length. "I hope you got more out of that than I did. And how, may I ask, did you know what it was that I wanted to say?"

Hiero dropped into a chair and laughed. "Because, Reverend Sir, as soon as Maluin brought me here to Namcush, I started looking for you. And I have, I regret to add, been eavesdropping as I came to this house from well down the street."

"I see," his superior said slowly. "That means you got Berain to send you on ahead of the fleet in one of his precious warships. Not an easy man to persuade, Berain. And your powers really are quite extraordinary. I have been hearing things, my boy. I only hope you keep the fear of God in your heart. No man, no decent man and Christian soul, has ever had the mental strength you seem to have picked up, Hiero. You make me wonder. Do you realize what your mind would be, should it be allied to the power of evil?" He glared down at his former pupil.

Hiero met his gaze frankly. "You can hear my confession just as soon as you like, Most Reverend Father," he said flatly. "But first, wouldn't you like to know what Charoo and I said to each other?"

It was touch and go for a moment, and then the old man chuckled. He seated himself in another wooden chair and laughed, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes, you insolent, I would like to very much. I can deal with your sins later and I'm sure there were plenty of them in a year away. Tell me what that damned old water hog wanted, because I certainly couldn't grasp it."

"Well, first, they have a rather complex sign language to augment their mind speech. I was siphoning some of that out of his brain while we were talking on another level mentally. It's an odd band they think on, but not so odd as that of some other friends of mine you will meet presently. First, he wants to help, but is not sure how. His people are no good away from water, which is pretty obvious. What isn't so obvious, unfortunately, is how parochial they are. Except for the young males and shes in the spring of the year, they don't like being away from their own particular lake. They have a fantastic bond of affection for what might be called the home territory. I guess it's ancestral, but that's what he was trying to tell you. They have a council of sorts, and he has a lot of clout on it. They visit from village to village and from lake to lake, but—here's the catch—not for very long at a time. He was trying to tell you that they can't be counted on for any extended trips or journeys. They'd go crazy,"

"I see. That is certainly worth knowing. It means if there is a big fight and we want them in on it, it had better be somehow staged near where they are in the first place or it's no go."

"Exactly," Hiero agreed. "And we'll have to think about that at length later. But just now, Father Abbot, I need some help. Is there any news of the South? Have you heard anything from Brother Aldo? No one in the fleet has heard of my wife, but you must have by this time. What news from the East? Have you heard anything—anything at all?"

Hiero had contained himself for a long time, but he was close to the breaking point. Only by rigorously shutting Luchare from his mind totally by the exercise of mental discipline had he been able to hold himself in so long. Abbot Demero saw the agony on the younger face and wished himself anywhere but in the same room.

"I suppose you learned nothing from any prisoners you took?" he asked at length. It was an answer of sorts, but not what he wished he could say.

"Nothing," Hiero said in a dull voice, looking at the floor. "None but their adepts would have been likely to know, in any case. We saw only three of those, and they were taken in the act of murder and killed on the spot." The room seemed darker, though the small lamp had not dimmed.

"You deserve the truth," Demero admitted. "At least all the truth I have to give. Brother Aldo and I are far older friends than you imagine. For many years, unknown to the rest of the High Council of the Republic, I have been in contact with him. He has sought to warn me of the Unclean designs, and I have tried to spur his group to assume a more active part in our struggle. I sent messages to him when you first went south, and it was because of these that he was able to seek you out. Long ago, before your birth, he was of very high rank in your kingdom in the South.

"He brought back the books you found, and we have used them. It was only because of them that we were able to create and learn to use the computers. Without those, we could never have built the new ships so quickly, using and correlating knowledge from the old records. Those computers have saved us many months, and each day they save still more.

"But you want to hear of your princess. Aldo was here not too long ago. He had news of D'alwah—word that was passed over thousands of leagues. There is civil war. It is not good—such evil news that he left in the night to go south, where he could learn more."

The younger man turned away. Evil word from the South, so bad that Brother Aldo had left in haste! Yet Luchare had known of the rebellion. Her father had been alive, and she had been able to send the faithful hopper to Hiero. She was forewarned. What could have happened? Whatever it was, he was helpless to do anything to aid her, lodged a thousand leagues and more to the north. There was nothing left but the soldier's creed: Endure!

His face was masklike as he turned once more to Demero. "I know you'll try to learn more and keep me informed, Father," he said. "I can't do anything to help D'alwah up here, except indirectly. Let's drop the subject. Have I told you we took one of the Unclean Council Chambers undamaged? They had a thing like a great metal screen, set with hundreds of tiny lights, but there was no power source. At least, none that we could find. I had it dismantled as best I could. I have a strange feeling about the thing. It ought to go to the top Abbey mind-psychs at once, but I also want you to put your top computer men on it. I think it may be a computer of some strange sort, but powered by mental energy, and so ..."

Listening to the iron control in the flat tones, the abbot had to make an effort to compose his own face and to pay attention. Under the disciplined voice, he heard the terrible muted passion. Yet he could do nothing to help.

From an opening in the green forest wall, there came a great black beast. Klootz strode into a broad clearing, his heavy dewlap hanging under his mighty neck. In the center of the clearing, he raised his head and sniffed the breeze, seeking any news that the wind might bring either his broad nostrils or his mule's ears. His head bore only buds where the great antlers would come in the months ahead. He sniffed again, winnowing the airs of the great conifers and mighty oaks. Then, raising his head, he called, a far-echoing "Bah-oh." Three times the nasal bugle rang through the woods. He seemed to listen in silence for an answer, but if one came, it would not have been audible to human ears.

Farther away, at the remote edge of the call's carrying power, another animal abruptly checked his movement. Gorm stopped and sat up on his furry haunches, listening. His ears and nose twitched, and his eyes took on a look of mental strain. Then he grunted in satisfaction and set off in the direction of the bugling.

Klootz lowered his muzzle and suddenly lurched ponderously forward across the clearing and vanished into the woods, moving without a sound, his entry into the trees like that of a shadow—but a determined shadow.

The royal army of D'alwah was in retreat. What was left of it was moving as rapidly as utter exhaustion would permit. Many men and animals bore dreadful wounds. Every so often, tired bodies simply collapsed, the energy to continue no longer there. It was easy to lose the men and beasts that fell, for it was night and none had the time or strength to help a neighbor. The few baggage wains that remained were lagging badly, though the kaws that pulled them were being goaded until blood ran to keep them moving at all. The king was already far behind. Many of the cavalry were without mounts, trudging dumbly forward on foot. The surviving hoppers were limping and footsore. It was the remnant of a beaten host, held together by loyalty and discipline. But both were eroding fast.

Occasionally, the tired men glanced back toward the south, where a red glare lighted the sky. D'alwah City was burning. Many of the troops were natives of the city and had families there.

They closed their eyes and tried not to look, or even to think of the horrors which must be going on behind them.

The Princess Royal of the kingdom rode in the van, her hopper still surrounded by a clump of mounted troopers. At her side, his right arm in a sling, Count Ghiftah Hamili commanded, his aquiline, dark face a mask of exhaustion. The army had no goal except safety and a place to rest. They were all, man and beast, utterly fought out. That there would be pursuit in the morning, all were keenly aware.

They had fallen back into the city two days before, defeated in the first battle, but still a strong and confident force. They felt they could rest and hold the walls until the levies of east and west, the marshmen and sailors of the coast and the Mu'aman infantry of the great plains, came to join them. When that happened, then they would sally out against the rebel duke and his foul allies and cut him and them to pieces.

That was not the way it happened. What happened was terrible. The conspiracy of beggars and street rabble they had put down a week, earlier had been the merest sham of an uprising, mounted only to catch them off guard. No sooner had the city gates been shut than the real uprising started. The stone barriers of the barred sewers and the access ports to the canals were burst open in some cases, unlocked by treachery in others. Out of the slimy waters erupted all the horrid life of the deeps, the things D'alwah had guarded against for centuries. While fresh attacks from without assaulted the walls of the city, within it the army was faced with the terrified civil populace and hordes of great reptiles, ravenous for blood. Nor was this all. At intervals, strange, manlike shapes, hard to see and hideous when one did, were actually marshaling the onslaught of savage reptilian life and leading it in some fashion against the rear of the embattled troops.

As the reports came in, Luchare took counsel with her few remaining advisors. As best they could, they gave orders to fight their way to the northern gates. Some of the troops made it, but many stayed behind forever. When Luchare tried to assemble what was left outside the north walls, it was clear that the army-had no more than a quarter of its original strength remaining, and that in frightful shape. There was no alternative except retreat— really flight. Duke Amibale and his friends, the Unclean and their allies, had been grossly underestimated. Unless she could rally the rest of the country quickly, the kingdom was lost to all intents and purposes.

As she rode in a daze through the steaming night of the South, Luchare tried to form coherent thoughts. She was so tired! None of them had had more than a catnap for over three days.

She wondered where Hiero was. Her faith that he was alive, she knew at times, might prove unreal. But they were so closely linked that she simply could not believe he was gone forever. Somewhere, somehow, he would come back to her. She had to keep on believing. As she slumped lower in the high-cantled saddle of her hopper, she never noticed that Count Hamili had taken the beast's reins from her limp fingers and transferred them to one of the guards. Numb with exhaustion, she allowed herself to be led on into the darkness.

Hiero awoke all of an instant. His narrow bed on the third floor of the new fort by the Namcush piers creaked as he sat up. Instinctively, he reached for his sword. What had wakened him? He peered at the open window, through which faint moonbeams glimmered. Listening, he heard the challenge of a sentry and the reply. The faint sound of lapping water came to him, along with other small noises of the night. There seemed to be nothing, but— he had learned to trust his instincts. Somewhere deep in his mind, a tiny warning bell had rung. Then, outside in the corridor, he heard the very faint scrape of movement, hardly more than a rustle of muted sound.

As noiseless as the night itself, he rose, sword in hand, and padded over to the door of the bedchamber, listening intently and probing with his mind as he did. Nothing, no mind, no feeling of one at all. But there had been the sound, and he knew that on the other side of the plank door was a presence! Something had stolen upon him. In this place of friends, there should be no such shielded thought!

His doubts were dramatically resolved. From deep in the wooden fort, far below his sleeping quarters, a horn sounded the alarm call, and the blast of the horn was echoed by others, all giving warning that some enemy was there.

At the same time, his door burst open with a crash, and a bulky form hurtled into the small room, arm overhead and a weapon glinting as it charged toward his now empty cot.

The assassin never had time to learn his mistake. Hiero's heavy, short sword, sweeping from behind and one side, struck the juncture of neck and shoulder with awful force. There was a single, choked grunt of agony as the razor-sharp edge went home, and a fountain of blood spurted in the dim light. Then the shape fell forward, struck dead on the spot by that one blow.

Hiero whirled to face the dark shape of the door, but the assailant had apparently been alone. He could detect no presence outside. Yet he remained crouching and ready until the light of torches and the sound of men came down the corridor. Only then did he step out and hail the patrol guards.

Ten minutes later, after the room was cleared of all but himself and the abbot, he was staring down at what had come in the night to slay him.

"Aldo mentioned them, I recall," Demero said. "I gather you had a previous encounter with one, out on the Inland Sea. A foul thing, even for a Leemute—and all of them are foul. What do you call it again?"

"A Glith. That was what Roke the pirate called it before we killed it and him." He stared down at the gray skull, earless and noseless, the fanged jaws agape in death and the mighty limbs, covered with fine scales, all asprawl. The thing wore the harness of a Metz soldier, but it could not have passed for a human in any kind of light. The heavy axe it had borne lay half under Hiero's bed.

"How did it get in here?" the old priest mused. "The alarm was given by one of those pendulum devices our scientists cooked up. I showed you one before you went off south, remember?"

"It may have been given, but it was way late," was the answer as Hiero knelt to examine the corpse further. Already a foul stench was in the room, despite the open window. "Look here. It wears the mind shield. I expected that. God knows what warned me. I guess I'm becoming attuned to the presence of the enemy somehow. But I had only a few seconds to spare."

He crushed the small box and crumpled the chain before going on. "What I'd really like to know is, if that shield was working— and it was—how did your pendulum thing work at all?"

"I don't think the scientists themselves altogether understand that device," Demero said. "The warning was late, as you say. Still, there was a warning. Perhaps it also works, though more slowly, on a level of emotion somehow. A pretty puzzle to set before the big brains when I get time to do so. But what I want to know is, how did this Glith pass the sentries at all?"

"I see what you mean. And I think I know the answer or can guess at it. Have the sentries examined as fast as you can by a psychmedic, one who knows the human brain. One of these things almost hypnotized me once. They have strong mesmeric powers. I'd be willing to bet that there is an unexplained lapse in the memory of some guard, maybe more than one. The damned brutes are probably bred for it. Anything else occur to you, Father?"

"Oh, yes. I'm not quite senile, not yet at any rate. It wanted you. It took a big risk to locate this chamber, son. And that means two things. I'll have to have the garrison mind-probed in depth. Though I think you may be right, and it could have got its information by mental compulsion. But I see further, and so do you. It came looking for you, so that means it was sent. The Unclean know you are here or at least suspect it. Others may have been sent to other places. The important thing is that they know you are alive, and that is something we hoped was not so. I wonder how?"

"I don't know. But only one thing makes sense. Someone or some thing saw me in Neeyana. No other way it could have happened. They move fast, don't they?" Hiero's eyes slitted as he stared down at the repulsive corpse on the floor. "It makes me feel proud in a funny way. They certainly hate me."

The abbot smiled. "You were never very good at your classic studies, Hiero. Many, many thousands of years ago, far across the sea, there was a mighty king with a personal motto. Can't recall much about the man, whether he was good or bad. But I recall the motto. It ran, Oderint dum Metuant. Let them hate me so that they fear me, that is, in Latin. You see, my boy, there's the answer. As I told you yesterday, I worry about your powers. But you terrify the enemy. I think they would trade several regiments of our Guards if they could get you instead. I had hoped to use you as a secret weapon. Now I'll just settle for weapon, period. Do you have any ideas?"

"I think so," Hiero said slowly. "I think we have to keep them off balance. If you can spare me a few good men, the best of the bushrangers, I'll take my cats and go hunting. North of the Palood and east of the Otwah League boundary. Somewhere in there I think the enemy may be gathering. The way I see it is this: We dealt them a bad blow at Neeyana. We couldn't hold it, but we certainly wrecked it for them. We stole their records, broke up and brought back their Great Screen, sank two of their best ships, and killed three Masters of the Yellow Circle. Nothing like that ever happened to them before. If I'm right, we only have two main packs to worry about—the Blue, and that's S'duna, and the Red, both north of the Inland Sea. I think I know where S'duna's main base is—the isle of Manoon. Where the others are, I have no idea. But I think a hunting expedition is in order, something between a probe and a raid. I have never drought they had many of those ships, you know. Even with their powers, that much metal and technology must be very rare. I doubt if there are more than two or three left on the whole Inland Sea. Brother Aldo got one and my cats got two. I don't think there are that many left."

He began to pace the small room, and the older man watched and listened with veiled amusement as the younger continued to expound his plan.

"Surely some of the levies must be coming in from the Otwah League by now? They promised aid before I went south."

"They have a long way to travel, and the fact that the Unclean have hit them only lightly so far has made them cautious. They are afraid to strip themselves of troops. Also, remember that they are not quite the same as we, Hiero. They have a far higher proportion of the old white stock and they have other mixtures as well. We are homogeneous in population to a much greater extent. Not so many nerves to soothe, not so many little patches of local divergency that have to be kept feeling they are part of the whole. But they are coming. I have had word from their Council."

"Well," Hiero said, "tell them to stay well north of the sea, and I mean well north of the roads anywhere near the Palood. The less the enemy knows about them, the better.

"Anyway," he went on, "I ought to start as soon as possible. I want no more than six men and my furry friends from the South. We'll go on foot, not mounted, though the Children of the Wind could leave Klootz standing, I think." A look of pain crossed his face as he thought of his lost mount, but the emotion was suppressed as he continued. "On foot is better. We don't know that terrain well and I have no idea what we'll be getting into,"

A heavy tread shook the corridor, and the tall shape of Per Edard Malum loomed in the doorway. He was welcomed and the conversation resumed. It had not progressed very far when the newcomer interrupted loudly. "Hey there, hold up. Are you off again on some crazy trip, while I float around on that stink barge? Not on your life! Father Abbot, I appeal to you. This helpless shrimp needs protection. I resign from the navy here and now. I'm going along, that's what!" He stared defiantly at both of them.

Demero laughed quietly. "I don't know what Justus Berain will say, but I suppose I can quiet him down. It won't really be desertion if I have you seconded to special duties. I presume that you have an executive officer who can handle the ship?" It was an idle question. Maluin's noise and bulk had never disguised his keen mind. He would have had all his officers trained to a hair, and all three knew it.

Hiero was delighted. He knew his old friend's value. They had trodden many strange trails in the past. The thought of that stout arm and strong mind at his side was a real comfort. The old abbot also felt relieved. He had guessed at Hiero's loneliness and knew what the man must be feeling, with his wife's fate unknown and his mind torn with divergent emotions. A tried and true comrade could be a great help.

"I think Malum has a good idea, Hiero. And though I don't want to pick your men for you, I have another one. There's a junior priest, just been made deacon, as a matter of fact, whom I'd like to send with you. He's here in the garrison, and I'd like to have him up. See what you make of him, and then I'll tell you why I think you should have him along."

The abbot called to a guard stationed in the passage. In a short time, a young man stood at salute in the doorway. He was no larger than Hiero and quite slender. He wore the standard garb of leather and, like all the others, a silver pendant of the Cross and the Sword on his breast. He was clean-shaven and seemed hardly out of his teens at first appearance, but Hiero was not fooled. The man's black eyes were dreaming and remote, as if he looked beyond things, rather than at them. Under the painted yellow leaf and the green caduceus on his forehead, they seemed to gaze far beyond the little, smoky room and out into vastness, Hiero felt a wave of power such as he had seldom encountered before, and not of his own kind, for that was primarily mental. This man's power came from the spirit. Once in a while the Church Universal threw up a great leader, a healer of souls; priest though he himself was, Hiero felt humbled in the presence of the youth who stood before them. If this priest lived, the church would have a prophet and a reformer such as had been rarely known, even in ages past. He radiated calm and inner power so strongly that it was almost an aura. Hiero knew without being told that he was a celibate. No earthly ties could ever bind such a spirit.

"This is Per Cart Sagenay, Hiero. Sit down, my son, and listen to what we have to tell you. You have heard of Per Desteen, who has done mighty works for us in the South. Per Maluin you also know. I have asked them, especially Per Desteen, to look you over. While we toil back here, building our strength for the onslaught of the enemy, Per Desteen will lead a scouting party to spy out the enemy strength. I wish them to say whether you should accompany them on their journey. I know that you, of all the sons of the church I have ever known, will obey any orders given you. But it is for Per Desteen to say whether I have chosen rightly."

Hiero had no hesitation at all. "Anyone you chose, Father, would be welcome. But I should like to hear from Per Sagenay's lips exactly what he himself thinks."

The young man inclined his head gracefully. His voice was soft and pleasant, but in no way weak. Indeed, it seemed to hum and ring in the room, even after the man had fallen silent. An orator, too, Hiero thought. Well, that would follow.

"Reverend Father, noble Pers of the church, I am not the world's greatest warrior. Such small gifts as God has given me lie rather with things of the spirit. I have a small talent for the Forty Symbols—"

Demero interrupted. "He sometimes can get twelve at a time. The Abbey schools have never produced anything like him!"

Hiero's only response to that was a mental "Wow!" Casting the Forty, the tiny, wooden, carved symbols, and trying to see the future with them was an art taught in all the Abbey senior classes. Hiero could get two or at most three and use those only uncertainly. He was about average. He had never heard of anyone who could cast and still make sense out of more than six. Any expedition which had this man as a member would be strong indeed and, he could not help feeling, blessed as well.

Giving the abbot a pained look, Per Sagenay continued. "I am greatly honored by this suggestion. If it be an order, I am more honored still, since I am young and without much experience of the world outside the Abbey walls. I can only wait upon your decision, sirs."

The decision was unanimous. They talked and discussed plans until the dawn came stealing through the narrow window, then separated for a much-needed rest. The scouting party would leave quietly and as unobtrusively as possible on the following evening.

S'duna was raging, but it was a cold rage, as everything about him was cold. "Namcush totally gone, not that it was ever entirely and completely ours. But we had no warning! The two secret ships which guarded the south sea—gone! Neeyana taken and sacked. Only two Brothers escaped of the five who were there. Do you realize, my friends, that S'ryath, the ruler of the Yellow Circle, is a fugitive in the wilderness, barely able even to communicate with us? We are almost cut off from the South, the source of our strength! S'tarn and I, the Masters of the Red and the Blue, we are alone to all intents and purposes. All of our strength now is here in the North."

The Blue Council of the Dark. Brotherhood was silent. Then one of them, raised a pale hand. "Surely there is some good news from the South, Elder Brother. The savages of D'alwah have been broken. The starveling slut who calls herself a princess is destroyed. Our allies hold the kingdom under our rule, do they not?"

S'duna withered him. with a glance. In the cavernous chamber, before the great screen of lights and wires, his pupilless gaze was baleful. "Oh, yes, my Brother of the Green, Slorn, has accomplished great works. He has the southern kingdom under his yoke." The gelid eyes glowed with a light that came from the Ultimate Pit. "And what of his profound assurance about our deadliest enemy? What about Per Hiero Desteen, the prince of D'alwah? The only being ever to escape from dead Manoon? He lives, Brothers, he lives! So much for assurances in the South!"

His voice sank to a hiss. "What wots it that the barbarian kingdom of the South is felled? What does that mean for us, here and now? It is our rule of the North, steadily over the years increasing, spreading and ready to overwhelm the weaklings who call themselves the true church, that is threatened; that is what is in deadly peril. The kingdom of D'alwah may be destroyed. Their wretched king may be in our hands, the slut, as you rightly call her, may be ruined. But what of us, here in the North?"

With rising anger, he paced about the long oval table, a smaller simulacrum of the table of the Great Council. At length he paused and contained himself with an almost visible effort. "In the last year, too many unlooked-for things we never expected have happened. Item, the Eleveners have openly come out against us; only a fool would think they have no powers; they have forsaken peace, as they call it, and are for the first time in their stupid history on the other side, actively on the other side. Consider that!"

The four shining heads, the four pallid, impassive faces, moved with him as he went on. "And S'ryath saw him as he fled the wreck of Neeyana. Whatever may be said, it was he who destroyed those ships! I have heard reports from our spies of the crude things the Metz have put on the waters. They could not have done so, I swear it. No, it was Per Desteen, who will hang on my torture racks before he dies slowly. Curse him! He himself is a mutation and does not even know it. How could he leave the distant South a drugged prisoner, helpless, utterly doomed, and then appear many hundreds of leagues to the north at exactly the right time? Perhaps those accursed Eleveners know something about this. One thing is certain—he had help and help that we know nothing about. There are currents working against us; I grow more sure of it daily. Something impalpable, something that lurks and pries and frustrates our plans in ways we cannot prevent. I shall root it or them out! Exterminate them!"

He ceased pacing and turned to face the others again. With another almost visible effort, he controlled his fury, and the faint flush over the pale cheekbones disappeared. He began to give orders, seek out information, and formulate plans. His colleagues leaned forward, their styluses ready, and proceeded to make notes as he spoke.

There were no horn calls, no salutes, and no ceremony as the patrol went forth from Namcush Fort. It was the cloudy dark just before the coming of dawn. Hiero wanted no eyes to spy out his leaving. He had bidden farewell to the Father Abbot in his chambers earlier, and that was sufficient. The little party left by a small postern, not by the main gate. Its members loped along the back alleys of the port, avoiding even the few Metz guard details until they came to the edge of the small town. Here they left the path entirely and at once plunged into the fringing bush which the inhabitants burned yearly to clear their garden patches. In less than a half hour, the last trace of civilization was behind them, and they were deep in the southern borders of the Taig, the mighty forest which spanned the continent, heading north.

Hiero led, his garb no different from that of the others, except that he no longer wore the painted leaf and caduceus, the looped snakes and rod, on his forehead.

"I'm no longer ail Abbey, Father," he had said bluntly to Demero, who had noted its absence. "Now I fight for two realms. I hope you'll forgive me. It was you who sent me south. I am the prince of D'alwah! I cannot wear the badge of the northern armies any longer."

The old man had looked hard at him, then laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "My son, you are still a priest, and that is what counts to God. I have no fears for your faith. And it is the work of the Faith to reclaim our brothers in every land. You still wear the Cross and the Sword and you got new insignia as soon as you went on our ships. You are still ours. If we share you with another land, the church can but approve. You are a missionary, Hiero. Wear what you will and take my blessings,"

Musing on this conversation as he paced along under the great pines, Hiero wondered. Was he still a priest? He was certainly not the same priest. When he compared himself with Per Sagenay, he wondered if he were a priest at all. Even old Demero, much as Hiero loved and respected him, was more soldier and politician than saint or preacher.

Hiero sighed. Well, they all loved God, they all called themselves Christian, and that was about all one could say. The Lord presumably needed all kinds of help, even that of non-saints. He turned his thoughts aside and looked back at his command. He thought he might have a good one, man for man perhaps the best in the whole northern array.

Right behind him came Per Maluin, shield on his arm and his favorite weapon, one he preferred to any spear, over his brawny shoulders. This was a colossal billhook, one of the oldest weapons in the world, the peasants' tool of ancient, lost Europe and their last argument against the tyranny of their masters. On a curved axe handle, four feet long, was set a thin, brush-cutting, hooked blade like a deformed axehead. This tool, the ancestor of all later pole arms, was a dreadful implement in the hands of a master, and Per Edard was such. As Hiero looked back, the giant winked at him, his face alight with delight. A born woodsrunner, Maluin reveled in tasks such as this.

Behind him came B'uorgh and M'reen, and with them Per Sagenay. To Hiero's amazement, the quiet young priest and the catfolk had taken to one another at once. Moreover, Sagenay was learning, with amazing speed, to tune in on the odd wavelength the Children of the Wind used for mind speech. Already he could communicate better with them than anyone save Hiero. This would not have surprised Hiero in an Elevener, but the average Metz had little contact with alien minds, while the Eleventh Brotherhood was trained for it.

The younger man bore a longbow as well as a sword and dagger; he had said modestly that he had some skill with it.

The two young warriors of the cat people, Ch'uirsh and Za'reekh, were out on opposing flanks, out of sight but keeping mind touch.

In the rear came two more humans, but they were not priests, though they were legends along the border and far beyond. These were the twins, Reyn and Geor Mantan. Dark, lean men, identical in appearance, their age was unknown. Hiero guessed they might be in their fifties, but it was only a guess. Years before, they had come back to their small forest steading and found the mangled and tortured bodies of their wives and children in the ashes of their cabins. From then on, they had but one purpose, to seek out and slay the Unclean wherever they found them. Veterans of a hundred grim battles in the shadows of the woods, they spoke little but did much. Many thousands of lives had been saved by their sudden appearance, warning of a Leemute raid or ambush.

They did not serve the Church Universal or any other organized body. They appeared like shadows at intervals, always together, and got what supplies they needed, then vanished once more into the darkness, on the trail of their unending vengeance. They were known from the Otwah League to the Beesee coast, and none would deny them anything they sought in the way of food or help. They were, Hiero thought, like two grim hounds, silent and relentless. Abbot Demero had found them through some personal, arcane method and persuaded them not only to volunteer for this expedition but even to accept Hiero's orders, a feat that made Hiero, no soft citizen himself, wonder in amazement.

These two bore weapons of their own, used by almost no one else in the North, six-foot tubes of some strange, dark wood— blowguns which fired darts tipped with deadly poison, a secret brew of their own devising, said to slay on the instant. They carried the darts in slung pouches and also wore long knives and belt-axes, whose heads were tipped on one side with a long spike. Grim and fell they looked, like messengers of Fate in their stained leather. Hiero knew that woodsmen and hunters such as these were worth more than a host of ordinary men. Even the catfolk drew back as they passed to change positions, so dread was the fight of their sunken eyes.

Down the long aisles of the great pines and spruces and between clumps of the sprawling palmettos, silent as ghosts, the little company flitted. As it went along, the dawn came pink in the east, and the chirping and warbling of countless birds began to greet the coming day. Tiny, dark figures, moving between the shaggy boles of the trees, never stopping, never keeping to a straight path, they were in view for but a brief instant—then they were gone, and it was as if they had never been.

11 - In the Taig

It was late summer noon again in the north. Clouds of tiny gnats and midges swirled in the shafts of sunlight slanting down through the great trees. Here and there, blankets of leaf shadow fell, where the multitudes of conifers had yielded to some deciduous giant, a mutated maple or poplar, creating an even deeper shade than that cast by the needles of the mighty pines. In favored places, huge thickets sprouted among outcroppings of lichened dolomite or granite; blueberries, myrtles, and countless other plants sprang up to grasp at the sunlight wherever the trees could not find sufficient soil to root.

In the leaf mold under one such shaded place, the camp had been pitched, and an argument was in process. The two Mantans were not there, being out on the perimeters on watch. Hiero was confronting his brother priests, and the four catfolks were off to one side, considering this matter none of their business. They played with their knives and watched the three humans with slitted eyes, content to wait on events.

"Look, Hiero," Maluin said earnestly, "we've seen nothing. Not one sign of anything. Not one trace, not one piece of evidence that there is any movement in these parts. We are well south of any trail used by our people. We apparently are also well to the west of the area where you first encountered the enemy last year. This country is simply empty! There is nothing here. So I'll ask you again, why are we hanging around? I don't want to leave, I don't want to go home. I want to move, go somewhere where we can be useful, do something. You know I will follow anywhere you say. But what is the reason for this dawdling, this staying here in one area, and a damned small area at that? You say this is the proper place, and God knows, I'm not disputing your experience. But could you please give me a reason! Per Sagenay feels the same way. Neither of us is new to the enemy or life up here. Why treat us as if we were new-joined recruits and dumb ones to boot?" He leaned back and lighted his short clay pipe again. He was the only one who smoked; as he held the spark lighter in his huge fist, he looked like the epitome of casual strength, relaxed and yet forceful. He watched Hiero narrowly over the pipe bowl, and Hiero had some trouble in meeting his eyes.

"I gather you feel the same, Per Sagenay?"

"No-oh," was the answer, given in equable tones. "Yet you have not asked me to try to read the symbols. This is one of my small talents, and while I will, as Per Maluin has been careful to point out, obey any and all instructions that you care to give us, still I am a little puzzled. No forelooking and no sign that some of the greatest foresters of the North can discern. But you feel that we should linger in this precise spot, as if we awaited something. Perhaps if you shared some of your thoughts with us, we might be able to help." The soft, clear voice fell silent, and, like Malum, Sagenay lounged back on the bank of moss which shrouded the upthrust of rock behind them.

Hiero stood and stretched, then reseated himself. In the silence that followed, he seemed to be listening to the bird song which welled around them, his eyes for the nonce cast down. Finally he spoke.

"I could tell you all sorts of things, bring up the past, mention that I am a sensitive, and still tell you nothing. I'll be honest and say I simply don't know anything. We have been on the trail for almost three weeks. Two days ago, I felt—no other word for it-felt that this area we are in was crucial, that we ought to stay here. I can't tell you why. I don't know why. There is inimical life here somewhere; I feel it, I sense it, in some way I can't explain. There is also something else, Something is coming here. The catfolk don't see it, you two don't, nor do the Mantans, who excel all of us combined in woodcraft. But I do! We are at some sort of meeting place. I know it. For years, all of this area has been a blank to the Abbeys. We operate west of it and north of it. To the southeast lies the Palood and the Inland Sea. This angle is unknown. You know all that. I tell you, something is building here. I won't permit your talent, Per Sagenay, for one reason. The enemy has learned what I could do. We don't know what they can do, what they could have taught themselves in the past year. One of the things about the talent for forelooking that almost got me killed in the past is that it leaves one's own mind open. I won't have it! We are on the verge, the border, of some vast movement. Our business here is to probe it, not to let it know of us at all. I have sensed out and over a wide area. This forest about us is a blank indeed. A mental blank! No such thing should occur. Oh, the younger life, the Grokon, the deer, the hares, all are here. But they are muted, quiescent, and in far fewer numbers than they should be. Only the tiny, innocuous creatures—the birds, the mice, the insects—are in normal numbers." He leaned back and rested on one elbow. Then he added, "You will, I fear, have to take me on trust. Something is going to happen here, and we must wait for it."

It was Sagenay who finished the argument. "Per Desteen, you are the leader. All else is unimportant. Those who spread evil are all about us, and you are not only our commander but our chief warning signal. I have no more to say. Your thoughts are the only ones that matter."

The quiet voice left an empty space behind it. Maluin grunted several times and then waved one finger at Hiero in mock warning. He, too, settled back, and the three lay silent, staring over the ashes of their tiny fire. Yet all were alert, waiting for anything that would disturb the ether, any trace of trouble, any hint that they were not alone in the seemingly innocent depths of the great continent-wide wood.

All of them were travel-stained and travel-worn. They had marched, a very long way north and east of Namcush to reach this unknown land. Not even the Mantans, veterans of a multitude of journeys in the untracked wilds, had ever roamed these parts. Their only guide now was the instinct of their leader.

Hiero had warned his comrades that they must always stay under the cloak of the trees. He remembered well that not too far to the east, he had first glimpsed and then contacted the flying device which lifted an enemy adept far aloft in the heavens. Since his reports, passed through Brother Aldo, had arrived at the central command post of the Abbeys, much thought and research had been devoted to his warning. As a result, he had some tentative information at his disposal. The thing he had seen was deemed to be an unpowered glider, a concept long lost but recorded in the central files. While its maneuverings in the air were nothing unknown in theory, no one had ever thought of a method of getting such a thing launched and up into the higher atmosphere. This was now being eagerly pursued, but as yet only the foe possessed the secret. And only Hiero had ever seen such a machine, which might mean that it was both rare and difficult to handle.

The afternoon waned. The four cat people groomed themselves and rested, and the men engaged in desultory talk. It was perhaps three hours until sundown, and still nothing disturbed the outward peace of the forest.

The interruption was sudden and silent. Reyn Mantan, his gaunt, swarthy face impassive, stood before them, looking as furtive and stealthy as some silent predator of the wood. His words, as always, were blunt and terse.

"I left Geor alone and circled camp in patrol at noon. I went east to have a scout, widen our range a little." No one commented that this was not exactly what his orders had been. The Mantan brothers took orders as they found them and interpreted them as they chose. They were proven allies, yet not soldiers, and their experience was too great and too valuable for them to be treated as if they needed constant discipline.

Now, brushing a bed of pine needles aside, Reyn crouched and drew a crude map with his dagger point.

"We're here, see? I went east and a bit north." He drew a wavy line. "Here is broken rock mixed with swamp. There's something in that area, hard to get at. Like a bad smell. I seen something like it once over to the coast." He meant the Beesee area bordering the great western ocean, far away over the mighty mountains, the Shinies.

"It moves around, something does, in there. I can feel it shifting. Maybe more than one thing. But it don't seem to come this way at all, only north and south, like it moves up and down in a line. Some kind of border, maybe, and some kind of guard. Want to go have a look?"

The others were on their feet now, and the catfolk had drawn closer, attracted by the excitement.

"What was the place on the coast like?" Maluin rapped. "Why do you think this is the same or at least similar?"

"Hard to tell. The place over west was more like a circle, a blotch, but there's the same feel to it here. Like a stink you can't smell. Bad feeling. We didn't go into it then, me and Geor. Only a few Inyan camps in that area, and they didn't go nowhere near the place. Too scared. If we hadn't been in a hurry then, we might have tried. Up to you folks what you want done. I only tell what I seen."

Hiero thought hard. One of the greatest forest rangers of the North had found something inexplicable and was conveying his dislike of it. The man might not be a telepath of any kind, but his countless forays against the Unclean must have honed every sense he possessed to a razor's edge in the process. Like a stink you can't smell! What better way of describing some emanation of the enemy? Perhaps even a mental evil which the untutored but alert woodsrunner could only dimly detect. Hiero made up his mind quickly.

"Call your brother in and well march. Make it slow. Reyn, you lead out. No one use the mind touch at all!" He explained in a few thoughts to the Children of the Wind what he wanted, and they moved off in moments. All that had to be done was to don the light packs and adjust weapons more comfortably. This was a group which was never off guard or unready for an instant alert.

For an hour, they drifted like shadows of the wilderness through the forest giants. Reyn, soon joined by his brother Geor, stayed in front, and there were no flankers. The others were in a small, loose clump to the rear. Suddenly their guide checked and held up one arm. At Hiero's signal, they spread out and lay prone in the nearest cover. He positioned himself behind a huge, rotten tree stump and shut his eyes.

Ever so carefully, his mind began to reach out before them into the region which Reyn Mantan had described and which they could now see with their own eyes.

It was a type of country all of them had crossed before and was not uncommon in the North. Acid soil and lowlying ground surrounded outcrops of rotting stone, the latter often crowned with scrub. Broad patches of oily-looking, dark water glistened here and there in the light of the sun of late afternoon. Trees were few and those often dead and leafless, but many clumps of tall cattails and other reedy grasses obscured the view where the waters lay.

All of them noticed something else. The belt of marsh and scrub was curiously silent. No waterfowl, such as herons, duck, or rail, called from the reeds, and only a slight wind sighed through them. The wind was from, the north and, though gentle, made a faint, hissing rustle as it bent the tall stems. The group had come to a silent land.

Out and out, Hiero reached with his mind, concentrating on holding the most delicate touch possible, so that his mental probe would appear as no more than a feather in the wind—more of a caress than a stroke, more of a stray current of air than anything solid. As he did so, he scanned all the various wavelengths he had memorized in the past, shifting up and down from those of the lowest insects to those possessing the highest of intelligence. Out and out, infinitely slowly, holding the probe to a close range and concentrating only on the immediate area to their front.

Contact! He drew back at once and then carefully advanced again, his thought now targeted on a certain place. The contact moved; as the hunter had reported, that movement was neither toward them nor away, but following some invisible line which lay athwart their own course from east to west. He felt a sense of disgust, almost physical, and knew at once he had found the source of the "stink you can't smell."

He was not actually in touch with a mind, but rather with a presence, almost a shifting id, an emotional center of some foul kind. Whatever it was, its mind was guarded, but the guard was not that of the mechanical shields used by the Unclean upper ranks. This was natural to it and was perhaps a weapon against prey which might be mentally sensitive.

Still, an impression came through—a very ugly one. There was intense rage there, rage at some kind of control which the thing-could not overcome. There was also malice and ferocity combined, cunning and deception, and above all—hunger! The feel of what he had sensed made Hiero wince. Not since his encounter with the vampire fungus he had named the House had he felt such avid desire for prey of some kind. This entity wanted to feed, to rend, to break and shatter, to shred some helpless life from its physical body and then to absorb it, bloodily and obscenely. It made the man think of an intelligent hyena in its self-absorption with death and the consequences of sating itself with the slain. But it was not being allowed to do what it wished, and therein lay the source of its rage. It had to stay within certain boundaries and it could not go where it wanted. Was it a barrier guardian of a strange and awful kind?

Hiero considered; while he did so, he used the lesser bands of small birds and insects to try to learn a little more about the area. The mixture of swamp and scrub-strewn rock and shale seemed to extend a very long way to the north and south. Probably trying to circle and bypass it would prove little and would take a lot of time. He was worried about time. The Republic's leaders needed hard information, and so far his group had not been able to provide any.

At length his mind was made up, and he signaled the others to withdraw, back the way they had come. After fifteen minutes of marching, he gathered them around him in a circle and explained what he had found. He also sketched his plans for dealing with it and gave orders.

The three soldier-priests remained where they were, occasionally speaking in low tones. The catfolk and the two Mantan brothers had vanished in the wood to their rear, and there was nothing to do except watch the light wane in the west and listen with all of their senses.

"It is—or perhaps they are—hungry, ravenous," Hiero said. "I suspect this is some kind of Unclean boundary that holds them, or it, in place. I think the thing has eaten out the area and is not thinking too clearly, if it has a mind capable of thinking. The two brothers know all the game of the North better than any other living men. They can show B'uorgh and his cats what to drive when they find it. There's not much in the area, but there must be something: if there is, they'll get it."

After what seemed an interminable time, Hiero picked up the mental wave he sought: and breathed a sigh of relief. "Hide yourselves. They've got something, and it's being chased this way. I just hope the trees don't check the Children too much. They are really plains hunters."

Concealing themselves, the other two waited tensely. Soon they also could hear the crashing of undergrowth and the beat of hooves in the distance. The frightened herbivore which Hiero had detected was indeed being herded in their direction. The Children of the Wind were not using the Wind of Death, but only their own speed, moving in a line, showing themselves where needed, stopping any gaps when the quarry tried to leave its line and check back. It was now panic-stricken, dreading both the hunters behind and the region it was being forced to enter in front. It did not want to go forward! Following the chase with his mind, Hiero marveled anew at the skill of the cat people as they headed the beast off again and again. Behind them, the two human hunters made the best speed they could, racing to try to keep up and be in. at the climax.

Then the three priests saw it, bolting across a lane of sunlight under a clump of towering pines and into the shadows on the other side. They all knew the animal well—a great, striped buck, not unlike the extinct wapiti, the American elk of the lost ages, but with two-pronged antlers, now only soft stubs. Hiero suppressed his pity for the hapless prey. It was bait, and they rose as one man and followed on its slot, knowing the catfolk would wait for them on the border of the sinister marsh.

Panting, the two Mantans arrived in time to join them as they caught up with their furry allies. All crouched to listen and peer over the bog and brush tangle before them. The big deer had given up, and its tracks were plain in the mud before them where it had charged into the uncanny wilderness, the terror of those behind driving it to risk whatever lay in front.

Hiero listened with his mind. The onslaught of whatever lurked out there suddenly blended in his brain with an audible cry of agony as the killer struck. Now they could all hear the threshing uproar of the death throes; mingled with that was a new sound, a chuckling growl, vast and ominous, through which ran a purring note as well, a menacing evil to human audition. Even the proud felines laid back their ears at that noise.

All had their weapons ready, and the Mantans now had caught their breath. No further signal was needed. As one body, they all ran for the marsh, moving as silently as they could, leaping over patches of mud, avoiding the shallow pools, and utilizing the outcroppings of rock wherever possible. Ahead of them, the struggle had ceased, but the snarling was now replaced by a new sound— the crunch and snap of mighty jaws, clearly audible through the hush of early evening.

The little band was very close. Suddenly the sounds ceased, and they knew they had been detected. They ran for their lives, hoping for a clear space in the mixture of mud, rock, and thicket, careless of what noise they made. As they ran, they spread out automatically. Almost simultaneously, they arrived at their target and abruptly halted at the sight before them.

The marsh opened here and formed a small swale, treeless and covered with some rank, brown grass, rooted in ankle-deep water. In the middle of this watery meadow lay the bloody, dismembered carcass of the stag, and over that reared its killer, glaring at them from mad eyes.

It vaguely resembled a colossal bear in general shape as it stood, swaying on columnar hind legs; but if the bear family had ever played any remote part in its ancestry, the horrid transmutation of the atom had long since changed the pattern out of resemblance. It was almost hairless, the leathery bide a dirty, mottled gray. The huge head was short-muzzled, and the naked ears were minute, lying flat against the skull. Long bunches of wiry bristle sprouted above and on either side of the gaping jaws, which were packed with monstrous, shearing teeth, blood-flecked and dripping. The bulging, reddish eyes glittered with insane fury, but there was also intelligence under the lowering brow. The proof of this lay in the torn-off club of broken wood, a man's height in length, which the thing gripped in one mighty paw; the forelimbs, though they bore great claws, carried these on crooked hands, five-fingered and with working thumbs!

In the brief second while the monster and the hunters took each another in, Hiero remembered the Abbey lessons of long ago. The notes had been few and those scanty indeed in detail, for those who glimpsed this horror of the Taig seldom lived to tell of it. This was the Were-bear, the grim night gaunt of the dark, known mostly by its ghastly after-trail, the haunter of the shades, the invisible death whom none could overcome. It lived by ambush and stealth; the ruins of some small cabin or the shredded remains of a hunting party, found long after the slaughter, were its usual traces. Fortunately, the deadly things were very rare and thought to be solitary in nature. All this flashed through Hiero's mind in the mere flicker of an instant as battle was joined.

Three missiles flashed across the air as one. The Mantans fired their blowguns at the same time that Sagenay loosed a slender arrow. The two small darts buried themselves in the bloody snout while the shaft from the longbow sank deep in the belly hide.

The horror screamed, a piercing shriek, high and yet mind-shattering in its sheer volume. Clutching the club and still erect, it shambled toward them, water and mud flying from the strides of the great, flat hind feet as it came. Its speed was deceptively fast. It was aiming straight for Per Edard Maluin, perhaps because he was the largest and at the center of their ragged line.

The Children of the Wind raced for the creature's flanks, two to a side, the shallow, splashing water hardly slowing their speed at all. Hiero saw M'reen swerve like lightning to avoid the stroke of the tree limb aimed at her. The next instant, all four were slashing at the brute's haunches with their long knives, drawing blood at every stroke, dipping and darting like hornets, as it checked itself and tried to deal with them.

The Mantans and Sagenay fired again, and once more the arrow sank deep and the darts feathered themselves in the frightful head. Hiero was close now and he hurled his heavy, crossbarred spear into the middle of the muddy, twisting paunch. The hoarse grunting of the Were-bear again rose in an awful coughing scream as the broad spearhead drank deep. He saw a rolling, crimson eye, distended with pain and fury, turn down at him and he ducked, splashing away in the sedge and liquid mud the fury had churned up. Another arrow drove into the center of the wild orb. God, hut Sagenay was a great archer! Would the damned thing never die?

It towered up, dropping the useless club and clutching at its tormented face, to let out one last choking howl. Then it fell forward, splashing them all with a sea of water and filth, mingled with its own gore. It died. There was not even a twitch of rigor, just the vast corpse, prone in a wallow of muck and torn plant stems, while nine panting entities stood, weapons still poised, and looked at one another.

"You are an amazing shot, Per Sagenay," Hiero said to the younger man. "And you, too, gentlemen," he added, nodding to the Mantans. "I think that your venom slowed the brute down. It was more confused than I had been led to believe these monsters were supposed to be."

He sent his own message of praise to the Children of the Wind, using their mental channel, and he could feel the pride in their response.

"I never got close enough," Maluin grumbled, lowering the billhook.

"It was aimed right at you when my friends halted it, you big oaf," Hiero said. "Another second and you would have had plenty to do. Now everyone be silent while I use mind search."

He was none too soon! Almost at once, the expression on his face and the tenseness of his body had all the others alerted, their weapons lifted anew.

A voice he had not heard for many months beat into his brain like a hammer on an anvil. Watch out, Hiero! Another one comes fast from the north! We are following, hut beware ...!

At the same time, the Metz caught the wave of black anger and killing rate which he had noted from the monstrous brute, only half an hour before. Its mate! He spun, cursing the dying light and facing to his left. The rest of his troop whirled also, and thus the second attack did not catch them totally off their guard.

The new menace burst from the screen of brush and charged, fangs agape, down upon them. It ran on its hind legs, and the vast, lumbering strides brought it on at a pace a racing hopper might have envied. Each of the giant arms bore a mighty burden. As the ghoul-thing came, it hurled a great rock from one of them with deadly aim.

Perhaps the onset of age had begun to stiffen B'uorgh's sinews; perhaps one of his lightning shifts, by plain bad luck, was in the wrong direction. The boulder—for it was nothing less—struck the catman chief with a sickening crunch and hurled him aside like a castoff doll, useless and discarded. M'reen's high scream of rage and sorrow rose above the triumphant bellow of the enemy.

Once more, one of Sagenay's bronze-tipped shafts sank home, though this time he struck an arm. The darts of the brothers Mantan hissed again; at this range, they could not miss. But their poison, so lethal to normal life, seemed to work very slowly on this alien flesh. Hiero had wrenched the spear from the corpse of his late foe and now stood erect upon the giant body itself, waiting to meet this fresh attack, trying to free his limbs of weariness in the seconds remaining before it closed. The gray light of dusk made the appearance of the demon hard to discern, and he knew that it was a creature of the shadows, the vague outline not the least of its weapons. Beside him, but lower down and braced for battle, his strong legs slightly bent, Maluin also awaited the onslaught, his fell weapon held two-handedly and cocked over his left shoulder. Then the monster was upon them, and they ceased to think.

The second rock the creature clutched was a long slab of granite; it did not hurl this, but used it like a club, as its mate had wielded the shattered tree limb. Hiero flung his spear but heard it ring on stone, even as the monster struck at him. He tried to duck, holding his shield high, but the grazing touch of the great rock swept him off his feet, left arm numbed to the shoulder, and pitched him down the side of the dead beast and into the marsh below.

Again he heard the bellow of triumph start; but as he tried to stagger erect and free his sword, he heard the awful cry rise to an impossible pitch of pain. On his feet once more, he saw what had happened.

As the second Were-bear stooped to crush Hiero's life away, Edard Maluin had seen his chance and leaped in. The huge billhook scythed down in a terrible stroke upon the left arm of the monster. The vast, deformed hand, severed at the wrist, flew away into the haze and murk, and a gout of blackish blood spouted and spat red through the evening air.

As the titan turned on Maluin, Hiero struck at its haunch with his heavy short sword, but his aim was off, and it seemed to him the stroke was slow and feeble. He tried to recover, noting almost absently that another of Sagenay's arrows had driven home in the gray hide. It will kill us all before it dies, a remote part of his mind decided. Half in a dream, he watched as the ghastly head, turned back to him; he saw the yellow fangs, crusted with dried foam, as the monster moved forward and down to crush the pigmy who had defied it.

He was spun aside like a top and hurled yards away on his back, the sword flying out of his grip as he went. Helpless and with his eyes full of muddy liquid, he did not see what the others saw and thus missed the final event.

A great, black beast cut through the sedges with the speed of a pike darting through waterweed. Driven by a bulk not much less than that of the Were-bear and brushing Hiero aside in the process with its shoulder, the new arrival smashed into the enemy with the precision and force of a battering ram. The last, frantic bound carried two great, razor-edged feet smack into the space between the eyes of the northern horror. As they went home, the awful cracking noise cut off the gross snarling of the monster, ending its evil life instantly.

Frantically trying to get up on his feet, brush the mud from his eyes, and rejoin the battle, Hiero became conscious of a vast foreleg on which he seemed to be leaning. As he tried to deal with this most familiar but long-absent concept, an enormous tongue swept over his face and a wave of sweet breath enveloped his head. Then he knew!

"Klootz, you miserable, slab-sided piece of worthless dog meat! What do you mean by frightening me like that?" He pounded softly on the great barrel, his eyes shut to keep the ready tears locked within. How many thousand leagues had the great beast come, to home in on him and find him in the midst of a life-or-death struggle? He blinked at length and saw the long neck turn round and down again; once more the morse's tongue care-washed his face in a mighty swipe.

He wiped his eyes and managed to stagger away from his friend's side and stare about him, Maluin leaned on his bill a few yards off, covered with mud, but seemingly otherwise undamaged. He winked at Hiero, then began to brush himself and his weapon clean as best he could, whistling softly to himself. The Mantans and Sagenay were plucking their darts and arrows from the hides of the dead terrors, cleansing them in the marsh water and restoring them tidily to their quivers. Then Hiero saw the three young catfolk gathered around something silent in the sedges and he remembered that B'uorgh was dead. He was about to go to them when suddenly a very irritated voice burst into his mind, and he halted in his tracks, so that Klootz, who was following behind, almost ran over him.

Hiero, if all that mess is cleaned up, I would appreciate your telling your friends that I am not a target for all those things they shoot. Then I will be able to come out from behind this rock. As Hiero reeled with the realization of what and whom he was hearing, the mind voice went on, somehow conveying an acid tone. Klootz didn't do it all, you know!

Breathlessly, Hiero spoke. "All of you, listen. A new friend of ours is here. Don't shoot, for God's sake! He helped bring Klootz to us."

They all turned and looked with keen interest at the burly, rolling shape, coated in dark brown fur, which now emerged from a thicket to the north and ambled down their way. None looked with more interest than Hiero. It had been a long time since they had parted, far away in the South, after the destruction of both the House and the buried city of the ancients.

He saw that Gorm had changed and he wondered what changes the young bear saw in him. Gorm was perceptibly larger and also leaner, indeed almost drawn-looking. He had nowhere near the bulk he would attain someday—of that the Metz was sure—but he was a powerful animal now and he radiated a surety and inner strength which had not been there before.

The bear reached Hiero's side and rose on his hind legs until his small eyes were higher than the man's. His tongue barely touched Hiero's nose, and then he dropped back to all fours again and woofed gently. A nice sort of thing you go about looking for, I must say, his thought came. Lucky that Klootz scented you somehow and told me. We've been trying to cross this area for days now, but we knew there were two of them and we couldn't risk it. You lost a friend over there, Hiero. Better go see what you can do. They need some comfort. Then we have to get out of here fast.

Marveling at the speed and accuracy of Gorm's mental images, Hiero walked over to where the silent catfolk stood over the fallen chief. B'uorgh must have been killed instantly, for his whole rib cage was crushed. His fierce visage was unmarred, though, and he seemed to be smiling grimly, as if his death and indeed the whole universe were only one more bitter jest.

Hiero put his arm over M'reen's drooping shoulders and addressed the three on their own private wavelength.

He was a great warrior. He died as he would have wished, in the fight against our ancient foes, yours and mine. When you return to the Pride—and when I return also—we will sing a song for him that all will learn as cubs and remember as long as the Pride shall live. Now, let us put aside our grief. M'reen, you are the leader now. You will tell us what to do to send him to his rest. But we must hurry. He would not have wished us to delay on his account. The enemy is moving.

They lifted the body between them and bore it to dry land where, with all helping, they excavated a grave under a large stone. M'reen sang a short wailing song alone, and then Per Sagenay asked them if he might speak with his own God on behalf of the fallen warrior. Shyly, after a moment's talk among themselves, the catfolk agreed that this would be entirely fitting, After all, Ch'uirsh sent to Hiero, we are far from the night winds over the southern plains. Your god up here can help send his spirit back down to our land, where it can finally rest.

Hiero agreed solemnly that this was a perfectly sound piece of reasoning. And, God, he added silently, You could do worse. He fell in Your battle, and I know You'll help. He said a quiet prayer of his own, and the thing was done.

As they turned away from the lonely grave, Hiero became conscious that Gorm was growing impatient. He knew that the bear was not much of a deist and, indeed, considered all appeals to the Unknown as a waste of time. Agnosticism was not unheard of among humans, but, the man thought, it was a fresh puzzle for the Faith if it occurred among the newer breeds. He chuckled to himself, for he knew that he had a young priest in the group who would have to learn this for himself in a fairly brief time.

In a short while, they were all lounging in a circle around a tiny fire, Hiero had led them back along their previous trail and through the shrouded night for over an hour, until he deemed they were out of immediate danger and could take a rest. Outside the circle, Klootz stood silently, his vast, drooping nose flexing and sniffing, his mule ears twitching as he sought the scents and sounds carried by the wind. Already the buds of his antlers were two feet long. He looked thin, as did the bear, but he was obviously fit for anything, as the recent encounter had abundantly proved.

Gorm lay in the center, obviously enjoying the warmth of the fire, the light flickering on his thick, brown pelt. When he spoke, his speech in the minds of its recipients was so clear that ail—even, to Hiero's intense surprise, the cat people—could understand him easily. Hiero threw a protective mind shield over the whole group with no trouble, observing with amusement that the stoic and impassive Mantan twins were frankly gaping for the first time in his experience and craning their necks to study first Gorm and then, in complete astonishment, each other. Maluin actually laughed, and a quiet smile stole over the face of Cart Sagenay.

First, I am but the forerunner of my people. The bears are coming, but it takes time. We do not live in tribes or villages, but in families. Thus, the incoming of all able to fight is not quick. The Elders have ordered it, and we are moving. We are not fast marchers and we must come far to the north and then swing south to join the human forces. We have to stay well away from the zones of the Unclean where I first met Hiero, lest we be detected and even stopped.

I was sent on ahead to carry the word to the Abbeys. As I journeyed, I heard a strange sound in the forest. He sent the mental image of a helpless fawn, calling for its mother. It was this great lump of a weed eater, bawling his head off for Hiero. Fortunately, I remembered what he sounded like and was able to contact him. He is not as stupid as he looks and told me much.

Here, Klootz snorted indignantly. Obviously, he too could understand at least some of the bear's sarcasm. Hiero looked on, his mind more at ease than it had been for a long time. While the bear paused, considering the next thought, a vagrant message entered Hiero's mind that was not from Gorm at all! Lazy—unknown concept—carried on my back when tired—unknown—-fight! Where (/)??? needed by HIM! To his delight, Hiero realized that Klootz understood just what he was hearing and wanted his master to know it. The giant deer knew well what he was worth and was not about to be put down by his nimble-witted cohort.

Gorm continued, the silence broken only by the hiss of the little flames. Behind them, the forest wall reared up, dark and deep, a wall of black shadows. The stars blazed overhead through the gaps in the forest roof, icy-white in the night sky.

Here is what is important. I have learned, through the morse and from messengers from Brother Aldo, what has happened in the South, far away. The news is not good. We can do nothing about it, however. Our task is here. The enemy is on the march. They are moving as we sit here. They follow an arc, as do my folk, the bear people, from east to west and then south. But they move on an inner circle and have less far to go. They are no more than two easy marches behind us right now.

Maluin spoke. "Hiero, I can understand him, but I can't talk to him. How many are coming? What does he know of their battle order?"

The answer was not encouraging. All! They bring every unit, every creature that can fight! We know many of their hidden forts and their buried places. We think they have left little but shes and young. If they be beaten, we can cleanse the North. If they are beaten! The Man-rats, the monkey-things you call the Hairy Howlers, the Devil-dogs, all will be with them. It is a great host. Can you match it? His silence then hung, pregnant with doubt, in all of their minds.

What of machines? This was Hiero. Have you any news of their powered ships? Any news of the lightning guns? Recall that thing that struck me down on the shore last year. And what of the sky? The flier that we saw long ago. Have any of those been seen and, if so, where and when?

We have watched for all of those, Gorm sent. The ship was seen once, but far to the east and some months back, not recently. We do not know how many they have. We ourselves cannot watch the sea and the islands. The Eleveners are trying, but we have no recent news. The flying thing has never been seen, save by us two on that one occasion. Perhaps they had only one and it was destroyed. The bear's mental tone grew reflective. The Elders feel that the sky is not to their liking, perhaps, or why do they not do more with it? Why not rear broods of evil fliers of some kind? No, they like night and stealth and burrowing in the dark more than the clear air and sun. They can fight in the blaze of day, but—it is not natural to such things. They are like those two Deaths-in-the-Dark whom you slew back there in the swamp. Ambush and the stroke from behind, the unseen terror of the lightless hours, the cruel and stealthy murder of the helpless, the old and the young—those are their chosen methods!

I hope they cannot all be persuaded to fight like the enemies of God whom we just encountered! This was the limpid, clear mind of Cart Sagenay. Hiero guessed that it would take little training to make the young priest as good a mental linguist as he was. He saw Gorm look appraisingly at the younger man.

Those, I think, were allies, and unwilling ones at that. I consider that, if we had the time, Hiero, we would find some Unclean devices, like those things they block thoughts with that they wear around their necks. Maybe they buried some such devices to hold those creatures where they had, to stay and keep watch. But we have no time for idle thoughts such as these. The enemy moves, and they are coming, direct and fast, for the main body of your forces. You know where those are. I do not. Too, there may be some good news, though vague and unclear. The Elders and the Eleveners, too, all feel the enemy is moving in haste, not along ordered lines. Something has upset them badly, and the thought is that they are striking out in reaction and not in the carefully planned way they would prefer. This may be encouraging, not so?

Hiero thought of the destruction of Neeyana and the two deadly ships and smiled. Yes, that would have upset the Unclean!

Gorm continued, addressing Hiero directly. I think you and I can guess who leads them. There may be others in the command of their troops, but you and I know who hates and fears you the most, the mind that will never rest while you live ...

S'duna! Hiero stared into the orange glow of the dying fire. He could see the pale face and hairless skull of the Master of the Blue Circle, the pupilless eye-pits of evil. There might indeed be others in the high Councils of the enemy—Unclean adepts, mental wizards of dark arts, foes of all that was decent. But he knew Gorm was right. His greatest antagonist was coming with all the enormous power at his command. The Unclean had come out in the open at last, hoping to crush the Metz Republic in one brutal stroke before it could build its young strength. If the bear was right, they just could be making a mistake. Decades of raids, stealthy ambushes, plottings, and assassins in the night might not be the best preparation for open warfare. It was a cheering thought. Still, the other comment was right, too. Time was short.

Put out the fire and let's go, he sent. We march southeast for the lakes. That's where we'll meet them. The Abbeys need to be told.

And may God defend the right, was the thought of Per Sagenay.

12 - Battle Morning

The mist lay cool and curtained over the lake. It was the body of water, perhaps twenty miles in extent, that the Metz called the Lake of Weeping. Some women had died there long ago, supposedly of unrequited love. More important, Hiero thought, was the fact that the lake had a connection through the River of Rains with distant Namcush. The connection was by still another lake, this one called Falling Leaves, a long, slender lake. The Lake of Weeping was deep and shaped like a boomerang, the elbow pointing northeast, though the left arm, which faced almost due north, was the longer.

There were a few small islands in view, some mere stubs of rock and others crowned with trees, whose spires and branches pierced the shifting fogs over the dark water. There was movement out there, Hiero saw. Small craft rowed briskly from one islet to another. The rising mist, burned away by the sun's coming, revealed the dark shapes of several large sailing vessels, On a number of islands, smoke rose in the morning air. Activity, but not too much activity ...

Hiero was sitting astride Klootz on the end of a low promontory which jutted into the Lake of Weeping almost at the angle of the elbow. It was a handy place to be, and he had picked it himself. He was the Commander of the Center under Demero, and the old man had brushed aside any complaints about seniority before they got started. "Who knows the enemy better than you do? No one. Who has encountered more of them than anyone else and still survived? Same answer. Justus Berain says he'll be glad to serve under you, anywhere, any time. Like to argue with him? I'm giving you Maluin and Sagenay as staff. The two Mantans won't serve under anyone else, insubordinate devils. The whole army has word of your cats, and they can serve as runners to carry written messages. Maluin has already got a bunch of juniors to handle routine. What's left? Nothing. Get to work, boy. I'm busy."

Now Hiero smiled wryly as he watched through his far-looker, the small telescope he carried clipped to his saddle. He could, hear low voices among the group of young officers and NCOs behind him. He was finally beginning to realize that being a living legend was not an unmixed blessing. The awe in the eyes of the young men and women who served under him was annoying, but there was nothing he could do about it. He concentrated once more on the dispositions to his front. He had to use his eyes and those of others, for the Abbey machines had clamped an intense shield over the minds of ail in the area. Presumably the Unclean had done the same for their own forces. Time would tell who possessed the most effective mental protection.

His scouting group had fled southwest at an incredible pace after Gorm had alerted them. They had actually cut off four days on their time going out, and they had been moving very fast indeed then. They needed every minute that they could get, and Hiero had driven them all unmercifully, using Klootz's broad back to carry those who were the most tired. This was usually Per Sagenay, whose young body was not as tough as the others' and who resented it but could only comply. But three days out from their front lines, Geor Mantan had sprained an ankle and, cursing horribly, had been made to ride as well. Otherwise they would have left him.

They had bought the Republic and its allies a week. In this struggle, that might be much. For the Otwah League's troops were still far off and already meeting some resistance as they came. Not all of S'duna's force had been sent west, and there was apparently a good deal wrong with security in the upper ranks of the League! just because I loathe S'duna 's filthy guts, I shouldn't make the mistake of underrating his slimy brain, Hiero thought to himself. The bastard can think, and he knows enough to try and bleed off any help we might get, if he learns about it first. Let's hope there's some coming he doesn't know about.

He looked down and saw a young lieutenant at salute. He eyed her approvingly. Save for the short leather skirt, her uniform was identical to his, and he knew his women could use their weapons and brains as well as or better than the men. Besides, she was pretty.

"Message from the Abbot-General, sir. Very hard fighting has started in the deep woods about twenty kilometers north and east. Our screens are giving back slowly, trying to see what's behind the enemy front. The morse troops have been ordered back because the country is too broken for them. He will keep you informed as he gets more data."

Hiero grinned down at the snapping black eyes, returned the salute and thanked her, then forgot her immediately.

It made sense to get the cavalry out. One or two might serve as couriers in the depths of the forest, but they couldn't maneuver as a unit. Demero had stripped the North to get those two mounted regiments, and they must not be wasted.

"Per Sagenay," he threw over his shoulder. "Bring me the map quadrant that shows the land opposite us and to the west, if you please."

Together, they examined it. It was bog and drowned land, but not deep in water, containing only shallow, slow-moving streams which kept it somewhat drained. There were few trees, but mostly grasses and rank growths of reed. The whole section eventually sprawled down to the lowlying shore of the lake they were on, over to their left and on the longer of the two arms of the V, The shore simply became the marsh, or vice versa, for a kilometer of total distance. A bad place to put troops, it seemed, but useful for the passive resistance it made, guarding a flank, like a broad, muddy moat. Now the question was, might this fact be too obvious to another keen mind?

Hiero spoke for a few minutes with Cart Sagenay, then sent the young priest back to his own group. He scrawled something on a small belt pad of reed paper and called M'reen over to his side. The sun had cleared the last of the dawn mist off the water now, and the blue sparkle against the green foliage was almost dazzling.

Take this to our old chief the Wise One. Then hurry back. There will be much to do this day.

She was gone like her native wind, all eyes on the slender form until it vanished. Ch'uirsh and Za'reekh waited impatiently in the rear, ready for their own summons.

Edard Maluin strode over and patted Klootz absently. The blade of his billhook tapped the ground as he balanced the huge weapon in his other hand like a wand.

"What do we know about the two flanks, Hiero? The left doesn't bother me too much. The arm of the lake there bends away from us and can be held pretty easily. The right, now, that's different. Falling Leaves Lake is not especially wide and it tapers into Bowstring Creek and the River of Rains. A long line to guard, all the way down to the Inland Sea."

"The Abbot knows it, you know it, and I know it. Pretty soon, if they don't already, the enemy will know it. We have four full regiments of Frontier Guards and two mixed regiments of militia whose women are as well trained as the men—not Guards standard, but pretty good. About seven thousand, if you count the auxiliaries, baggage, ammunition carriers, and so on. Two regiments of morse. A strong battalion of Scouts, now falling back in front of the Unclean. Certain aquatic allies, whose performance is still untested. Also what you both see and do not see out on the lake and similarly to east and west. Forget the League. They started too late and are well behind the enemy now. Maybe they'll get here in a week or so and maybe not. What they find when they do get here is something else. There may be other help closer to hand. I don't know; nobody knows. Gorm has gone to try and find out, but he'll have to go around the fighting and the enemy flanks to do it. All very problematical. And that, my friend, is it. We have nothing else, no reserve, except a small tactical one, taken from the above. This is our first army, just as what you served in was the first navy. We've never moved or fought on this scale before. No one in the North has—not the Unclean, either."

He shifted in his saddle and stared out over the water. Armies had fought in the South, if not here. He suppressed the wish for Luchare, leading a division of lancers on their hoppers, emerging from the southern wood to the rescue. Might as well ask for a flight of angels.

The morning wore on. Reports came in sporadically—estimates of Unclean strength and movements, losses of the Republic's forces, and whatever seemed of interest. One item was of great interest. Many, many light boats were being brought up. Some were large enough for ten men, others mere kayaks, but big enough for a single person. All the Unclean units seemed to have lots of them, and they were carried well to the fore.

"They must have a pretty good idea of where we are with all that stuff," he said to Per Sagenay. "Of course, the whole area is full of lakes and streams, but I think this was thought out more carefully. This is no baggage train, but something meant for quick assault. I want the information sent to Berain and the others at once. In fact, tell it to all units."

M'reen, who had long since returned, came up with her two warriors. The grim faces of the Mantans were just behind.

We can hear the fighting, Hiero. Can you not do so? These two, the men with the dark souls, they can hear it too. They told us with signs.

"That's right, Per," Reyn admitted. "Them cats caught it first, but just listen yourself now."

Hiero listened. There were calls from out on the lake, horns blowing, and the shuffle of moving feet behind him. Even a distant splash of oars from some guard boat came through. The he caught it. It was a hum, a buzzing in the distance. He listened harder. Now he could pick out higher and lower tones like the shrills of far-off insects. There came a very faint series of thuds, no more than vibratory disturbances of the air. It was enough.

"Take charge, Edard," he said to Maluin. "Sagenay's your second or what you choose. Remember what I said. No movement until the crucial time. This is going to be a close one." He turned and looked speculatively at the twins, whose cold, set faces stared back.

"Can you two handle morses? If I can find any? Otherwise you'd be better off staying here."

Geor spoke for both. "We can. We've ridden double, too, case there's only one. Take us."

"All right. We're crossing the lake, down there on the left. I'll walk Klootz until we get aboard a boat." He signaled the catfolk to follow. He had no worries about their ability to keep up with mounted troops, and they would have been miserable away from him. He waved to the salutes of the staff and rode slowly down the twisting trail to the west, off the bluff and onto the path along the shore. The five others loped behind him.

In twenty minutes, they came to a tiny bay in which a small rowing barge lay concealed. He led the big morse aboard, and the others clambered after. At a word to the NCO in charge, the ten long sweeps began to move the clumsy vessel out into the lake on a long slant, north and west, to where the marsh and the cleaner fluid of the deep water began to mingle.

All the while, the sounds of the battle had been growing in their ears. Clanging noises of metal came now, and the metallic, piercing sounds of enemy trumpets mixed with the sonorous Metz horns. Screams came as well, and chorused cheering. Hiero knew the orders had been sent and he knew the defense was thickening on orders as the Abbey forces drew near the Lake of Weeping. Yet the sounds of conflict were raging closer at a tremendous rate. The Unclean must be piling in all their strength, heedless of casualties, in order to make such speed. He cocked one eye at the bright sun and consulted his built-in mental clock. It was near eleven, and the timetable had not quite allowed for this burst of enemy speed. He watched the oarsmen strain at the great sweeps as they passed under the lee of a small island. They were three-quarters of the way across now and in plain view of the elbow of the lake, the curve of the northern shore stretching out of sight in both directions.

The din grew as he watched, and he saw the first Metz troops break from the forest and reach the long lines of boats drawn, up on the shore. The skeleton crews who manned them began to help the wounded aboard. The movement was swift and disciplined, and he smiled. No panic here! As each boat pulled out, oar-propelled on this windless day, more men appeared and took their places in the next. He could see through the far-looker that no boat left the shore with an empty place or without orders.

Now he could begin to glimpse the fighting for himself. He saw a rank of veteran archers halt, fire a volley, then run easily back and turn for another. Men fell in their ranks as they fought, but the others closed up. As he watched intently, an eruption of the enemy burst from the forest wall, a small pack of the Plague Hounds, with Leemutes riders screaming on their bony backs. These were Hairy Howlers, apelike brutes, brandishing clubs and axes and hurling long javelins with devilish aim. The hideous dog mutants were man-high at the shoulder and had naked hides, blotched and mottled in shades of orange and red. Their ears drooped, and they had heavy jaws and gaping maws, filled with great teeth.

The archer troop slew more than half of them with one more volley, then dropped their bows as the survivors came on, unchecked. It was close-in fighting now, and the Plague Hounds raged in the Metz ranks, shaking men like so many jackstraws when they secured a grip. The Howlers fought like furies, seeking only to kill and not minding their own safety as they hacked and stabbed. Then it was suddenly over, and a sadly diminished troop fell back again from the heap of reeking corpses. They carried some wounded, but not many.

The battle was fierce all along the shore now, and many of the boats were not rowing, but lying off and giving covering fire. A sheet of arrows flew, and then another. The last Scouts of the defense were scrambling aboard, some having to fight as they did so. Now there were few left. The guard boats, with stocks of ready arrows, redoubled their fire. A pack of the great, scaly-tailed Man-rats, caught in one such blast, went down in heaps.

The boats pulled away from the shore. Many places were empty in these, Hiero noted sadly. The thin metal notes of the Unclean trumpets sounded over and over, and their creatures began to draw back to the shelter of the wood. As they vanished, the guard boats ceased their fire and began slowly to follow the rear of those who had passed on through. Now there was a widening gap and an empty shore, full of dead and wounded.

Hiero realized that his own craft was touching the mud of the shore, and he scrambled aboard Klootz and ran him over the blunt bow. The mud here was a man's thigh deep, but the big morse made nothing of it. His spreading hooves were designed for this element.

"Hold on to my stirrups," he told the Mantans. "You'll get a bit wet, but I can't help that. You would come!"

The cat people had been wet before this. They didn't like it, but it was no real problem. As they began to march inland through the tussocks of grass and the sloughs in which they grew, the warrior-priest looked back. The height given by his perch on the morse enabled him still to look down along the shore for some distance.

The Metz rear guard—what remained of it—was rowing away steadily, if slowly. A few other boats, not many, had come out from the chain of wooded islands and were helping the craft which either carried too many wounded or were hampered by lack of men to row. A couple of thin lines of soldiers were visible on the south shore. And a flag waved here and there, showing the green on white of the Republic.

But now the scene changed. The Unclean army, silent and intent once more, poured out of the trees on the north bank. This time they came prepared. Save for the officers, each man or Leemute carried either a small canoe or part of a larger one. Man-rats took to the water like the natural swimmers they were, needing no transportation and carrying their weapons. This, too, was a disciplined move and showed long hours spent in practice, Hiero glimpsed a group of sinuous, brown shapes slide into the lake and remembered the great water weasels he had fought long ago. The Uncleans were indeed using everything they had. Would it be enough?

His view of the battle scene faded, obscured by trees and distance. His little troops were moving deeper into the shallow waters and much of the drowned land. There would be no help from using his mind. He had tried testing his ability continuously. The shields held by both the Unclean and the Abbeys were functioning too well for anything to break through. He could talk to his cat-people at close range, but that was all.

Ahead, he glimpsed a line of black things moving and whipped up the far-looker. This was what he had come to find. Klootz lifted his dripping muzzle and bawled a greeting. In a few more moments, he had reached a mound rising out of the grass and water, and Hiero could greet his new troops.

The two regiments of morse and riders were in line, but loosely picketed. Hiero knew the two colonels, though both men were older. In fact, in the past he had even served under Colonel Saclare and been taught by Colonel Lejus at the Academy. They were typical Metz and could have passed for his own close relations; stocky, bronzed men in their forties riding with the ease of a lifetime in the saddle. With their aides behind, they reined up and saluted. Hiero acknowledged the salute and masked a feeling of some awkwardness.

Saclare disabused him promptly. "We are delighted to have you in charge. Lejus and I know your past training." One sardonic black eye drooped in what only those close by could have told was a wink. It was enough. All three broke into broad grins and gripped hands. Command was established and they were as one.

"Yes, I can find a couple of remounts, though we don't have many," Lejus said, staring at the Mantan twins with interest. "We all have heard of these two. Who hasn't? Thought they always fought alone, though. I expect you'll want to keep them with you. Heard of your cats, too, and what beauties they are. I gather they can look after themselves. But come along, sir. We're rigging something over there you might want to use. Saclare thought of it."

A little distance off on the mound, the place an ancient German would have called a Feldherrnhugel, or "general's observation hill," men and morses in harness were straining to raise a triangle of extremely long poles. As they locked into place, others lifted a long ladder and began with speed to lash down a rude platform. Ail the material had been precut and dragged through the wide marsh to this point.

Moments later, Hiero and the two colonels had a fresh view of the conflict and were glued to their far-lookers. They could see far along the northern shores, as well as across the Lake of Weeping, and they were barely in time to see another crux of the battle.

The Unclean troops, human and otherwise, still poured from the wood. At least a thousand boats, large and small, all of light weight, seemingly made of hide braced with wood stripping, were beating out in pursuit of the Metz rear guard. These, moving slowly, were still some distance from the southern bank and safety, though many seemed close. Hiero noted that those that were close seemed to contain the wounded, while those which were the most sluggish had none. So far so good, he thought, but, God above, how many of the enemy were still pouring from the forest to the attack! And they still produced more and more boats! The hideous, giant dogs were swimming out in packs also, some with Howler riders to guide the others. Most of the Howlers were in boats, but fresh swarms of the Man-rats still rushed from under the trees and flung themselves into the lake. The water weasels showed here and there as they dived and porpoised in the front of the van. When would the signal be given?

"Put these on, sir," Saclare said. He was holding a bundle of the laquered battle armor of the morse riders, surmounted by a bronze, visored helmet. He and all the others were already wearing theirs.

Hiero struggled absently with the cuirass, half-sleeves, and greaves, not even noting that the two colonels were lacing them on for him and that his helmet bore the white heron plume of a general. His gaze was locked on the water. The main body of the apparently endless Unclean horde was now at the level of the larger islands, whose tree branches drooped over the lake.

A sudden blare of echoing horn calls rang out over the cries and yelps of the Unclean hordes. Branches fell into the lake, and even some of the great trees were thrown down. Out from their hidden island anchorages swept a flock of ships, the five armored Metz steamboats in the van, belching clouds of smoke as they charged the enemy. Justus Berain was not a man to be hurried; he struck only when he felt the exact time had come! The gun ports of the steamers had been widened and lowered, allowing for point-blank fire. From the great muzzle-loaders burst not solid shot, but masses of broken ceramic tile, mixed with rock and metal scraps, causing instant havoc. Behind the steamers came a fleet of stout rowing barges, wooden mantlets and wicker screens protecting both the complement of archers and the rowers. Volley-fired only by orders, sheets of arrows swept over the enemy, adding to the carnage.

It was not all one-sided. Though blasted and torn, shredded by the crude langrage, the blasting rubble of the war steamers, and devastated by the arrow storm, the enemy fought back. Their metallic trumpets signaled anew from the forest, and fresh masses swept out and into the confusion on the waters.

Here and there in the swarming ranks of the foe, Hiero now caught glimpses of gray-cloaked figures hurrying from one point to the other. The Unclean adepts might be new to open warfare, he realized, but they had come in strength and were fast learners!

He tore his eyes away and looked down at what lay below the observation platform. It made him feel easier. Unconcerned by the uproar in the distance, just under four thousand troopers of the Metz cavalry waited by their mighty steeds, all in four broken lines, stretching across the marsh. The great lances were planted in line, one at the head of each morse, with the troopers lounging in place. The two Mantans, impassive as always, waited patiently at the ladder foot; the three Children of the Wind were beside them. Klootz stood, silent, next to the two morses requisitioned for the hunters.

"Won't be much longer, gentlemen," he said to the two colonels. "It looks good here. Downstream on the lower lake, it may be something else. We only have one steamer, the newest, there. But we have other surprises. We should know shortly."

They all continued to watch the lake even as Hiero spoke. As far away as they could see, until the angle of the lake cut them off, the battle raged, the screams and cries of men and beasts mingling under the veils of smoke with the roar of the guns.

"By the Lord God, I think they are turning," Saclare muttered. "Even they have had enough. I thought they were never going to stop coming out of the woods. But—look!"

They could all see it now, and Hiero sent a heartfelt prayer up to Heaven. The frightful slaughter had turned back the swimmers and the Unclean boats. The frail craft they had borne so many leagues were no match for the keen arrows and the great guns. The armored ships went where they would, spewing destruction on all sides and grinding any smaller vessels under their angled snouts. Repeatedly, the enemy swarms tried to board and close in, only to be beaten back with heavy losses. The arrow boats followed in the wake of the big five, and the guard boats, which had fled so slowly to the other shore, wheeled and re-entered the fight. Many others darted from the southern shore to join them.

Here and there, some of the great mink mutants sprang aboard a smaller boat or a load of Howlers tried to board. Man-rats also tried the same tactic, but the wicker and plank screens kept most of them out, and the others were quickly slaughtered. The main body of Unclean human infantry was not one of great watermen, and the horrible dogs were completely helpless. There were so many bodies of all kinds floating on the waters of the lake that it almost seemed that one could walk across on them. The massed wreckage of the invasion boats made larger lumps here and there in the sea of corpses.

The Unclean trumpets back on shore rose to a screaming pitch, incessant and shrill. By boat and in the water, the enemy fled for the northern banks. They had begun to do so even before the signal to retreat had rung out. Beaten and demoralized, yet still in great numbers, they swam and paddled for their lives. Not one had come near to setting foot on the farther shore.

The war boats of the Republic moved in behind them, the terrible fire taking a continuous toll. Blasts from the guns swept the shore, and arrows flew through the smoke. Looking at the sun over the reeking clouds, Hiero realized that it was noon and that hardly an hour had passed since the enemy had launched its craft upon the lake. He wondered how the battle to the east was coming. The foe still mustered great strength and would fight hard if given a chance to rally. Would the interpretation of what came next be accurate?

"To your posts, gentlemen," he said quietly, "I want this tower struck at once. The enemy could see it if they came now."

They went down the long ladder like men possessed. In moments, the tower was disassembled and the three ranking officers were riding slowly along the lines. Saclare dropped off to command the right flank, and Hiero halted in the center; Lejus went on to take over the left. Listening hard, Hiero could hear a slackening of the gunfire from the lake. He could think of no reason for it but one—lack of targets of opportunity. Now only an occasional rumble came from the smoke bank in the southeast.

He turned to the catfolk, who stood waiting by his saddle. I have a task of great danger for you, he sent. We must know if the enemy comes and how fast. Ch'uirsh, go to the left. Za'reekh, you go to the right Try to reach me with your minds, but come back if you cannot. Do not be seen if you can possibly help it. Kill none unless it is death not to do otherwise. I seek knowledge, not bodies. Will you go? M'reen, you will go to my front, but not as far as the others. You can perhaps relay their thoughts.

They did not even answer, but were gone like three marsh sprites, skimming grass clumps and knee-deep water as if they were not there.

"If this were dry ground, I'd send you two on a scout," he said to the twins. "But I don't want the enemy to see a single morse, and you can't move in this muck like those three." They nodded bleakly and settled themselves at rest in their saddles.

Waiting was not easy. Hiero tried to think about the future; when he found this too depressing, he narrowed it to the immediate future. He had two tasks before him, and they might come quickly, even together. One—break the enemy flank to pieces. Come and be broken, damn you! Two—find and kill S'duna. You 're out there, you filth, I know it. Too many of your dirty renegade humans, too many louse-bitten Leemutes. You threw everything you had into this one and you couldn't stay behind on Manoon, polluting the sun with your amusements this time!

Behind his back, the long lines shifted and swayed. All the riders were mounted, simply waiting for a word. Where were the cats?

M'reen's thought came like lightning as he slapped at a cloud of hungry gnats and mosquitoes. We are coming back! My males have found them! They come from the trees, many, many! Be warned!

Hiero hand-signaled as previously arranged, and the ripple of readiness welled away from him in both directions along the ranks.

The Children of the Wind appeared in a clump, running and dodging like the racers they were. Missiles fell around them, but none hit.

The general bore no lance. His white plume dipped as he bent and drew the long, straight sword from its sheath on Klootz's saddle. The two Mantan brothers ranged up, one on each side, their slender war axes across their saddlebows. The front of the enemy appeared, Leemutes and humans completely intermingled.

Hiero raised his sword high in his gauntleted right hand, then drove it down, and they were off. Come on, big boy, he sent. This is what it's all about! Beside the three leading morses, the light pads of the cat people spurned the sedges.

Hiero's fist clenched inside the basket hilt of the cavalry saber as he held it straight forward like a spear. As Klootz gathered speed, his rider could hear the rising splash and thunder of the charging lines behind. He stole a glance to either side. Good! They had learned the orders!

The left wing, the northern line of the morse riders, was swinging slowly past him, never breaking ranks. The right wing was holding back, so that the line was beginning to show an arc. The left would strike first and then roll the enemy up, cutting them off at the edge of the swamp and driving them into the open, away from any cover.

Now there was no time to think at all, and he concentrated on what lay in front. The days and weeks of planning were over, and he was a killing machine and nothing more. Klootz bellowed with battle rage, and his kin answered from behind, a rolling, swelling roar which rumbled from one end of the line to the other.

The Unclean halted, milling in confusion. The Man-rats and the Plague Hounds, those that were left, had made little of the swamp, which hardly slowed them at all. But the men, though disciplined and deadly fighters on solid ground, were floundering, tripping over tussocks and slipping in the pools and mud. A great number of the Howlers were dismounted, and they liked this bog no better than their human allies. As the line of antlered heads and the glitter of the lance points and armor rose before them, many turned to flee. Others, of sterner stuff or with better officers, tried to form a line or at least a shield wall. The result was confusion! Order, counterorder—disorder!

From far left to far right, the terrible cavalry of the North charged home!

Hiero's sword point split the face of a giant Howler, and he withdrew it as Klootz lunged on. Every lance, seemingly, skewered one of the enemy, front or back, and then, butt lifted high, was withdrawn and leveled once more, seeking fresh prey.

It made no difference whether the Unclean fled or tried to stand. If the riders missed, their mighty steeds did the work, slashing and trampling, pounding the enemy underfoot with their giant hooves, seizing them in their teeth and shaking them off like bits of tattered bark until they fell away, mangled and lifeless.

A monstrous Hound, jaws agape, sprang at Hiero's bridle hand. Without thinking, he dropped the reins and raised the unbreakable shield, the gift of his strangest friend, to dash the brute aside. A long-handled hatchet swept past his side, and Reyn Mantan's blow split the creature's skull.

The impetus of the charge was slowing, but not very much. As all the riders angled to the right, never stopping or allowing the Unclean to form and make a stand, the edge of the deep woods loomed up in front. It was hard fighting now, for the compressed masses of the broken foe were trying desperately to reach that shelter. Enemy crossbowmen and javelin throwers, human and otherwise, shot and hurled their missiles from the trees in a last effort to hold the mounted men back from their quarry. Saddles were being emptied, but the mutated giant moose were no scared beasts when bereft of their riders! They fought on with empty saddles, keeping the lines intact, as they had been taught. If one of the gallant animals fell, the others, with men in the saddle or not, closed the line and kept on to the attack. The extreme left took the heaviest losses, but narrowed in without letup, herding the squalling Leemutes and their fragmented masters out and away from the refuge of the trees.

Hiero was unscathed so far, but his right arm was growing very tired. The beloved creature who bore him bled from a dozen light wounds, of which Klootz took no note at all. His eyes were red with blood lust and he felt no pain. Reyn Mantan and M'reen, her long knife bloody, watched Hiero's left while the two male cats and Geor Mantan protected his right. The Mantans had produced light oval shields of laminated bark from some pack or other and deftly deflected the missiles of any sort which menaced their leader.

Hiero never noticed, intently only on coldly killing anything that stood before him. He struck and stabbed, hacked and slew, with no compunction at all. Here was the enemy at last, where he could be reached! Here was revenge for the empty months, the loss of his mate, the treachery, and the pain! Death to them! Kill them all in their vileness, until the decent earth was empty of them forever!

It took a strong hand on his bridle to check his pace and a strong voice to penetrate the madness of battle. His lifted sword dropped, and he finally realized that a friend was trying to get his attention. Breathing in great gulps, he saw that Klootz had stopped and was trembling with the aftershock of the melee. Hiero managed to break the fog in his brain and rest, though it was an awful wrench.

"Stop fighting, General! Look, we've beaten them. Maybe a quarter got into the woods, no more than that, sir. Look at what is happening now!"

Almost against his will, the Metz turned his head. It was Colonel Lejus who had reined him up, Hiero stared at where the man was pointing, half in disbelief.

The Unclean, beaten back and decimated on the waters of the Lake of Weeping, had been rallied, once they were back on shore and behind the screen of the forest. They were still a hideous and mighty host, and their leaders had turned them into the apparently empty marsh on their right. Here they were supposed to sweep around the defenses of the Republic, turn the long arm of the lake, and strike in the rear of their hated foe.

What had happened was just a little bit different. The wise old Abbot-General and Hiero himself had led the Unclean to conceive of this maneuver, and were waiting with the only cavalry in all the world's history that could fight in a swamp even better than on dry land! The result lay before Hiero's sight and was hard to take in, even though he had helped plan it.

Cut off from their rallying places in the woods, harried and shocked by the lances of the morse riders, what remained of the Unclean who had assaulted the marsh was being driven in a grim battle toward the waters of the lake. Stumbling, lurching, and screaming as it was ridden down, the ragged and broken crowd was herded toward the waters. The lines of morse and men had no gaps. The Republic had lost perhaps an eighth of its mounted force, but what remained was more than sufficient. A thin line guarded their backs, but no fresh eruption came from the silent trees to the east.

Out on the waters lay the final death. Silent and watchful, the five steamships waited. Extending their line out of sight, the arrow barges also waited. The late noon sun beat down from overhead on total destruction. Horns blew, and the Metz mounted troops halted and dressed ranks, tightening their formations. They now were a shallow half-moon; within its crescent, the Unclean, a shrieking mob of foul men and foul brutes, were driven inexorably to the place where the shifting foothold of the marsh became no foothold at all.

His lids half-lowered against the glare, Hiero watched, well content. The orders were "No Quarter." What the enemy would have done in its place was well known. This at least was a clean death. For long years, the attempt of normal and reviving humanity, who wished only to live in peace and happiness, had been frustrated and constricted by these creatures who had been spawned by the Ultimate Dark. This was their reward. They had embraced the Darkness, and that to which they had given their souls was now upon them. Under the high, golden glow of the sun, let them perish. Forever!

The horns of the mounted men of the Republic sounded the charge for the last time. Lances in place, the crescent went in for the kill. It was slaughter. Pierced and ground underfoot in the marsh, the Unclean died if they took to the water. Should any manage to escape by diving under the line of waiting ships, a second and even more alert line of smaller craft waited for them. There were no survivors. Nor were there meant to be any.

Hiero had turned away when the end became inevitable. He looked now both around him and also at the line of morse riders who watched their backs and fronted the green wall of the forest.

He remembered to return his long sword to the saddle sheath. Both of his colonels were now beside him and looking at him in a way he found disconcerting. Why should they look at me this way? These men both taught me! At his stirrup, M'reen tied a piece of rag around the forearm of Za'reekh, while Ch'uirsh tried to scrape mud off his pelt. They looked at him the same way. The brothers Mantan, apparently unharmed, sat their mounts in their usual stolid fashion at the rear, but their eyes were also aglow!

I did nothing, he told himself. A little planning, but it was mostly Kulase Demero. Maybe I helped a little. But I didn't earn this adulation! He fell back on prayer, looking off into the distance.

Father, preserve the least of Thy servants from the dreadful sin of pride! Besides, he added in a lower key, I really don't deserve it!

God, or someone deputizing, brought a most welcome interruption. A mud-spattered morse rider pulled up beside them and handed a dispatch to Saclare. He wasted no time in tearing it apart.

"Hah! What is left of those scum is fighting for its life in the forest. They are being driven—driven, mark you—back on our lines! Your plans, sir, are working beyond all belief. I congratulate you. Who else would have had troops that no one knew about waiting to pounce, once they were beaten back? Do you realize, General, we have won everywhere?" His native emotion took over. "By the blood of Christ, Hiero, there are none of them left. We have blotted them out!" He withdrew at once, conscious of a gaffe. "Your pardon, General. I forgot myself in the excitement."

"Troops that no one knew about," Hiero said in low tones, almost to himself. "We met the main attack here, but what of the lower lake and the eastern, rivers down to Namcush? What of them, Colonel?"

"I have dispatches, sir." This was a young man, one of Saclare's mounted aides. Hiero noted that the boy had one arm in a sling. He had been to the wars.

"Let's hear it, lad." The Metz hated to see that glow in the boy's eyes. How many had died for the cause this morning?

"Sir, the lower crossings were hurled back completely. Our ships and the Dam People stopped every attempt to pass. We had one big warship there. It was enough. The Dam People killed the rest. The enemy sent no more than a light wing in that direction."

"So none crossed. Good news." Hiero was physically exhausted, but the second task was unfinished. The Unclean mind shields ought to have been either taken or dispersed. Then where was S'duna?

He brought himself back to what the young officer had said. The Dam People! How many of Charoo's young males and females had died? The lower lake and the upper reaches of the outflow rivers had cost lives. Which kittens would not see their father or mother come back to the lodge? He wept inwardly, then swept the feeling aside.

Something else, something more important, had been told to him! "Troops no one knew about." Least of all himself! But he could guess.

"Colonels! Parade the troops!" His voice blared, and he could see the faces wince as he yelled. He tried to become calmer, new allies are coming from the north. I want them received with all courtesy, all honors. The Unclean scum are driven into the water. I want all the troops available in line to receive our guests."

Funny, The Unclean mind shields were gone, totally gone. He would have thought S'duna would have guarded himself. No, was nothing of the kind. It was nice to know Gorm was coming, though. Even nicer to feel that emptiness in the rear!

The Metz lances, many still bloody, dipped in salute as three figures came out of the forest and advanced in Hiero's direction. M'reen knelt, her furry arms outthrust, and her two males followed suit. The Children of the Wind had never done this for Hiero, but he didn't blame them.

Gorm was barely visible behind the other two presences. Huge and ambling, the two emissaries of the bear people who led were larger even than ancient Kodiak or Kamchatkan brown bears.

Only the high foreheads and the longer, more egg-shaped skulls behind the small, furry ears might have set them apart, Their ambling, rolling gait carried them through the muck of the swamp at an amazing pace.

The leader—there was no mistaking his importance—-reared up on his hind legs at Klootz' side. Absently, Hiero noted that the morse showed not the slightest sign of disturbance at the titanic proximity. A rank scent came from his silver fur. I have no name, the huge creature sent. At least until I see more of you men-things. The men you call the Eleventh brothers brought us to war, those creatures of peace. What is peace? Being let alone. Yet we came to fight, and I think not mistakenly.

His fellow Brobdingnagian had simply lain down in a wallow and was rolling. Hiero carefully avoided looking at the smallest of the trio. The Metz cavalry still stood at salute, lances raised.

I gather, the ponderous but powerful mind which lowered down at him went on, that these mentalities are standing thus to do us honor? Such is not necessary. You are the one who took our little cousin to the South. We are in your debt. Your march coincides with that of the Great Dens. What we can bring to the mutual contest, that we shall Produce the gift, little one.

Gorm moved forward. Around his neck and slung over his back had been a sack of some bark derivative. Now he spilled out the contents.

The two shining skins, the two bald pates, the two hating faces, rolled through the surface of the wet grass to Klootz's feet. One was unknown, but the other could never be forgotten. Obviously torn roughly from the torso, S'duna's head lay before Hiero, the lips drawn back in the agony of death.

The leader of the bear people was still sending. We thought such vermin should be removed from the world. And we owed you a debt. These are the leaders you sought, Red and Blue. Their Circles are both destroyed. We think you had much to do with that, and our young and, unlicked cub agrees. Someday he may attain wisdom. That is up to him and to you. The enormous head swiveled down to stare at him again. You are flighty by our standards. Never mind. You may be the first of your kind to find enlightenment.

'When Hiero could concentrate next, the two great bodies were vanishing into the woods. He looked down, and Gorm was still there.

They said I could stay, the young bear sent. This is not over. Hiero, where is Luchare?

The unexpected question cut through all Hiero's fatigue, crumbling the barriers he had forced himself to erect. His brain seemed to gather itself, then to launch a single, explosive thought.

Luchare!

Epilogue

Under her, Luchare felt the exhausted hopper stumble and come to a halt, unable to continue. For a moment, she sat there numbly, before forcing herself to dismount. Her legs were shaking with fatigue, and she; had to lean against the heaving sides of the beast for support. Vaguely, she was aware that one of the three men of her guard was offering help. She shook him off and stood there, trying to gather her energy to survey her surroundings.

Three men—only three now! How long had it been since the count took the others and turned back to protect her rear? Time was a jumble of confusion in her head. How long since they had turned into the forest, trying to lose themselves in its vastness? And to what end? What had all the weeks of endless flight gained them?

She forced her mind back to the present and looked about. Before her, the little trail they had been following came to an end, and the colossal trees of the forest gave way to a moss-floored clearing. The day must be ending, with the sun already far down in the west; but after the dimness under the great trees, the light from the open sky seemed glaringly bright. She stared about her, suddenly conscious of a curious sense of familiarity. It was as if she had been here before in some other, far happier life.

She saw that the weary men were trying to make camp for the night, gathering moss for their beds and wood to build a fire. Supper, she knew, would be what remained of yesterday's kill. One man was working with flint and steel to kindle a small mound of twigs. Under him, the ground was blackened with evidence of some previous campfire. Again, familiarity tugged at her mind.

As she stood there, a feeling of something wrong grew in her. Then she realized that the forest had become strangely silent. Even the cries and chattering of the birds were stilled. She strained her ears to listen and her senses to reach out ...

Luchare!

Faintly, at the very edge of her awareness, the call came through to her, demanding the answer that welled up in her mind. Then it was gone.

Night had fallen hours before, but torchlight showed a bustle of activity around the dock where the warship lay. Inside the captain's cabin, a single candle revealed two white-bearded men sitting at a small table. They looked up as the door opened to admit a younger man.

"They said I'd find you here, Father Abbot," Hiero began. Then he stopped, and a surprised smile crossed his face as Brother Aldo rose to greet him.

"I've been hearing about your winning the battle," the Elevener said. "Too bad I was just too late to witness it. Hiero, you look as if you need a week of sleep!"

"Later. I don't have time now," Hiero told him.

Demero indicated a third chair. "Sit down, my boy. Aldo has returned with news from the South—terrible news, but I swore you should have the truth. D'alwah City is lost, the army has been totally beaten. Luchare and the king fled, nobody knows where. And no one knows whether she lives ..."

"She's alive," Hiero stated. "And I'm pretty sure I know where."

"She is near enough for you to contact?" Aldo's voice was filled with doubt.

Hiero shook his head slowly. "No, she's impossibly far away. Yet for one instant, I know I made contact with her mind. That's why I've come here to find you, Father Demero—to ask your permission to leave and go south to find her. Klootz, Gorm, and the cat people will come with me. And a few others have volunteered. They also ask permission."

"How far south will you go?" Aldo asked, before Demero had a chance to reply. "After you find your Luchare—if you do, as I pray you will—are you willing to go on to where only a man of your proven ability to defy the Unclean can go? Will you go far south of D'alwah into the reeking jungles where Amibale's accursed witch of a mother took that young traitor and Unclean ally to learn his evil? Because it is there, from the slender bits of evidence we have, that my Brotherhood and I believe the evil source of the Unclean may lie."

Hiero considered, remembering that Solitaire had also warned of a great and evil mind far to the south. But there was only one possible decision. "If I have permission, I will go."

"Very well." Abbot Demero stood up, as if the meeting were ended. "You shall have permission—but only after I see you tucked firmly in bed and about to get the sleep you need."

"There isn't time!" Hiero protested. "The trip around the Inland Sea may take too long, even if we have nothing but good luck —which seems improbable. We should leave at once."

Aldo began, chuckling, and the abbot was smiling as he laid one around Hiero's shoulder.

"My boy," Demero asked, "did you really think I wouldn't know what was going on when you went around making preparations? Or did you think it an idle whim of mine to refuel this ship and load it with supplies for you?" He snorted with mock indignation. "Hiero, ships can be used for better purposes than destruction. Now give me the names of your volunteers, in case I missed one. Then well put you to bed in a cabin here. When you awake, you and your band will already be well on the way to your princess."

The princess was lying on a bed of moss, far to the southeast, but she was not asleep. There was too much on her mind.

Hiero was alive and well and free! All the doubts that had come to haunt her were gone, erased by the certainty of her brief contact with his mind. He would come for her. And she would be here, waiting for him.

She let her eyes rove about the clearing, now lighted by the nearly full moon above. She knew it now—this place where they had all camped on the long road south, just before they met the strange women who lived in these giant trees. She listened to the silence of the forest, remembering that the same silence had first heralded the coming of Vilah-ree and the others. They would remember her and provide a haven of safety for her and for the three men—most certainly for the men!—in their tree nests.

She turned on her side, smiling. And finally, she slept.

Glossary

Abbeys, the: Theocratic structure of the Kandan Confederacy, comprising the Metz republic in the west and the Otwah League in the east. Each Abbey has a military-political infrastructure, and the Abbey Council functions much as the House of Lords in eighteenth-century England, with all science and religion also as its prerogatives.

Batwah: Trade Lingua franca; an artificial language used throughout the areas bordering the Inland Sea, and well beyond in some places.

Buffer: Giant bovines, probably mutated bison, which migrate in vast herds through the western Kandan regions on an annual basis.

Chespek: Small kingdom on the Lantik Sea, often allied to D'alwah and equally often at war with its immediate neighbor.

Children of the Night Wind: An intelligent, bipedal species of mutated, man-sized feline; runners of unbelievable speed. Bred by the Unclean for warfare, they managed to escape their masters and establish themselves in a far country. Proud and volatile, they are in no sense Leemutes.

Circles: Administrative areas, named by color, of the Unclean and its Masters of the Dark Brotherhood. Hiero passed through three, the Red, Blue, and Yellow, as he went south and east. Until his journey, their existence was unknown.

D'alwah: Largest and most developed of the east coast states on the Lantik Sea. A kingdom, organized as a benevolent despotism, but where commoners have few rights. A debased branch of the Universal Church exists.

Dam People: Aquatic rodents of human intelligence and more than human bulk, who live on artificial lakes in the Metz Republic, under terms of mutual toleration; probably mutated beaver.

Dark Brotherhood: Their own name for the Masters of the Unclean. The fact that they use the word "dark" indicates that they sought universal conquest and, more important, gloried in it and realized that they were, in fact, basically evil. Modern Satanism, in its real sense, is a parallel. (See Circles; Unclean.) Davids: Similar to the Mu'amans in that they follow a quite different monotheism from that taught by the church and one which they claim to be far older. Found in D'alwah, Chespek, and perhaps elsewhere, they occupy positions in all levels of society. (See Mu'amans.) Death, The: The atomic and biologic blight which destroyed the major population centers and most of humanity some thousand years in the past. Still a name of dread and ultimate menace in Hiero's day. "All evil came with The Death" is a proverb.

Deserts of The Death: Patches of ancient atomic blight where there is little or no water and scant or no vegetation. Yet life exists in these horrible places, though most of it is inimical and strange, bred from hard radiation and a ferocious struggle to survive. Some of the Deserts are hundreds of square miles in size and, in Hiero's day, are avoided like The Death itself. They are rare in Kanda, but many exist in the South. Blue, radioactive glows mark the worst of them at night.

Eleveners: The Brotherhood of the Eleventh Commandment. ("Thou shalt not destroy the Earth nor the life thereon.") A group of social scientists who banded together after The Death to preserve human culture, love for all life, and knowledge thereof. This group permeates all human societal life and, though opposing violence, battles the Unclean, often in hidden ways.

Forty Symbols: The tiny wooden signs that a trained priest-exorcist carries on his person. By putting himself (or herself; there are priestesses of great power) in a trance state, the priest can forelock, or to some extent see the future, using the symbols.

Frontier Guards: The army or embodied forces of the Metz Republic. The Otwah League has a similar group. There are sixteen legions, self-contained units, in the Metz Republic. They are under, not the Republic's orders, but those of the Abbey Council, which, in turn, reports to the Lower House (Assembly) on its decisions, which are always approved. Priests usually lead and direct the Frontier Guards.

Glith: A recent form of Leemute, possibly bred from a reptile by the Unclean. A humanoid, scaled and very strong physically, utterly the slave of the Dark Masters.

Grokon: Giant descendants of our present-day hogs, which roam the northern forests. They are much-sought-for as meat but are very dangerous to hunt, being clever and the size of extant oxen when adult.

Hairy Howlers: One of the commonest and most dangerous varieties of Leemute. They are great, fur-covered, tailless primates, highly intelligent and used as soldiery by the Unclean. They hate all humans, save their Dark Masters. They resemble huge, upright baboons as much as anything.

Death Hart: A monster found, though rarely, in the southern Deserts of the Death. The ancestry of this foul mutation is unknown, but it is carnivorous and bears both claws and horns.

Hoppers: Giant marsupials, closely resembling the kangaroo of the present, save for greater size. They were no doubt bred from mutated survivors of The Death. They are the riding animals of D'alwah and adjacent areas.

Inland Sea, the: The great freshwater sea formed by the ancient merger of the Great Lakes and covering roughly an area of all their present outermost boundaries. Many islands exist, and much of the Inland Sea is uncharted. Ruins of ancient cities dot the shores, and much commerce, interrupted by piracy, moves on the waters.

Kanda: The area of the ancient Dominion of Canada has kept its old name, almost unchanged, though much of it is unknown in Hiero's day, save for the central parts of the Metz Republic and the Otwah League, in west and east, respectively.

Kandan Universal Church: The state religion of the Metz Republic and the Otwah League. An amalgam of most current Christian beliefs, with a strong core of traditional Roman Catholicism, though there has been no contact with Rome for millennia. Celibacy is long gone, as are many other beliefs and attitudes held by the ancient churches. A related sect, though much corrupted and debased, is the state religion of the east coast kingdoms and states, such as D'alwah, Kaw: A beast of burden used south of the Inland Sea, both for agriculture and raising, as is the Korean ox of today. A large bovine, probably an almost unaltered member of some ancient stock of domestic cattle.

Killman: A highly trained warrior of the Metz Republic, who has taken intensive training, much of it psychological, in warfare and the use of all known weapons. Killmen are officers of the Frontier Guards automatically, but also rangers of the forest and special agents of the Abbey hierarchy. Hiero is unusual, though not exceptional, in also being a priest and exorcist. This combination of talents is highly approved but rare.

Lantik Sea, the: The Atlantic Ocean, though with a much-altered western shoreline. No records exist of any trans-Atlantic contacts for over three thousand years.

Leemute: A word meaning an animal, or other nonhuman creature of human intelligence, which serves the Unclean. Gorm, the bear, would never be described as a Leemute, nor would the Dam People. The word is a corruption of the phrase "lethal mutation," meaning an animal which cannot survive to replicate under natural conditions, but its meaning is now altered to mean "inimical to normal humanity," and even normal life of all kinds. New varieties (such as the frog creatures Hiero found) are continually appearing as discoveries spread. Not all such new finds are Leemutes, however.

Lowan: A species of incredibly large, flightless water birds, fish eaters and divers, which are found in remote areas of the Inland Sea. Though very shy, Lowan have few enemies, since an adult can reach eighty feet in length, with weight in proportion. They are uncommon, and thought by many to be a legend.

Lucinoge: An Abbey drug, used to enhance the spiritual powers of its adepts and priests, especially when they are seeking mind contact. Also a relaxant and, in small amounts, sleep-inducing.

Manoon (the Dead Isle): A rocky island in the north-central Inland Sea, the place of Hiero's captivity. One of the main headquarters of the Dark Brotherhood's Blue Circle.

Man-rats: Giant, man-sized rodents of high intelligence, a ferocious type of Leemute, much used as warriors by the Unclean. Probably mutated Rattus norvegicus, which they resemble in all but brains and bulk.

Metz: The dominant race of Kanda. A corruption of the ancient word Metis, a term used for a racial stock of mixed Caucasian and Amerindian strains. The Spanish word mestizo has the same root and means the same thing. The Metz survived The Death in an undue proportion to other races, mainly due to rural isolation and the fact that they existed in small, somewhat isolated groups, in more remote areas. Atomic and bacteriological blights thus slew relatively few. The Otwah League Metz tend to be lighter in color, due to more Caucasian genes.

Morse: The basic riding and plow animal (though only scrub stock is used for the latter) of the Metz Republic, which first bred them, and, to a lesser degree, of the Otwah League. A very large and intelligent variety of the present-day moose, the largest member of the deer family. (Moose have been tamed For riding and carriage pulling in modern Scandinavia, though not often.) Mu'amans: Non-Christian, non-church-linked followers of a separate form of monotheism. Apparently confined to the kingdom of D'alwah; in the main, stockbreeders, who live on the western plains of the kingdom. (See Davids.) Namcush: Port on the western border of the Inland Sea. Much trade passes through it, but it is full of rogues as well, slavers and pirates seeking a place to dispose of loot. Both the Abbeys and the Unclean use it to spy on one another.

Neeyana: The largest port in the southeastern area of the Inland Sea. Though legitimate trade passes through it, the Unclean actually rule, through a merchants' council dominated by t heir appointees. In fact, the main headquarters of the Yellow Circle of the Dark Brotherhood is buried under the town, No one untouched by evil lingers in Neeyana. (Possibly a corruption of "Indiana.") Otwah League: The eastern sister state of the Metz Republic. The League, which takes its name from ancient Ottawa, is smaller than the Republic, from which it is separated by a vast expanse of wild land and Taig, through which run few roads. Hut close contact is maintained as well as possible, and the Abbeys are a unified structure in both, serving the League government in the same capacity as in the Republic, Palood, the; Greatest of all the northern marshes, the Palood stretches for hundreds of miles along the northern edge of the Inland Sea, It is avoided even by the Unclean, and many strange forms of life not found elsewhere exist in its trackless vastnesses. Terrible fevers often wrack those who venture in, and its boundaries are largely uncharted.

Per: Corruption of "Father." Title of respect for a priest of the Kandan Universal Church.

Poros: Monstrous, four-tusked herbivore of the great southern forest, perhaps twenty feet tall at the shoulder. Its ancestry is unknown.

Snakeheads: Giant, omnivorous reptiles, found in small herds in the depths of the southern forests. Primarily eaters of soft herbage and fruit, they will also devour carrion and anything else slow enough to be caught. Something very like a bipedal dinosaur, though bred from some smaller reptile of the pre-Death days.

Snapper: Seemingly the living snapping turtle, grown to the size of a small car. A universal pest of any large body of water, being ferocious and almost invulnerable.

Taig, the: The great coniferous forest of Kanda, not too unlike that of today, but containing many more deciduous trees and even a few palms. The trees run larger on the average than those of today, though nowhere near the size of those in the far South.

Unclean, the: A general term meaning the Dark Brotherhood and all its servants and allies, as well as other life which seeks, through intelligent direction, to destroy normal humanity and to subvert natural law for evil purposes.

Were-bears: A little-known variety of Leemute. Not truly a bear at all, but a sort of grisly, night-prowling monster, short-furred and possessed of strange mental powers by which it lures victims to their doom. The things have been glimpsed only once or twice. Though of the Unclean, they seem to be allies rather than servants. Their origin is unknown. Fortunately, they seem rare.

The End

... No Traveler Returns

Fantasy & Science Fiction – April 1974

Colonel Morehouse held up his handkerchief again. The odor of the rubbing alcohol in which he had soaked it came over the foul reek from the great open pit like a cleaner breath of air. His fleshy, red face was unshaven, and the dark pouches under his eyes betrayed lack of sleep and also strain.

"The governor is sending more men if we need them. But I have the whole town tightly cordoned off. The population is only three hundred or so; so that should be enough."

"We moved quick for once." Naylor, the State Police captain, looked equally tired, but his immaculate uniform had not bagged, and though he also was unshaven, it hardly showed. He looked with some degree of sardonic sympathy at the National Guard officer. Morehouse was a civilian, a political appointee, and he was very close to shock.

"If you won't get some rest, at least get a gas mask. There's no need to put yourself through this."

"No." The heavy head shook stubbornly. "I have to see, and you can't see through one of those, at least not well. I can stand it."

Naylor returned to his inspection of the huge hole. Fresh clouds of purulent foulness eddied from it as more bodies were brought out by the masked and goggled police. Naylor simply forced himself to breathe through his mouth, by an exercise of iron will. The dust of the broken road eddied and sifted around them in the hot Midwestern sunlight. The shattered fragments of tar lay about them in heaps, spilling over into the roadside ditches, some of it hurled as far as the near wire fence rows.

Somewhere in the tall town, meadowlarks called and piped, notes of heart-rending bittersweet.

The pit was now over thirty feet across. The men seemed to have come to an end of the excavation and had reached untouched earth on all the perimeters. But they were still digging straight down.

"Count's now thirty-two." Lieutenant Vardaman towered over his lean superior. His voice was muffled since he wore a gas mask, but the modified Afro haircut was unrestrained by any cap. The long, slender dark-brown fingers interlaced as he spoke, the only sign of tension. "Come and look at the rest of this stuff. I still can't believe it."

The two older men followed him to a small pile of curious utensils. There were small pickaxes, battered entrenching tools and short-handled shovels; all were rusty, but some were smeared with fresher stains, darker and heavier stains.

"Looks like the kind of thing you buy at a surplus store," said Morehouse through his handkerchief. "We had shovels like that when I was just a kid in the Korean War. Haven't seen any for years, though."

"The picks were traditional, but the shovels and entrenching tools are a modern adaption." The dry, uninflected voice came from behind them, and they all jumped a little.

"You must be Professor

Alietti," said Naylor, his mind clicking over with an effort. "You got here fast, all the way from State."

The small, round academic looked around with keen interest before answering. The incredible, sickening stench seemed to have no effect on him at all.

"The governor sent a plane after he spoke with me on the phone. This is incredible, of course, but, perhaps not, well—surprising. But still to borrow an archaic thing like this, almost two hundred years old. Fantastic!" There was a note of professional relish in the newcomer's tones which the others found unpleasant.

Naylor pointed to the distant town, whose clustered buildings reflected the sun back over the flat landscape. Only the acres of corn, silent and high in the noon heat, lay between them and the distant hamlet. A man cursed as his foot slipped on something unspeakable at the edge of the charnel pit.

"The clues are over there." The captain fell silent for a moment. "We'll have to dig them out. Just like we dug this out. They all are in it. They none of them are going to get off, except maybe the small kids. We'll get the answers."

Alietti looked curiously at him. "May I ask what gave you your first clues? I gathered from the governor that this is your work, this whole thing, the fact that it was uncovered at all, I mean."

Naylor said, "It was a lot of little things, like most police work. It started with a ring of professional car thieves fighting over territories. Someone was undercutting them in this area, underselling them. The syndicate had money in it. They sent people to look around. Some didn't come back. The syndicate smelled something badly wrong and got out of the whole thing. They don't much go for new ideas, or mysteries either. But we heard about it. That was one piece." He watched the line of men who were still carrying nameless things up from the great hole and laying them gently on the side, extending' the lines of shapeless objects, all covered in plastic, to yet further on down the road. It was obvious, sickeningly so, that they were no longer finding bodies, but rather fragments.

"Disappearances were still another thing. All kinds of people, not who were known to have been here, but who could have been here or passing through. The F.B.I, has charts and graphs, and so do we. I began to play with them, and a kind of vague blob appeared. This county and two around it on the east and west." Vardaman left them and went back to the hole where he could supervise. The sound of careful digging still came from the bottom. The men were silent, the enormity of what they were uncovering reducing them to a perspiring quiet, broken only by a muffled curse and the shovel noises audible at close range. Over all, the piercing tremolo of the larks rose on the hot air of the prairie, uncaring and rapturous.

"The next clue came from the churches, a place I'd never have looked. No minister of any denomination ever asked here to perform marriages or to bury anyone. The churches demolished and used as building sites. No church records newer than twenty years of this town at all. Vardaman found that out while he was investigating. Since the churches, even the Protestant ones, don't liaison much with one another, not one of them noticed that it alone was not the only brand that had left town." A man ran up the ladder on the far side of the hole and ripped off his gas mask. He went off to the side of the road, well away from the hole and vomited. The sounds came clearly to the little group who were listening to Naylor. Nobody reprimanded the man, a state patrolman, or tried to bring him back. He sat down after a while with his head in his hands.

"We'll all have a few nightmares," mused the captain, half to himself. "Let's see, what came next? Well, there was money, lots of it, moving in the wrong ways for this area. This is conservative country. People don't play the stock market here, or have Swiss bank accounts. That was a weak point in their planning, though they tried to be clever. They were awfully damn clever about the cars. With the two legitimate garages to change the bodies and repaint, file off engine-block numbers and so on, those cars just like to vanished. We still have only a very few traced, mostly to Mexico. But the idea of the local banker and the local nail factory owner and the fellows that owned the garages all having Swiss bank accounts, that was bad. Treasury gave us some help there. Then there was the law situation."

He spat. A bad cop is anathema to a good one. A cop involved in this sort of thing was unthinkable, awful, a terrible affront to the concept of the law. The law officers involved were people whom Naylor really hated.

He went on. "Never any crime here, beyond reports, second-hand from the town police and the justice, a chicken stealing and kids being wild. That was another mistake, and it helped eliminate the other places we were watching. Every town has major crimes once in a while, usually an occasional murder, or homicide of some kind, never mind the actual cause. Yet this place never had anything but the piddling stuff, and it was always settled here without trial, or at least nothing beyond the J.P. That was a pointer. I'm a little surprised that they thought they could get away with that, surprised no one had any more psychology than that."

"They got away with it for twenty years, from the looks of things," mumbled Morehouse through his handkerchief. "Suppose they decided they'd had enough last year and quit? Where would we be then?"

They all came alert. The sound of a distant series of shots came faint and far off from over the fields. In a moment, a young lieutenant, masked like all the rest, sprinted over from his command jeep parked up the road. He saluted the colonel, who waved irritably in answer, still holding the cloth to his nose, and choked out the word, "Report."

"Two of them tried through the cornfields north of town, sir. The heat sensors picked them up, and the machine gunners got them. Both adult males." At a nod, he returned to his radio watch.

Naylor silently revised some ideas. The paunchy colonel seemed to have an adequate capability for his task. He resumed his story.

"We took the whole story to the governor, in secret. We had enough proof to convince him but the attorney general wanted even more.

So we sent in a decoy family. Father, mother, two grown kids and all police, our people. In a trailer van, because they said they were vaguely moving to California, site and time of arrival uncertain. They were volunteers. Oh boy, what a nice friendly town! But the thing was, when you knew what was going on, it was so obvious that it made your skin crawl. The fake smiles, the mockery, the sly grins, the kindly questions. I was the 'father,'" he added, "so I know what I'm talking about.

"They rushed us at dusk. We had dummies sitting around the trailer door, and we were inside. The trailer was armored. We stood them off, and the helicopters came in with the sleep gas in minutes. Your people were ringing the town at the same time. That's all. We woke up a teen-ager and asked a few questions. He sent us to here." He nodded at the mass grave. The things being brought up now were all very small.

Alietti stared at the ground for a moment. Then he looked at Naylor. "Have you found anything religious in nature, any of what we anthropologists call cult objects? If the parallel is an exact one, these people simply could not stop what they were doing. The profit motive became a minor one, whatever it had been in the beginning. The lust of killing, the service of Death itself, under one guise or another, that becomes the paramount, the overpowering desire. At least that is the pathology of the thing in other cases. Sleeman stamped it out so quickly in India during the 1840's that a lot of documentation is missing."

"Too bad," said Colonel Morehouse in a nasty tone. "He should have left it alone so you could study it better." He turned and stalked off to his staff car.

A sergeant from the police radiocar brought Naylor a written flimsy. He studied it and handed it to the scholar without comment. Alietti read and handed it back.

"I'm not surprised, captain. That makes three of these graves. You'll have to check every one of the roads. And even then you won't be sure. But I have another question. Have you any reason to believe that in this crowded, mobile and individualistic country, that this is the only situation of its kind?"

"We've recommended that the Justice Department set up a special study on it. Beyond that, it's too big for us. This almost was." Naylor's voice was weary.

The two men looked at the distant heat-shrouded town and listened to the meadowlarks caroling. Their piping rose and fell in the heat, like the piping of the temple flautists in ancient temples on the far side of the globe. It is such piping which rises to the eight-armed thing who is Sitaja, who is Durga, who is Kali, the goddess-demon of the oldest murders in the world, the Thugs. Formerly of India.

The End

The Syndicated Time

Fantasy & Science Fiction – July 1978

The immensely entertaining account of the events following the discovery of time travel by a seedy physicist at a Florida junior college.

I

Time travel is a dirty word these days. A person can get lynched just for mentioning it, like people being arrested in the old days for joking about hijacking while boarding a jet. The UN, in one of those few cases where even the Maldive Islands and Cocos-Keeling voted on the same side, has agreed that no member nation will do anything but suppress any research on the subject. Many nations passed laws of their own dealing with the treatment of those apprehended while conducting any such research. My personal favorite is the one from Uganda. Some people get sick reading it, but those old devil Amin habits die hard.

Every country in the world is still looking for the possible inventor or (ess). Since I know who it was, I could command a hefty sum for the right squeal. The only trouble is, the loudest squeal might turn out to be mine. I couldn't fix an out-of-phase water wheel, but I'm too deeply involved. I'm no inventor, but I am a promoter. I should say, an ex-promoter.

It all started with a greedy inventor. You think maybe Tom Edison wasn't greedy? Or read the fine clauses in the last Wright Brothers contracts. Yes, friends, they had a dream. Part of the dream was cash. Maybe only part, but still ... part.

My friend, or let's say acquaintance (if they ever get me, he was a deadly foe), was not like Tom Edison exactly, or the Wright Brothers either. He was a seedy little physicist at a third-rate, Florida, junior college. I never went there, or any other college, but I used to sell pirated texts, Formosa's best, to some of them back in my less affluent days. A flat campus, four decaying coconut trees; the lawn, solid sand spurs; the faculty, solid losers. The academic end of the line. If you retire after thirty years, you get $12,000 before taxes and a plated Bulova. The janitors make more, and for once the state has right on its side. Through these hallowed halls pass a collection of out-of-state weed-heads, local rednecks, Northern heroin salesmen and apprentice whores equal to those found anywhere, that is until one comes, of course, to the next county. Need I say more?

I was motoring through Florida, searching, on behalf of a large conglomerate which shall be nameless, for vacant lands to develop. Bluntly, I was looking for places to put large, expensive condominiums, preferably smack on the beach sand, of course. My own employers, who I regret to say are, or were, not equal opportunity, owned a lot of them already, particularly on the west coast, the so-called "Sun Coast." They wanted more. Due to many of their other enterprises still being frowned on by the law, they had to work through middlemen. One of these was my employer, J. G. "Bushveldt" Barnstaffel, the President of Amalgamated Tourist Enterprises.

No one in this splendid firm had a record, including the president, which made it ideal for certain purposes. Barnstaffel was a skinny slob who had once been lost in Kruger Park, R.S.A., for three whole days, while on a world tour. This almost incredible feat gave him his nickname.

"Check out the liddel colleges, Syd. Maybe some got left some land they can't use," he told me in his Dutch wheeze. He talked like George Washington or maybe Rip Van Winkle was his brother, but he was originally a simple Hollands crook, too inept for the Amsterdam police to tolerate. They flung him to the New World, or at least he decided to leave. He had fat hands, rheumy blue eyes, too close together, a bulbous red nose and an air of knowing everything in the world.

What does this have to do with the ban on time travel? "All history hangs on the actions of a few men (or women)." Lord Acton, or someone.

So, I pursued my merry way, from one Christawful motel to another, down the world's most architecturally fucked-up peninsula. And then, one day, in a bar I encountered Associate Professor Motley van D'Alliance III, once a faint gleam in the eye of the New York Social Register. As of the point I met him, he was a bleary little soak, leaning on the bar and trying to pick up anyone to talk to. I hasten to add that the professor was not gay, pausing to add that I have nothing against such persons, myself. Who knows who will betray you?

"You may not believe me," says this small, drained-out lush on the next bar stool, "but I can save the world."

I removed an olive from my Manhattan and reordered, this being a typical Florida bar, and sat, waiting for the revelation. You get a mild laugh once in a great while from these type encounters.

"You might not think this," says this jerk, "but I am the Professor of Ascidian Ophiolatry at Southern Dugong College." He babbled on and I heard nothing, until, in the third martini, something came across. The words were "time machine."

He had red eyes, like a semi-albino or possibly a white rat of some obscure sort. The only word for him was "unwholesome." But, somehow, we got to talking. When I told him that my employers were looking for new coast land, he got all excited. "Coast land!" he yelled. "I'll give you coast land! How would you like the best islands in the world, the finest tropic shores, absolutely untouched. Never a human print on them! I guarantee it!"

Well, I normally don't encourage nuts. But this little weemer was so positive. Maybe it was the martinis. Cheap Florida gin made from orange pulp.

Anyway, I called the base, i.e., New York, that night, and, of course, I got Barnstaffel. I had nothing else to report, since there was nothing left to buy. But Bushveldt was simply in love with the idea of my nut professor. "Sounds like a great lead. Make sure you don't lose him. Follow it up." And more crap like that. I didn't get it then, but after I'd hung up, a thought occurred to me. Barnstaffel sounded very anxious indeed. Maybe his unknown superiors, the boys with all the well-laundered financing, were leaning on him a bit? If these people asked the impossible, those on the end of the request often died trying. Literally.

Well, I had made an appointment with the little jerk. So the following day I got directions and motored out to the sun-browned series of vacant lots that Dugong called a campus. The heat, even for Florida, was blistering and my soles burned even through Ked rubber. I found his office in a moldering cube of puce-colored stucco, where the peeling paint and corroded metal vied with the exposed cinder block in a tribute to rip-off contracting.

He was crouched behind a crummy desk pretending to read a report when I walked in without knocking. The blinds were down and the place was so dark, I thought I'd stumbled into a broom closet by mistake. When I twitched up the Venetians, the place was hardly bigger, and I rated van D'Alliance a U on the alphabet scale of any college rank. For Christ's sake, it wasn't air-conditioned, even!

He gave a pitiful moan as the light hit his eyes, but I perched myself on his desk and inspected the place at leisure.

"What do you want?" he quavered. "I'm not seeing students today. I have work to do. What class are you in, anyway?"

I now discovered that the red in his eyes was caused by innumerable tiny broken veins, which were matched by mottled skin of the same color on his sunken face. Only his suit, which, though pretty soiled, was new, prevented him from an appearance on Skid Row as a major lead.

"Remember me?" I said, in soft tones. He winced because any tones must have hurt. "I'm the guy you were telling about all those untouched beaches, the virgin palmy islands and junk like that which you were going to give to me. I want to hear more about them, that's all. Remember, we made a date at the Soapstone Pelican last night?"

"I did?" he mumbled. "I forgot. I must have had one too many. I didn't know what I was saying." He rose, or rather lurched to his feet. "Now if you don't mind, I'm feeling quite ill. There must have been a mistake. Please, run along, there's a good chap, and let's forget the whole thing." In the tiny, shut office, his stale breath was sheer murder, being half booze and half pyorrhea. But I'd stood worse.

When I'd mentioned the reason I was there, a light had flickered in back of the beat-up face, the eyes had glittered and the mouth worked. This piece of academic flotsam knew something, or at least he thought he did. This was the only reason I didn't blow the unwholesome joint and leave him to his d.t.'s.

"Now, now," I said soothingly. "Let's not take that attitude. Have you any classes today? At my tasteful motel, we can lounge by the crystal pool and partake of cool beverages. Just the thing for a man in your condition. Then, if you feel like going further into the aforesaid matter, it's up to you." What a man in his condition really needed was oxygen, vitamin B-12 injections and restraint, not necessarily in that order.

I had the sorry bastard hooked in one sentence. After that office, cool drinks and someone else paying, by a pool, must have sounded like Paradise. He hesitated an easy split second, the stumbled around his desk, croaking, "I'll have one with you for old times' sake. What did you say your name was? Have you got a car?"

I gave him the name I was registered under, which we'll call Joe Doakes, and led him out to my air-conditioned Toyota. He almost fainted from the cool as we pedaled off campus, but the first gin and tonic by the pool pepped him up in no time. Maybe the dank reek of chlorine and the grinding and screeching noises from the highway out front added to the glamor. It was the off season, so the place was almost empty, and I had provided lots of gin (not the orange-pulp variety) and ice.

He'd reached a stage of his drinking life that I'd had lots of experience with in the past, starting with my own old man. I don't think the guy was ever what you'd call sober, but he probably never was really flat-out drunk either. He just coasted along in a paranoid fog of dreams, frustrated ambitions, half-started projects, meaningless fuck-ed-up jobs and general discontent. These types of people always have a glorious past and a fantastic future. During the now, or present, they are always being held back or harried by treachery, infidelity and corruption in high places, plus fire, plague and the Loch Ness Monster. All I had to do was sit back, listen and pour, judging his intake with a careful orb. Some of them fade like a quarterback at one gill too many.

I heard all about the van D'Alliances to open with. "Would you believe, my dear chap, grandmother had footmen in powder? I mean people knew what was due, then!" And the balls at the Waldorf. And his club at Yale. And his mother. And the Southhampton Yacht Club. And his first, or society wife (she was too good for him, of course). And so on, adbullshititem.

When he'd caromed off the New York Racquet Club, "my dear chap," for the third time and was starting a second round of "if they could only see me now!" I judged it was time for the kill.

Ever so gently, I leaned over and glared into his glazed eyes from about one inch away.

"But you'll show them, Motley!" I hissed at him. "You'll be batting those racquets with the best of them!" I paused. "When you find all those lovely islands or palmy shores you were talking about last night! That's when you '11 be back where you belong! Old chap," I added.

He was pretty far gone into his private dream world, and I'd gone and yanked him back by his zipper, but I'd also, please note, added the dream world to my own question. He gulped some gin while it sank in. Then a funny, kind of shy look came over him and, with it, that same flicker I'd seen before, in his cubicle.

"Well," he mumbled. "It's not fully tested yet." He gulped more booze and his face got redder. "In fact, to be honest, it might not work at all." He stared at the pool. "I haven't dared make many tests. I think it works, but that's not enough for a scientist, old chap." For one fleeting moment, damned if I didn't feel sorry for the useless, dumb bastard. For a whole second, I thought I saw something that maybe might have once been a real scientist.

"I suppose it has commercial uses. Possibly even military," he was going on, "but I can't finance proper tests. I'm at the end of the line, even down here. They won't renew my present contract. I can't get a job at a shitty high school, if this place goes and blackballs me." He stared at me in what he must have thought of as honest candor or something. He just looked polluted, defeated, overripe and stale. His voice lowered in confidence. "The fact is, old chap, I have a slight drinking problem, nothing serious, but he reached eagerly for the bottle, but I snaked it away first.

"Now look, Motley," I purred. "I just happen to work for some very big interests. Very large on the cash flow, understand. People who back real science and real discoveries. With good old honest cash. These are important people, Motley, old chap. Ever heard of C. J. Wallingford? He's on the board, in fact, he's one of the men I report to. The biggest, see?"

Needless to affirm, I had never heard of C. J. Wallingford, either, but this sorry soak brightened up at once. "Ah, of course, Shaker Heights people. Made their money in corsets, but still quite acceptable. How is the old man?"

"He's great, a grand old boy. And he's backing this group to the hilt, Motley. To the hilt. He'll be counting on you, if things go right.

Whoever might be counting on him, or me either, I couldn't say for sure. Beyond and above Barnstaffel, the office chatter differed, opinions ranging between the Salupo Family of Brooklyn and the Figliosi Clan, with interests in Philadelphia and Miami: None of us really wanted to know, to be honest. The letter, to misquote from the Good Book, ain't all that kills.

I hauled my mad scientist back from his lost world of Grosse Point, or wherever he'd got to, and now gave him the works, plus a small gin. He'd long since forgotten the tonic and even the ice.

"Now look, Motley," I said. "You know and I know, you didn't just gabble about islands and such last night. You also used two magic words. They had to do with time, right? So let's discuss that aspect, like good chums, eh?"

He didn't turn pale, or anything, to my surprise. I think by now, what with the intake of battery acid and all his childhood memories, he'd fitted me into his crazy mental world, like I belonged there. He looked at me and slurped down some more gin.

"Well, it's at the house. Can't have a thing like that at the college, old chap. They'd steal it or say I was crazy." He giggled and looked at his cheap wristwatch. Of course it had stopped.

"Maybe we could go and look," I coaxed. "It's only just a little before noon. We could take a bottle in case we get tired, hmm?"

This made him look eager and nervous at the same time. "I don't know, old man. My wife, you know. Splendid woman and all that. Not quite my own class, you know, but splendid. Still, she gets a bit annoyed at times. Thinks I drink too much, you know." Again I snatched the booze away from questing fingers.

"That's easy," I said. "Look, we sneak out to your place, all very quiet. Should your frau get a peek at us, why I'll tell her we're discussing big business, very big money, and please not to interrupt. What can you lose?"

He looked impressed and I poured him another small bite which increased his pleasure. Then I capped the bottle, the second bottle, that is, and stuffed it into a paper bag as I stood up.

He lived in the kind of scruffy subsection, which, to be fair, cannot be blamed on the Sunshine State alone. A lot of nasty little piles of congealed cinder block, all exactly alike, squatted inside an imitation brick gate, which said on top, "El Dorado Gardens." That is, it should have, but the D and one o were missing, making it "El rado Gardens." The van D'Alliance manse was even crappier than the average, but a broken television antenna hanging off over the roof and roosting on a dead palm tree gave it that different look. The grass was dead too, the windows were shuttered, and the dump looked abandoned.

"Charming," I said as we pulled up under his carport, which incidentally was full of holes. "A real haven of rest, away from the workaday world." He was plastered but not that far gone, and he gave me a dirty look as I helped him out of the car.

Just behind the carport was, logically, a small, one-car garage. This was padlocked, not once but twice. It took Motley three tries to fish out both keys and get the locks off, but he finally made it. He pushed feebly at the sliding overhead door, and I finally had to help him. He wobbled over to one side and switched on a light, then managed to pull the door back down. I noticed he bolted it, too. Maybe he was a nut, but he at least thought he had something worth protecting. A window built into one wall of the room was filled with a window-unit air conditioner. We were sealed in.

The place was a mess and smelled as stale as its owner. There were rusting tools all over the concrete floor. A long work bench held more of them, plus a lot of oddly shaped bits of metal and also lots of wires, some in coils and others strung about in weird patterns. But in the middle, close to the back wall, was something else. It was a great big metal box, really, about six feet square, with gauges all over the outside. It was very thick metal, which I could see because it had a round door, like a porthole, and this was open. Actually it looked more like one of those thick hatches you see on a submarine, and you could also note it had heavy clamps. A kid of six could have scrunched into the inside of this box thing, but nothing much bigger.

I decided to goose him a little.

"What's that junk pile?" I said with a nasty smile. "The famous time machine? Can you bring back Cleopatra and things like the Atlantis Treasures, maybe? How about King Tut or something?"

He woke up a little and looked serious, but not really angry.

"No," he said slowly, "no, it won't do that. I'm not quite sure what it will do. I built it with a legacy from a great aunt, you know, had the thing constructed and assembled over in Jacksonville to my own specs. But it's funny. It goes back about eighty to one hundred and fifty million years, and I can't seem to change it. I can't get it closer and I can't make it go forward either, not at all. There must be something I haven't figured out yet." This calm statement made a prickle of ice run down my spine. I'd been discounting this silly jerk all the way, but he sounded so sure!

"You mean," I said, in what I hoped sounded like a relaxed voice, "this box goes back into time, real time, eighty million years?"

"No. no," he said petulantly, "not the box, as you call it. That's the gate. It's what you put into the box that goes back." There was a silence while I tried to think.

"OK," I said, after a minute, "so how do you know it's like eighty million years, say, not ten minutes or a million, million years?"

"I don't know, not exactly," he said in weary tones. "I'm not a geologist, a botanist, or a paleontologist either, and I'd really need to be all these to be anything like sure." He eyed the paper bag. "Let's have a little snort. I'll go get some ice from the house. While I'm gone, you look into this stuff and I'll try and explain it when I come back." He pushed a box like an oversized foot locker into the light and unlocked it. Then he turned the air conditioner on and unbolted the door and left. He seemed to be making a lot more sense since we'd reached his workshop, and I didn't know whether that was good or bad.

Meanwhile, I looked into the box, and since there was a lot of junk inside, I began to lift things into the light.

First came some dried plants, tall round things, like reeds or cattails, but with short spiky leaves all the way around, arranged in rings. They meant pure nothing to me. Next came some dried branches of a pine tree, with huge flat needles. I dumped this with the other dead vegetables. Next, so help me, was a big stoppered jar, filled with alcohol or some such preservative gorp, and floating in it was a dead rat! It had an open mouthful of sharp, pointy teeth and a furry tail, but was still a reject from the local drainage system, for my money.

Now I was down to a small cardboard box. I opened this and it was full of little broken pieces of something like coarse yellow paper, but with a pebble-grain surface like my English shoes. Some of the pieces were round or even dimpled.

There only was one more box, a large one, that took up most of the big container's bottom. I opened this, and for the first time found something that really shook me. It was some bones, and they were impressive all right. I took them out and carefully put them on the floor, just as I heard Motley return. He was carrying a plastic ice bucket and some bottles of soda, which I guess were for me. While he re-bolted his door, I took a hard look at those bones again.

They smelled terrible and had brown pieces of gut, muscle or whatever, dried onto them. But they were obviously part of a leg or maybe arm or foot. There were two great big round claws, something like a chicken's but three times that size, and places where some more had been broken off. I felt Motley relieving me of the gin, and the clink of ice, but I didn't look up, even. I laid out the two long bones again, and one was broken like the foot or hand thing. They were at least three inches around the middle and, even broken, three feet long. I felt that old creepy chill on the spine again and reached up for a drink which Motley handed me in silence.

"All right, Professor," I said in as nice and easy a voice as I could, "what is all this crap? Take it from the top; start with the dried leaves."

"I'm not sure," he said, pouring a second dram for himself, and me too. I didn't turn it down.

"I had to find a lot of my data in books I wasn't trained to use, my dear chap. None of this is in my field, you know." He inhaled some gin, but his voice was steady enough as he went on.

"Those round plants, like reeds with a trim, are called horsetails, I think, Equisetums or something. The only modern ones found now are about six inches long, I believe. Notice that both ends of the stalks are shaved off smoothly? That's the time machine. The plants may have been twenty feet high. They were green when I got them."

I looked at the stalky plants and he was right. They'd been cut off real smooth at each end.

"So what," I growled. "I've seen bamboos that big here in Florida. What's with this pine tree?"

"Well, that one is a puzzler. But I think it's a sequoia, a sort of Redwood, very like the big trees in California. They used to grow all over the world, it seems. Just a guess, of course." The gin bottle gurgled again. I removed it politely.

"The little box full of things are certainly broken egg shells. We have tortoises — turtles, you know — right here, on the campus actually, that lay eggs like that. But these seem to be much bigger in diameter. Much bigger."

I held up the bottle with the dead rat in silence, and he began to laugh hoarsely. When he managed to stop, he choked out, "Ellen-Sue really had a fit. That was running around our bedroom. I killed it, but not before she had had hysterics."

"I bet she did," I said, "but so what, Motley? Most chicks don't make it big with rats."

"Rats?" he said in a funny way. "What rats? Oh, I see what you mean, old chap. My mistake too, at first. But it's not a rat, not a rat at all."

I waited, as patiently as I could, while he peered at the jar. "Look here," he said, pointing. "See those pointed teeth. No rodent or rat has those. Look at the feet. They're like tiny human hands. Some rats have furry tails, but none around here. I looked it up."

"So it's not a rat," I snapped. "Why not a, well, a possum or a, well, raccoon or something?"

"Very sharp, old boy, very sharp," he giggled at me. "As a matter of fact, a possum may well be what it is, or was. But if so, it's a sort of possum no human ever saw alive. Maybe a remote possum ancestor, but if the books are right, nothing like it has lived for many millions of years. How about a shot, old boy? Getting a bit dry, all this talking?"

I gave him a slug in his glass but kept tight hold of the bottle. Then I fed myself another. I was thinking. I was thinking about old movies. Movies like King Kong, One Million, B.C. and The Lost World. I was thinking about those fucking bones! "And the bones?" I said.

"I found them down the road a little way, one evening. It was after I'd sent a ham and some other stuff through, the biggest load I'd sent, as a matter of fact." He paused. "I suppose you can see they aren't very old. Not much older than the beef bones you'd find in a dump, say." He didn't elaborate on what had owned the bones in the first place. From the look on my face he didn't need to. I'm no scientist, but I have been to a museum or two in my life.

This was so big I got kind of numb all over for a minute or two. While I was deciding what to do next, I fed Motley another drink and walked over to look at his machine. It had, when I got close, a sort of homemade look about it. It could have been an experimental dishwasher or something. That meant nothing. Bell's first phone looked that way too. Two very thick armored cables led from it into a special plug in the wall, which I also looked at.

"It takes a lot of power for its size," said my host, who had followed me. "About four times the amount a big central air conditioner would, I've estimated. I had to have a special line put in. That took the last of my legacy," he added sadly. "But I don't need to have it on long, of course. Only a few minutes."

Something else stirred in my mind, something he'd said which had grabbed my attention previously.

"Hey, wait a minute. You found that rat thing or whatever it is alive and in your bedroom, right? So I guess it got out of the machine. But what about those bones? What the hell, how could they be out in the road? You did say 'road,' didn't you?"

"Yes," he said, "I did. And that ancient pre-opossum didn't get out of the machine, either. It couldn't. There's a lug and a locking wheel on the door. Nothing could get out." Here, he was wrong, but not by much.

"The way I figure it," he went on, not forgetting to hold out his glass, "is something like this: when the Chronocron sends something back, it gets replaced in our time, and it gets replaced by something of the same exact mass. Say, ten pounds of coal gets sent back. OK, then ten pounds, no more, no less, of something, anything, alive or dead, comes out of the past. But there's a catch. And the catch is the time lag. Somehow it's uncertain, in a way I don't yet understand. Some replacements have never turned up here at all. They must have been dumped a ways off, maybe a long way. Maybe it's the earth's rotational spin. Maybe something else." He sunk back into his glass, mumbling about "Heisenberg" or someone.

My thoughts were still tripping over themselves, when a terrific bang hit the door. I almost jumped over the time machine, thinking some dinosaur (all right, I said it, finally) was coming home for lunch.

"Ah heeah you in theah, Motleee!" came a voice like worn truck brakes. Southern, worn, truck brakes.

"You come out heeah, rait naaow, you stinkin', no good, runty, licker-haid!" I won't do any more misspelled dialogue, but that's the sound. Mrs. Motley van D'Alliance III was home in force, and from the pitch in her screech, my precious ideas about dealing with her might need a bit of overhaul.

Motley was shrunk into a corner. So I put my finger to my mouth, then patted myself on the chest, to let him know I'd handle things. He looked grateful but also doubtful.

I slipped the bolt and ran up the door just in time to nearly get caught on the noggin with one of those heavy brown palm stems that littered the yard. It whanged past me and into the wall with impressive force.

Mrs. van D'Alliance seemed stunned at her near-miss or an unknown target, or maybe both. It gave me a second to look her over and figure out what to do about it.

I dunno what the first, or Newport, Mrs. van D' had been like, but this was an item from the bottom of the list. Any list. "Used hard and put away wet," described her, in the classic words of an old pal in the horse-raising business.

She was a blobby, tightly corseted job, with orange-dyed hair, pulled up in one of those beehive things. She had purple lipstick and too much eye shadow on a pale washed-out face. A dirty green dress and wedgie-type shoes, plus cracked purple toenails, completed the picture. A semiretired hooker, recently drafted to the Tijuana League, would describe her.

"Who in hell are you and where's that lousy drunken Motley?" was her greeting. "I could smell that gin ten yards off and I know he's in there hiding behind his crazy, nut gadgets which cost Keerrist knows how much when I ain't got hardly money to eat on and …"

I held up my hand in a solemn way and put on a look of sober dignity, something like some funeral parlor manager.

"Mrs. van D'Alliance," I said in a deep, vibrant voice, "your husband, Madam, has been doing very secret work for a long time." I lowered my voice. "There are things it is not safe for you to know, but I can tell you this much, anyway. Vast sums might possibly be involved, vast sums indeed. Your husband has done some high-class inventing which may well interest people in high places, and people who don't welcome idle chatter."

Her mouth opened, but not in speech, just simple surprise.

"At this time, Madam, I am in the employ of the ATE. But I have worked for other agencies and may again, if you take my meaning?" If she wanted to think Amalgamated Tourist Enterprises was the CIA, that was her business. And my ultimate employers certainly disliked chatter about their business, idle or otherwise.

Motley had advanced behind me and now took on a little courage. He'd probably never seen his private hot-air outlet shut up before.

"You hear that, Ellen-Sue," he said, sticking out his shrunken chest, "Mr. Doakes and I were discussing finances, big finances. You've never understood my work, so let's hear no more of this. Mr. Doakes and I are going in town to dinner, eh, old chap? We may be discussing plans late into the night, so don't wait up." He had me in a corner, but I wasn't unhappy about it. I had things to do and I wanted him under my eye.

I handed her a card, which had my name, ATE, and a phony Park Avenue address on it, and smiled in a tight, restrained way.

"I'll take good care of old Mot," I said. "We have much to discuss and I'll be at the XYZ Motel with him later on. But remember, please, no gossip, none at all. There are penalties, you understand?"

She could only nod, with her mouth still open. As we drove away, after locking the workshop very carefully, she was still standing in the drive next to the chewed-up '54 Plymouth, looking at my card. Motley was laughing and singing to himself. I'd given him back the whole bottle. Now, I wanted him drunk, dead drunk. By the time we reached the motel, after stopping for more booze, he was half gone. In another fifteen minutes he was totally gone and snoring unattractively on my couch. I loosened his grubby tie and went out to a public booth to do some long-distance phoning.

I got Barnstaffel on a very private line, only to be used in emergencies, and talked for a half-hour without a break. Then I listened for a minute, hung up and waited. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang and I did some more listening, but not to Barnstaffel. This was a voice I'd never heard before, but George Raft or Edward G. Robinson would have appreciated it. I especially disliked the ending, which went: "and if this is some kind of con or something, Doakes, you'll be the sickest sickie in the business!"

I tried to convey my true sincerity in my answer, and it was no acting.

I had dinner sent in from a nearby burger joint. It was for one, naturally. Then I watched television until bedtime and retired, after piling furniture in front of the door.

I needn't have bothered because Motley was still out cold, come the dawn. Breakfast was also sent in, but with it came some visitors.

One was Barnstaffel, as big as life and twice as repulsive. With him were two other guys, and if old B. B. made me sick, they just made me very nervous. They were dark, nattily dressed types in their thirties and they didn't say "dese" and "dose." They don't any longer. They were supposed to take orders from Barnstaffel, but he was very nervous about giving them any.

"Choe, my boy," he cried. "Where iss this famous discoverer?" I won't give you any more of his Katzenjammer dialect crap either, but that's the way he talked. I pointed to repulsive van D'Alliance on the couch and they all went over and peered at him. When he exhaled noisily, they moved back quickly.

"This scumbag invented something besides halitosis?" said the taller one. His name, I discovered, was Leo.

"He looks pretty terrible," I admitted. "But I'll be screwed if he hasn't got something I don't understand, and I'm damned if I think anyone in the world but him does either."

"You may wish you was only getting screwed, Doakes, if this is a bust," said the short one. His name was Goldy, but don't ask me why. He had black hair.

"Now, now," said Bushveldt, "that's no nice way to talk. Joe finds something that looks good. He tells me and I tell — some other people. We both do our best. So let's go look at what this professor has to show us, eh?"

"OK," said Leo, "let's. But first let's get Lushwell here up on his feet. I want him along and someone's supposed to watch him anyway."

"Hell, I watched him all night," I answered. "All we have to do is comb that scruddy wife of his out of the way. Wait till you see her!"

"Wait till she sees us," said Goldy. Leo laughed in a hearty way and slapped him on the back.

The two of them simply undressed the guy and stuffed him into the shower, which they ran alternately boiling hot and ice cold for ten minutes, with the television turned up to muffle his screams. When they hauled him out, I thought he'd bought a coronary, but they knew what they were doing. He didn't know where, or what he was for a bit, but Barnstaffel laid on his greasy charm over four cups of black coffee, and at the end of it, he was in something like human shape.

Next, they had him call in at West Dugong College and report himself sick. Then we poured ourselves into Bushveldt's big rented limo, and headed out to Palazzo van D'Alliance.

It looked even scummier at nine thirty a.m., and we pounded on the door for a while until it opened creakingly.

Madam van D' looked a hell of a lot worse than the estate. Her breath was as bad as Motley's, and I figured a mutual hobby had brought them together in the first place. Her eyes were bleary and she had on a once-orange housecoat that might have seen the laundry the previous fall. Her bare feet peeped shyly out from under the frazzled hem. The bags under her eyes were a deep beige, and with her ratty snarled hair, she was a figure to frighten a sadist bill collector.

Barnstaffel stepped forward, gut out, ready to take the lead, but his two anchormen knew better. Leo elbowed him gently out of the way and blocked him off.

"You this man's wife?" he said. He made 'wife' sound like 'accomplice.' "We need him on some top-secret work. You cleared by the government, lady?"

Once again, I watched fascinated, as the jaw dropped. Of course these boys had advantages I didn't. Like her hangover, for one. She was not pushed out of the way, she was ignored out of the way. It was kind of interesting to watch. We all went in to the Florida Room, which is what they call a messy room to watch TV and get blasted in, down on the Sunny Peninsula. This was as big a mess as one might dream up, replete with empty bottles, full ashtrays, and assorted bad smells, all distributed over a cracked terrazzo floor, and interrupted by broken pseudo-bamboo type furniture.

Barnstaffel had been conferring with his assistants, while I steered Motley and the helpmeet into chairs. Now he stuck out his chin and launched into his spiel.

"Professor and Mrs. van D'Alliance. We are here as representatives of high authorities. We ask, no, we command your silence, yes, and your co-operation. The professor may just have found a new principle. If so, enemies of our great country will try to get it. So, we frustrate them! We go away, all of us, with the professor's device and we build again in secret!" He hissed on "secret" and sounded pretty impressive, if you happen to dig old World War II movies with fat guys in S.S. uniforms doing the same act.

"We are all of us subject to the National Security Act," he thundered, one mottled paw resting on his sunken chest. "Its penalties are severe!" They were no where near as severe as the penalties Leo's and Goldy's employers dished out, but it seemed to make its point. Anyway, Mrs. van D' Alliance's toes began to twitch, and Motley looked up at the dirty windows like he was looking for bayonets or maybe rifle muzzles.

So help me, Bushveldt administers now the loyalty oath, or something like it, in the High Dutch he uses for English! Maybe they thought he was Henry Kissinger, who used to sound pretty similar. They were practically on their knees when he was through.

Next, we all went outside, having given Mrs. van D' time to dress, which did nothing to improve her. She was pretty well cowed, but I failed to analyze her recovery period.

Here, I got surprised, because pulled into the drive was an armored car of the Brinks variety, only larger. The organization did not waste time when it got interested!

We all piled in, Mrs. van D' protesting, but not very loudly, especially when Leo or Goldy looked at her. Before the rear door slammed, I could see a few neighbors gawking in surprise. I could also note the open garage door, locks busted and hanging loose, which made me gawk in surprise.

The armored truck had comfortable seats clamped to the floor and even a heavy card table, likewise bolted down, with a good lamp anchored to the wall. Some set up!

"Before you should ask," said Leo, "his machine dingus got moved into another truck like this while we were inside. It's on the road ahead of us. And don't worry, Professor, we had it crated and padded like a baby's ass. It'll be in the same shape when we get where we're going."

"Where might that be!" I put in. "My gear and car are back at the motel, you may recall."

Goldy sighed wearily. "Doakes, your wheels and your junk are checked out and are on their way up north to your pad. Just relax, OK? We're all going on a trip and I don't know any more than you do. It's on a need-to-know basis, like in the spy books, see?"

"No one tells me this!" exploded Barnstaffel. "What about my office? What about my work?"

"Your work, chum, is doing what you're told."

"Suppose I don't want to go on no trip? And what about Motley's job at that chicken-shit college? It ain't much, but it's what we eat on. You gonna ship the college away, too?" Mrs. van D'Alliance had finally got her unpleasant voice back.

"Lady, I'm real glad you reminded me," said Leo. "Over on that table, you will all find pens and paper. So everybody just sit down and write nice letters, OK? Professor, you resign from your college. The rest of you write anyone else which might get itchy that you are off on a long vacation to the South Seas or somewhere. Any moms, dads, sisters, girlfriends, businesses, or anything. And don't seal the letters because I'm going to read them before they get mailed, dig?"

There was a long silence while we went on our separate thought paths. One thing was becoming most clear to yours truly. Leo and Goldy's employers, who at one remove were mine and Barnstaffel's also, were taking no chances, none at all. This time machine was so hot that no one who knew anything about it was going to be allowed out, except on a dog leash, if that! They had the whole pack of us wrapped up like salami, and Barnstaffel had been conned into thinking he was bossing things, when he was just more lunch meat like the rest of us.

Well, we all wrote letters. I had only one, to my landlord, telling him to keep the apartment open, that I'd be back in time and that a check for the rent would be along. Ellen-Sue wrote no one. Maybe she couldn't write. Motley's hand shook so bad I had to help him with his, but West Dugong now had a new vacancy. Barnstaffel wrote at least ten, probably all to creditors. Leo read them all carefully and then sealed them and stuck them in his coat pocket. Then he settled down to relax with a paperback, which I observed to be Spengler's Decline of the West. Goldy was a reader, too, it turned out, but Teenage Vice School somehow looked less out of place. The rest of us just sat and listened to the tires, except for Motley, who fell asleep, breathing asthmatically into his shoulder.

Five hours later, by my clock, we stopped and the armored doors were opened onto a night sky, plus several shadowy figures. As we climbed out, I could see an identical truck parked next to us and figured the time machine must be in it.

We were on a flat piece of ground, with tufts of scrubby grass here and there and palm trees outlined against the stars some ways off. It looked like nowheresville and the mosquitoes began to bite hell out of me. Then I saw the plane. It was close behind us, a whopping big black shape against the sky, from the look of it, an old DC-4 prop job. This had to be one of the illegal Florida strips I was always hearing about, which funneled in dope, grass, and immigrants of the non-kosher type. What had I succeeded in horning myself into?

We were all herded, more or less gently, to the plane, and a door in the side opened, letting out light, while a row of steps clanked down. Up these we went and found ourselves in a big cabin made into a lounge, with sofas, chairs, and even a chrome bar with stools. As we entered in single file, I could hear grunting noises and thuds behind us, and I figured the machine was being wrestled into the cargo space. The plane door slammed and Leo dogged the locks shut.

Up front, next to the bar, a door opened and three men came through, from the direction of the pilot's cabin, and moved down the slanting deck. These old prop jobs sit up very nose-high. Then they stepped and looked at us.

The one on the left was a tall skinny guy with a bald head and horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a rumpled seersucker suit. Every so often the corner of his mouth twitched a little. On the right was a burly clown in a windbreaker and worn levis. He had on heavy boots and sported a badly broke nose, as well as two days' blue beard.

The one in the middle, though, was what held my attention. Because I knew him, and had for years. Lots of people knew him, including many assorted types in law enforcement.

He was still a bit round, but not so much as when we both attended P.S. 86 in a northern metropolis I shall not name. His name then was Salvatore Tomaselli, and we called him Sally Pasta, on account of his being unable to stop eating the stuff. He was the only kid I ever saw with both spaghetti and lasagna in his lunch box. Long since those childish days of yore, he had become upwardly maneuverable, via el Syndicato, where he became known as Sally Tomatoes, first as an enforcer, or soldier, then as a capo, and then as a very big area boss indeed. At this point, he made US Senate hearings with nonstop mutterings about "decline to answer on the grounds." He finally managed to get deported as an illegal immigrant, and unless my wires were crossed, he had no business being back in the States at all. It made me even chillier watching his beady black orbs and his pinstriped chubbiness, when I figured he probably wouldn't want it known he was here, let alone who he was in the first place.

"Greetings, chums," he said, in an oily way. "You can call me Mr. Saul. On my right is Professor Jones, a very brilliant man who has come to look over your machine, Dr. van D'Alliance," and he gave a nod to Motley, who just looked panicked. The tall guy twitched his mouth once and grunted, "Nonsense. Farcical. Impossible."

Sally ignored him and continued in his breezy rasp: "On my left, we have Mr. Williams, who is a construction and metals expert in the engineering line. He builds things, as you will see. Now let's all have a drink. I'll tend bar and we can sit down and get better acquainted, eh?"

Motley and his bride were numbers one and two in line, and I was last, except for Leo and Goldy. They were always last from now on, remaining poised behind our backs for reasons which I had no doubt of.

When I got to the bar I had my head down, and since Motley was already behind me for seconds, I hoped I would pass unnoticed. No such luck. Sally hadn't gotten to his present altitude by missing much. As I turned quickly away with my double Scotch, his hand clamped on my arm.

"I know you!" came the rasp, but with all the fake jollity evaporated.

"OK, it's a cop," I said feebly. "Long time since P.S. 86, eh, — Mr. Saul?"

He glared at me for a minute, then relaxed. "Well, well," he smirked. "Old Joe Doakes, the class cut-up. You ain't no Fed, that's for sure." His voice lowered to a whisper. "See that it stays Mr. Saul, Doakes, if you want to stay healthy." Then he raised his voice to normal. "Remember when we blew up the crapper, with old lady Melchick sitting on it? Christ, what a laugh! Ah, them were the days!"

I laughed hollowly, having been home sick the day poor Miss Melchick was taken to the hospital after this merry jest, with two quarts of lye burning off her epidermis.

"Well, folks," went on Sally, looking at his watch, "it's nice to find an old buddy amongst you. But we can rework the past on other occasions. Now, let me explain loud and clear what comes next. And no dumb questions until I finish, see!" Aside from gulping and slurping noises, the cabin went dead quiet.

"In a few moments, we will all take off and fly to a tropical retreat of my acquaintance, where we will all live in luxury, If everyone co-operates, that is!

"While there," he went on, "my colleagues will appraise and report on the van D'Allliance invention. If the report is favorable, there is going to be lots of money. Lots and lots of money, in fact more money than any of you ever thought about. There will also be lots of security, hence present arrangements, right? No one talks, nobody writes, nobody goes for unauthorized walks or swims or boat rides. And if they do, or try to, they get to be very, very sorry." He looked hard at all of us and still not a soul spoke.

"Good," he said, smiling again, like a chubby rattlesnake. "Now let's all have another slug and relax. Think of all that dough that's coming, which will be paid, I may say, into nice numbered bank accounts, which I will open for you in sunny Switzerland, right?"

The motors roared suddenly and in a short while we were bumped aloft and growling our way through the Florida night, destination Shangri-La, for all I knew.

Barnstaffel finally found his voice and, true to form, asked a stupid leading question.

"Ahem, Mr. Saul, I'm just maybe a little bit puzzled about something. I'm no scientist or engineer, and neither is Joe. What do we do on these operations? What do you need us for?" I felt the old chill as two nasty black eyes looked us over. If the answers came out "nothing," then Bushveldt and I had a good chance to start a skydiving course in a hurry, minus parachutes!

After a pause that seemed to last several decades, Sally took a drink, then leaned over.

"You know hotels, motels, stuff like that, don't you, Barnstaffel? I mean how they should look, how they should be run, right? Catering, first-class service, all that jazz?" Bushveldt gulped and nodded violently. He'd just made the same equation I had, only much later. If he'd been asked to be a ballet expert, he'd have nodded. Which left me, feeling very lonely.

"Look at those two crumbum lushes put it away," marveled Sally, staring past me to where Motley and the Mrs. were knocking back their fifth or sixth jolts. "My best booze too. Ah, the hell with it. Now listen, Doakes," he said, turning to me, "forget the old school shit. You mean one thing to me and one only. If that alky has really got what you claim he has, you get a free ride, plus all the dough you ever dreamed of. But I want him working. I mean, happy, but in condition to put out in the brain waves. He can get juiced on his own time, so long as he works his ass off when he's needed, see. That means you! You see he stays healthy and in his mental right mind when he's needed, and that woman of his, too. But keep her out of my hair and sight. Jeez, how could anyone get in the sack with that? No wonder he's a lush. You get my picture?"

"Roger and out, Sally — I mean Mr. Saul."

He scowled at the slip, then relaxed and even smiled. "So call me Sally. I get tired of being called Boss all the time, you know? Nice to have someone around that knew me back when, once in a while. Say remember the time...."

I gave eager grunts of approval to an endless stream of Sally's happy memories, ranging from cats incinerated in gasoline to dumping elderly pushcart vendors down open manholes. Eventually he ran dry and excused himself for some sack time. We all flaked out on chairs and lounges and I even managed to fall asleep to the roar of the engines.

Some six hours later I woke up as we landed again. But Leo informed us all it was a fuel stop, and no doors were opened. Out of the window I could see a pink dawn, a few palm trees and also a lot of sand. We could have been in the central Sahara, for all I could guess, though this seemed a bit unlikely from my estimate of our speed. As I tried to look further, Leo and Goldy went around and flicked all the shades down in an obvious way. "No peeking," said Goldy, patting my bald spot. "Daddy doesn't like that." I got the message and fell asleep again.

When I woke next, we were lumbering down once more and landing for the second time. This time my watch said noon. And there was Sally standing in the door to the front section, all neat, shaved and spruced up, which none of us certainly were.

"OK, folks," he said as we all unglued ourselves and got the sticky out of our eyes, "here we are in a great little place. It's a very private island the Rockefellers ain't got around to buying yet. Don't ask the name or location, because you won't get told and I will get very annoyed if I hear about it, which I will. Just think about all the sweet money at the end, eh? So now let's go and see the sights."

At the end of a long, hot day, what we had seen was this: A hot, low, squatty island covered with thorny brush and drooping palm trees, some of which had coconuts on them. Some big concrete buildings, like airplane hangars, but lower. These had trees all around and growing on the roofs, too, a pretty good camouflage gimmick. From a distance they looked like low hills. A big white house, and I mean big, with about fifty rooms, like a small hotel, with a pool and a fancy garden. A lot of bare, sharp, rock coast without even one beach, plus a lot of coral reefs just offshore. One very small harbor with some large cabin cruisers in it, entirely surrounded by tall wire fencing and a guarded gate. And a lot of peons in white clothes, jabbering in some language which might possibly have been Spanish. They, it turned out, were the help.

We saw all of this because Leo and Goldy drove the van D's, Barnstaffel and me all around the island. We were meant to see it, Leo informed us, so that any silly ideas about leaving would be henceforward just that — silly ideas. We were told the island was around six miles long and two wide and that it was the property of a nutty hermit, a Swede millionaire, who never had any visitors. I believed the last part, but strongly suspected the Swede millionaire to be the collective label of a group of gentlemen who had once met at Appalachian, N.Y., to divvy up the U. S. A.

Anyway, by late evening we were back at the big house, well wined and dined, in clean clothes, and ready for the morrow's business. I retired with a head full of thoughts, none of which were pleasant.

From the next day's breakfast coffee, life took on a fast tempo indeed. The schedule went something like this: Motley and his twitchy corpse of a fellow scientist disappeared into a back office to argue all day with each other and also Williams the construction type. Mrs. van D' slept hangover late, which was nice for the rest of us. Leo, Goldy and I played gin or fished or swam or read (there was even a large-sized library). I took a terrible beating at gin, and at a buck a point, it really hurt. Leo explained we were gambling on future wealth and that markers were fine, but it still made me nervous. Bushveldt Barnstaffel was very busy, however, and scuttled around all day checking blueprints and lists of various things, which he refused to let me see, for some stupid reason. Sally flew in and out to check on things, and after a while a lot of things were available to be checked on.

The only work I had, and it got pretty draggy, was watching Motley's level of booze intake, which started at five thirty over cocktails. I stayed with him all evening, which was a big bore, then searched both him and his room for stashed-away samples, then locked him up for the night. Mrs. van D' had a separate room, which suited both of them, and got sloshed totally and regularly. Nobody gave a fiddler's fart about her, anyway. I soon learned what Motley could handle and still do his head work on the next day. So it got into a dull routine. The funny thing was, it became obvious that the other professor, whose alias was Jones and whom I suspected strongly of being a closet junkie, had changed his way of thinking about old Motley. He called him "Doctor" with real respect, even when Motley was boiled as an owl come sundown.

Two dirty freighters with Panama flags appeared off the minute harbor and began to unload lots of stuff onto flat barges they brought with them. The first thing that came off the barges was a bunch of mean-looking bastards who made Texas oil riggers look like ladies' maids. These, in turn, began to bring in and unload tons of construction stuff, like cranes, bulldozers, cement, steel beams, heavy lumber, and God knows what all. These rough types built their own camp on the other end of the island, and we never saw them except at loading and unloading, which got pretty frequent. But a hell of a lot of building was going on somewhere back in the island, and Mr. "alias Williams" was always roaring around in hardhat and a jeep. One time they unloaded a monster generator that could have powered New York, or at least Staten Island. Another, it was tons of new furniture in crates and also swimming-pool loads of paint. This cargo and also the tons of assorted crockery were of special interest to Bushveldt, who went away with them into the backcountry looking smugger and stupider than usual.

For me, life went on like a crazy dream, being really bad only after Ellen-Sue got tired of propositioning Leo and Goldy and turned her efforts on me. I decided I would drown myself the day she began to look halfway acceptable. Meanwhile the peons buzzed about, serving as help, gardeners, and what all. And I continued to lose at gin, which might have been bad luck.

After three months of this weird, but no-so-bad existence, all at once the shit hit the fan.

Sally appeared unexpectedly at dinner one evening and announced we were all going on a little drive later in the night. I only hoped the drive would not end with free catering for the island's large population of sharks, which I had many opportunities to eyeball whilst fishing for nicer things. But he even took time to pat me on the back and tell me I'd been doing a great job on Motley. I felt confused, but this was nothing new.

So after the food, terminated by good brandy and better coffee as usual, we call crammed into a parade of jeeps and drove off in a cloud of bugs. One thing no one had been able to do was kill the hundred billion local mosquitoes, or even discourage them slightly. And they were a very greedy kind, which I can rate, being a sometime resident of south Jersey.

After fifteen minutes of swatting mosquitoes or spitting them out, a blaze of light appeared ahead of us, and we zipped down a tunnel on a concrete ramp into the underground, while enormous steel doors clanged shut behind us. We came to a stop in a huge cave with concrete all about us and lights like kliegs overhead. But none of us were looking at lights.

In front of us, in the middle of this king-sized air-raid shelter, sat an oversized version of Motley's steel box. Where his had been maybe six feet high, this job was fifty if it was an inch. The round door was three feet thick, as well as being open, and inside you could put perhaps two school busses and a possible four cars as well. The biggest cables I ever saw, like a foot thick, ran out of it and into steel plates on the wall. Now I knew what that mother of a generator was for.

Sally lines us all up and, so help me, picked up an electric bullhorn, like they use on boats.

"OK," he boomed, while the gray walls echoed, "I'm going to let you in on a little secret. We here are not really government men. In fact, this whole deal is strictly free enterprise."

I smiled sourly to myself. Even Motley and Ellen-Sue had figured that out a long time ago.

"What we have here," he went on, "due to many talents present, but chiefly Professor van D'Alliance," and he gave him a big wave, "is a thing which will enable many persons which like privacy to have it, free from care and types who want to prosecute, I mean to persecute them." He covered this slight error of the tongue quickly and went on.

"This here time gimmick means anyone with access to the right ticket can go into the past and disappear!" He looked solemn, as if at a buddy's funeral, many of which he had no doubt both attended and arranged as well. At this point I noticed "Jones" and "Williams" had appeared behind us. Leo and Goldy had never left, as usual.

"With my chum, Mr. Barnstaffel here," he continued, as Bushveldt beamed, "I have designed a luxurious hotel in the past, friends, like many millions of years ago. All comforts are there or rather will be provided, at cost or maybe just a teentsy bit higher." Like eight million percent higher, said the Doakes brain.

"We haven't actually built anything yet, but the planning is all done, the materials are here ready to go. We are going to run a few tests first, and then we're all set. Now, I will let that great genius who concepted the whole scene, brain-wise, explain what we've done and what comes next. Professor van D'Alliance?" He now starts clapping, as so, of course, does everyone else.

Motley looked much the same as when I first met him, which was scared, although a little cleaner and with a shave. But he ambled forward and borrowed the bullhorn with a feeble grin.

"Well," he said, "the van D'Alliance Chronocron, or time shuttle, is here in front of you all. And it works. We have been able to get to certain points in the past on repeated occasions, that is the same points, which is vital. These points all fall within a period of about eighty-five to two hundred million years ago, give or take a few. There have been many problems to overcome. Professor, er, Jones and I have found certain, well, anomalies which we simply cannot resolve, in some cases. For instance, why are we limited to this one segment of time? Why can we go neither beyond it or closer to the present? We don't know, but Krug's recent work on magnetic fluxes may well Here a loud rasping cough from Sally shut him up. No Krug fluxes need apply. Stick to business!

"Ah, yes, well," he went on, "then we had to find ways of probing what the shuttle emerged into. Obviously coming out into solid rock, earth or even underwater, would not only be useless but highly dangerous as well. But that problem we solved also, and we can safely predict that the shuttle will only exit safely onto dry land and in the same place, always, if the proper controls are used." He looked down at the floor before going on, and, I realized late, he must have been summoning up his small supply of nerve to go on, because what he said next took some guts. His voice suddenly got louder.

"I am not satisfied with the matter displacement problem, however. Large and unpredictable objects may reappear anywhere on this globe, since the larger the mass sent back, the further the point of rediffusion into the present seems to occur. What I mean is But Sally had now grabbed the bullhorn back, having finally got the idea that he was not listening to a hymn of thanksgiving any longer. He shoved Motley away in a sweeping motion and the poor bastard's one feeble attempt to be honest was over.

"So like the professor said, folks," Sally resumed, "practically all the problems been worked out. And, now, the volunteers which has been named to take a first look at our future site will be given their equipment and sent back into the past to survey around the site of the lovely retreat we will build!"

Two guys appeared from through a side door, pushing a dolly loaded with sun helmets, rifles, khaki clothes, and other gear of the Tarzan-epic variety, but I hardly gave them a glance, because I was looking around for the volunteers.

And found everyone looking at me. Or rather at me and Bushveldt Barnstaffel. Meet the "volunteers." I thought of those rotting bones that Motley had found in his driveway and shuddered.

Bushveldt was blubbering helplessly about hotels and how he was needed to run and plan them, but meanwhile he was being dressed, forcibly, by the dolly crew and other rough types who had filed in behind us. They advanced on me, too, but I glared and pushed my way through them. I'm no hero, but I was fucked if I'd be dressed up like a baby.

I was interrupted by a wild howling noise and looked up to see two amazon bull-dyke types appearing to seize Ellen-Sue and dress her as well. I looked over at Motley and now found him grinning broadly. He must have made his own deal, the little rat. So much for his courage, the scummy creep. She was a mess, but nobody sends a woman, let alone a wife, into something like this. Then I got another surprise.

"Look, boss," said Leo, stepping forward, "this is a test, right? Now Doakes here is the only one with half an ounce of guts or brains either. They could all three fall down a hole and you wouldn't learn nothing. For a small bonus, me and Goldy will go along and ride shotgun, right, Goldy?" I felt kind of flattered, I must say.

Goldy looked surprised and not very pleased, either, but he was used to following Leo's lead and grunted an assent.

Sally was really surprised because professional hoods don't volunteer any more than career army sergeants, but Leo led him aside, and after a spirited discussion in whispers, he agreed. The discussion must have been about the size of the bonus.

Ellen-Sue finally stopped yelling and got dressed the same as us four, in long-sleeved khaki shirts and long pants, with high boots and sun helmets. Sally took one look at her face and told Leo the guns would be given only to him and Goldy, until after we were through the machine and out the other side. But she managed to get close to her helpmeet and spit in his face. No one tried to stop her. Barnstaffel was dead-white and muttering in Dutch.

We all got into the big lighted chamber, and the enormous round port slammed shut behind us. We could hear all the lugs and clamps being applied, and then there was a silence as we all looked at each other. It lasted maybe a minute and then there came a deep soft humming, more like a vibration that went all through us, as if we were inside some whopper of a microwave oven. It didn't actually hurt, but your skin pringled all over, the way static electricity makes it.

This went on for a bit and I moved over to look at the heap of weapons, more to stop thinking than anything else. I was glad to see an old friend, an M-l Garand from World War II days, which I could still handle, I thought. There was also a bazooka and a lot of big shells for it, plus two .45 automatics and a .38 police-type revolver; also a couple of army auto-load shotguns and buckshot shells for them. At least we wouldn't be completely defenseless, which was some comfort. We divvied them up and I got a .45 and the Garand .30 rifle. Ellen-Sue got a revolver and oddly enough could handle it. Watching her spin the cylinder, I wondered what her background had been. Goldy took the bazooka and Leo a .45 and one shotgun. Bushveldt got the other, but his hand trembled so, I made a vow to stick well back behind his fat butt.

The humming vibration finally died away, and Leo, who seemed to know all about it, moved to the opposite end of the chamber from where we had come in. There was an identical door, but all the huge lugs and locking bars were on the inside, our side. This made practical sense, because this way nothing could get back through and out the way we had come in. In theory, that is.

Leo positioned Goldy in the center, Ellen-Sue behind him, his bazooka aimed at the port, with Barnstaffel on one side and me on the other, also aiming. Then he began to free the bars, one by one, until all were dogged open. He looked around to see we were in line and pushed hard against the great steel circle, which opened slowly outward. Then he jumped back to one side.

A blaze of red light poured in, along with a gush of warm tropical air. We heard a crowing sound, like a rooster but much larger, in the distance. A thing like a huge oversized wasp, buzzed past the opening. We were looking into a sunset and down to a long sloping beach, with the blue sea lapping gently on it, about a hundred yards away. Strange pungent smells came in through the opening, the sea mixed with plant odors that really tickled the nose. The crowing thing let go again in the distance, but nothing moved in the circle of light.

"OK," said Leo, peering around the door, "here's how it goes. Doakes, Barnstaffel and me go out first. Goldy, as back-up, you stay within ten feet of the door. Ellen-Sue, you stay with him. We'll go maybe a hundred feet, no more, and look around; then I'll have some idea what to do next. And listen, you," he added to Bushveldt, "if that shotgun goes off aimed at one of us, I'm going to personally blow your lard-ass off, see!"

We moved slowly out, stepping over the high rim of the port, and, once we were twenty feet outside, took a look around and back.

The big box now sat on level ground above the quiet sea, crushing down an acre of low, knee-high palmettos or something. Bigger palms, with fat trunks, loomed in the background and, beyond them, much taller trees still, but with pointed stems like pine trees and deep shadows under them. I did not really like the shadows and decided to keep an eye peeled to the rear. Bugs of all kinds buzzed around us, but nothing tried to bite us. I guess we smelted wrong to bugs which had never tasted a human before. There was a nice breeze moving down through the trees, but it was very quiet in a funny way, and I finally figured out why. There were no birds singing. Jeez, pre-bird world! Somehow this hit me harder than anything else to date!

"This is supposed to be an island, about the same size as the one we left," said Leo to me. "It isn't in the exact same place, though, according to the eggheads, and I don't think they know why, any more than I do. Jones thinks it may be in the South Pacific or what was the South Pacific way back then. Anyway, it's supposed to be as safe as anything around in this period. So let's push a little further away and see the sights. Stay well away from the water, though. They told me that much."

The sea looked the safest place around to me, barring running back into the time shuttle, but if that was the word, then I would not venture to argue.

We went real slow, angling down the slope to the left, so we stayed midway between the sand of the beach and the higher stuff further up. And I noticed something else funny. This was a green, humid, tropical set-up that could have used Dorothy Lamour to advantage, but it was all green, or greeny-yellow. There was no other color, no flowers of any kind, any more than there were birds! Underfoot, there was just scrub or nothing, except some moss in the shady bits. But no grass of any kind. What a nutty place!

About a hundred yards from the shuttle entrance, trouble appeared. In front of us was a kind of shallow gully, choked with taller brush, which led down direct to the sea through a little rocky gulch. I could hear water trickling down from up to the left, but it was only visible at the sea edge where a little stream ran over some shallow rocks.

There was a cracking noise of trampled brush and out of the gully came a head. The mud-colored head had a big turtle beak and a huge horn like a rhino's, but much bigger and straighter. Behind the horn were two yellow eyes and a skull flaring back into a rim of black spikes two feet long, pointing up and rearwards. The whole skull apparatus was perhaps six fee| wide.

The yellow eyes looked us over and decided to vote "no." There was a grunt, and two really gross front legs and a notched back, like a large hippo's in size, began to come up out of the gully. How in hell it was hidden in the first place, I don't know, unless it was asleep and lying down.

"Run," yelled Leo, unnecessarily, while loosing off a blast of buckshot at the head. He might as well have blown a soda straw, for all the impression it made. The whole enormous body had heaved up now, and it was bigger than any elephant, with a long, heavy tail to match.

I was running my ass off toward the shuttle, and Barnstaffel was too. Leo, who was lighter and younger, plus in better shape, soon caught up and led the way. Ahead, I could see Goldy pointing the bazooka at my face, and I gave him A-plus for guts, as well as praying he knew how to aim. Personally, I'd have slammed the door on what was grunting and lumbering along behind us.

I sneaked a quick peek back and was appalled. The thing could make better time smashing through the scrub than we could, and that chomping beak was only twenty feet behind my tail! I let out a yowl and proceeded to trip on a flat palmetto trunk, falling down smoosh on my face. With my mouth full of scratchy brush, I froze, not even thinking "this is the end."

Goldy kept his nerve, God bless him, and that bazooka sent one shell zipping over my back from about forty feet in front. There was a Christ-almighty bang and a shower of sloppy wet things fell on me. I scrambled up and looked back.

The bazooka was designed for knocking out tanks, but it had effectively removed most of the beaked head in front of the shoulders. Only fragments remained, both red meat and shattered white bone, and blood was spraying all over the place in fountains. We watched, all of us stupefied, because the whole colossal hulk was still staggering around, tearing up the ground in chunks, while gobs of raw flesh splattered all around us.

Then it tripped, and as we stood petrified into position, the headless dinosaur rolled and tumbled down the slope and went over and over the sand into the calm water of the sea with a twenty-ton splash, leaving a trail of blood and shredded unmentionables in its rear.

It thrashed feebly in the shallows, the gushing red stain coloring the water around it, and then rolled into deeper water, where it floated upside down, but still kicking. Not for long, however.

Out of the sea came a head like a huge snake, but with long needle fangs on the jaws. This was on a neck like a giraffe, only twice as long, and two more joined in. They began to tear the headless one in chunks, and we could see the huge tan bodies and flippers that went with the necks, while they fought and battered at the dying dinosaur, plus each other as well.

Suddenly, all three tried to leave, paddling desperately away and sending bloody waves washing way up the beach. Two of them made it, but the third suddenly rose out of the water held by a shark head that must have been ten feet wide, which promptly bit the giant body in half! The bitten things screamed so our ears hurt.

More showers appeared of blood and meat, more snapping and grinding and more red, foaming waves poured ashore. By this time we had all backed into the time shuttle, without even noticing what we were doing.

Still watching this incredible scene in the water, Leo pulled shut the big port and with shaky hands, set the locking bars, and dogged them shut. Silence now fell, broken first by friend Goldy.

"This is going to be a resort?" he said, rather in a mild way, I thought.

"I declare," said Ellen-Sue, carefully checking out her revolver, "I think I'm gonna have a few words to say to Motley and that dirty stinkin' Mr. Saul, sendin' a lady off to a place like a crazy zoo with no cages!"

Goldy reached over nimbly and whipped the gun out of her mitts. "You got a point there, lady," he admitted, "but I think Leo and me will keep the artillery while we go back to normal. Ante up, boys."

I'd forgotten I was clutching the unfired M-l to my bloody breast. Looking down, I almost blew my dinner. I was sticky-tight with lizard gore and a few bits of solider gorp mixed in for effect. And the smell! I handed over my unused arsenal and so did Bushveldt. He was still mumbling in High Dutch.

"If you're hungry, baby, try my shirt," I told him.

He took a good look at it and went over and was violently sick in a far corner, which almost made it all worth it. When I turned around, Goldy started gagging. The back, it appeared, was much worse and I was glad I couldn't see it. Leo shook his head at me in a reproving way, but he was grinning, if wolves can grin.

Then we sat in the quiet of the big box for sometime, and I began to wonder if we were going to stay there permanently. Leo did his usual mind-reading act.

"Relax, everybody. This thing is timed. We were supposed to go back in one hour, and we are almost at it."

Sure enough, in a minute or so, the weird humming started again, and we could feel that strange tingling all through our bodies.

Eventually it stopped again, and we could hear the catches being freed on the other side of the original entry port.

When they opened we looked into the muzzles of two more bazookas, plus some assorted machine guns and a rifle or two, all of which slowly dropped as it sank in we had brought back no after-dinner guests.

Then Sally pushed up to the front and looked at us, and with him were Jones, Motley, and a guy in a white coat with a black bag. All their jaws sunk when they saw us, especially me, with my new re-encrusted suit.

"It's a little like hairy back there, boss," said Leo from behind me. "But we're all OK, thanks to Goldy and that tank buster of his." He slapped Goldy on the back. "They all behaved real good, but we need to have a little talk before anybody else gets sent back. Some very special equipment ought to go first, is what I mean." He paused as if searching for what to say next. Then it came.

"Maybe we could get a loan from the Second Armored at Fort Hood or somewhere?"

II

It turned out the guy in the white coat was a doctor after all. Maybe an unfrocked abortionist or something, but he ran us through all kinds of tests, blood and otherwise, and we were even kept locked up until the tests were all over. I joked with the others about being astronauts, but sobered up when Ellen-Sue, of all people, pointed out we had been a hell of a lot further away than any of the space jockeys.

Actually, when some of the implications began to sink in, they scared the piss out of me. Suppose we had brought back some disease or bug that didn't exist now? Compared to the precautions the United States takes over returning astronauts, what we went through was kindergarten stuff. We could have infected the whole island the minute we got out of the box!

I mentioned this to Leo over cards and he shrugged. "Yeah. I thought of that, too. But the doc says that the bugs back then were much too primitive to hurt us. Only a ninety-nine percent chance, he says."

One percent, I thought to myself and flinched.

Well, we finished the tests, but more unnamed experts of various kinds quizzed us. One showed us pictures of various dinosaurs, each worse than the one before. And, sure enough, we spotted old Nose-horn right off. His name was Monocolonius (I wrote it down), and the three long-necked paddle-feet jobs were called plesiosaurs. The shark was only a shark, merely four times bigger than the biggest which nibble on you nowadays. This all got the guy with the book very excited and he squared off with twitchy Jones, who was also present.

"It can't be an island!" he squeaked at Jones. "It is totally impossible, due to weight, especially skull weight, for an animal like this" (which was Nose-horn) "to swim very far, that is if they could swim at all."

All this crap led to a long egghead argument and they went out together, still gabbling like geese and hand waving. It was amazing how much crazy talent Sally could lay his hands on, I often thought.

Eventually, after we had all been questioned to death, they let us out and alone, while the former routine began again. I found it very restful, personally. Fighting dinosaurs may look like fun in the flicks, but one hour would last me forever.

Meanwhile, equipment was still being landed and sent inland. A lot of it made more sense, after what we had been through. One night I heard a lot of clanking and engines and looked out the windows. There was a bunch of square tank-like things going by in the moonlight. Where a tank's turret should be was a shield with a long, thin, skinny gun, looking much too small for the body, sitting up on a mount with a hole for the driver or gunner behind it. My knowledge of United States hardware was World War II vintage, and these were new to me.

"Multipurpose ONTOS," purred Leo from behind me, making me jump. He had drifted in from his own pad. "They're like tanks, but amphibious and also troop carriers. And that gun doohickey, is a recoilless rifle. It shoots small shells, like a bazooka, but bigger and ten times as far.

"So they still think they can handle that bunch of monsters, eh?"

"Hell, Doakes, they could probably get an atom bomb if they needed to. You think with all the leftover junk from thirty wars floating around, the boss can't take care of some oversized lizards?" He laughed and went away again, leaving me leaning on my elbow until the motor noise died away.

Two other new things were of note in our lives. A bulletin board appeared with no advance notice, in the big main lounge, and on it every day were clipped bits from newspapers, mostly American, but English too, and sometimes German or French, which I don't read.

There were pictures in lots of them. One week's reading was enough to tell the main story. We were rumbled, that is, up to a point.

Like a shower of mud, mixed with green logs, crushed a house in England. Two people were killed. The logs were from fossil trees, only they were fresh.

Or 60 tons of sea water washed away an oil rig. Not an offshore oil rig, but one planted in central Canada. When the mess was cleared away, a lot of fish, ripe and stinking, were found which should not have been anything but skeletons in very old rock indeed.

The one that broke Sally up made me want to vomit, as well as killing him with a dull knife. I've conned people in a mild way all my life, but this was murder. He was giggling over it when I came through the hall, and he waved me over to share the fun. Anything that made him laugh should have been a good enough stop sign.

A ten-foot high, meat-eating dinosaur had appeared in an Indonesian school yard during recess. It ate two kids and killed twelve others and a teacher before the local army arrived with artillery.

"This will really keep everybody hopping," he chuckled. "They won't have no time to think about us, baby, none at all." If I'd had the guts, I'd have strangled him on the spot.

There was other news relating to Sally Tomatoes and Friends, Limited. The United Nations had secret security sessions going, and a world-wide alert was on. The United States, China and Russia, for once, all decided they were all under attack, and even the Arabs and Israel agreed it was neither of them. Castro sent offers of help to everybody, and teams of top scientists were meeting hourly. I had reached such a point of sickness, I almost hoped they would find us and wipe us out with a hydrogen bomb. But Sally had been clever, or someone had. The slant from the papers was that the world was being attacked by mad scientists from outer space! Or from the ancient past or somewhere. Nutty religious groups formed all over, ranging from end-of-the-world idiots to eco-freaks, who said the planet was striking back at polluters and had a giant brain down in its center core! Try to sell anyone on a Syndicate operation and you would have been sent to the nearest funny farm in a jacket laced up the back. All I could do was try and avoid Sally and his laughter, but I was getting less and less sleep. Motley was boozing more and more now, and I let him, but no one seemed to give a damn. They'd sucked him dry by now.

I have mentioned that a couple of things happened about this time.

The other one was a pleasant surprise. Ellen-Sue began to pick up her socks.

First, I noticed that her hair dye was faded out and that she was neater. She held herself to one drink before chow and began to go swimming and even fishing with us. The bags disappeared from under her eyes and she got a nice tan, mixed with a lot of freckles. What appeared finally was a snappy-looking woman in the early forties, with brown hair (OK, so a little gray) and a cute figure for her age. She was no Raquel Welch, but she was no pig either.

She quit making drunken passes at anything in pants and was nice and polite. I dunno where her education stopped, but she was no dumb-head, and once I got used to her hog-and-hominy accent, she was fun to talk to. I found myself drifting her way more and more and even tried a pass after a good dinner one night. I got chilled off but quick, but not nasty, either, you know? Just, "You're a nice guy, but nothing doing; let's stay friends." I began to look at her harder and harder. The Hour of the Dinosaur had really brought on a change, and I don't mean change of life, either.

To Motley, she was Miss Frost. She looked right through him when he spoke to her, and after a bit he quit trying. He was so ginned up now anyway, I doubt if much really penetrated. He spent most of the day out under a tree, either passed out, bottle in paw or working on it.

Ellen-Sue and I found we felt the same way about the horror show on the bulletin board. She let me know that this was what had snapped her out of the scummy life she'd been rolling around in and that she felt slow burning was too good for Sally Tomatoes and his buddies. But wrack our brains as we tried, there seemed nothing we could do.

Meanwhile, the mountains of supplies and building stuff were still unloaded at night and trucked inland; the small army of servants and serfs still padded around mowing lawns, serving food and booze and doing tons of laundry.

A funny thing happened one evening in connection with these guys though. I heard low voices down near a little beach when I was out walking, and it sounded like the native secret code which I had figured out to be two parts Aztec, or something, and one part bad Spanish. I would have paid no attention, but the voices stopped and a man swung up the slope and passed me in the dark. I was standing still and he never noticed me at all, but I'll be damned if it wasn't Goldy. What was that illiterate slob doing talking the weird native lingo and being so secret about it too? I decided to say nothing and keep an eye on him.

A few days later, just in case we were all getting too restless or bored, Sally staged another little show. This time it was bingo night, Godfather style, and we all got numbered certificates of deposit in Swiss banks plus keys to open them. I thought they must be counterfeit, but they looked real enough. I had always assumed he was going to knock us all off whenever our use was over, but if these things were real, maybe he felt some gratitude. I didn't like to ask how much was involved, but he told us anyway, with no prompting. I almost fainted because my share was a hundred grand and so was Ellen-Sue's. We all looked stunned and this gave him a big boot.

"You people never exactly seen what we got here, with the professor's little machine," he confided, while pulling on a foot-long Cuban cigar.

"Look, how many guys in the world need to cool off once in a while? Not just in the rackets, but South American generals and like that? OK, so the U.N. and Interpol and all the various law people with computers can make it pretty hairy these days, see? But one place they can't go is back in time. So, my friends and I, which financed this whole operation, we sell shares. You can't buy anything permanent, but you can lease space. And nobody without lots of the folding gets in. Everybody gets checked out first, and then they get assessed on two counts, one being what they are good for finance-wise, and second he degree of heat which is on them. Then we figure a scale for that person and back they will go, safe and sound. Neat, huh?"

"Plus a few million people get killed as a fringe benefit," I couldn't help putting in.

"So what are you, Doakes, Mr. Sunday School?" He gave me a dirty look, then laughed. "Maybe when you went back, half a big lizard head came up front and helped eat someone here. So you ain't no rose either. We're all in it together, folks, and that's why you ain't going to turn down that lovely money, right?"

He was right and I felt sick at my stomach. That night I lay awake, staring at the wall and wishing I could make a volcano blow up this rotten business and the whole scumbag crowd, including myself. What had once seemed merely a bad joke was now so filthy sick and nauseating that I now hated my own face in the bathroom mirror.

Suddenly, I heard a faint knock at my bedroom door. When it came a second time, I slid over and eased it open a crack. I could see Ellen-Sue's face and I felt better all at once. Maybe a little female comfort was just what I needed.

But when I let her in I got a surprise. She was wearing the same long dress she had on at dinner and behind her in came Leo, in his dark suit, which made me flinch, naturally.

"Be quiet, Joseph," she hissed, closing the door and locking it. "We got to talk to you. Leo here has somethin' to tell you that's mighty important!"

Leo checked the window and closed it, lowering the screens. Then he moved over and pulled my hand away from the light switch I was about to turn on.

"No lights, Doakes. I've checked your room and Ellen-Sue's already. They've been bugged all along, but only with twenty-four hour tapes. That means no one checks them but once a day, understand? And I'm the one who does it. So we're in the clear on that point." His voice had changed, being now very clear and with no mistakes in English. And he was somehow on a first-name basis with Ellen-Sue, which annoyed me a bit. I sat down on the bed and looked at his tall shadow in the dark.

"I have to trust someone," he said, "and I'm going to gamble on you two. I've been watching you both and this lousy set-up is really getting to you, unless I'm dimmer than I used to be. Right?"

My mind must have been working quicker than usual, I guess, because I began to see a new picture.

"Who are you, Leo?" I asked, "a Fed, or some other branch?"

"Not bad," he said. "Glad your brain is functioning. Yes, I'm an agent. The bureau has been quite interested in Sally for a long time, and it took me two years to get this close to him. But no one ever thought of the van D'Alliance Chronocron, damn your drunken genius of a husband, Ellen-Sue."

"I know," she said. "I never thought he was worth anything, either, just a meal ticket after too many cheap bars and bad times. I knew he was no good, rat down inside, but I was no prize, either; so I had no decent complaint. Even when he had me sent back with you to that awful place, I guess I deserved it. But not now. Not with those rats killing kids and letting innocent people get eaten up and buried and all."

I put my hand over her shoulders and pulled her over next to me on the bed. She'd never had much and neither had I and it felt good to know we were being honest. She didn't pull away either.

"What can we do?" I said, "I think you realize we'll both help. I've trimmed a few marks in my life but not this kind of a thing. It has to be stopped someway, anyway."

"I don't know, and that's the hell of it. I have no signaling equipment and frankly don't know where we are myself. I think it's the Caribbean somewhere, but I'm not even sure of that. The boats are always tightly guarded by imported muscle, and if I make a move out of line, then all eyes get turned my way. Goldy watches me, I watch him, and everyone watches everyone else. Sally is no Rhodes scholar, but he's damnably clever at hiring technical talent and setting up security arrangements. I simply haven't got one clue as to how to get a message off this island, let alone get off myself. And now we have to move fast, very fast. You see

"Wait a minute," I cut in, "you should hear a funny thing about your pal, Goldy. It may not mean much, but …" and I went on to fill him in on Goldy's overheard private chat in the native lingo. This got him very excited indeed.

"You're sure Doakes, that it was Goldy? No chance of a mistake?"

"No, it was him. And I saw one of the locals slide off down the rocks a little later. Mean anything?"

"Maybe a lot. I've always pegged him for a dumb killer, though now and again he gets an odd look in his eyes. But if he can talk this weird native gibberish, then he's not that. But what is he? Not one of our people, for sure." He went silent for a bit, and we waited while he tried to figure it out. After a bit he started again.

"Look, just keep an eye on him, I don't know what his game is and I can't trust him in case he's one of Sally's deep-cover types. That creep could run the CIA if he were halfway honest. He has a flair for covert operations. Anyway, I started to tell you something else, which is more important. Everyone who wants to use the Chronocron at present has to come here first, OK? But, Jones, or whatever his name is — and he's got to be traced — has found a new gimmick. He's pretty sure he can build other time-gates elsewhere in the world and lock them in to the same area and moment in the past as this one. See what that means?"

I thought for a second, but Ellen-Sue beat me to it. "It means no one can any longer, ever step them at all. If you close one, they go to another or build another one or somethin'. And the varmints and trash keep comin' right out the past and eatin' babies and such!"

"Right! So for God's sake put on your thinking caps and keep your eyes open! Sally has something big planned for this weekend, though I have no idea what it is." He punched my shoulder, patted her on the head and slipped out. I gave her a small hug and we both sat for a while in the dark without talking. At least we had a friend and some new ideas. The problem now was what to do with them.

Saturday came around and with it a new big notice on the bulletin board. Everybody was to wear party clothes for a grand hotel opening, and buses and trucks would pick us up at five p.m. that afternoon. I spent the afternoon cleaning and sharpening an old rusty machete I had found a week before on a path. It was so worn down it was only a foot and a half long and a couple of inches wide, but this made it easier to jam into my pants. Sally's parties had a way of turning out rough on the guests, and the machete wasn't much but it was the best I could do.

The sun started to go down at last and we all met on the terrace. Prominent in front was Sally and with him was none other than Bushveldt Barnstaffel, my beloved former employer. Here he was grinning and cracking jokes and slapping Sally on the back till you wanted to get sick.

I hadn't seen him around for a couple of weeks, and we had figured out, Ellen-Sue and me, that he was back in the past, building the El Crooko, Hideout Hilton, or at least seeing it was built right. He must have done the job to Sally's approval, because he was also in white jacket and black tie, looking as slimy as his new owner.

We all piled into some buses and Goldy and Leo sat opposite me.

I looked at Goldy's dead, cold eyes and wondered if I'd made a mistake. He looked merely stuffed.

Eventually we went down the tunnel and the machine door shut on us. This time a ramp was ready and the whole busload ran up and into the thing. It really was a fantastic arrangement, and when I saw Motley, half-gassed and slumped in a corner seat by himself, it seemed impossible it could have come out of that gin-head skull of his.

When the humming finally stopped and the bus rolled down the outer ramp into the sunset again, I grabbed the arm of my seat as well as Ellen-Sue's hand. But I could have relaxed. Old Nose-horn was a thing of the past.

All the close-at-hand trees and brush had been cut down, and a tarred road ran up to a big pink building with a red tile roof. There were lights all over and ferns covered the ground where the scrub had been. Some clumps of tall trees were left in places for shade, I guess, and bunches of the fat-trunked palms grew here and there. Down on the beach, actually in the water, was a whopper of a steel fence twenty feet high and anchored on big concrete pilings. I could see both triple-strand barb wire and electric insulators set on top of the fence, which stretched along the coast out of sight in both directions.

The bus did not head for the big building, but took a fork along the beach and followed a road along for about a mile or so. I watched the water, but saw no long-necked whatsits of any kind coming up to grab at us. What I did see were tall towers set at regular intervals and in them searchlights and the noses of those bazooka-type guns. Leo and Goldy were looking around too, and Leo pointed to the nearest tower.

"Anything gets near the fence, which is electrified, I guess, one of those recoilless rifles blasts it. After a while, even a dumb dinosaur could learn to stay away, eh, Goldy?"

"I guess," said Goldy. But I was watching him now as I never used to before, and I thought I saw a spark in the dull glims as he swiveled his head back and forth.

By now, we had reached a place where the fence came out of the sea and ran to our left over the ground. We swung left on the road to stay parallel with it and I noticed the towers were set now twice as thick. Beyond the fence was an area of low swamp and really a terrible stink came in the open windows.

"In case you are wondering, folks," yells Sally from up front, "this smell is dead meat! We are on a peninsula, or point, for those which cut school like Doaksey and me, of land sticking out into the ocean. With this fence, plus the artillery, we keep the bad guys from coming through from the mainland. Quite a layout, huh?"

The bus stopped and we all got out and looked at the swamp, trying not to breathe in the awful smell. As far as we could see was a flat country with bunches of tall reeds, twenty feet high and winding black water in between the clumps. In the sunset it looked dead and gloomy. Ellen-Sue shivered and held my arm.

Over our heads, from the tower, came a long loud "whoosh," followed by an explosion, far out in the swamp.

Out of the reeds came a greenish neck like a giant, mobile crane, with a little flat head on the end. From the open mouth a hooting scream came like the grandfather of all steam engine whistles. A tremendous thrashing flattened acres of reeds and black mud flew way up in the air. I caught a glimpse of a slimy body the size of a Goodyear blimp, and then there were more "whooshes," from our tower and the nearest ones on the left and right, with lots more explosions and that mind-bending hooting noise, which never stopped.

Even Sally had enough and he waved us all back into the bus, his fat face even paler than usual. We drove off in a hurry, but the continued explosions and the dinosaur's death yells followed after us a long ways. How long would it take to die, I thought?

We crossed the fenced-off peninsula and went back up a beach road on the other side, a mirror copy of the first, complete with the same fence and guard towers. Eventually we got back to a road slanting up to the big pink building, all of us pretty shaky in the knees. The reality of this place was hard to take, even when you had been there before. I wondered just how many millions this all must have cost and how many more had been paid in by the prospective customers.

By now the sun was down on the horizon and more lights were coming on, as we pulled up a long driveway and stopped in front of the pink place. It was bigger than I had thought, like a super gambling casino I once saw in Cuba, back before Castro. It looked new and raw, but the furniture was something else, and inside there were glass chandeliers that must have weighed a ton apiece. There were uniformed servants all over, some of them women, and a guy came up and passed me and Ellen-Sue some champagne from a loaded tray. Lots more guests were arriving now, and I stood back to one side and took a look at them. Both sexes were well represented, though the women were all younger and a lot better looking, in nonwifely ways, which figured.

I saw a lot of types like Sally, but the Unione Sicilione was hardly alone. There were several blond guys, like Krauts or Swedes, and a lot of fancy uniforms and dark faces, some of which looked vaguely familiar. An old bald guy with a girl on each arm tottered past, and Leo sucked in his breath behind me.

"So he really didn't die in Berlin, or Paraguay either!" I looked at the old guy again, but he meant nothing to me.

A waiter passed us all slips of paper, with a message on it written in ten different languages. The American on mine said: "Please do not discuss your own or anyone else's past. Please do not ask questions either of, or about the other guests. The reasons for this are obvious. Thank you. The Management."

Conversation died while everyone read their piece of paper, but picked up quickly again, and the papers got dropped in ashtrays. More drinks were served and I saw a huge bar at one side where you could get anything not being passed already.

Ellen-Sue and I walked around and eyeballed the place. It was hard to believe. There were even polar bear rugs on the floor, and the door knobs and lamp switches looked like real gold. The tables were either mahogany or a good imitation, and a big marble fountain was even fizzing up in the middle of the main room.

Off on the sides, you could see lots more rooms, including a huge dining one with a buffet-smorgasbord set-up a mile long. I noticed at least two pool tables in their own rooms, as I wandered up and down the various halls, and big marble stairs led up to the second floor at several points. The place looked like Buzby Berkeley musical set crossed with something out of the Arabian Nights. If all the lice out in the main hall were paying out billions, it looked like Sally was going to at least try and give them their money's worth.

Eventually, Ellen-Sue and I got bored with all the fancy furniture and stuff and went back to the festivities. Everybody was in groups now, all Cosa Nostra here, all loud gold-braid uniforms there, and so on. None of the various outfits seemed inclined to get together, though Sally and a couple of other hoods were trying to circulate. The talk and squeals of the call girls would start up and then stop. So there were funny bits of quiet when all you could hear was the help shoving glasses around or shuffling silverware. As a fun party it was a wet smack to me.

I was about to tow Ellen-Sue into the food room when I heard Leo whisper behind me.

"This place will have to slow down in the very early morning. There are a million bedrooms upstairs. You two pick one and then sneak down here to the front door at five a.m. sharp. This will probably be the only chance we'll ever get to get back into that damned machine when the guards will be slack. It's not much of a chance but it's the only one I can think of." Then he was gone, faded back into the crowd. I felt the old chopper cold against my ribs under the jacket and shivered. Ellen-Sue squeezed my hand and we went in together and ate. I'd just lost my appetite, but I figured we'd need the energy.

The food was like everything else there, caviar plus the trimmings. It all tasted like mud, the way I felt, but I managed to choke something down off a gold plate handed me by a uniformed flunky. It might have been hummingbird tongues or, equally, old whale guts, because I was beyond caring or noticing. I signaled Ellen-Sue and we carried our plates out and upstairs.

Like our FBI informant had said, there were miles of bedroom doors opening off long corridors. We grabbed the nearest, ducked in and then ducked out again even quicker, followed by a lot of curses and yells. One creep and his companion had not waited for dessert downstairs.

We ran around a corner and eventually found an empty suite, because it even had a sitting room plus bath along with the bedroom. It was so impressive I looked around for the TV, before realizing the local stations were unlikely to be working. The door had a bolt, I was glad to see, and I locked it, wondering why the clown we had interrupted hadn't. In a hurry, I guess.

We chatted a little, but neither of us felt much like yakking, and we finally just lay down and rested, eyes open and counting the clicks on my wrist watch. We could hear the party getting louder down below through the open windows, and eventually I got up and shut them, which turned it down to a dull hum. All I could think of was how many Godawful horrors had been dumped back in our time to pay for Sally's little house-warming binge.

Eventually, things quieted down, and by four o'clock I could open a window and hear nothing but a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea. Searchlights played along the water here and there, doing the monster-watch bit, but there was no gunfire. I wondered if that big dinosaur was still alive back by the fence. Somewhere I remembered reading those things were so stupid they didn't even know when they had been killed.

We watched the first pale light come over the land and glitter on the quiet sea, and I put my arm around Ellen-Sue's waist, while she snuggled up. I think both of us figured this was going to be the last day for us, but we didn't say anything.

So probably we were the first to see what was coming.

Away out on the horizon, miles away, I noticed a wavy line building up on the water, like the line a squall makes when it comes. But there was no sound of any wind and the sky was perfectly clear, a few late stars dimming out in the west as the sun came up behind us. I pointed to the dark line and Ellen-Sue stared at it too. While we watched, it seemed to get bumpier and flecks of white foam began to appear. All I could suddenly think of was a description of a tidal wave, something I had never personally seen and didn't want to. My watch said it wasn't quite five, but I had a sudden urge to get the hell out of this crazy place.

We ran for the door, whipped it open and tore down the stairs. There was good old Leo standing by the front entrance, and as we appeared, he opened it a crack, peeped out and then waved his hand for us to get moving.

We all scurried outside into the growing light and ran through bushes and into a garden with clipped paths leading everywhere. A drunk's shoes and pants stuck out of one bush, and I've often wondered since if it was Motley. I hope so.

At this point we all froze. A whole bunch of sirens went off, over to our left, where the beach and ocean were hidden by trees, and I figured we'd been spotted and that it was all over. But no one came our way, though people began to yell back at the house and further off, and then I figured out what had happened.

"They spotted a tidal wave coming," I gasped to Leo. "We saw it from upstairs, way out on the water. Let's get out of here!"

We made even better time after that, and the garden was over in no time. Next, as we broke out into the open, on the road leading to the time machine, all Hell really broke loose. An artillery barrage started, like Stalingrad or D-Day, and mixed in with it came howling and crashing noises like all the world's zoos being broken up and bulldozed with the animals still inside. The "tidal wave" had arrived.

As far out as you could see, the ocean was boiling with giant bodies, as God knows how many swimming monsters raced for the shore, their flappers churning up huge waves that rushed in front of them. They were all the same kind, with bodies something like the plesiosaur thing I had seen the shark get, but different, too. They ranged from what must have been a hundred feet long, down to maybe thirty or forty, and had short heavy necks with heads like giant crocodiles, full of teeth like Bowie knives. And they were only a hundred yards offshore and coming fast.

All the guard towers in sight were blasting at them full tilt, but you might as well have tried to douse an oil rig fire with spit. For every one that got hit, and it only seemed to make them mad, a dozen more churned past, bellowing and screaming. There had to be thousands of them and they all had one idea, which was to hit the beach.

"Come on!" yelled Leo in my ear. "That electric fence won't hold for five seconds. This whole place is going under!"

That juiced us into moving and we took off for the time gate like Jesse Owens. I kept looking at the beach as we panted down the road, and, boy, was Leo right! I saw the first wave hit that fence and sparks flew all along the line of ten-foot heads. Then — the fence was just gone and the whole bunch of freight-train bodies were wallowing and hauling themselves up onto the sand, with waves washing up ahead of them and clouds of sand and spray being pushed up by the flippers. If I'd needed more adrenalin, that view gave it to me!

We each took one of Ellen-Sue's elbows and raced up to the big port. There were no guards, and I guess they had taken off when they saw what was coming. As I climbed in last, I turned and took one more look back. It was unbelievable. The towers were all down, and a steady wave of screaming tons of reptile meat was pouring out of the ocean and flopping and crawling up to the hotel, smashing everything in their way. They moved like circus seals, which is a lot faster than you might think, and just as the port shut, I saw the first ones rear up against one wing of Sally's hideaway and smash into it and through it like it was paper. That was the last I saw of monsterland and I sat down with a thud on the steel floor, pulling Ellen-Sue with me. When I looked up, I saw we had company.

Leo was standing in a half crouch, his right hand frozen as he reached for his coat. Facing him was Goldy, and his automatic was out and pointing.

"Please don't, Leo," said Goldy. "You'd never make it, you know." His voice was now educated and the dull eyes were lit up. He was even smiling.

"I have nothing against you, Colonel," he went on. "If you give your word, I'll put the gun away. How's that for trust?"

"What's with the 'colonel' bit?" I asked. "Leo's an FBI man, chum, so be careful."

Goldy laughed. "That wasn't quite truthful, Leo. I'm glad I listened to the room tapes when you were out." He turned to us and waggled a finger. "Let me introduce Lt. Col. Leonid Krassin of the KGB, or Soviet Security Service. As it happens, my name is Arthur Goldthwaite, and, oddly enough, I am the United States representative, though not, regrettably, from the bureau. Well, Leo what about a deal?"

"OK," said Leo, straightening up. "The USSR wants this thing smashed as badly as anyone. How did you get on to me? I thought I was pretty good."

"Oh, you're good, pal," said Goldy stowing his gun under his arm. "Thing is, I've been following you, not Sally Tomatoes. We wanted to know why the KGB put a top operator in with a bunch of hoods. All this time-travel stuff was a big surprise to me. And then I was stuck on that damn island, with no way to tell anyone." They both ignored me and Ellen-Sue and went on talking shop while we gawped at each other and listened.

Leo laughed. "Now I know why there were no guards on this apparatus. Are they dead?"

"They are now," was the answer. "Kronosaurus" will see to that. But you still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"Very simple. We discovered that many Fascists, old Nazis, new ones, all the assorted scum of the political earth, were beginning to give lots of money to gangsters, both in America and elsewhere. Looking for protection, I imagine, since all governments are now hunting them down. I was sent to follow them, by becoming a gangster myself. Like you, I had no way of knowing this drunken pig van D'Alliance was going to invent a working time machine. I had thought at one time of trying to get the plans. But now I think not. It is better destroyed. You agree?"

"I sure as hell do. But the time's almost up. We may have trouble getting out of here. And what made you bring these two?" He waved a hand at us.

Leo shrugged. "Sentimentality, I think. They are not criminals, really, and both were sickened by the murders and bloodshed these people have loosed on our century. Do I gather, my friend, you know what those last animals were, which invaded the beaches?"

"I think so," said Goldy. "I borrowed some of Jones' books when he was asleep or knocked out with dope. That was Kronosaurus or something close, a giant plesiosaur, an extinct marine reptile. While I was watching them appear, it occurred to me the place might be an annual nesting ground, like with sea turtles. That would account for them swarming in all at once." He looked at his watch. "Anyway, it put paid to time travel for crooks, at least temporarily. And if Jones and van D'Alliance are still there He glanced at Ellen-Sue and looked a little embarrassed. I thought of Bushveldt with no regrets at all.

"Don't you mind about me," she said. "Motley threw me back there, remember? But, say, isn't the machine noise dying down?"

Both men drew their guns and I pulled Ellen-Sue over to one side. The big chamber was empty, but we could at least get out of any direct lines of fire. The humming stopped and we could hear the bolts sliding open on the other side of the port. Slowly, the thing opened.

What happened was so quick it was all over in seconds. I don't know why Sally had gone back from his bash or what made him suspicious of his two pet hoods, but he was waiting. Maybe he just wasn't taking chances, but Leo had said how good he was at security. I just don't know and now I never will.

There was the rattle of a machine gun, and both Leo and Goldy were blasted back into the chamber, shot full of holes. They never even had time to pull a trigger.

I waited without breathing, Ellen-Sue behind me. I heard a step, then another. Sally's head poked past the line of the hatch, looking down at the two dead men. It stayed there. He never even saw me.

I brought the old cane knife down on his plump neck so hard it cut through bone and went on, leaving blood all over me and the corpses, Ellen-Sue and the metal floor. And, you know, I felt great, looking at that head bonce away.

I looked out and there was no one else there in the big room at all. The guards must have been sent away so Sally could be alone. The empty ramp led up to the sunlight, and that was it.

Ellen-Sue stopped and looked at me. "We gonna fix this thing, Joe?" she asked. "Won't be no other chance, and these two poor guys got mighty dead trying."

"Yeah," I agreed. "But how? Neither of us can run this thing."

"I watched real careful, Joe, and so did Leo. It runs just like on automatic when this door is bolted. Now just suppose, for instance, we open the other door a teeny bit, or even just unlock it? Then we shut this one. What happens now if this thing goes back with one door open?"

I thought for a minute. What would happen if the thing had a gate open and rushed back millions of years into the past? What would come in while it was moving, moving back into time, whatever "time" was?

"Get ready up at the top," I said. "Watch out for anyone who might be on guard. Here." I handed her Leo's gun, after wiping it on his sleeve, the dry one. Then I stepped wetly over Sally's head and went back to unlock the inside catches on the other port.

Ten seconds later I was closing the outer catches, on the tunnel side. When the last one was tight, I waited. Sure enough, the humming started. I ran like hell for daylight, and then some. I don't think anybody alive knew what kind of force that damn machine built up, and I didn't want a close view of any malfunction, either!

At the top, Ellen-Sue met me with good news. No one was in sight, but there was an empty jeep with a key in it. This must have been Sally's. He wouldn't need it. He was going back to his paradise hotel, minus head, with two dead secret agents as bodyguards.

We tore down the hill road and went straight past the big house, heading for the little harbor. At the gate, two goons were lounging in the shade and they slouched over, not suspicious. I guess they had seen us around enough. Fortunately, they both looked to be halfwits.

"Any of these motor cruisers gassed up?" I asked casually.

"So who wants to know, bud? You know the rules around here."

"I do!" said Ellen-Sue sticking her gun up his nose. "And you better too, mister, 'cause that crazy machine is running wild up there, Mister Big Boss is stone-cold dead, and this whole rat pit of an island is probably going to blow up!"

That did it. Ten minutes later, the two hoods in one boat, minus hardware, and us in another were creaming out through the entrance. We had no map, so we just went west and hoped. Where they went, I never heard.

About an hour later, when we were well out of sight of the island, a great big smooth wave came out of the east and picked us up by the rear end and shook us before going on. When the ocean got calm again, we just looked at each other. But we never heard a sound.

You know, we weren't over fifty miles from the mainland? Never mind which mainland, either. But not too far from a town where I could swipe a car and Ellen-Sue could hock her jewelry (in her purse the whole time; she just "had a feeling") for enough to get us airline tickets. We didn't need passports either, if that's a clue.

Yeah, we found the money in the Swiss accounts. Half what Sally said, and so I stopped any tears which might have got started. And we're living OK. And no more live freight or dead weight is appearing out of the past any more. And the scientists are all busy writing papers about what they think happened. So here's mine. No time like the present.

The End

Menace Under Marswood

(1983)*

Chapter 1 – The Fort in the Forest

Slater woke quickly and saw the monster. It was crawling slowly and inexorably onward, straight toward his head, the two terrible claws on the armored limbs waving gently in front of the pointed head, as four stumpy legs urged it on. From somewhere inside the dome-shaped, warty body came a clicking hum, too faint to be heard except in the silence of the small sleeping cubicle. The one great compound eye, centered in a forward turret and colored the dull red of a Martian desert, stared fixedly into the two brown ones of the young officer. Now it was very close indeed. Slater raised himself on his elbows, the sheet spilling down farther, and glared at the creature.

"How in the name of God you ever get a woman to sleep with you, knowing that horror is wandering around here, beats me," came a voice from the doorway. Fully dressed in battle gear, Lieutenant Helge Nakamura lounged against the lintel, staring with unconcealed dislike at the form on his friend's chest. The giant Norse-Japanese had no use for that particular pet of Slater's.

Slater extended a lean hand and plucked the two-inch snapper off his bare chest. Its legs waved feebly in the air, the two claws clicked audibly, and its inner noises grew more audible.

"Grabbit's all right," Slater said equably. "He never hurts anyone I like—do you, boy? He's hungry just now, so he came to Daddy. Must have cleaned out all the roaches and junk in the room. Much better than a cat, you know."

Holding the snapper by its midsection, he rose, walked naked across the room, and took a strip of tough meat from a tiny wail refrigerator. The snapper, freed on the plasteel of a tabletop, smoothly shredded the meat in its razor-sharp chelae and clicked the bits into the four-cornered mouth under the pointed front of its carapace until the last bit was gone. The two men watched in silence until the six limbs retracted into | the body and a shutter fell over the great eye. Asleep Grabbit took on the appearance of a lumpy chestnut burr or an odd-looking brownish rock. Slater placed the tiny creature in a small flat box of impervium. Pressing the lid shut, he laid it on the table and began to dress, talking as he did so. It was time to report for the morning watch, and Nakamura had come to wake him.

"I know he's dangerous. Damned if I don't think those claws could cut the impervium if he tried. They certainly cut everything else. But he came to me out in the Ruck, and he never tries to leave. Never bothers anything but bugs and mice in the fort either. Perhaps I'm a bit nutty, but I can feel he likes me. Sometimes I even get the feeling he can talk, peculiar as it sounds."

"You've been in the Ruck too long, Slater. The base psych people will have a field day when you get debriefed. By then you'll probably be talking falsetto as well, if dear old Grabbit feels like a snack and your gonads are handy. He gives me the creeps. You know what happened to the first settlers before the domes were built."

"Yeah, but most of those snappers were full grown—the size of house cats." Slater buckled on his sidearm, picked up his helmet, and followed Nakamura out of the room. Ten minutes later they were manning the command post on Fort Agnew's wall, just over the main gate.

"Stinking Teef! Dirty Ruck!" Nakamura spat neatly over a corner of the parapet before continuing. "Why don't they throw the whole bastardly planet away and let the Ruckers have it for themselves?" It was not exactly a new idea but it cropped up frequently. The Ruck depressed some people.

Despite his last name, Nakamura was a dark-eyed blond, and over six feet two inches tall. Broad nostrils and very full lips were the legacy of his Herero great-grandfather. The Norwegian and Japanese ancestry, indicated by his names, were more recent. He scowled at his friend and slapped angrily at a cloud of stinging gnats that hovered in front of his face.

It was very quiet under the sun of the Martian summer. A few noisy insects piped and trilled in the haze of the near distance and some larger beast, probably a ferkat, screamed once at the edge of hearing. Fresh scents of growing things, of expanding, burgeoning life, drifted on the air from the surrounding forest. The temperature was a pleasant but moist 20°C. At night, however, it would drop to -20°C.

Senior Lieutenant Mohammed Slater smiled lazily back at his classmate. "Old buddy, you never stopped screaming for action at the Academy. Where else you going to get it, unless you meant a Girly Camp?"

Slater's jet eyes turned restlessly back to a sweep of the dark wood's edge. He was nervous for a reason he could not analyze but had learned to trust. An almost full-blooded Gilzai Pathan from the West Himalaya Republik, he had one recent English ancestor, the British grandfather whose name he bore. He pulled the green fibersteel helmet lower over his aquiline nose and wondered how many eyes watched from the Ruck. He saw nothing but knew that meant exactly as much. The UN Service Academy could only teach Mohammed Akbar Slater, six times great-grandnephew of the Faquir of Ipi, weapons technology and grand strategy. Tactics, especially those of frontier survival, had come to him with his mother's milk.

Fort Agnew was a thirty-foot-high, four-sided, open stone box with walkways and parapets running around all four sides. A small, crenellated tower rose at each corner, and a tall square keep with a platform for copters on top rose in the center of the two-acre area enclosed by the walls. The blue flag of the United Nations drooped from a flagstaff on the keep. Rumor had it that the fort's engineers had copied a plan of King Arthur's castle out of sheer laziness. But the fort simply reflected age-old answers to equally old problems. Beau Geste would have felt at home there.

The fort sat on an artificial mound. For two hundred yards around the walls, nothing grew but mutated grass and reindeer moss clipped to a height of six inches. Nothing could approach unseen because day and night the walls were patrolled by sentries using every sensing device the UN labs could turn out. For this was Marswood, also called the Teef—for Terraform—or more commonly still, the Ruck, from the Hindi for "Forest." It was commonly—and accurately—called the most dangerous duty in the Solar System, not from the impersonal forces of space and cosmos but due to human endeavor.

The first effort to Terraform Earth's almost airless, meteor-pocked neighbor had begun with a joint American-Russian enterprise in the late twentieth century. It had commenced with sending specially bred, iron-consuming bacteria to Mars in a huge number of robot probes. These had thrived far beyond expectation, and their waste products were the oxygen and nitrogen compounds they released from the iron-rich, Limonite surface of the planet. In only ten years, a hazy, cloud-speckled atmosphere was visible in lunar telescopes. Then cargoes of mutated fungus spores and the gametophytes of hardy mosses were sent, and when those had taken hold, the seeds of arctic grasses and alpine shrubs followed. They too survived. The scientists responsible were deservedly proud. A new Earth was being given to the universe. The great distance from the Sun and attendant cold seemed to have been canceled out by two other factors, one being the incredibly rich virgin "soil," the other the benefits of really intense UV light due to the absence of a stratosphere.

But the third superpower had not been consulted. Communist China had been ignored by her Caucasian rivals. The successors of Chairman Mao, who held his beliefs largely undiluted, were faced with the prospect of seeing their more technologically advanced rivals, the capitalist Americans and the neorevisionist Russians, divide a second planet.

China soon launched its own cargo-carrying rockets.

All that was over two hundred Earth years in the past, but the results were before their eyes now. The two young officers, one with fascination, the other with dislike, watched the incredible, seething barrier of swarming plant life that surrounded them.

Kudzu vines, pale-green leaves ten feet across and stems a yard thick, grew almost as one watched, their tendrils battling with those of poison ivy of equal bulk. Mongolian thorn bush bearing bronze daggers a foot long struggled with twisted man-chineel trees and giant saw grass that grew far over a man's head. Twenty-foot, poisonous hogweed, its touch an irritant, sprouted everywhere. Olive mounds of mutated prickly pear and the jade drums of giant barrel cactus elbowed towering euphorbias, whose scarlet blooms hid their spiky branches. Huge Martian thistles, their flowers turned an inexplicable orange, reared over a thousand Earth weeds, most of them now the product of random mutation, all adapted to subarctic cold and all thriving beyond belief. Only lasers or edged steel could penetrate the solid mass of the Ruck. Only the trained, the truly Marsworthy, could survive in the tangled immensity that was Marswood.

For the Chinese contribution to Martian life did not end with the plant kingdom. Shipments of animal life came too. Flies, fleas, lice, wasps, mosquitoes, poisonous beetles, spiders, centipedes, scorpions and mites; every unpleasant arthropod available was sent, not once but repeatedly. Most succeeded in establishing themselves. Many grew to large size with appetites to match.

So too did the brown and black rats, the Eurasian rabbit and the house mouse, as well as the Indian mynah bird and the European starling and, eventually, the dwarf goat. They were no longer dwarfs and were doing splendidly. Even certain aquatic imports had made it. When all these creatures were added to the inevitable dogs and cats from the first settlements, it was clear that planned Terraforming was as dead as Kelsey's nuts. The offended Chinese had exacted a mighty revenge from the nations they thought had tried to keep them Earthbound. The smooth colonization of Mars had become an empty dream.

Slater put down the monocular with which he had been examining the edge of the Ruck and continued the conversation. "We can't give it to anyone, stupid! We need it too badly! And you know it." He liked Nakamura but sometimes grew very tired of his griping. He hoped the big lieutenant would adapt. Still, it was a fact that some never did.

"Look, Helge. There are almost a million legitimate settlers on Mars now. They have a right to stay. Minerals like the cryolite we're guarding here are desperately needed back on Earth, where they're mostly exhausted. You know all that crap." He raised his monocular again and focused on a distant-splash of color. A giant, chocolate-colored diurnal moth, triple the bulk of any on Earth, no doubt due to the low gravity, soared above the distant trees. As he watched, a dark bird the size of an eagle zipped up out of the growth, seized the huge insect, and dropped back again.

"Those starlings can be a bloody nuisance," Nakamura said. "Ever been near one of those ball-nest things they call a rookery? They go for your eyes."

Slater continued to peer through his glass, nagged by an increasing sense of unease. The fort was always under observation, but today it seemed more oppressive somehow, almost a physical weight.

"I could stand the damn birds, the bugs, the mother-stinging plants, and the cold, but people who live here and like it ..." Slater ignored Nakamura's teasing. One reason that he never got very annoyed at Nakamura's grumbling was that the big blond was a good officer. His muttering never interfered with his watchfulness. Even as he spoke, he was scanning the forest. The two of them commanded the fort's western face for this watch, with Slater as the senior.

They were not watching for animals, save by strict biological definition. There were people out in the incredible fog-shrouded jungle, men and women. It was for, or rather against, them that Fort Agnew and fifty more like it, large and small, girdled the planet. For they were so savage and inimical that an army in permanent garrison barely sufficed to keep them within bounds.

The Ruckers, or Teefies, as the men of Earth called them, or the "pseudoindigenous and hostile clans" as one government handbook put it, were the newest subspecies of humanity. They were also a constant threat to the orderly colonization of Mars. In less than two hundred years, a complex barbarian culture of unparalleled ferocity had developed out in the wild, chill lands that still made up five-sixths of the Martian globe. In the beginning compounded of runaway South American miners, Nigerian farmers, and Russian and American military deserters, the Ruckers attracted the worst members of every culture to touch down on the new world. The fit had survived, the unfit had not.

There the restless misfits of an increasingly planned Terran economy had established a society of their own, one based on a virulent hatred of the offplanet civilization that had given them birth. Brown-skinned, leather-clad, and apparently totally irreconcilable, the Ruckers warred without letup on the people of Earth, their possessions, and their habitations. The Ruckers were as cunning and adept at survival as, for example, the ancient Apaches of the mother planet. More, for they utilized science when it suited them, preserved the arts of reading and writing, and were quite capable of copying advanced weapons or using those captured. Like my own Pathan ancestors north of the Khyber, Slater thought, not for the first time.

With so much of Mars covered by dense "undergrowth," the Rucker clans were usually invisible until they struck. No one had any real idea of how many there were. They made the forts and their garrisons an absolute necessity if the Martian surface was to be even partially utilized by Earth. So far, the battle was a draw.

We imported everything, Slater mused, even a vampire culture we spawned. We must need enemies since we breed our own.

The distant hoot of a bullhorn broke the dreaming hush of noon and caused the two officers to scan the perimeter of the fort with fresh interest. Below them, a crew manhandled two fieldpieces, air pom-poms, into position behind the sliding gate in the center of the wall. Other crews manned lighter com-pressed-air weapons, one in each of the two end towers and one in the middle of the parapet near where the two lieutenants stood. Nakamura bounced over to take personal command there. Slater adjusted his throat mike and laid his carbine within easy reach on the parapet.

The horn sounded again. One of the two daily convoys of refined ore was returning from the nearby cryolite mine.

"Check all weapons; convoy approaching!" Slater's voice boomed from a loudspeaker over the parade ground. Two squads under arms deployed in the square below and behind him, the standing reserve. On the battlements, all the men not attached to gun crews crouched with their air rifles ready. All weapons pointed at the one break in the greenery opposite the gate, the trail to the mines. Hacked clear during the previous watch, already twisting suckers and green fronds of vegetation had half concealed it again.

The hooter sounded again, this time close. The blunt brown nose of a light tank poked from the opening and the tank scuttled into the open, its twin-gun turret swiveling to cover a sector of forest wall as it did. It halted halfway between the Ruck and the fort and took station to cover the rest of the convoy. Two more followed and took up other positions. With their tracks completely concealed by plates of armor, they looked like great beetles. Sensors of different kinds turned restlessly on the turret domes.

Now the first big ore carrier, really a giant cargo-carrying tank itself, emerged into the clearing. It had a small turret of its own, but its bulk and armor were its main defenses. It headed straight for the fort at a slow pace. Another and another of the clumsy things rolled into the open. Then came a tank, the middle guard. The first ore carrier was now almost at the gate and a fourth was emerging from the green tangle when the attack began. The timing was lovely. Everyone had started, though ever so slightly since they were veterans, to relax.

Without warning, six rockets flew from stubby handmade bazookas and burst against the sides of the tanks. At the same time, clouds of smoke expanded like dirty balloons under the fort's walls. Through this murk bounded screaming fiends in camouflaged leather, each one with a specific job to do. More explosive charges struck the tanks and two of the towering ore carriers as well. But only two. Rucker techs tore their way into the other two with thermite and prybars, killing the crews in savage in-fighting. In hardly more than sixty seconds the battle was over. As the two captured ore buckets lumbered away, snipers hidden along the forest edge opened up on the wall defenses, which were already half immobilized by the acrid smoke. Nakamura fired his cannon alone, his crew dead or wounded, and caught one wave of the vanishing enemy in a shower of slugs. Slater and his six wall guards picked off a few more. The two tower cannons were rendered harmless by the dense smoke.

Trying not to overcompensate for the weak gravity, Slater clattered down the tower stairs and found the cannon crews at the gate choking and gagging from the greasy smoke, several bodies adding to the confusion. Curiously, Slater did not find the Rucker smoke too bad; something in it actually exhilarated him, something wild and pungent. Might be a hallucinogen, he thought, while he shouted for the reserves. He led the reserve squads into the clearing where shattered vehicles glowed dull red through the smoke, their crews mercifully incinerated. He turned at the curse and saw Nakamura behind him, one arm limp and bloodstained.

"The bastards killed Omatuk and Kusinen, my two best gunners!"

"Go look after your arm, you damn fool!" Slater looked back at the clearing, sick at heart. Four tanks and two ore carriers destroyed, two captured! Captured! Inside one of those reeking, burned-out tanks was a cinder called Lieutenant Wolf, the convoy officer, a good friend. How in the names of God had it happened? He knew only too well who would get the immediate blame. Major van Schouten, temporarily in command, was good at applying blame to others. Slater took a deep breath and coughed as a wave of smoke filled his lungs. Now the stench of cooked meat was uppermost. If only he had listened to his instincts earlier! He did not stop to query what he could have done. The Old Man had warned them never to be afraid of giving a false alarm or two, that in the field instincts were often the best guide.

The gate gunnery sergeant, Brown, his face now a normal color, came up and saluted again. "Sorry about the guns, sir. That smoke blotted everything out in split seconds and then they fired through it at close range." In grudging professional respect he added, "It was a nice bit of work for those wood rats." Slater wondered what had been in the smoke. The Ruckers were always finding new uses for the mutated plant life of their beloved jungle. Still odder was the fact that he seemed unaffected.

Chapter 2 – Post Mortem and Mystery

As he had expected, the aftermath in the post commandant's office was anything but pleasant. Two hours of frenzied work by everyone on the post who could be spared from the warning net or the guns had cleared up most of the mess. The wounded were in the hospital and the dead were laid away decently. A scorched pile of earth was all that marked the place where the armor had been so cleverly ambushed. As the officers, tired and stinking of smoke, sat in the commandant's office, they could hear the whine of distant jets looking for the two ore carriers or anything else to bomb. No one expected them to find anything. The operation had been too well planned.

It was still very neat. Crawling under mats of grass which had been woven into an aluminum mesh, a large party of Rucker warmen had patiently wormed its way to the wall during the previous night. Then they dug into the ground at the base of the wall, somehow disarming the mines buried there. The metal in their grass shields blocked the heat seekers on the walls. They were so close that it would have taken a genius to even think of looking for them there. They were in the one place no one could plant an ambush. Neat!

Major van Schouten, in command of Fort Agnew while Colonel Muller was away, was cordially detested by all of his juniors and knew it. A pink-faced, white-haired Hollander, he was fussy, excitable, and largely incompetent. He owed his rank to very strong political connections, but even they could take him no further in the service and he knew that also. Two review boards had recommended against his promotion. In three months a third would meet, and his compulsory retirement inevitably would follow. Enraged and frightened by the attack, van Schouten was still looking for a scapegoat.

"You're supposed to be a veteran, a trained man, Slater!" he yapped, his voice rising in shrillness as he sensed the unspoken disapproval of the others. "Taken in by a child's trick, by God, and causing the loss of seven vehicles! Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't have you brought before a court? You too, Nakamura? What in Hell were you doing to let all your men get shot down? Wait till the press hears about this, wait till—"

"Major, anyone could have been taken in by this one." The heavy voice of Captain George M'kembe cut in. M'kembe was justly famous for having killed three warmen in unarmed combat, an almost incredible feat and the reason for one of his promotions. A solid, silent, black giant, he usually kept quiet save for rhapsodizing to anyone who would listen about his family in Lesotho. Van Schouten hated his guts, since he was everything the major was not.

"All right, Captain M'kembe, we've heard your opinion. Which is not mine! What are we to do now, eh? Now that these idiots have lost an armored company for us? Tell me that, will you?" The pink face and the small pig eyes made the cropped white hair look false, as if they had been moved from another man, thought Slater.

A look almost of disbelief came over the unattractive face. It seemed finally to occur to van Schouten that no one could absolve him, the commanding officer, of the blame for the mishap. All of the officers present could see it happen. He's just realized that a lifetime of excuses has come to an end. No hiding place up here. But he'll get me to slide down with him, or die trying. Slater kept his face a rigid mask.

"The primary fault is those money-grubbing leeches over it Universal Mining." The acid tones of Captain Nasiban, the lean, balding adjutant, penetrated the room. "They have such lousy labor problems they won't let us garrison their cruddy mine. Afraid we'd see too much. Yet we have to take their mother ore and trek it through the Ruck and take full responsibility for it."

"That's enough!" The major's pudgy hand slammed down on the table, the gesture as ineffectual as his other mannerisms. "The government makes these decisions, I'll remind you. No criticism of higher authority under my command, please! And I'll also remind you that the big corporations pay a lot of taxes, including much of your pay. You all might show a little gratitude." He ran a finger around his sweating neck.

We all might remember you have a cousin on the board of Universal. Slater struggled to betray none of the contempt he felt. What a ripe piece of flea dirt you are, Major dear.

There was a pause, hesitantly broken by Ensign Rivera. He was the most junior present, a boy from the Altiplano of Peru, just out of the UN Academy.

"Why can't we, ah, attempt to trade some prisoners for the captured armor? We have four or five in the fort's cells."

It was typical that van Schouten was cheap enough to laugh at the boy, his usual sneering bark, reserved for those unable to answer back.

"Ruckers don't trade prisoners, son," M'kembe said gently. 'They don't trade anything, except on Truce Days. If we didn't have those prisoners pretty well hog-tied, they'd commit suicide or kill some of us trying."

"You should have learned all that back at the Academy," the major added. "Well, let's have some real ideas! Can't any of you think of something that might delay the Committee of Inquiry?" Despite his attempt to be sarcastic, the despair in van Schouten's tone was mirrored in his face.

A sound from the waiting room behind Slater caught their attention. The orderly sergeant's "glad to have you back, sir!" made all the heads turn to the door in welcome surprise.

It opened and two figures walked in, one behind the other. The first one brought every man to his feet at rigid attention. At sight of the second, hands clawed for the holstered sidearm worn with every uniform while on Mars duty.

"Easy! Stand at ease, I said!" Colonel Louis Muller, the commanding officer of Fort Agnew, whom all had thought to be on an Earthbound rocket a week earlier, walked around to where Major van Schouten stood spellbound. Amazed as they were to see the colonel, it was the other man who kept them all staring. Meeting glance for glance, arms folded across his barrel chest, rifle slung behind his olive-dyed leather tunic, fur hood thrown back, there stood before them a Rucker warman in full battle panoply. The pale-brown vees incised in his forehead proclaimed him a veteran warrior, while the short cloak of black feathers slung across one shoulder showed that he was also a konsel, an elected ruler. No such person had ever been inside the walls of an uncaptured Terran fort in the memory of anyone living. Indeed, it was rare enough to see a man of such rank even at the semi-annual Truce Fairs. The flicker of grim humor in the dark eyes told Slater that the irony of the situation was not lost on their strange visitor. Otherwise the Rucker stood quietly, his natural dignity a shield against the vengeful glances of his assembled enemies.

"I am reassuming command." Colonel Muller's quiet voice broke the silence. "This is Thau Lang, a chief and konsel of the Rat Clan of the True People. He understands Unit and is the official guest of the government, subject to certain limitations, which I will explain. He is to be treated with the respect due his rank. Is that clear?" Muller waved van Schouten out of his chair and seated himself at the head of the table while his officers stared at the Rucker.

Louis Muller was a squat little man with a pug nose and soft-brown eyes. His undress green uniform was usually wrinkled and he paid small attention to form, somehow always managing to escape parades, receptions, and official ceremonies. He looked rather dumpy and soft and his thinning brown hair, parted in the middle, lent him the look of a retired book-keeper. He was fifty-five years old and had twice refused promotion to general. He never wore his decorations. He was the finest soldier on Mars, a man whom younger officers regarded as their ideal. His subtlety matched the Ruckers' at their best, and his bushcraft was their equal as well. He was about as soft physically as a ferkat and he could move so fast that he appeared to float away as one watched. Frequently he took his leaves in the Ruck, alone and without even a tent, as another might tour an Earthside forest reserve. To Slater, Muller's return meant the difference between night and day. Whatever happened now, all knew who commanded; the officers knew, too, that no one would be sacrificed as a burnt offering to those on high. Muller was merciless to laziness, stupidity, corruption, and anything that smacked of tale-bearing or political influence. But he was utterly fair. Now his quiet presence dominated the room as always, a thing that never ceased to amaze Slater since it was so effortless.

At Muller's command a chair was brought in by the sergeant and the Rucker chief was seated at the end of the table, next to Slater. Thau Lang's odor came to him sharply; it was not unpleasant, but pungent, a mixture of woodsmoke and herbs, leather and oil.

When the sergeant had closed the door behind him, Muller looked at his officers, his gaze slowly sweeping the table.

"All leave is canceled herewith, no exceptions whatsoever." Muller took out a pack of gum and selected a piece before continuing. Beside Slater, Thau Lang grunted once, as if clearing his throat. Muller quickly threw a piece of gum to him. The Rucker caught it with a flick of his wrist, opened it, and sat back chewing contentedly.

"There will be no inquiry into today's tragedy," he went on. "It is an incident, nothing more. No one is considered to be at fault. I have the plenary authority to dismiss the matter as a simple tribal action. Universal will make no complaint. Is this clear?"

"But the ambush—someone is to blame. Whose responsibility? ..." The major's voice died away under the level gaze of his commander. He, van Schouten, had been in command during the attack; to any committee of inquiry he would be the chief culprit, and Muller's words had given the major an unexpected reprieve. He sat back in silence, his eyes glassy from the realization that he had a second chance.

"As of this exact moment, Fort Agnew is the headquarters for a new campaign," the colonel went on. "It is an enormous secret that a new campaign is even starting. Therefore, I impose the highest classification of military security. All mail will be censored from now on and letters will be completely rewritten if any hint of what we are doing appears." He paused, rose from his seat, and unrolled the big map of their operational hemisphere of the planet that hung on the wall behind him. All the forts were marked upon it, as well as the larger craters, now mostly lakes or marshes, the higher ranges of hills, the great gorges, the desert tundra areas, and the roads. There were few of the latter. Much of the map was utterly featureless, as unknown as it had been when the first scouts landed two centuries and more before.

"What concerns us is our own south half of the planet." The colonel's pointer flicked the map. "Here at the South Pole is Mainbase, Ares. The campaign will be coordinated from there, of course. The northern hemisphere will not be neglected. But all the signs seem to indicate that here we are of most importance. Look at our position. We are the center, or rather the south center of the ring of forts. The cryolite mines we guard are the farthest advanced of any concession granted in the unknown area. "The first stage of the campaign will be an urgent search for information. We have far too little. Tragically little. We must seek new methods of getting it. And we have very little time." Muller's quiet voice was without emphasis, but a thrill ran down Slater's spine. No one had ever heard Louis Muller refer to anything as being urgent before. "We have half Earth's land surface in our charge," he added.

"Pardon, sir." It was Captain Nasiban. "What about this ... uh, our guest here? I assume he plays a part in this."

"Correct. A major part. He is our ally, subject to certain limits that he and I have worked out and to which Supreme Command has agreed.

"Someone, some group perhaps, but someone or some persons inimical to us is known to be coordinating the tribes. They are being formed into an army for a concerted attack. The planetary defenses—and I repeat, this is Top Secret—are not reared to withstand such a thing. There is evidence, which I will discuss in due course, that the plans do not originate in the Ruck at all. However, the areas that seem to be the heartland of the coming attack are being sealed off. And not by us—by them, whoever 'they' are. Even low-flying aircraft are sometimes being downed in these areas. It took over a year for our base and Earth's computers to analyze a thousand apparently random incidents. What emerged was a pattern of great subtlety, but a pattern nonetheless—one of slowly and cautiously denying us access of any kind to large areas that seem to be strong points. The computers predict these areas can be nothing but centers for the development of massive arms buildups, arms and men too, of course."

"What about our satellites? Do they report nothing, Colonel Muller?"

"Nothing, Ensign Rivera. But why would they if the enemy was careful? I must repeat, at the risk of overemphasis, that we have encountered nothing like this threat before. This is" clever. You know the Rucker facility for digging. You know the subsoil of the planet is riddled with volcanic bores and other kinds of natural caverns. A chain of the latter connected by tunnels would render the satellites useless. Then there is the fog, the clouds, the rain, the snow. And the great canyons. For a better understanding, you should discuss the details with Captain Feng, the post intelligence officer."

"What do you mean, sir, about plans not originating in the Ruck? Surely they could hardly originate offplanet? Who would gain?" Van Schouten looked incredulous but he met the colonel's gaze without flinching.

"Well, Major, the United Nations does have a few dissidents, or so I have heard. There are lots of people back home who think that the World Government is not opening this place up to settlers fast enough. Plenty of worthless politicians get elected solely by promising a looser quota, by telling their voters that the Rucker problem is 'exaggerated.' Maybe some of them have a new source of muscle behind them, neen?" A few Afrikaans words clung to Muller's tongue. Van Schouten had once implied that he and the colonel might have some common ancestors: Smiling politely, Muller had asked if he meant the Boers or the Hottentots. The subject was not raised again and the tale went all over the post in minutes.

"It is not our business to speculate about anything offplanet, particularly in the political area," Muller went on. "There are agencies that handle such things for the government. Our business is to find out who is arming the tribes here then squash the whole business. Now I will answer the next question before it is asked perhaps. What is a Rucker konsel doing in a UN fort, being given access to our innermost secrets? Is the government mad? Am I? I will let Thau Lang do the answering this time. I will say one thing before he starts. He is an old personal friend of mine." Muller sat back, his eyes twinkling.

They all turned to stare at the silent man in the oiled leather. The three vees cut neatly into his forehead below the black bangs told them all that he had killed many times. Though the clans warred among themselves often enough, it was a ritual warfare, using complex rules and conducted with as little loss of life as possible. Most warmen kills were of UN troops. The long, two-edged dagger he wore had probably been whetted in Terran blood. He met their glances with one as cold as any, his iron, clean-shaven face betraying nothing. Then he spoke.

"Let us make things plain, so that no one makes mistakes." His Unit was slow and rather harsh, but a child could have understood perfectly.

"I am here because my people are threatened. The True People, or as you say, the Ruckers, want no more offplanet settlers. This is our planet, and we have paid for it with our blood." His gaze seemed to grow remote, and they waited in silence for him to continue.

"But not all of us think like little children, and some of us have grown worried in the last few years. New weapons are appearing from the South, from down here. Chiefs who do not agree with the new thoughts are sometimes not heard of again. There is the continual talk of uniting, of becoming one, of thus gaining great strength and driving you Greenies out entirely.

"We became a people to cease being 'one'! All our laws were framed to let us each be different. We have the personal records of the men and women who fled from the first settlements. They wanted freedom to be themselves, and they established the loosest set of rules by which people could still live together and yet be alone, in their own minds and spirits. If you do not understand me, I will go back to the beginning and say it again. Because you must understand, as Louis understands, or the whole planet will die. And my people will die first and most. They will all die."

The chief's voice had been rising in emphasis. No one else spoke. Even van Schouten realized that he was hearing something unique, a Rucker leader expounding their basic philosophy. Slater was awestruck but sufficiently self-possessed to realize the Rucker was an old man. Despite his sturdy form and deceptive movements, a fine mat of wrinkles appeared under the beige skin when Thau Lang spoke.

"I went to my friend Louis. He knows I speak for others as well as myself. The movement out of the southern area is bad. The True People are being used. The young men are being trained in ways which are against all that we have sought for ourselves. The Wise Women are being ignored. Two konsels have vanished in my clan area, which is far north of here, near your Fort Peron. They were of the group which thinks as I do. I have been threatened. Messages have threatened my life. Poison has been used in my food. I am a Taster and detected it. A man of the True People may use poison after he sends formal word of a feud. Or woman. They have their own rules, the women. But I am too old to have a woman try to poison me. And I have no feuds. So." He looked about, his face impassive.

"I am here to help. Whatever is behind this movement is no friend to the True People. The lessons come from elsewhere. Many of the weapons are new to us also, and I like what I hear of them as little as the lessons. Louis has lived in my clan-place. I have come to help him, and to give help. Of the two enemies, you Greenies are much the less, in my judgment. You want to pen us up and turn everyone into farmers of the dirt. What this new thing in the South wants, I have no idea, but something about it is foul. It is a concealed enemy that I think loves us no more than you, and has plans for us that are far worse. We will halt our warfare, those of us who feel this way, against you Greenies until we find and tear out the rot that has somehow sprouted down here. You will never find it without our help, that I can tell you. So you must forget that I have killed Greenies and you must let me forget that you have killed Ruckers. Once this is all over we can go back and kill one another properly." For the first time since they had seen him, he smiled. His teeth were fine but gray, not white, a Rucker characteristic, perhaps due to some mineral deficiency.

While they digested Thau Lang's remarks, Muller's voice broke in. "Show them the thing you brought, Thau Lang."

From a large, elaborately worked pouch slung over one shoulder, the old chief produced an object that he held out to Slater. It was a tapered metal tube about a foot long. One end was swollen into a ball. At the other, the smaller, was a fine hole. It looked like a distorted syringe of some sort save that the ball end was rigid metal. The metal felt odd. It was rather rough in texture and a bluish black in color.

"What is it?" Slater asked, handling the thing gingerly.

"A weapon. It is empty now. He who bore it was a young man, a warrior of the Ferkat Clan, which used these southern woods. That is, if his paint and harness were not a lie. He is dead and cannot tell us. If he were alive I could make him speak. The Wise Women of my clan could too. He tried to kill me with it, but he was noisy. The Ferkats should be ashamed of him, to miss an old man."

"It's an interesting weapon," Muller said. "Our techs are wild to disassemble it, but I need it too badly. It only had one load left, or maybe it's a single shot. It sprayed a cloud of tiny needles, apparently ice. If Thau had not had the reflexes of a youngster, one of them would have got him. Instead they hit a tree. Within each needle was some sort of corrosive muck. The tree was full of inch-wide holes in no time."

Feng, who now held the odd-looking thing, was obviously fascinated. "But if all of this conspiracy is so secret, sir, why did they try to kill the konsel with such a strange weapon? It would be bound to attract some attention."

"It was meant to, eh, Thau Lang? Lots of attention. Think for a minute, Captain, about what the konsel has just told us."

"My people were supposed to see me die in great pain from a weapon they knew nothing of," Thau Lang said. "But no one thought that the Greenies would ever hear of it. The lesson was for the True People only. A warning to obey the new commands from the South. Also it must have been thought that the weapon, whatever it is, would not be found, but only my body, full of large unpleasant holes." For the first time the chief looked sad. "My clan has some traitors. There is no other way this southern stylyag could have reached the hiding place near my cave. He had to have help from within my clan."

"Sir?"

"Speak up, Captain M'kembe," Muller replied.

"This weapon—ice gun or whatever. I am the arms officer and cleared for Top Secret. This is not a Terran weapon at all. I don't believe that we even have anything like it under development. It—it looks like some other, well, alien form of technology. It doesn't feel like a gun. It doesn't seem to fit the hand properly. How does it shoot?"

"I assume you mean where is the trigger, George. There is none. And you may take it from me that the Ares Base intelligence did everything but take it apart. We don't know how it fires. We don't know how it loads either. And, of course, we don't have the vaguest idea what it loads." He leaned forward and looked at the puzzled faces around the table before continuing.

"Surely some light is beginning to break through, gentlemen? Are you still not in the picture? Have the extraordinary precautions about this whole weird business not come home to you yet?" He smiled crookedly and then suddenly pointed at Slater. "Speak up, Senior Lieutenant! I can see that you, at least, have a thought."

Slater could only stammer, as the idea ricocheted around in his skull, becoming more improbable as each second passed. Finally the words got out. "The Old Martians!" There was a long silence. The colonel continued to smile dreamily, as if contemplating some lovely vision. His eyes refocused themselves on Slater finally and he spoke.

"That's right, my boy," he said jovially. "The Old Martians."

Chapter3 – Danna Strom

Colonel Muller smiled briefly then continued, "I don't mean that I believe in Old Martians or, for that matter, Old Terrans either. Or ghosts, or the dust devil things my Tottie ancestors thought lived out in the Karoo desert. But Old Martians will do. Ares Base has a code name—Project U—for something labeled Unknown, Unpleasant, and Unwanted. Something that is apparently systematically killing Ruckers who disagree with it, and Terrans who are ignorant of it." Despite his casual air, the mild-looking little man was deadly serious. His officers had no doubt of that.

"We have to find it, you know," he went on quietly. "A concerted rising of even two-thirds of the wild tribes—minus any unknown technology, mind you-—is utterly beyond the capability of the UN forces here to handle. Nor do we have the ships to evacuate civilians. We would have to use deterrents. Ultima ratio regis, gentlemen—the king's last argument. It used to mean artillery, back in the so-called civilized past. Now it means nukes, and bacteria and viruses. Since Thau Lang and a number of the other elders of the True People are not without a fair share of reasoning power, why, they want this conspiracy stopped. Permanently." Once again the room was silent.

"This is all new to you. Regrettably, there is little time to digest it. Since I have some ideas and am also the commander of this post, I have been given a pretty free hand in this matter. Captain Feng, Lieutenants Slater and Nakamura remain. The rest of you are dismissed. I'll deal with each of you separately later. For the present, carry out your normal duties. Be alert. Those ore carts were not stolen for fun."

As the other officers filed out, the colonel remembered something. "Van Schouten, get busy on all those damned forms that came in since I've been gone. I don't want to see one by tomorrow except for my signature."

Thau Lang remained as well. Slater was surprised to find that the old konsel was studying him closely, making no effort to hide the fact. His iron visage was expressionless but his eyes were interested.

"Captain Feng." The colonel's voice brought their attention back to him at once. "What can you tell me of the five prisoners we now hold?"

Rucker prisoners, a rarity at any time, were cared for only by Intelligence guards and medics who had received special training for that duty. Rucker prisoners were homicidal, suicidal, and cunning beyond belief. The Rucker warmen did not surrender and their base camps, usually below the ground or in caverns, had only been found once or twice, by accident. Thus women and children hardly existed as a factor in discussing prisoners.

This was one reason that the two junior officers pricked up their ears. The last batch of prisoners had been brought in swaddled in cloaks, late at night and by helijet. Though no one could say who had started the rumor, every man in garrison was convinced that one of the captives was a woman. The fact that not a half-dozen women had been caught alive in the last fifty years made the story even more interesting.

"There are four men and one woman," Feng admitted. "All under restraint. They have been force-fed, but no interrogation has taken place." His black eyes met those of the colonel. "There is something odd about this gang, sir. They were caught in the open by a passing heli and knocked out by gas bombs. I'm more than a little suspicious of the whole thing. I sent a coded communication detailing my suspicions to Intelligence H.Q. in Ares but have had no answer yet, which also surprises me."

The colonel tapped his pocket. "I have your message and I'm your answer. I'm also your superior in your own branch for the duration of this emergency. You'll get a signal to that effect today from your people. From this minute, you report to me and to no one else. Understood?"

Feng appeared delighted. "That gives me great pleasure, Colonel. Just tell me what you want done. I'll do my best."

"Let's go see your prisoners for a start." Muller rose and the others followed him. "Thau Lang goes with us. He goes anywhere in this fort that he wants. I've cut orders to that effect. When he returns to his people, he will report nothing of what he has seen. On the word of a True Person." He strode out of the office, the others trailing in his wake, Slater and Nakamura staring at one another.

Prisoners were kept in the deepest section of the subbasements, directly under the central keep and its offices. Intelligence maintained a sealed section there, with its own special equipment. Of non-I-Corps personnel, only the post commander had the right of entry, and he seldom exercised it. The Intelligence branch functioned best when left to itself.

Feng identified himself through a pinhole and they went in, the guard inside coming to attention as the heavy steel door slid into its notch. Waiting for them at the entrance to the hospital section was the pet frustration of the unattached males on the post, Lieutenant (of Intelligence) Mohini Lai Dutt, all six feet of her gorgeous body in medical whites. She did not stand at attention, simply waved a pretty hand. The Benares Bomber favored each of them with a dazzling smile. Slater reflected that her I-Corps training showed in the fact that the smile sent to Thau Lang was no whit less gleaming and kind. As he trailed after the others into the security ward, Slater aimed a hand at the white-covered roundness nearest him, only to have it gently guided past. "No free feels, today, Dirty Pathan pig," she breathed gently in his ear. He suppressed a grin and went on in. One of these days, Mohini ...

The five beds were kept three feet from each other. The five occupants were conscious, but only their hands were free to move. Their bodies were wrapped in extended versions of the old straitjacket, each of which was secured to its bed in several places. The beds were clamped to the floor. An armed guard, carbine on hip, leaned against the wall at the entry end of the room. He paid no attention to the visitors and his eyes never left the prisoners. To a stranger, the precautions might have looked rather absurd. To a soldier familiar with the Ruck, they looked fairly adequate.

One sight of the woman made Slater forget his training for a long, breathless instant. She lay at one end of the line of beds, her close-cropped hair outlined by the white pillow. Her eyes were a strange shade, somewhere between yellow and brown, and she was quite small. The nose was square and short above the full lips and the rounded chin. Her skin was the typical Rucker beige, a faded olive, but a faint flush of rose was visible over the cheekbones. She met his gaze impassively and her eyes moved on to examine the others, then returned to him. For a moment he thought he saw something else in their depths, a question perhaps. Then they left him.

One of the men said something short, harsh, and savage to the others. Five sets of burning eyes settled on Thau Lang, who seemed as calm as ever. He in turn said something in a whisper to Colonel Muller. It was equally unintelligible to Slater. He must speak Rucker, thought the young officer. God, what a man Muller is!

The five captives lay in their cloth cocoons and stared at Thau Lang, who walked slowly along the line of beds staring serenely back. When he came to the girl, for she was obviously no more, he paused and said one word, a long rolling sound, which to Slater meant nothing. It sounded like "Kareeem." The old chief turned to the officers and this time spoke in Unit.

"Leave the room. I must speak with these people. You must not be here. Not even you, Louis."

Muller nodded. "Come on, you types. Captain Feng, all monitoring equipment turned off at once please. That's an order. This room is to be completely private, until we are asked back."

The Intelligence officer snapped an order to Lieutenant Dutt. Slater was pleased to see that she had lost her proverbial calm. She stepped out and gave some orders into a wall phone. Feng had meanwhile waved the armed guard out as well. Muller was the last out and closed the door behind him.

He said, "I hope that this succession of shocks is not more than you can stand, gentlemen. There are going to be lots more and I need all three of you. But use of the spy-eyes and recorders would be a clean breach of my agreement with Lang. And I stress, gentlemen, that he is more important than any of us in this matter. With him, we have a slender chance to seek out and destroy this damned conspiracy. Without him—none."

Nakamura had been silent and glum since the meeting had broken up. The big man took his hatred seriously, and suddenly being allied to "friendly" Ruckers did not seem to have done his feelings much good.

"What's the matter, Nakamura? The very idea of cooperating with one enemy against a far greater one too much for you?" The sarcasm left Colonel Muller's voice. "Look, boy, I'm counting on you and a few others. I can't do this job alone. But if you feel it's too much to ask, then say so now!" He spoke the last words slowly. "There won't be any hard feelings and it will never appear on your record—my word on it. But I want volunteers, even if I do pick them myself!"

The colonel so obviously meant the last statement that Nakamura's control broke as he realized what he had just heard. A slow grin stole across his face, followed by a rumbling laugh. The colonel stared up at his towering junior in surprise and then began to grin himself. The other three joined in the laughter.

"Sorry, Colonel, I'm over it." Nakamura's dark-brown eyes met Muller's gaze frankly. "I'm a little slow on the reflexes, I guess. Killing those bastards is all I've had in mind for too long. Moe here actually likes the Ruck, sir, while it just makes me jumpy. Maybe I'm not the right man for this job, and if you want to wash me out that's all right. But I'd like to stay."

"You'll do. That's the end of it. You may have qualities that you aren't aware of, Lieutenant." The colonel swung around abruptly as the door to the cell opened behind him. They stared at Thau Lang, who appeared as calm as ever. His right hand was bloodstained and he was cleaning his long dagger on a piece of torn sheet held in the left.

"Down your piece, Private!" Slater had been the only one to see the enlisted guard by the far door to the corridor raise his carbine. Even as Slater spoke, he was in motion, a Martian leap placing his body between the old Rucker and the gun. Time froze.

The I-Corps private lowered his weapon at once. "Sorry, sir," he said quietly. "I saw the blood and got jumpy, but that's no excuse." He appeared embarrassed.

"Forget it," the colonel said. "We're all jumpy. I haven't briefed everyone I should. Feng, fill your people in, and quickly; no one else. The general orders on Thau Lang are already on the boards upstairs." He looked hard at Slater and said, "Thanks. That fellow was out of my vision. Inexcusable on my part." He looked back at the konsel, who had never changed his expression or moved. "What now, old friend?"

"Come back in here. The people are all free, but they will not harm you. We must talk." He turned and led the way. Mohini Dutt had left with Feng, so only the two lieutenants were with the colonel.

The first view was a shock. Three figures were praying, or in the attitude of prayer, on the smooth, plastic floor. Before them lay two other shapes, covered from head to foot in bloody sheets ripped from the beds. As the three officers entered, the two men and the girl stood and turned to face them, standing proudly erect.

Slater was conscious of the same thrill again. Her eyes met his again almost involuntarily and locked on them. The faint rose color over the cheeks seemed to deepen. Then the long lashes drooped and her head turned away.

"You see Danna Strom, a Wise Woman of the True People." Lang's deep voice roiled out the formal introduction. "You see Arta Burg and Milla Breen, who are warmen Who Have Killed. They will help us; indeed, they were sent to help us." He turned and bowed to the two still shapes, then turned again and continued. "The dead are gone from us. They are Jon Sodo Kar and Kolai Grado. They would not help us. They accepted death rather than do so. They were brave men and they will be remembered in the Writings of the Dead. Their bodies will feed Marswood. Peace to them, warmen and kin."

The colonel stepped forward. "Do you wish them buried now? And do you want any help?"

"Let them lie. We will take them out tonight and we will go alone. Now we must talk, Louis. These three have much to tell us. If you think it best, let us go back up to your room, where the big maps are. We shall need them."

As they returned to the surface, Slater studied the three Ruckers as closely as he could without seeming to. The two men were young and wiry, less than his own height—five eleven and three-quarters—by some few inches. The taller, Breen, wore a round cap of fur over his cropped black hair. Burg wore no hat and his brown hair was long, held by an embroidered band. Both were dressed in the usual oiled leather suits, dappled in green and brown. On their feet, like Slater himself, they wore the supple, tough boots, knee high, which the Ruckers had developed and the UN forces had simply copied in a synthetic. Slater suspected the leather was better, being less rigid and less pervious to cold. The men were clean shaven. All Ruckers were, and the secret of the depilatory they used was eagerly sought by every pharmaceutical house on Earth.

Danna Strom wore the same supple leathers as the men. She was small, hardly over five feet, Slater guessed. Her curly hair was so short it needed no restraint. Around her neck was a heavy leather thong that disappeared into the collar of her suit. On her left hand she wore a heavy but worn gold ring that bore a great blue jewel in its center. Something about the ring drew Slater's curiosity, and he decided to ask for a look at it some time if the occasion presented itself.

When they were all seated around the long oval table in the conference room, Slater was still chuckling over the looks that they had received on the way. The orderly sergeant outside at the desk had almost gone into shock.

A husky voice speaking Unit with a curious accent broke in on his musings. He realized the girl was standing and brought his thoughts back to the present. She went straight to the subject without any introduction.

"We, the Wise Women of the Ferkat Clan, sent messages to the other Wise Women, to all we could reach. We sent messages also to some of the konsels such as Thau Lang, men we knew to be True People, unchanged and unready to give up our old ways. We sent Warnings. We began to look about us and see that the clans were being torn apart. Strange men had appeared who would not listen to other speech, other thoughts, than their own. The True People have no way of making people listen, save by persuasion. The Wise Women and the konsels are only to advise, to counsel, to dream for the people. They cannot give orders. Only men in?—" She looked at Thau Lang, obviously not knowing the word in Unit that she wanted.

"Bond?" Colonel Muller said thoughtfully. "Men who were pledged, perhaps, Thau?"

"War pledge is good," the older man replied. "War pledge, Danna."

"Men in war pledge then, men who have sworn to follow a leader to the death, they can be commanded. But no others, unless a man and a woman make a oneness contract. Then they must follow each other forever.

"Two of our years ago, such men began to come from the South, from the bad country. They were men of a new clan, they said, a secret clan, one that had been hidden deliberately to wait for the day when the whole planet would rise against Terra. They were to be our leaders, they said. There were not many of them, but they were a kind of True People, to most appearances anyway. We had no clan feud with them and we showed them such of our secrets as we would men of any clan with which we were at peace. They invited some of our young men to see their own country. They lived down south in the Bad Country, they said.

"All this was some time ago. Nothing made us, the women, suspicious, and we even helped and sent these stranger men on to other clans, as they asked us to do.

"But then things began to change. When we asked to be put in touch with the Wise Women of their secret clan, they grew puzzled, these messengers. First they said what we now believe to be the truth, that they had no Wise Women. When they saw that they did not gain approval by telling us this, they changed the story. Now they said that they had Wise Women, but that these women ruled them and were so powerful and secret that no one was allowed to see them." She stared at each of them before going on.

"Thau Lang says I must tell you certain things, things known to our men. This is so you can understand us when you come out with us into the Ruck."

In the name of God the Omnipotent's camel's ass, WHAT! thought Slater.

"True Men and Women," she went on, "do not lie, unless a prisoner, taken in clan feud, is asked things like the place his clan hunts. A lie to protect the clan from an enemy is the only kind we can tell! Do you men understand?" Slater and Nakamura nodded, as did Feng, who had slipped silently into the room some minutes before.

"This meant," the girl went on, "one of two things. Either these men were lying about their clan and thus considered us their enemies, or something much worse, they were lying about everything, their whole story was a lie, and we, the Wise Women, were being tricked for some purpose we could not even understand. Either way, it seemed that we had a secret enemy. Now we are sure of it.

"Those two down in your cellar were True People also," she said. "But they simply could not believe that helping Greenies was the way to solve the problem. It is hard even for us," she added naively, "but since we felt such cooperation necessary, after listening to Thau Lang, we had to kill them. Had just one more of us decided the other way, we would have attacked you instead."

And I'd never have seen your pretty pearl-gray teeth, Slater thought. Wonder who threw the winning vote? And when we go into the Ruck? Into the Ruck with a party of warmen and one of their legendary Wise Women! Whow! Despite his outward calm, Slater could not help but feel a thrill at the thought.

"I have said that these strange men came from the bad country. I do not know what to say about that. It is a place we avoid. I do not know if I should say more. I will let Thau Lang talk now, since he is the eider among us and has much wisdom." She sat down but could not help looking at Slater as she did so, a demure quick glance.

Her eyes seemed to pierce his very flesh and he grew warm. What in hell is happening to me? he wondered to himself.

"Look at your map, soldiers." The konsel now stood before the big map that Colonel Muller had used earlier in the day. His horny forefinger moved down from the Ares Base at the North Pole to a point marked Mare Cimmerium.

"We keep our own records you know. Some are quite complex. Among them are maps, early ones and any new that we make ourselves. Our young men make new maps whenever we-go into new territory. Also, we steal your maps when we can, since you have the spy-eyes, up in the high heavens, and can see things once in a while that we do not." His finger went back to the blot marked Cimmerium.

"We do not know this place. Men who have gone here—that is, young men seeking visions or new games areas, who said they were going here—have not ever returned. If any early expedition of your people, or perhaps far back, when they were our people, went here, it did not report either. For a long time we have avoided this place. On the maps kept by the Wise Women, which ail clans have a right to use, this is bad country—'Bad Country One,' because it is the first one we found." His finger moved to another uncharted area, also in tire south, a narrower one labeled Scamander. "This is a second such place, Bad Country Two. We have heard of others still, on the other side of the planet, but they are only rumors, and it is with this hemisphere that we have to deal.

"So, we have two bad countries. They are deep places, with what you call great canyons or rifts running down the center. And there are other things we know about them. Marswood is very strange there. The old Mars plants are large there as well as our new ones. In fact, they are very thick there. Also, there are some things you have never seen, and we—only far off. Beasts of some size but not, we think, of old Earth." His quiet tones died without echo. His auditors had plenty to think about.

It had not surprised earlier scientists at all to find that Mars possessed a native plant life. Many were surprised, though, at its complexity. Save for a few thoughtful exobiologists, no one had realized that if Mars was truly a dying world, its oxygen locked up in its soil, any surviving forms of life would probably be extremely sophisticated, rather than the simple mosses or lichens of the earlier speculations. The plants of Mars were fantastic, both in appearance and in their methods of living.

And they were still around. The tremendous boost in the oxygen content of the atmosphere had probably eliminated a few species, but most of the others had adapted somehow. For one thing, with all the free oxygen they needed, they could colonize places that the Terran life-forms still found too barren. As a result, the poles were a veritable jungle of Mars plants. They also grew thickly on the barren rock plateaus and deep into the caves, wherever even a minute amount of light penetrated. Many were distinctly dangerous.

When still small—in the long eons before Terraforming—many of the latter had learned, like the bladderworts and pitcher plants of Earth, to trap the tiny "insects" that the first explorers found occasionally in the ground cover. In many cases now grown to large size, these same plants, the "old" plants as Thau Lang called them, were only too pleased with the introduced animal life, up to and including human beings. The time of greatest danger to unwary humans was the long Martian winter, when many of the introduced species died back, sporated, or simply hibernated. The Ruckers had learned to live with the plants of old Mars and even to make use of some, but a faint element of fear still shrouded everything not of Terran origin. For all their local knowledge, even the True People felt on occasion that they were only trespassers on an ancient and alien world.

"What animals? Only a couple have been recorded much larger than an Earth cat—the original ones I mean, not the ferkats." Feng was perhaps sharper than he meant to sound.

As an Intelligence officer, he was supposed to be the last word on Martian life-forms. On Mars I-Corps was the military's science section as well, and the tall Chinese was a skilled biologist. But Lang was unruffled.

Chapter 4 – What's Out There?

"Captain, I do not know how to answer you," Thau Lang replied. "Men who have very carefully scouted the edges of these two forbidden areas claim to have seen large shapes, to have seen strange tracks, to have heard sounds unlike anything else we know. If we go into the Ruck together—as Louis and I plan—perhaps then you will be the first to learn more. Who knows?"

"Old Martians." In Nakamura's deep-chested tones, the phrase rang like a gong. "After all these years, are we really going out to look up some drunk prospector's tale? Granted, the weapon we just saw is a peculiar thing, but does it have to mean that an alien technology exists? I'd use Occam's Razor, sir, and postulate some kind of trick to make us believe just that—to take us off guard, so that the real enemy could be at our throats." Nakamura's glare of dislike swept the table but landed only on the four clanspeople. He had brought up something that they had all avoided, perhaps unconsciously.

When old friends with long service on Mars met for a relaxed evening in a secluded spot, a certain subject was very apt indeed to recur—perhaps a tale about the finding of an oddly carved stone on a distant plateau. When the waitress brought drinks the conversation would stop, of course. But when she left, a second veteran might cap the first tale with one of his own, about the moving lights he had seen far off on a winter's night deep in the Ruck, lights of a strange violet shade, which seemed to rise in the air before fading out.

Every scrap of such information, including the maunderings of the few half-insane souls who still tried to find treasure out in the wilderness of Marswood, was said to be kept in a sealed vault at I-Corps Center on Earth. This too was probably a legend, thought Slater. At least no I-Corps man or woman could be made to confirm it. All it meant, if true, was that even the cold computers and their human children who ruled I-Corps were not immune to the magic of finding another intelligent race in the Solar System.

Yet innumerable books and space operas, the Tridee fare of young and old, resurrected the Old Martians each time they were buried by the tired voices of orthodox science. At least twice a year in the Parliament of Man, some delegate could be counted on to rise and "disclose new evidence of a native intelligent race on Mars," as well as to ask (or demand) that UN forces investigate, preferably within twenty-four hours. And high-echelon visitors always wanted to know what the "latest evidence" for intelligent Martian life was. They all seemed to feel that the UN Command had nothing better to do than run down the latest rumor on the subject. Since they all seemed to feel that the very same people had a great deal of information they were concealing, and made this belief plain, the exasperation of any Mars veteran about the subject of Old Martians was not hard to understand.

All this passed through Slater's mind in a flicker, then he listened, for Muller was answering Nakamura.

"Your theory may be right, Lieutenant. That is half right. I too am in favor of Occam's Razor. Let us eliminate the unnecessary from our calculations by all means. However. All the evidence says that the True People, our beloved enemies whom you regard with such proper suspicion, are not behind this drive for unity. They are being used." He crushed his cigarette in an ashtray of native jadeite.

"That artifact we examined may have been made on Earth, or it may have been made here. By whoever is leading this movement—by the 'U-Men,' let us say. Or it may have been made in neither place." He smiled slightly at the effect of his words.

"No, I am not seriously proposing that we have visitors from Pluto or the Crab Nebula. But let's assume that we have human enemies to deal with. People who dislike the present world government. Does any other place seem plausible as a headquarters? I address my officers, since this is their province rather than that of the True Men."

"The asteroid belt. A secret factory. It's the logical place, sir, with all the big-company mines having their plants out there. A secret base would be a cinch and it's nearer than Earth is in most of its trajectories." Feng coughed and even appeared a little embarrassed. "I, ugh, sometimes compose absurd theories of warfare for my own amusement, sir, and I have often thought that the belt was a logical spot to use as a base for an attack. I thought of Earth as the target, though, not Mars."

"Yes, the belt is not well policed and we know that the big corporations do not always comply with regulations. If one of them is implicated, the belt is a good place. So good that we are having it looked at in-depth, as we sit here. But it will be a long search, out there and back on Earth as well. The only thing we can do here is to improve our surveillance satellites so that if a ship is dodging the ones now used, it may be caught. And a good spy, maybe a plant at H.Q., could even negate that move.

"So we are left with the Ruck. Gentlemen, I need three flexible men—good combat men—to work in the Ruck, with our friends here. In fact, I want you disguised as Ruckers. If you accept, I'll get on with it. Any questions?—Yes, Lieutenant Nakamura?"

"My size, sir. I've never seen a Rucker my size. I thought six feet was the absolute limit. I don't see how I fit in here."

"Very sound thinking. I'll let Danna Strom answer you."

The girl was not rude, simply terse. "These new strange men, the ones who say they belong to a secret clan: They are all as big as you, Lieutenant, at least the ones we have seen. They know that many of our foolish young men think that great size is important in a man. The strangers say that all will be their size, the size of gods, when the Greenies are kicked off the planet."

"You mean that I'm supposed to impersonate one of these mystery men? But I can't even speak Rucker, let alone whatever these weird types talk. And are they brown-eyed? With my yellow hair?"

"Don't worry, we've thought of that one." Muller's tone was easy and relaxed. "You'll have dye on your skin and hair. Contacts too. As for language, nothing could teach you believable Rucker in less than a year, so you'll be under a vow of silence. It's a common thing among the younger warmen, teaches them discipline. And you'll be getting lessons from the True People with us as well, so that in a short time you can understand some of what's said. That's the most important thing."

"Despite—well, shall we say pronounced lack of cooperation from the Ruckers, there is a considerable body of material available on their social life. I can release any of it needed. And I shall welcome the chance to see how much of our data are accurate." Captain Feng was as close to being enthusiastic as he ever allowed himself. "How long to when we leave, sir?"

"Three days. That is so no possible leak can develop and also because we are desperate for quick results. Not much time."

They were to plunge into the Ruck, into Marswood, on a mission of extraordinary danger allied to four of their bitterest enemies, people who had by their own admission killed many UN men in battle. With these strange guides, the four officers were to penetrate utterly unknown country, going into areas deemed by the savages themselves too dangerous to trifle with. Apart from the known hazards of Marswood, which were lethal enough, the likelihood of encountering something unknown and inimical appeared excellent. In cold light of reason, the only sensible thing to do was to bolt from the room and ask to be hospitalized, choosing cowardice as the far less of two evils!

Since no one contemplated anything of the kind, it was evident that the colonel knew his men. Actually, they were being given an opportunity for a secret mission into enemy country—the dream of any junior officer. Even the usually imperturbable Captain Feng could not conceal his excitement. Yes, Muller knew his men, Slater conceded ruefully to himself.

"I will instruct Feng on how to brief you two," the commander said. "There's a dance tonight and you might as well enjoy it. Keep your mouths shut and I'll see you in the morning. This is Wednesday. We leave at dawn on Saturday, before daylight. The True People will be quartered in the I-Corps Section, except for Thau Lang, who will share my quarters. I'll give separate orders about them."

As the Ruckers filed out behind the old konsel, Slater kept his eyes on the young Wise Woman. Was he mistaken, or had a wistful look come over her face at the mention of the dance? At the door she turned and looked back at him before going out with the others. What did they say, those tawny eyes, that made his skin tingle whenever they met his?

The weekly dance in the Free Lounge was usually good fun, and this one was no exception. The fort was buzzing with rumors, and the tight seal on outside communication had hardly damped them. Since it was known that Slater and Nakamura were in the inner circle, they were besieged with pleas for information.

"Come on, Lieutenant, give!" Private Bobbie Lee Wilcox, the post clown, was eager for any kind of information. "You can have my booze card for a month, honest!"

"Bobbie Lee," Slater said, before taking a judicious pull at his Old Marswood and soda, "your ration was pledged, the last time I checked, three years ahead to various lads and ladies. Otherwise I'd be glad to help out." There was a shout of laughter from the others around them. "The Prophet forbids me strong drink," he added impassively.

Eventually the crowd drifted off to pounce on Nakamura, who had just walked in. Slater was brooding over his next drink when dulcet tones inquired if he cared to dance. Looking up, he found Mohini Dutt smiling down at him. The Benares Bomber wore a few strategic wisps of green here and there that managed to make her magnificent brown body seem about three times nakeder than if she had been nude.

Out on the floor, her approach was about as subtle as that of a main battle tank. "What are you guys cooking up, you Pathan rat?" she purred into his ear. "Feng won't tell me, although I know everything else. You types are leaving the fort. I know that because I get to be I-Corps chief until Captain Inscrutable comes back." She rubbed softly against him and at the same time looked deep into his eyes. Several watching males felt their temperatures rise ten degrees.

"Ah, what am I bid for my secret, Helpless Hindu Passion Plant?"

"I might have known," she said with mock weariness. "But," she added, her voice hardening, "I want something besides words. You bums are going on some spree or other. I want in. Why should I stay here and knit? I can deck any one of you, including Nakamura—and I mean in hand-to-hand, so wipe that leer off your face."

"Well, I do have a certain amount of discretion, Mohini," Slater said, his face rigid. "But I can't talk about it here. Why don't we adjourn to—"

"My quarters? Well, I can always throw you out. Anyway, my boy is on leave at Orcus and we couldn't go together. He must be shacked up with at least three of those rapacious base bimbos by now, poor darling." Her current flame was Senior Warrant Palacios, whom Slater had always thought a near relative of a Mountain gorilla. However, he had the sense not to laugh. He enjoyed the glare he got from Nakamura as he followed Mohini from the big lounge, but missed the tears in the eyes of little Spec. 4 Bronwyn Carter, who had been eyeing his dashing leanness for the whole fortnight of her present assignment.

"Never mind, love," said Bronwyn's superior, Sergeant Palla Gluck. "Have a drink and relax. That big slob will wear him out and it's only a temporary arrangement anyway. Next week he'll be free again."

After a pleasant but totally enervating night, Slater reported to Captain Feng and soon discovered that he was not there for a rest cure. Classified hypnotapes of what was known to I-Corps about the Ruckers began at once. To break the train of thought and keep one alert, a refresher on the life-forms of Mars, native and introduced, began the minute a segment of the other tape stopped. By noon, lieutenants Slater and Nakamura had the feeling that they had been carrying bricks up Mount Everest. Hypnotapes are not easy to digest, being high-pressure, subliminal teaching of the most advanced kind. A morning on the couch was followed by a long afternoon of the same. Slater and his friend had only the dubious comfort of seeing Feng put himself through most of the same tapes, with Mohini Dutt taking over the transmission machine. The colonel and Thau Lang remained in Muller's quarters and the three younger Ruckers stayed in a sealed-off section of the I-Corps basement. No one mentioned them, but Slater tried to bum into his mind every scrap of information he could extract about the Rucker Wise Women. Mohini Dutt would have been quite annoyed to learn that even in their moments of greatest passion, the curious amber gaze of Danna Strom had kept intruding into Slater's mind. Somehow he could not get the girl's face out of his head. Or her slim body. Even while tapes and pictures fed into his brain through the omniviewer, somehow the strange loveliness of the little wild woman kept obtruding between his consciousness and the images he was supposed to be absorbing. Damn! This is really incredible. It has to stop! Back to work, idiot!

"The outstanding characteristics of the Mars plant we call Neorhus and the locals, giant ivy, are incredibly fast growth, adaption to considerable cold, and the refined vesicant poison of the leaf surfaces. The constituents of the latter, a mutated modification of the urushiol secreted by the ancestral plant, consist essentially of two complex vegetable proteins. Serums worked out on Earth, where the original plant is no more than a nuisance, are useless here on Mars, and the virulence of the mutated secretions must be combated by different measures. First, injections—"

The droning, supercilious voice on the tape he was listening to suddenly cut off and the mask of the viewscreen removed from his face. He found Mohini Dutt looking down at him. The others still lay under their headshields on nearby couches.

"I don't know about you, super stud" was her affectionate greeting. "I have orders to let the three new pets have whatever they want, within reason, that is. Guess what little Miss Man-eater wants? You, lover boy, that's what. So shake loose and go hold her hand, or whatever she wants held. The colonel says you can have half an hour." She made an obscene gesture and went back to her machines.

Somewhat dazed from the omniviewer, Slater made no wisecracks as he went down the corridor. A guard, who had notice of his coming, admitted him to the quarters occupied by the three younger Ruckers.

Once inside the suite, he was conscious of a strange but not unpleasant odor. Then into the main room from a side door came Danna Strom. She carried two cups of something that steamed, the obvious source of the smell. There was no sign of the other two Ruckers.

"Sit down on this couch, please, Lieutenant Slater." As he did she extended one of the cups. The fragrance was sharp and yet pleasant, bittersweet and untamed, not unlike the girl herself. She sat next to him, still holding out one cup in invitation.

"I have made the Tea of Dreaming. You do not know yet what that is. As a Wise Woman, I cannot lie to myself. Our lives are mingled—at least, that is how I read it in my own dreams." The amber cat eyes stared into his from a foot away. "Drink. It will not harm you. I swear by my oath of guidance, by my medal of office." She drew the leather thong from out of her collar. From the end hung a flat medallion, apparently of hammered silver. With his right hand Slater reached for the cup. With his left he took the medal and held it up.

It showed one blank side, but on the other, much worn by time and use, a face. It was not human, but it might have been mammalian. The chin was very square and the large oval eyes wrapped around the round head to-well on the sides. The ears, if that is what they were, were cones, set higher on the skull than those of humans, so that they were almost stubby horns. The forehead bulged. The thing was very, very old, Slater realized, and he knew that he was seeing something that probably no one not a Rucker had ever looked at before.

There was only one response to a gesture of trust such as this. He tilted his cup and drank. He had been sitting erect, but as the hot liquid raced down his throat, its effect was instantaneous. Despite himself he clawed for his holstered gun even as he slid sideways. Yet his last thought was one of relief, for he saw with fading sight that the girl was slumping beside him, her drained cup also dropped to the floor. Then blackness closed in.

Chapter 5 – The Sea of Dreams

At first the darkness was broken only by vague patches of light, as if Slater were in the ancient empty belly of space between the great galaxies, and the galaxies themselves were just distant blurs, the only breaks in the chaos of mindless night, the outer rim of eternity.

Then the light grew, the blurs increased, like ink spreading over a blotter, until suddenly it was day and Slater found himself looking out over an alien landscape. And beside him was the girl.

He knew, deep inside, that he was in the grip of the unreal, but he was quite incapable of doing anything about that. It was as if he and the Wise Woman were puppets being moved about the land by mighty and invisible fingers. Despite his awareness of the dream state, it was real, yet on another plane.

The sky overhead was green, and from it two suns flamed, one red and close, the other blazing white, twice the power of the red orb but much, much farther away. They sat in tall blue-green grass. In the middle distance tall trees swayed in the wind, their bronze trunks gleaming in the sunlight. Even as he thought this, the man realized that there was no wind. It was beautiful but quite unearthly. And un-Martian as well.

It was the immediate foreground that gripped him, however. The grass grew right down to the edge of water, brown still water that stretched out of sight, both before them and away on either hand. No beach was visible, just the sward reaching down to the sea. Somehow he knew that it was a sea, not a lake or river. Brown was its normal color, not soil or vegetational staining, this too he knew.

Now, far out, something broke the surface. Its details were beyond the range of vision, but it was coming toward them rapidly and soon its outlines could be made out. It was some kind of boat.

They stood up now and he noted that they were both nude. He felt as innocent as a child, and as lighthearted. She turned to him and smiled and held out a hand to take his. Together they walked down to the water, to await the boat, which was now very close to the land.

It was a small boat, high at bow and stern. In the stem was a tall figure, garbed in curious red wrappings, its head masked in a featureless round helm, also red, with no eyeholes. It was very thin, and as the vessel touched the shore it stood, holding a steering oar in bluish, bony claws, in an attitude of listening. Somehow, Slater knew, it could not see, but used another sense. For the first time he grew a little afraid, and he felt the girl shrink against his side. He noticed, almost in passing, a bulbous, glittering object protruding from the creature's scarlet belt, but caught no detail.

The compulsion to board the boat was overwhelming, and the strange helmsman and the dread he radiated were not enough to prevent it. The creature stood unmoving until they stepped aboard, and only then did it thrust with its oar and turn them from the bank. As the boat glided across the surface in the direction from which it had come, Slater realized that no means of propulsion was apparent and that the strange master of the craft steered it. only with his oar.

So fast was the dream's pace! Already they were far out on the waters and the land behind them had receded to a distant blur. All around them the brown and silent sea stretched, still, without wave or wind motion, without a ripple or a sign of life. On and on sailed the little boat. Hand in hand, like two frightened children, Slater and Danna sat silent in its center, ever conscious of the tall figure that towered behind them.

At last in the distance ahead another blur showed that once more they were approaching land. Like two numbed spectators of some shadow play, who cannot take part but are doomed forever to watch, the man and woman waited as the details of the land ahead grew out of the alien sea on which they floated.

It was not similar to that which they had left but higher, and as the details became clearer their blood grew chill, despite the warm and windless air.

Tall reddish things, slimy fronds limp in the dead air, rose above the dark soil of the landing place. Under these nightmare growths—for to call them trees was impossible—grew stunted, twisted shapes like deformed mushrooms, only far larger and with overlapping petals of a pallid yellow.

The boat came gently to rest on the marge, and still hand in hand, the two got out. Before them, up a gentle slope, led a path that they knew, despite their feeling an increasing dread, they must follow. As they began to walk, terror building slowly in their captive minds, behind them they heard the faint swash of their ferry craft's turning to retrace its track across the brown water.

Before they turned a high corner of the path, they paused to look back. Behind and below them, the half-moon boat was putting out to sea again, the red ball of the pilot's helm gleaming in the setting of the large red sun. The white sun had gone and now they realized that the light was fading. Far below, from the surface of the distant water, came a strange, echoing cry, high and mournful. It was the farewell of the nightmare boatman, a note somehow mocking and scornful as well as somber and menacing.

Now they turned once more and continued their enforced pilgrimage into the evening shadows of the strange wood. They were high on the shoulder of a hill, and before them the dark growths seemed to cluster closer still about the narrow path. The land leveled too, but they had felt no strain of climbing.

The sense of being pulled grew stronger yet, and as they advanced, for the first time, Slater tried feebly to fight back, as feeling grew that they were being lured to some unimaginable horror. The girl's pale body beside him, still gripping his hand, seemed to lend him strength. For the first time he managed to check his pace, as if the laws of the alien land of dreams were relaxing and might allow him—if he was strong enough—some control over his own body.

Then the pull strengthened and he was powerless to gainsay it. Something ahead was drawing them on, and no mere human strength would ever be enough to resist it. Lurching and stumbling, he and his helpless companion were led inexorably on into the deepening shade of the accursed tree things that by then actually grew over the path.

The red sun was on the horizon, and the gloom under the strange plant life was becoming hard to penetrate. The path still led on, though, and they had no trouble following it. Then the call began.

From the trees ahead there came a hideous sound. It was a wailing that rose and fell on the still air of the haunted wood. It was not loud, but it was curiously penetrating, seeming to permeate their very bones. Slater sensed a kinship to the cry of the eldritch boatman, even as he heard it. Despite the icy chill which warned them that only doom lay ahead, the two began to run. They were being called, called to some unknown end by some unimaginable horror and there was no way they could halt their progress, no way they could stop. Hand in hand they raced on, while the wailing grew in volume ahead of them. Now it was so close that a turn around the next comer would bring them to it. It had to be stopped, but there was no help, no help, no—

"No! No!" gasped Slater. He was half off the couch, his arms raised to ward something off. Beside him the Rucker girl was waking too, her eyes filled with the same terror as his, her mouth also open to cry out in defiance and despair.

They came truly awake and checked their cries at the same moment. Staggering to his feet, Slater leaned against a table on the side of the room and looked down at the girl who had come through the ghastly experience with him. For he had no doubt that she had somehow been with him, had shared whatever emotions and experiences he had. The mysterious drink they had taken had somehow linked their minds in a way he had not dreamed possible, but that he was nearly not sure existed. His breath came more evenly but it was still a moment before he could trust his voice.

"So much for your oath! I wonder why I believed you when you said nothing could happen to me!"

Her response was agonized. "No, no, you must believe me! Nothing like this ever happened before. On my life, Slater—on my life, I swear that nothing like this ever happened. We have been taken by something else that is not from us but outside! Please, I beg—" And here her glance grew proud and she sat erect. "I, Wise Woman of the True People, beg you to listen. You do not know what that means, maybe, but since I became a woman, I have never begged anything. This is terribly important, what just happened to us."

He could not but believe her. Her sincerity was too transparent, and besides, the True People did not lie when they said, like children, that they would not. That much he had come to know from his most recent training. He sat down again and took her outstretched hand in his.

"All right, Danna. I'm sorry. I was too hasty. Tell me what you think happened. Better still, start by telling me what you think ought to have happened when we drank the stuff—it links minds, doesn't it?"

"Yes! The Dream Tea helps one to see the future, and it also ties the minds of those who—well, of friends, persons who trust one another together so that they sometimes can see part of the future together. Only the Wise Women know how to make it, and we alone have the right to give it out. But it is uncertain. You cannot always trust what it shows. It might show a hunt, with men being killed. Then the real hunt might have other, different men killed. Or it might show a man his father or mother when they were long dead." She made this latter announcement quite calmly, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

She looked away and her voice grew slightly muffled. "I had a vision which said that you and I might be tied to one another in some way. It was a strong vision!" She looked back and her eyes grew larger as she continued. "But what happened to us, I never heard of anything like that! We were in a place that does not exist, being pulled by some awful power. I never believed such a thing possible. Those trees and whatever creature was in the boat, they were like things out of an evil dream, the kind you get when you eat bad food. That surely was no vision of the future!" Her voice was shaking with remembered disgust.

Slater was silent, thinking hard. He was deathly tired but he also felt that somehow, somewhere, the elements of the dream vision had a message for him. But the effort required to use his tired brain, already overtaxed by the forced learning of the hypnotapes, was too much and he gave up trying. Perhaps it would make more sense later.

The girl eyed him in silence. She had recovered her self-control and now she sat on the plastic of the issue couch and waited for him to speak.

"I'm going to see the colonel and your boss, Thau Lang," he said, thinking out his problem slowly. "Maybe they can make some sense of this." A new thought came to him. "Where are the other two? They must have heard this, heard us cry out. How come they aren't here by now?"

A movement too small to be called a smile touched the corner of Danna's mouth. "They are asleep. They do not like the fort; they are like your Nakamura and cannot give up their hatred easily. I gave them a drug, to sleep until we go. Besides," she added, her voice perfectly frank, "I wanted to be alone with you. Our lives are linked. The dream showed that even if whatever else was there makes no sense. I think we are to love each other ..." She looked down, as if a little startled by what she had said.

"Danna, Danna," Slater began. He could not immediately frame words, and paused, startled by the intensity of the emotion that swept over him. "Listen, I feel strongly toward you, but I am an officer on duty. I cannot talk of such things now, not until the mission is over. Do you understand?" Slater's words surfaced with an intensity that surprised him. Desperately, with a passion that one corner of his brain continued to regard with amazement, he wanted the girl to believe him.

She looked at him long and hard, the amber, slanted eyes seeming to weigh his Very soul. Then she sighed, as a good child does when told that he only can go to the circus next week. "I understand," she said in her soft, husky voice. "I wish it were not so. But we may have a journey together; in fact, that is what is planned. Things may change."

As he left the room, shaken in body and spirit, she made no move toward him and his last glimpse was of her sitting, bemused, on the big divan. She could not have showed more plainly that she loved him. And he had been forced to reject her, a rejection that hurt him more than he would have believed possible. Extraordinary though it seemed, he apparently was falling in love with a member of a jungle race sworn to destroy everything he had been trained to uphold. Yet he did not seem to mind!

Slater returned to Mohini and explained that he had to see the colonel at once. She had no objection. The other two were still under their masks and the afternoon run of the lessons had some time to go yet.

There was no guard at Muller's quarters and Slater was admitted by the commandant himself. Though he had been invited in before, the room still held his interest. There were many loaded bookshelves, some of the volumes in languages that meant nothing to Slater. But there were also curious art pieces, many of primitive Earth art and, he had been told, valuable. A mask of wood, a Biafran antiquity, hung next to a painting of Martian hawks by Ferruco, the planet's best-known artist. The colonel had said that the curved throwing stick of polished wood that hung over the door was an ancient woomera of old Australia, a special kind called a kirris, used only for warfare and never for the hunt. Other mementos and curiosities were scattered about. The only visible weapon besides the boomerang was a very short, heavy Rucker bow. It was in the hands of Thau Lang, who sat at ease in a carved wooden chair, rubbing down the polished dark wood with a cloth and some oil. He nodded gravely as Slater came in.

Slater said quickly, "I need some advice, sir. And I think the konsel better hear it too."

He told the whole story, attempting to conceal nothing, but stumbled a bit when he came to the part that concerned his own feelings about Danna. Somehow he got through it all. The two older men listened in silence, occasionally glancing at one another but not interrupting.

"You were right to come to me," Muller said when Slater was through. "This is most important. I know a little bit about the Dream Tea and the konsel much more. I have never heard of this effect or any such dream, nothing remotely like it. What about you, Thau?"

"I have heard of it. But only—how do you say, Louis—secondhand. Such strange dreams have come occasionally, it is said, to men who have taken the Dream Tea when near one of the forbidden lands, the bad countries. Few care to speak of such things openly, and Danna is very, very young to be a Wise Woman. She probably has not heard of this, but there are older women of my clan who know about such dreams—they are meant as a warning by evil spirits, at least that is the explanation I have heard. I simply made a note of it in my secret files since I planned to go to the bad country some day myself—at least before I die."

Muller rose and began to pace the room, hands behind his back. "This sort of thing is a special study of mine. I've read about everything in five languages on it and a lot more that I got translated. I know the effects of most Terran and Martian hallucinogens, from the peyote buttons to the mutated Rauwolfia that makes up the main ingredient for that cup of tea you just had, Slater. But what I can't seem to learn anything about are the temporal effects, the distances covered in space and time by these happenings. Because there is an element of predictability and this sort of experience does show the future, however dimly—and the past, sometimes. But I have never dared ask what the I-Corps files on the subject have. Afraid of a reprimand, I guess."

He wheeled suddenly and glared at Slater. "How strong was this feeling that you had seen something familiar, something you recognized?"

"Well—it's hard to pin it down, sir, but it was strong enough to make me feel that it was important. I've never been that scared in my life, but still I knew I'd noticed something, maybe some things. I just can't seem to recall what it or they were."

"Hmph. And you're no chicken, either. Well, let it alone for now and try to sneak up on it mentally later. Otherwise, if you're anything like me, you'll never get it. That weird boatman of yours, now. Did he make you think of anything? I have an idea of my own, but it's one I'd rather mull over a long time before producing."

"No—nothing in particular, just something alien and malignant. Wait! I did have a feeling! That ... if the creature's helmet had been removed, I might have seen the face that I saw on Danna's medal." The old konsel stiffened as Slater spoke and he realized belatedly that he had not mentioned the medal.

He backtracked and described the whole thing again. It was quickly obvious that Thau Lang was shocked.

"Louis," he said abruptly, "and you, too, young Slater, this is a terrible thing you tell me, if what you say is true. Louis, you know more of the True People than any other off-planet man. You and I have a plan to bring peace to Mars, one that we have shared for many years. But this is something that no outsider, not even a blooded warman or clanwoman, should know. The medals of the Wise Women and the ones that we konsels get, they are given at secret ceremonies that no one outside must hear of, on pain of death." He paused, his face a graven mask, the chevrons of the senior warmen standing out on his lined forehead.

"I do not ever mention my medal except to an equal. I will not show it now. It is here-—" He tapped his breast. "But I will say to you both, under secrecy, that it resembles a smaller one like Danna's. Young Slater, do you know what you are saying about our most sacred emblem?" His voice was agonized and sweat beaded his forehead.

"Calm, calm, old friend." Muller's answering voice was deep and reassuring. "You are a konsel, a senior warman, not a child. You have a new thought, that the True People may have been in the grip of some alien force for many, many years. That your sacred secret was foisted on you by something that is using you and your people. It may be so and yet—it may be nothing of the kind. The Dream Tea tells many half-truths and not so infrequently a sheer fantasy, with no truth at all—only the ego wish of the one who dreams. So take heart. Even if—I say, if—there is a connection of some kind between your medals and the evil we seek, then you will need a man's full strength to untangle the evil web. This is no time to fall to bemoaning past mistakes. We must be alert, keep our eyes open, and watch for new things, new ideas, new interpretations. And you are no longer alone." He leaned over and lightly punched the sinewy shoulder of his friend. "Some day you will tell me, if you think it fit, how you got those medals."

Chapter 6 – A Menacing Start

Thau Lang was chagrined.

"You are right, I cannot afford to be weak. Thank you, Louis. As you say, it is better not to be alone in a case like this. We had—" He paused, head cocked on one side. "A runner comes this way, Louis. Someone needs you, I think."

A peremptory knock brought them all to their feet. Muller opened the door and a breathless sergeant saluted and handed him a message flimsy. "Duty officer said this was marked Most Urgent, Colonel, so I ran."

"Thank you, Sergeant, you were quite right. Say nothing to anyone, and tell the duty officer and the communications man who took the message the same. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" In a second the man was gone, striding up the passage. As his footsteps died away, Muller's impassive face relaxed a little and he sighed as he reread the flimsy.

"This would have to happen now! Of all the infernal damned luck! No, wait! I won't believe this is luck, by God! Too many coincidences make a pattern." He tossed the message to Slater. "Here. Read it aloud."

Slater read the eight-word message slowly, as much due to tiredness as anything else. "Pelham escaped. Believed heading your way. More follows." It was signed by the governor of Mars, Slater noted.

Thau Lang sat up at this. Even the Ruck was not thick enough to keep out Pelham's story. No one needed to ask which Pelham. If there had been a thousand men of that name on the planet, the fact that the governor sent a personal comm would have made it plain who was meant. In an emergency there was only one Pelham.

"Junius Brutus Pelham is loose again. JayBee," Muller said. His tone was soft, musing, as if he was reminiscing to himself rather than talking to others. For five years, long Martian years, the most dangerous man on Mars had been securely caged. Clever attorneys, paid with much of the loot Pelham had secreted and which the government's best efforts had been unable to locate, had beaten the X Chamber. But they could do no more. Life imprisonment was the best they could get him, and the settlements had almost risen in revolt even so. For JayBee Pelham, as they called him, was no ordinary criminal, or even killer. He was a monster, a throwback to some age of Attila or Timur, or to use a somewhat more recent example, the warped animal who had created German Naziism. A murderer a dozen times over, Pelham was also a criminal genius. And more, for the man could attract adherents, men and women who were themselves no common thugs; people of great talent who believed Pelham to be their Messiah.

The People's Work Force, the political party he organized, had no real program beyond hazy utopianism and Free Everything, but it had JayBee and that made it a standing menace. Before he was exposed for a thief and murderer, the PWF had won many local elections and come very near to dominating the Martian Union, the planet's unicameral legislature. But the Planetary Security Service, working with I-Corps of the UN Command, learned of the criminal conspiracy Pelham headed, and it was they who finally hunted him down. His exposure wrecked the party beyond recall. The evidence was too clear, for all save the fanatics—and there were few of them. When they realized that they had come so close to electing a demagogue and spellbinder who was as dangerous as a plague bacillus, a vast wave of nausea swept over the older cities that held the majority of Mars' citizens.

Still, the police and military almost failed to get their man. Even while the net was closing, JayBee and his inner circle did the unexpected—they took to the Ruck and vanished. To most of the planet, they seemed to have committed suicide.

I-Corps and the high command on Mars were not so sanguine, however. They had come to respect Pelham's abilities and were unwilling to assume that he was dead until the body was on display. The thought ran around the council chambers like lightning. "What if Pelham somehow managed to join the Ruckers?" Pelham and the Ruckers in combination? The very idea was a nightmare!

The finest "bush" experts of the UN forces were consulted. Rewards for information from True People informants—there are always a few, though the information they would give was very limited—-were doubled. And a number of hunting groups were formed. One was led by Muller, then a major, but already known to be the best man in the Ruck on the planet, at least in Terran uniform.

Two months later, acting on intuition, scraps of information, and computer forecasts, Muller found his man in an arid section of the great Elysium plain. Pelham had not been able to get outside help, and his extraordinary powers were gravely weakened away from the areas under civilized control. He and his little band of the faithful were iii, and they surrendered without a fight. Many people who knew nothing about the matter tended to discount the fabled Pelham ability after that, but Muller was not one of them, as he now explained.

"He talked quite freely to me on the way back to the copter LZ. We had a bit of a wait and he was a little delirious.

"Consider what he did. Knowing almost nothing of the Ruck, he managed to remain hidden and unkilled by the True People for two months. His group, five men and three women, were ill but not dying. I honestly think they were getting better! He never stopped experimenting, did JayBee—on people, plants, clothes, anything he could reach. Listen to what he told me, will you: 'I made a mistake, Major, a bad one. I never paid any real attention to the Ruck before. Next time I'll know better. This is where the action is, not in the Enclaves, and this is where the power is. Look for me next time and you'll have a little trouble.' He actually smiled at me. He has great charm, you know.

"Well, I laughed at him, which was my mistake. I was sure he could not escape the X Chamber. Now he's loose at the worst possible time and in the worst possible area. Add another factor to an already dubious equation."

"Could he be behind this, sir—I mean, the very thing we are investigating?"

"No, I don't see how that's possible, Slater. There's an active, guiding element involved, but one that just isn't Pelham. I'll tell you this—and I may even be wrong about what I said earlier—Pelham is now probably pretty much of a Ruck specialist. He gets books, and you can bet there's a leak, even in a MaxSec prison like Orcus Center. He still has followers, that we know. We didn't get them all, and some of them are still probably hidden in places where they can cause a lot of trouble. As well as seeing that JayBee got all the dope on whatever interested him. Oh yes, he's a Ruck expert now. And whatever is going on out there, he knows something about it, whether he actually started it or not. And he's going to be mixed up in it from now on too." Muller paused as if thinking.

"I'm going to talk to the High Command and the governor on my own set. There may be more information. Slater, go get some sleep. You have more tapes to audit tomorrow. Thau, you look tired too. Get some rest. We may not have too many chances in the days ahead." Despite Muller's gloomy words, he smiled as he spoke.

This gives him a charge, all this worry and excitement, mused Slater as he shuffled wearily back to his own quarters.

Friday morning found Slater back on his couch again and by noon the previous night's rest was spent. His brain seethed with newly acquired knowledge of the Ruck and its inhabitants: human, lower animal, and plant. Lunch break gave him a half hour of respite and then it was back to the taped pictures and voices. By late afternoon he and the other two looked as if they had been pulled through a vise. When the last tape ended he got up and stretched wearily. Feng and Nakamura had some minutes to go and he was about to head for his room and a shower when a sinewy brown arm encircled his neck from behind.

"What about our bargain, louse? I know you types leave tomorrow. I thought you were going to try and get me on to the strength." Two firm prominences pressed into the back of his sweat-soaked uniform, and he was aware that Mohini had on some musky scent that cut through his tiredness like a knife. Yet what Slater felt was a rising irritation.

"Now look, gorgeous, what can I really do? You know it would take I-Corps permission to get you taken along. By now you know pretty well what we're looking for, because the I-Corps dope has been issued to all you types. And you know about Pelham too, don't you?" He had turned in her grip and was holding her firmly by the waist, looking hard into the deep-brown eyes as he spoke.

"Yes," she admitted. "Intellicom told us about Pelham. No one else, though. The planet news services haven't got it yet and they aren't meant to either. The longer we have without outside attention the better. But what about me?"

"For God's sake, Mohini, be reasonable! What on Mars can I do about it?"

"You can speak to Muller, that's what, you jerk! He's the boss on this thing and he can do anything he wants to. And you're his fair-haired boy. If you ask him the right way, suggest that a woman operative, I-Corps type, could be useful—and I damned well could too—he might think it was a great idea."

Slater stood irresolute, holding her by the waist still. It was a shock to realize that the garrison thought Muller liked him that well. Was it true? Could he really ask such a favor? He did not hear the door open behind him, but he saw the startled look in Mohini's eyes and felt her pull away suddenly. He turned only in time to see the door slide into its recess.

"Who the Hell was that?"

Mohini smoothed her hair in the gesture of a woman who needs her confidence restored. "Only your cannibal from down the hall. Who cares what she thinks anyway? Hey!"

Slater ran but he could not make the length of the corridor in time. The guard was gone from the door, but it was shut, and although he pounded on it, it would not open. "Danna!" he called, trying to keep his voice down, "let me in!" He could hear no answer. After five minutes of futile effort, he gave up and went away. He had to get ready for a final briefing with the Old Man that evening and he badly needed even a few moments to rest to get his thoughts in some kind of order. But all he could think of was a sad, small figure sitting on the big couch. What had she thought when she had seen him with his hands on Mohini? Ten minutes later he was in his own quarters, in the depths of sleep, utterly dreamless, the slumber of total exhaustion.

His comm buzzer woke him in pitch darkness. His watch said two in the morning, and he had no sooner discovered that fact then Nakamura was pounding at his door.

"Come on, Lieutenant, Sir Pathan. We have a lot to do, or had you forgotten all the briefing yesterday?"

Slater shaved and dressed in seconds and headed for the I-Corps cellars at a run. He had forgotten nothing, but there was precious little time for all that had to be done. As he left the room, he clipped the flat impervium box to his belt. Grabbit was coming too, rules or no rules.

He found Thau Lang and a short, square Rucker warman he had never seen before deep in conversation with Danna Strom and her two male companions. To one side, Nakamura and Feng were being painted with dark stain by two I-Corps enlisted men. The short Rucker turned and glared at Slater as he came in.

"You going to be this late out in the bush, Lieutenant?"

Despite the familiar voice, Colonel Muller's disguise was so good that Slater had been completely taken in by it. The worn leathers and fur hood, the faded chevrons apparently cut deep into his forehead, the belt of ferkat hide, and the gaudy hand-carved grips on the issue lasgun, all were perfect.

Muller smiled at his expression. "You'll be this pretty too, but not if you stand around all day. Get over there and get into the juice with the others. Once that's done, we have a lot more junk to get ready."

Ten minutes later, skin still damp from the stain, the three younger officers were climbing into thermal underwear and then into handmade imitation warsuits of the Rat Clan, suits on which the fort's tailor and his assistant had been slaving for two days. Once in the suits, they began to conceal about themselves the devices that lay on the long table at one end of the room. Slater managed to shift Grabbit's box into his Rucker belt pouch without being detected.

"We'll each have a minicamera." Muller held one of the tiny things up to the light. "They fit into the hilt of your bushknife, and they can't be—the knives, I mean—opened except by a reverse twist and a push toward the blade. The big knob on the hilt of each knife is a tiny beacon with a two-hundred-mile range and a service life of one hour. Copters and satellites will be listening to get a fix on it all the time. It is for the direct emergency only, and I don't mean personal emergency either, but that of the mission." He tapped the big knife on the table.

"It takes a good hard blow to smash the fake plasteel knob, and that activates the homer. Now look here." He held up a small package swathed in cloth.

"This is concentrated rations, Rucker style. It's hypercompressed, freeze-dried meat, uncooked. What animal, it's better not to speculate, except it won't be human. We'll each have three. Inside each block is a tiny blast grenade, a miniature of the issue type you're used to. The meat is genuine and edible. You'd have to rip the block open to find the grenade."

Muller continued to spell out the equipment, down to I-Corps minitorches, ultra miniature radio compasses, night-vision goggles, captured bows, and rifles as Slater tried to catch Danna's eye. But she seemed fascinated by the colonel's lecture and paid the anxious young man not the slightest attention, even when he shifted his position to place himself nearer her.

"I said, Slater, can't you use a Rucker bow? Are you awake yet, man?" Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Slater tried to pull his wits together.

"Sir, I—yes, I can. I've practiced a lot and even killed some small game."

"I know, but you're certain not to be warman standard. That makes four of the party who can use one. Feng and Nakamura can carry spears. A few of the warmen do because some men simply never make good bowmen, no matter how much they practice. We'll all have rifles, but the cartridges can't be replaced, of course, so we'll nurse them—like real Ruckers."

The immensely powerful little cartridges he referred to were not the various pellets or darts that both the handguns and the rifles actually fired.

Filled with compressed nitrogen under enormous pressure, the cartridges powered the different projectiles, however. Once they were exhausted, only a UN ordinance depot could reload them. Rucker artisans could make or duplicate almost anything in their hidden factories, but the precious propellant cylinders had to be stolen or done without. As a result they were the most precious form of loot to any of the True People and the one universal coinage of the Ruck. With cartridges one could buy almost anything except another human being or escape from a blood debt.

"Well, that's about it," Muller said. "Captain Feng, a private word with you." He took the I-Corps officer off into a comer, and they spoke in low tones for a minute. Slater noticed that Feng seemed agitated and angry, rare thing for a man who cultivated imperturbability as a matter of course.

"I'm sorry to have to make this statement," Colonel Muller said as he returned to the others.

"Briefly, Lieutenant Dutt would seem to have deserted. She came to my quarters last night and asked to speak to me privately. I was surprised at the intensity of her plea as well as its nature though the latter was perhaps understandable in a young and ambitious officer. She wished to be one of our group, and gave many reasons, none of which I found convincing. I refused. Here is where she was and, indeed, is needed. She has had no special training for the Ruck and, as a matter of fact, appears actually to have disliked it, from what I can learn since. She was chagrined at my refusal, but perfectly correct about it. I thought little of the matter until an hour ago, when the gate guard commander, Lieutenant Choibalsan, reported that he had let her out the gate. She had the password, of course, and also a 'verbal order' from me! To 'inspect' something or other." He turned and smiled at Feng, who was obviously unhappy. "Any other branch but I-Corps might have had a rough time pulling off that stunt, Captain. But your branch has its own rules. I've even heard rumors that line officers who make trouble for you don't get promoted. A reputation that opens doors, and gates, is sometimes embarrassing, eh?

"I had to tell Feng first, since it concerns his branch and because I-Corps occupies a special position in our plans and, of course, our defenses. Captain Feng says that he wishes you all to be made aware of this matter, and he has also offered to resign his position and remain here at the fort. I have refused his offer since Chief Warrant Le Sage is perfectly capable of handling the I-Corps work for the time being. I have already sent a comm to I-Corps Central asking for another experienced officer on a crash basis, to stay here until the present matter is settled." He looked around, his gaze cold.

He went on. "I don't know what this means, but I don't like it at all. However, I am leaving warman Arta Burg of the True People here at the fort. When information I have asked for comes in, he'll bring it to me. I thank him, and Danna Strom for asking him. Now, enough talk. You all look fit and ready. Let's be on our way." He led the way out the door and all the others followed, leaving Burg and the two enlisted men behind. Slater felt sorry for the young warman, who plainly hated the fort and all it stood for.

At the main gate, two figures appeared out of the key dark and identified themselves as Major van Schouten and Captain M'kembe.

"All right, Major, I'm off," Muller said. "Now listen. You are in actual command. But you are not to give an order without consulting Captain M'kembe, do you understand? He has ten times your combat experience. I have cleared this with Ares and Orcus. If there is any doubt in your mind whatsoever, I'll have a written order drawn up." His voice was low but penetrating. Slater, who stood nearest to him, could hear clearly, but he was sure that at least a couple of the others could too. Knowing the colonel, this was unlikely to be an accident. He could not demote van Schouten, but he could take precautions. Now there were witnesses.

At van Schouten's murmured assent, Muller swung away and waved the others on past him and out the gate, which had been opened just wide enough for one to pass through at a time. Even so, Slater noted as he squeezed out, a squad of riflemen was deployed in the shadows behind them. Yes, Muller took few chances!

The little party ran at a lope across the frosted grass of the cleared areas, crouching as they did. No sound came from the fort. The sentries had been alerted, of course. A viewer on the battlements would have seen only a flitting patch of shadow, hardly darker than the surrounding night. Then Marswood swallowed them. Far away, the scream of an animal broke the silence. In the east, no glow appeared. It was still night and dawn was far off.

Chapter 7 – The Wayfarers

The forest seemed silent as well as chill to Slater as he padded over the leaf mold. He had never been out in it at night. Save for Muller, who was notoriously a law unto himself, he knew of no one in the garrison who had. The Old Mars hands whom one met on leave, retired prospectors and whatnot, always claimed to have lived for weeks in the Ruck by themselves. Some had, there was no question of that, but most were liars. At any rate, regulations forbade night work except under direct orders and in extraordinary circumstances. In the Ruck odds against a man were tough enough during daylight hours, without adding to them.

They were moving along a narrow game trail quickly located by Muller and Thau Lang. Thau Lang was at point, Muller following. Behind them, in single file, were Nakamura, Danna, Feng, Slater, and, last, the young warman, Milla Breen. The Ruckers were thus interspersed through the little column to help the three greenhorns. Muller, it was obvious to everyone, did not fit that category.

As his first tenseness began to ebb away, Slater found himself drinking in the beauty of the night. Random perfumes and strange scents came from the half-frozen, tangled vegetation around them. Insects whose DNA-modifications had tailored them to survive the dank chill stridulated and something croaked regularly. There was even a song, a gentle rise and fall of melody, which died away behind them after a time, leaving the night the poorer. Slater had had no idea that a night-haunting bird existed, that it sang to the dark wood. Certainly he had never read of such a thing. Perhaps it was not a bird. The Ruck had many strange life-forms of its own, many native and very old. The catalogs were a long way from being complete.

Other noises abounded. Ferkats, those solitary prowlers, screamed their war and hunting cries. Once in the distance a series of echoing howls momentarily silenced the wood. Muller halted the column, and they did not move again until the howling came again from a much greater distance. Mars wolves, the mutated offspring of early settlement dogs, were both cunning and ferocious. Like the canid ancestors from which they sprang, they were pack hunters, making them dangerous even to large parties.

As Slater's night sight grew better, he began to move with less hesitation. The party could not move really fast anyway, but there was a confidence in the steps of the three Ruckers and Muller that he envied and hoped to acquire.

So far as Slater could tell, they were angling to the east. The fort lay on a corner of the shallow plateau called Isidis Regio, the southern section of a larger plateau area. The fort had been designed to protect the cryolite mine that lay still farther to the south, on the edge of a deep valley called Thoth after the ibis-headed god of ancient Egypt. As well as he was able to judge from occasional glimpses of the stars through the tangled leaves, the track they were on seemed to parallel the broad trail from Fort Agnew to the Universal mine. He could see the reason for avoiding the actual trail easily enough. The Universal officials had their own police who were not above setting an ambush for Ruckers themselves, and the warmen might also be hoping to catch some late traffic.

Suddenly Muller signaled a halt. Slater could see his hand flung up against the far northern stars, where a racing blot of luminescence against the night horizon revealing the recession of Phobos, the larger and nearer moon of the Martian twins, hurtling along on its second journey of the twenty-four-and-a-half-hour day. But Muller had not halted them to look at the moon. Then, behind him, Slater heard Breen take a deep breath. He copied the warman's action. And down a gentle but icy breeze came the stench of decaying flesh.

In any wild area that scent attracts predators. In the Ruck, at night, there was simply no telling what might be drawn to it. Muller and Thau Lang spoke briefly, heads together, voices low. Slater simply watched the dark huddle and listened to the noises of the night. He could see Danna, a slight shape some few paces off, and had the urge to speak to her, but he was a trained officer and the discipline of the march was a thing one did not break lightly. Instead he rested, leaning on his rifle. He carried the short bow slung over his back, since there was no point in his even thinking of using it at night. A blotch of shadow he identified as Lang moved off and so he settled down. Evidently Muller thought a one-man scout party would be in order.

The old konsel was back in no time and the group hurried on at Muller's wave. In a few moments they were standing under the source of the smell, now so strong it made Slater gag. Yet he saw that Muller's face in the dying moonlight was quite serene as it looked up to the things above them.

They stood in a little clearing, and the light was three times that which they had been using in the dark thickets. Most Terran trees adapted to Martian conditions did not grow tall, despite one-third Earth gravity. The incredibly violent winds of the smaller planet, and the temperature extremes, did not encourage great height as a survival characteristic. But here, in a slight depression in the forest, two or three had managed to reach a respectable height. One of them was the tree under which they now stood trying to ignore the stench. It looked to Slater something like a beech, but he was no botanist. From an outstretched branch, like a crooked arm, two shapes hung at least fifteen feet off the ground. Once human, they were now very dead. Milla Breen made a grating noise in his throat and Danna touched his arm. He was silent but Slater saw the glitter of his eyes. He felt a touch on his own arm and saw that Muller had come over and was holding a knife out to him.

Slater estimated the distance, laid his weapons down, and jumped. It was about twenty feet, a good jump even at Mars weight and for a well-trained Earthman. He caught the body he had aimed for in one gloved hand, praying to himself the thing was not so decomposed that it would come apart under his weight. A human body is tougher than it looks. This one held. Open-mouthed, for he simply could not use his nose, Slater swarmed up it and onto the limb from which it hung. There it was a simple matter to cut both down and follow in one leap, bringing with him a section of the rope.

He handed this to Muller then trotted over to a corner of the clearing and was quietly sick.

He almost jumped when Muller spoke from close beside his ear. The way the colonel moved was simply inhuman. "Thanks" came the frosty breath. "They were Ferkat Clan. Hanging them up that way for the birds to play with is the worst thing an enemy could have done. No Rucker would have done it. Not even to one of us, let alone one of themselves. They always bury their dead out in the wood, under a tree or other big plant. This rope is Terran, or a good imitation. Someone is trying to make trouble." He ignored the reason that Slater was off by himself and went on.

"Whoever did this is either a mining company halfwit or serious about raising all the clans at once. Against us. I think the latter, personally, and so does Thau. I wish I hadn't had you jump though. It saved time, but it also emphasized that a Terran could do it easily." He left and went back to the others. The big knives cut a rude grave under the tree and the two poor husks were shoved into them. Thau Lang spread his arms and said a few words in his native tongue, then half-frozen soil was scraped over the bodies and tamped down. Quickly they were off again, padding over the cold, dead leaves and tangled grass, breath steaming from their hoods as they loped along.

They had gone a few miles and Slater was beginning to feel the strain in his calf muscles when they halted again, this time in response to a signal from Lang. Phobos had set and the night had the same predawn black that comes to Earth at the same hour. Slater crouched under a giant thistle, careful not to touch the leaves, then noticed that the others were holding their rifles at the ready. His came off his back in a second and he leaned back and signed "what?" to Breen, who was right next to him. Breen cupped one hand to his hooded head where an ear would have been. Slater nodded and listened.

At first there was nothing, save for the usual night sounds. Faint animal cries came from far away and the insects still chirped feebly here and there. Then he heard it. The howl of a Marswolf pack, somewhere off in the night, a rising chorus of sound. It might even have been the same one they had heard earlier.

Slater wondered later on how Lang could have known that the beasts were on their track. Certainly the pack was not close. The ability was, he decided eventually, one of those little things that made you one of the True People. You just knew. Again the cry came, welling through the frosty air. The very faintest shade of gray was lifting some of night's shroud. Dawn was not far away.

Muller made a signal and they all began to run, ignoring noise and going as hard as they were able. Strung out on the narrow path, they could not come up with a defense that had any chance of success. To make use of their weapons, they needed room. Behind them, about a half kilometer off, were the oncoming wolves. Slater's heart began to pound, but there was no sign of a slow-up from the leaders. Self-discipline was the only answer to Slater's pain. If you had a leader, he was the man to give the orders. Without warning, the cover broke and they ran into the open, automatically spreading out to give each one a field of fire. It was lighter now, and visibility was spreading as one watched.

Lang had found them another round clearing, larger than the one where the dead warmen had been hung up to rot. The floor of this one was stone or sand, and little grew there but long, gray moss. When Slater saw Muller and the old Rucker wheel and fall, he did the same, rifle at the ready. Lang had not left them much time, but just enough.

Fog was already beginning to rise from the ground in patches. The cold, heavy fog of a summer morning would not burn off until 10 a.m. or so. Through it now, hungry and lean, came the Marswolves.

In two hundred years, the inexorable rules of natural selection had produced a new canid, far removed from the beloved pets of human beings. Lighter gravity had given the wolves longer legs and the cruel winters of Mars—minus 40°C. in places, despite the warming ability of the new atmosphere—had given them really thick fur. The stupid and the weak were gone, rigorously pruned by the harsh conditions. What remained were big-chested, hundred-pound demons with mottled pelts all the colors of a brown-gray-black spectrum, able to run down and devour just about anything that moved. A dozen of these burst into the clearing at a dead run and fanned out as had the humans whom they were hunting.

Slater switched the rifle lever past NARCOTIC and EXPLOSIVE, to POISON. He quickly shot two wolves and saw one die in midair, so quick was the action of the hybrid cyanide mixture in the needles. A metallic sound made him look to the right and he saw Danna wrestling with her rifle. A Jam! And a yellow-fanged, mostly black monster was charging her from the side. Slater fired as Danna disappeared under the weight of the brute.

Totally unconscious that the seconds-long battle was over, he ran over to her, stumbling as he ran, and frantically tore at the heavy carcass. Suddenly the wolf's body seemed to heave of its own volition, and Danna pushed it away, sat up, and glared at him. He reached down to help her up but she angrily struck his hand away. She said nothing because the wind had been knocked out of her. Feeble though she might be for the moment, it was plain she wanted no assistance from Slater. He turned away, not angry, simply relieved that she was all right. He caught Breen watching him with a curious expression and wondered if the young warman was jealous. Without a word, Slater reloaded the rifle from his belt pouch.

Danna was walked about for a moment by Thau Lang, who seemed to be talking to her, though no one could hear what was said. In the full light of morning, even with the constantly growing fog, she seemed perfectly sound.

The eight dead wolves were simply left lying. The rest of the pack had fled. Scavengers—plant, animal, and a couple of local oddities that were really neither—would deal with the bodies.

For some two hours they marched without a break. Occasionally Muller would consult with Lang. Magnetic compasses were useless on Mars, which has low magnetism of any kind, so the military used a type that fixed on a radio beacon at Ares Base. But their present disguise precluded carrying such things. The stars and bush training had to be their substitute.

As on much of the old planet, the ground thereabouts was fairly level, with few rises and most of those gentle. But the second birth of ancient Mars made Marswood anything but old and tired. When the warmth and light of the new day hit the plant growth, it seemed to burgeon and curl into fresh life as one watched, and as the travelers passed through each wisp of fog, new shapes reached out at them—not literally in most cases, but by virtue of their sudden emergence from the shrouding mists.

Once, however, a green tendril struck at Lang, who happened to be in the lead. The Mars bloodsucker was one of the few native plants that competed with the imported stock on even terms. Most of the older planet's original life-forms were apt to do better at night, when the imports of Earth were dormant. And they tended to like the more barren areas and the poles, where even mutated Terran vegetation had too hard a time.

The bloodsucker was an important exception. Its green color owed nothing to chlorophyll, but was nothing more than a chameleon pigment it used to lurk undetected in the mass of imported plant life. As to whether the bloodsucker was a plant itself, the zoologists were still battling with the botanists. It resembled a very large, dirty sofa cushion, with six twisting arms, one of which had just swung at Lang and missed. He leaped aside while ducking as Muller sprang back then whipped up his short bow and fired an arrow into the brush. There was a wheezing hiss, as if a very large snake were speaking. Muller laughed, a short bark, and Thau Lang clapped him on the back.

"They don't die easily," Muller said to Slater, who was still staring off the trail to where the sound came from. "I gauged where the body would be and let go. The brutes store gas, mostly oxygen and carbon monoxide, under pressure. That's how they move the tentacles, gas pressure. I popped the balloon and it will take the thing a few days to mend the hole and build up pressure again. Meanwhile it's dangerous as a toy loofah."

Slater could only marvel at his commander's skill. He himself had known everything about the bloodsucker that he just had been told, but knowing it and putting the knowledge to use in an emergency were very different things.

They stopped twice a day for food, using the tough jerked meat and hard bitter bread made from a root found in the Ruck. Water was no problem; pools were common, some of them large enough to require a detour. They were apt to be shallow and have soft bottoms. Vast, low, sprawling willows, many with trunks a meter and a half across, grew around them, the descendants of a dwarf species from Earth's Arctic. At one small lake Breen speared a black frog the length of his arm that had foolishly goggled at them from the water's edge for a moment too many. In camp that night, Muller and the three Ruckers ate the legs raw. Breen got the eyes as well for snaring the creature. Slater, Nakamura, and Feng abstained.

By the next day, Slater had decided that it would take quite a while to get to enjoy the Ruck or the mission. Danna spoke to him when addressed, but in terms of utter indifference. Nakamura was silent and morose, and the two older men and Feng spoke little and then mainly to one another. Only Breen seemed friendly. It came out finally that he had been favorably impressed by Slater's killing the Marswolf.

"We all would die to protect a Wise Woman, Slater," he said earnestly. "One reason that I and Arta joined with you and not the two who are Gone Down is that these new men from the South seem to despise the Wise Women. This is madness and worse. They do not say so openly, of course, but one gathers hints from what they say when alone with us young men. Someone who has the chance to save a Wise Woman is lucky too, a good person to be with. My aunt was a Wise Woman but I do not have her power. I will never be a konsel and I am glad. They have to learn too much."

Slater tried to store away everything he heard for future reference. He knew that Rucker clans were matriarchal, but the details were obscure and much of the information he had seen conflicting. No one spoke while on the march, but once the party had stopped and posted a guard, Breen was willing enough to speak. Slater learned that the offices of konsel and war chief were not synonymous, it being most rare for one person to combine them as did Thau Lang. As a result he was held in tremendous respect. A konsel was like a male equivalent of the Wise Women, but he was also a permanent delegate to the only supraclan government the True People recognized—a kind of informal parliament that seldom met in the body, but nevertheless managed to keep members informed and even to vote on matters of common interest. The body had no name, or at least not one Breen was willing to give.

By the third day Slater found himself toughening. He began to sleep better at night, instead of tossing and turning in the bitter chill. He had been fit anyway, but fitness for garrison duty and fitness for the Ruck were different things. Now his muscles were hardening. Even the cold-adapted insects were not so bad, he found.

The fleas and lice of Earth had managed to survive on Mars and in most places were far too abundant. During the day gnats and mosquitoes existed in dense swarms, particularly near water. Fortunately the night cold kept most of them immobilized, though once in a while one would find the heat of a sleeping body sufficient to awake it. Slater killed one crawling thing—a kind of crab louse, he suspected—at least an inch long after it had brought him out of a sound sleep with a savage bite. He saw spiders ten times as large, but they seemed as eager to stay out of the humans' way as were the latter to avoid them. No snappers were seen, and Grabbit was quiescent in its box.

Breen, when queried, tended to minimize the spiders. He admitted they could bite and that many were poisonous, but most, he said, sought smaller prey, chiefly rabbits, rats, mice, and birds. He warned' Slater that the giant scorpions were another matter, and that they were irritable and frightfully venomous, fortunately they were not common. Other things to avoid were the bloodsuckers and a nasty form of burrowing armored slug, a heat seeker and native of the planet, which haunted the plateaus and rocky cliffs in the higher elevations. Though small, the slug could tunnel into the body in seconds when hungry. Then there were the sand crawlers. Like most native Martian life, they had been rather small, no more than a half meter long or so to begin with. Terraforming had changed that; now they could be bigger than a bulgote. They looked like bulbous armored fish, perhaps of the flounder variety, and were all sorts of bright colors. Cruising about on small jointed legs buried under a fat body, sand crawlers mined pockets of soil for worthwhile minerals. But their mineral-detecting organs functioned equally well on living things, which are, after all, equally well stocked with interesting substances. Slater did not care for Breen's description of what a man looked like after a crawler was through feeding. They were apt to be haunters of the night.

Between the stories of the Ruck and its inhabitants and being marched to the point of exhaustion every day, Slater managed to make do. He envied Nakamura the special lessons he got from Danna, but there was nothing he could do to put himself in the big man's place. Danna was teaching Nakamura how to act like a member of the strange clan from the South. She was patient and, Nakamura admitted privately, very good at what she was doing. "She must have perfect recall, damn it. If I miss even a shade of accent, in just one word, or pick my nose the wrong way, back we go and do it all over again. Reminds me of Year One at the Academy, only worse!" But he seemed less sullen, and Slater had the feeling that he no longer thought of the Rucker girl as merely a variety of dangerous animal that ought to be exterminated.

Ten days out from the fort, they were filing down a gentle slope through moderately thick cover, when Muller used the hand signal "down!"

Slater had long since ceased trying to guess where they were or what exactly it was they were to do whenever they got to wherever they were headed. Enduring the hard conditions so unsure of the details of the mission was difficult, but at least he had the training that only long discipline gives.

Flat on his stomach under a cactus, rifle forward, he peered up the slope in the same direction as the others. Next to him Breen cocked one eye at him and winked. A swarm of minute bugs crawled over both their faces after their sweat. Slater could sense nothing but the usual noises of the Ruck during midafternoon, but he knew he was no judge.

Suddenly he saw that Danna was standing, rifle by her side, looking up the tangled gradient. As he watched, she cupped her hands and called, a gentle quavering sound, "ooh, aaahh, ooh," which ran up and down until it died away. From not far off an answer came, the exact same cry. At the crest of the rise, a man stood up, rifle held over his head in both arms.

"Arta," Breen said from beside Slater's ear. "He moves quiet, that one. But not quiet enough for your chief or Danna. She and he worked out that call together. It's an animal, what you call a one that hunts by, well, singing. You know it?"

As Arta Burg jogged down the slope and was welcomed by the others, Slater admitted to his new friend that he knew nothing about any animal that hunted by singing. Presumably it was yet one more example of Martian life that had not yet got into the books.

Burg headed straight for Muller and passed him a small cylinder, which he took from a pouch at his waist. He carried the bow and rifle and a small backpack. To look at him, one would think he had been for a walk around the block in a Terran apartment city. Slater was supremely conscious of feeling dirty and looking it, although the males were all using the Rucker depilatory, which at least kept them from being shaggy as well. Not for the first time, he wondered sourly what Unilever-Gradco or the Supaharto Trust would give him for a tube of the stuff.

"I should like everyone to come over here at once please," Muller said after conferring briefly with Thau Lang. When they were seated around him, minus the old konsel who took the guard position uphill, he began without any preamble.

"Warman Burg brings us a message confirming certain suspicions I had. There are several points, and I will take them in order.

"One, Lieutenant Mohini Dutt is a deeply planted traitor. She is of Indian descent, all right, but born on Mars and then taken back to Earth. Her parents were fanatical followers of JayBee Pelham. The mother is dead. The father, whose name is not Dutt at all but Medawar, is believed to be one of the men who arranged Pelham's escape. He is probably with him now. Very probably Lieutenant Dutt is on the way to meet them at some rendezvous. She may know more about living in the Ruck than she led us to believe. Also, it is obvious why she tried so hard to be one of this party. She wished to be able to warn Pelham of any countermeasures. And she knows much—not just about Pelham but our other business, the U-Men." His voice grew even gentler. "A pretty girl, but I rather wish she were dead. If any of you get the chance, see that she is dead." He grew brisk again.

"JayBee has found a guide, I'm afraid. An old Marsrat named Deimos Smith. I've heard of him, though he usually operates on the other side of the planet. The True People like him, and he seems to move quite freely among them. He's said to be not a bad sort, but he has a kink—he's one of the last of the old White Supremacy crowd. Seems Pelham hooked him with some wild tale about the master race taking over Mars. Even Pelham is not that crazy, and anyway, he's an eighth Melanesian and three-quarters Hawaiian mix himself.

"Back to us. We are going to a big meeting, one of several clans. We hope to arrive after the delegates from the new Clan of the Giants." He bowed to Nakamura, who saluted back, deadpan. "The new clan people have gone back to wherever they came from. We will appear with our own giant and, quite reasonably, follow them. Their headquarters has to be found very quickly. Any questions?"

"On behalf of my corps, I wish to say—" Feng began. He looked as though he had just been hit by a rocket shell.

"My dear fellow," Muller said quickly, "how could anyone blame you for Dutt? This has been planned for many years. The I-Corps security checks were made too late. Miss Medawar was a 'sleeper,' an agent buried in place since she was young. So. Now, let's be off. There are two hours of good daylight left."

Feng still looked miserable, but he was a very good man. It was obvious that what Muller said made sense. But Slater did not think he would care to be in Mohini Dutt-Medawar's shoes if Feng happened to Say hands on her. What a ghastly waste of fantastic bed material, Slater thought ruefully.

He found himself near Arte Burg in that evening's campsite. Burg quietly thanked him for saving Danna. Breen had filled him in and he seemed deeply grateful. Slater decided to trade on the gratitude for purely selfish reasons. "I'm afraid she's annoyed at me for some reason," he said mendaciously. "Frankly, Burg, anything you can do to make us friends again would be a real favor to me."

Burg said in surprised tones, "This is not like a nice girl, not like Danna. She could have come to your bed if we were in camp—real camp, not on a trip. Of course," he added in confidential tones, "the Wise Women are funny. They have their own rules about things. Maybe you got in the way of one of those. I will ask Milla what he thinks. Since Danna is the responsibility of us two, she can at least be polite." He went off, leaving Slater wondering what the last sentence meant. By Earth standards the Ruckers were very casual and, at the same time, very finicky about sex, following complex customs of their own devising. But he dared not risk giving offense by asking for too many particulars.

Late that night, while he had the watch under the cold distant shine of Phobos, he heard a small noise, like a muffled cough, and whirled. Danna looked at him soberly from a yard away, her hood thrown back, the moonglimmer showing her short, curly hair.

"Milla and Arte told me I was not a nice girl," she said in a sad little voice. "They were right, Slater. Even if you had not shot the wolf, I had no right to be nasty." Her eyes narrowed momentarily. "But I wanted to kill that big woman you had your hands on."

She sat on a rock next to his knee and gently took one of his gloved hands in hers. She looked up at him fondly and he dropped down beside her, caught by the expression in her eyes. Then he remembered he was on duty and started to rise. She pulled him back down. "Milla will watch," she said demurely. "He is by the big stone on the other slope. I asked him." She took his face in her cold hide mittens and pulled it down to hers. The world vanished from his mind leaving only the sweet intoxication of the kiss, the warm perfume of her breath, and the delightful musk of her body, rising from her clothes through the opening at her neck. Eventually they came up for air and stared at one another with startled eyes. A feeling of mutual surrender had overpowered them and as normally strong, self-contained people, the sensation had made them nervous. Danna pulled off her right glove and smoothed her hair.

"I have wanted to do that ever since I first saw you," she said quietly. "I knew it would be wonderful." The great ring on her hand gleamed in the faint moonlight and Slater took her hand to look at it, the blue stone in the middle stirring his memory. She slipped the ring off and handed it to him. He took a pencil flash from his pocket and, shielding it with his body, examined the ring.

There, worn but plain to a student of military history, was the galley of the long-gone United States Naval Academy, flanked by half-effaced seahorses and surmounted by a trident. On the other side, the spread eagle hovered over the propeller. The class number was too battered to be made out.

"Do you know what this is?"

"Yes, I think so. It came from my mother and from her mother and from hers again, and hers too. It comes from Earth, and it means that among my ancestors was a warrior who went upon the water, which we cannot do here."

He returned the ring and patted her hand. What an end for the ring of an ancient American naval officer! Probably a pure white, if his memory of the racial customs of that period was accurate.

"Danna, that ring is from a school for—well, soldiers like me, back on Earth, as you know. Whoever the man was, he is your link to Earth and to what Earth stands for." He smiled. "You're just an Earth girl a long way from home. We two are natural allies."

She bent over him and kissed him gently and briefly. "Perhaps we are, Slater. Perhaps the wild woman of the woods is your natural ally." Her eyes surveyed him calmly. "Some day we will have more time together. Now we are at war." She added as she rose and slipped away, "And you have not yet told me what you were doing with your hands on that fat-rumped woman who has betrayed us all!" He heard a faint giggle as Danna disappeared into the dark.

The next day the group moved more slowly because they were getting close to the big Rucker encampment one of the two younger warmen was to enter. The others would wait, polishing their roles as Rucker clansmen from the other side of the planet, ready to appear if the strange giants and their allies had left. They had moved off the Aetheopis highlands and were now approaching the edge of the Sinus Gomen valley. Not too far beyond it, to the south and west, lay the unknown deeps of the great Cimmerium rift that the Ruckers called the bad country.

That night Breen and Burg slipped out of camp while Feng, Slater, and Colonel Muller tested each other's masquerade as members of the remote Bulgote Clan. Muller had to be perfect since he was the one who would talk while the other two pretended to a vow of silence. At the same time, Nakamura was getting a last review of his attitude and appearance from Danna. Over and over in the dark they rehearsed their mission, until even Muller and Danna, both stern judges, were satisfied.

As he curled up, Slater heard a wild bulgote, the emblem of his new clan, bellow far off in the frozen dark. It seemed a good omen, and he wondered if he was developing a Rucker mentality. A strange fate for the descendant of Afghan chieftains. Or perhaps not strange at all. He fell asleep trying to resolve the question.

They lay low through the following day while a strong, damp wind carrying a promise of bad weather grew and moaned among the jumble of great boulders where they lay concealed.

Muller cocked an eye skyward. "This is going to be a wild night. I hope the boys come back with good news first. If not, we'll simply have to last it out somehow. Anyway, it's good training."

Despite Muller's carefree words, Slater saw that he was concerned. As the wind rose, Muller roamed the area, popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box. Eventually he found what he was seeking. With a wave of his hand he summoned the others to the lee of a vast, rounded stone. At its base grew three tough thombushes, which Muller parted to display a dark opening about three feet high.

"Get in here. It gets a lot bigger inside. I've been inside and there's no danger I could detect. The storm that is coming is going to be a very bad one. Lang says so too, and he doesn't exaggerate."

Overhead the gray cloud rack raced past and the first drops of a freezing rain began to fall. With Muller last, they dove, one by one, into the hole at the rock's base.

After a few meters, the passage became roomy enough to stand up. When they flashed their torches around, they found they were in a chamber about twelve meters across by eighteen long. The roof was fairly lofty, rising to a peak in the center of the chamber of perhaps nine meters. The floor was stone, and boulders of various sizes lay scattered about. Some large openings gaped blankly in the light of the beams, back against the inner wall of the cavern. It was not too comforting a place to look at, but it seemed both warm and dry. The wind's shriek was only a distant whine deep under the rock.

Then Feng called to Muller. "What do you make of this?" His torch illumined a section of the wall near him, and the long, regular gouges in the dense rock were obvious to everyone.

"That's the mark of a pick, or something very like one," Muller said. "What do you say, Thau?"

"I don't know, but I have seen them in other places. This whole big rock is a hollow dome. It is a shelter, I think, maybe also an observation post. I have found them more than once in the past. I think it was a shelter against the great sandstorms of the old days, not the kind we have now … Ruckers never made it." His words hung in the silence, and they listened to the distant sound of the wind echoing through the entrance tunnel.

"Against the sandstorms, eh?" Nakamura did not sound so sarcastic, not the way he had back at the post. There were no more giant sandstorms on Mars. But before the Terraforming there had been no other kind. For countless ages, the thin dust of the surface, the limonite powder and the motley sands, had swirled high into the thin atmosphere, as the great winds of the seasonal gales had blasted and ground down the very skin of the fourth planet. No one said the words, but out here in the night of the Ruck, they were on everyone's mind. Old Martians.

"I don't much care for these tunnel openings behind us, whether unused for centuries—or never used," the colonel said. "Let's move some of those big rocks and block them. Then we can post a guard at the entrance and get some sleep."

Muller took the first watch and the others settled down to an uneasy sleep. Slater would have liked to sit with Danna for a while but he saw that she was deep in low-voiced talk with Thau Lang, so he curled up in his sleeping bag next to Nakamura, who was already snoring. The floor was hard, but it was the best rest stop they had yet had.

A light touch on his eyelids brought Slater awake on the instant. He sat up and saw the giant Norse-Japanese grinning down at him. Weak light filtered through the tunnel entrance so that he could see perfectly well. Feng's legs were disappearing through the hole as he sat up, so Slater hurried to catch up.

Once outside, he saw that the storm had been a bad one. Huge chunks of rock lay about, torn from their beds by the force of the terrible wind. The ground was sodden from the rain and sleet, and dense fog was rising from the many new pools of water. Trees, some of them very old, lay in fragments. The cold dawn air was fresh and clean, but few animals or birds called and not many insects.

"I'm worried about the two young men." Lang was uneasy, and his normal iron reserve was missing for once. "I have seldom heard of a night this angry. I trust that they were not caught without shelter." He gazed around him. "No one could live through this, save by the spirits." As he spoke, he made a peculiar gesture On his breast with his right arm.

As they looked about, Slater noticed that Danna was trying to hold back tears. He moved over to her and tried to put a hand on her arm. He was shocked to see two Ruckers in such a state of nerves.

"Danna, don't be too alarmed. They're competent men, both of them. We'll see them pretty soon, bouncing over the rocks." His words rang hollow, even in his own ears. She did not shrug off his hand, but she looked up at him and despair was on her face. Her cheeks looked sunken.

"They were all the family I have, Slater. I had no brothers and sisters. All I had was my two husbands. And now I think they are dead."

Chapter 8 – JayBee's Council

Slater kept holding Danna's hand, but he stared over the curly head, his eyes blank and unseeing. Little was known of the Wise Women. Their duties, rank, and status in the web of rumor and myth assembled on Rucker society had not stressed any special attitudes or modes of sexual practice. Every bit of knowledge is useful, a small icy comer of his mind said, and should be assimilated and conveyed to the most logical and useful section of the Ares Command. The mind was repeating what the hypnotapes had emphasized. Everything learned about the Ruck was of the utmost value, and everything learned should be considered the property of the Central Computer Bank at Ares.

Including the fact that the woman he loved had two husbands already.

The mores of Earth in the Twenty-third Century were casual enough. You could find any sort of living arrangement you wanted. No one cared how others arranged their lives. But units of two people still made up the vast majority of those who chose to live together on a permanent basis. And he was in love! With a woman who had two husbands and yet apparently loved him in return!

Danna looked up at him and blinked through her tears. "You are very quiet, Slater. Do you have some idea, perhaps, of how we can find them?"

He cursed himself and returned to reality. He loved Danna and now she was in pain. He had no right to brood over her private living arrangements.

"I was thinking that maybe Colonel Muller and the konsel have some plan. This sort of situation can't be entirely new to them. Don't lose heart." He put all the confidence he could manage into the words, and he squeezed her hand in attempted reassurance.

"We'll have to move on the big encampment without them," said Muller, after he had conferred with the old Rucker chieftain. "They could be dead, could be lost, captured even. But we can't wait. I'm sorry, Danna. This is too important."

She nodded in silence.

The wreckage of the storm met them continually as they marched. The litter of the terrible wind had been laid indiscriminately over everything, and no clear path existed wherever it had been. Tangled, broken rock and pieces of thorn tree and cactus scrub were everywhere, and the party was forced to scramble slowly over the debris, no matter which way they turned. As the sun rose, sweat beaded their faces. Muller allowed little rest and drove them relentlessly until dark made the journey too hazardous even for him. They spent a bad, silent night, exhausted but unable to sleep. The next day was little better. Danna and the colonel conferred frequently with Thau Lang. The way had been lost, and they were now behind schedule.

At the start of his watch that night, Slater was pacing to and fro, when he heard a sound. Signs of animals had been few in the broken land they were traversing, as if the implacable gale had destroyed them or driven them away. Even the insects were subdued. Now he heard something that sounded like the faraway hum of a giant bee.

He refrained from jumping as Muller, who should have been lying quietly asleep in his robe, spoke from beside him.

"That's a ramjet. Not one of ours either. The hum is too high pitched." The noise died away in the frosty night and was heard no more. Muller left, his thoughts his own, and curled up once more. For the rest of the night nothing was heard but the occasional cry of a faraway animal.

About one hour before noon the next morning, they emerged suddenly from a wadi choked with broken stones and found a broad, well-beaten trail before them. Thau Lang, who had been leading, motioned them all back and they retreated out of sight of anyone who might pass.

"This is the main trail to the new camp," the old man hissed. "I was far off the track, and we are coming to the camp from the wrong direction. We must be very close to the camp for the trail to be so plain. We were lucky not to be seen before this. We must plan what to do next."

They had rehearsed their parts so many times they were sick of them. But the remorseless Muller put them all through a brief check once more before he allowed them to proceed. Apparently the unrelenting practice had paid off; satisfied at last, Muller motioned to Thau Lang and they set off down the trail.

They had hardly gone two kilometers when they were challenged. A shrill whistle sounded from a low mound of scrub and boulders on their left. They were expecting this and halted, holding their weapons high in the air, in a position from which it would be almost impossible to fire.

Thau Lang, who had been in the lead, called out a long sentence, of which Slater could understand only the konsel's name, and then waited. Two whistles replied, and with no more hesitation, Lang dropped his arms, as did the others. They had never seen their challengers. That the wrong answer would have brought something besides whistles, they all knew well.

In a short time Slater could hear the sounds of the big camp. In territory they considered beyond the reach of the hated government, the Ruckers were not so cautious about noise though just as vigilant in other ways.

They rounded another bend in the trail and the entrance to the camp lay before them.

A shallow declivity led down to a large pool of water at the bottom of a long slope, whose actual length was masked by the gentleness of the grade. The far side of the long pool was overhung by the lip of a great gray, beetling rock, which thus created a vast shallow cave almost five hundred meters wide. It led so far back into darkness that the lights of fires were visible as flares deep in the black inner recesses. As a hideaway to avoid aerial observation, it was hard to beat.

Hundreds of shelters pitched outside were exposed to the air, domes fashioned of the universally available plastic cloth, the cheapest and most widely exploited material human science had produced. Each was stained in mottled browns, grays, and greens. Hordes of children ran and played before the entrances to the shelters, which stretched out of sight into the cave. Only their quiet voices, unbroken by any loud yells, betrayed the fact that the Ruck's training was a savage one that began early. Around and with them romped many large dogs, partially domesticated Marswolves. These made no sound at all and not by choice. Rucker dogs had their vocal cords removed during puppyhood. They were the guards of the children, the home, and the domestic stock. Hunters on Mars moved with stealth and very few dogs are as quiet as a well-trained man.

The women were much in evidence also. Older ones chatted as they went about various tasks, younger girls in tight breeches or short skirts strolled about in groups, eyeing equally casual groups of young men, whose wanderings seemed somehow to bring them near. Off to one side, herds of domesticated bulgotes, the descendants of the original dwarf stock, grazed and browsed in hulking flocks. Some weighed 450 kilos, and the big bucks stood over two meters at the shoulder. Children and dogs watched the flocks, keeping the leaders from fighting. Mostly light gray, with a black stripe running down the spine, the herd beasts were hardly less savage than their wild congeners. But Slater knew that they were clever and adaptable. Experiments at Ares Base were aimed at producing a strain that could be used as draft and riding animals.

Thau Lang halted suddenly and gave a long, echoing call. Then he sat down and folded his arms. The others followed suit. The Ruckers nearest them paid no attention, but in a short time a group .of men walked around the nearest cluster of domed tents and advanced upon them. As the strangers approached, Lang rose to his feet, but the others stayed seated.

The Ruckers were eight elderly men, in ordinary leather suits, the assembled konsels of the five clans that were meeting there. They had come to greet their equal. They looked calm and dignified, and bore no weapons except for belt knives and holstered lasguns, the Ruck equivalent of going unarmed. It was obvious that someone had forewarned the camp, for they had been waiting close by.

Each one stepped forward in turn and embraced Thau Lang, muttering words in his ear as they did, words of secret greeting that none else must hear. When all had done so, Lang turned and, in a courteous gesture, lifted Danna to her feet. Each greeted her the same way, acting as if he had never seen her before, though one at least must be the konsel of her own tribe.

Then Lang waved a hand over the others of his party and said a few words. The other elders nodded, in apparent disinterest. But Slater was conscious of their examination and wondered if his disguise was holding. One did not become a konsel by taking things for granted. Finally Lang turned and beckoned to them to follow him. Only then did Muller rise, the others copying him, and set off in the wake of the older men.

Half an hour later they were in a large empty tent, under a shadowed angle of the cliff but not too far from the edge of the pool. After seeing Lang's party to it, the elders had bade the konsel a dignified and affectionate farewell. Once the elders left, it was possible for them to speak Unit, but Muller persuaded Lang that he or Danna should walk about outside occasionally, just in case.

"I agree that we should take no chances, old friend," Lang said. "But I think you will find that a konsel's tent will be given a wide berth. And too, we have a Wise Woman. These are not matters that the True People care to interfere with."

"You forget things." Muller was unusually curt. "We have the so-called new clan from the South, plus whoever they have suborned among your people. Have you forgotten the assassin? Konsels are not subject to casual assassination, remember? And now there's JayBee. Who knows what his contacts are? Please, don't make things harder."

The tent was furnished with cushions and skin rugs. Hooks had been provided for hanging utensils and weapons, and the rest of the surroundings, too, were those of almost any nomad culture. Slater ransacked his memory for tales of the tribal, anti-Russian raids of his ancestors that had been related by an ancient grandmother from near Giltraza when he was a child. He felt a thrill at the realization that he was reliving the past of his own people, on another world.

Danna left them without a word and Lang said nothing. Slater guessed she had gone to inquire after her husbands. She returned, quietly and suddenly, while they were eating a simple meal cooked over a small charcoal brazier. She slipped through the flap like a small ghost.

"I've seen Milla! He was not with the people from the South. They've left already. These are others. And they have Terrans with them, Terrans with guns! They are to speak to the people tonight. Milla signed me not to speak to him. But there are plenty of my people here. They'll be sure to notice if he and I ignore each other. Oh, what shall we do?"

I imagine there will he certain folk who will notice if a wife ignores her husband. Even if she has a spare or two missing somewhere about. As the thought crossed his mind, driven by undiluted jealousy, Slater tried to bury it. He simply could not let his emotions disrupt their mission!

Muller caught the key part of the girl's speech at once. 'Terrans allowed to have guns! That has to mean JayBee. No one else would be permitted here armed. He must have cultivated closer contacts with the tribes than we suspected. Did you see or hear of Lieutenant Dutt?"

"No."

"A small mercy. Then they have no way of learning about us. I was planning to leave as soon as we found out when and in what direction the giants had gone. Now we better stay at least until tonight and try to find out what JayBee is up to."

"Should I go with you to this shindig? It might look odd." Nakamura was quite conscious of his role as a giant from the South. They had ail noticed the looks that he drew from the konsels and every other Rucker who crossed their path.

"Good point, Nakamura. You stay in the tent. Your clan is so mysterious that nothing you do would be considered odd."

As darkness fell and the cold grew, the fires were allowed to die out and they made ready to depart. On Muller's advice, Thau Lang had got a good supply of travel rations laid in from the local intertribal council, a group that seemed to control the actual daily workings of the big camp. Whatever a konsel wanted was brought at once-. They carried all their weapons and gear with them so they could leave as soon as the public business was over, under cover of darkness.

Muller's party followed Danna and the old konsel into the crowd of Ruckers streaming into the great cave. Even as the lights near the entrance were guttering and going out, more were springing up far ahead. A line of torches appeared in the distance, and looking back for a moment, Slater saw that the paler hint of the evening sky was quite far behind them. The cave was enormous! He wondered what Milla was doing and how he had been able to mix with JayBee's renegades. And where was Arta Burg?

When a small hand slipped into his, Slater flinched momentarily. Then he realized that Danna had taken advantage of the dark to reassure him and let him know of her presence. He squeezed back, wondering if he was ever going to get out of the mad business.

The crowd was slowing down, but there was no pushing and all the talk was muted and low. Rucker politeness was proverbial, as proverbial as their readiness to kill. An anthropologist had once described Rucker manners as a blend of Eskimo gentleness, Muslim fanaticism, and the quick-draw psychology of the American West in the late-Nineteenth Century.

The lights were brighter now. Great wooden torches flared from stone sconces set in the walls of the narrowing passage. Fluors might have been cheaper, but a Rucker's instinct was always to use what was available and to save what might be needed for emergencies for just that—emergencies. As the light grew, Slater saw that his party was mingling with many others and that the cave opened out once more ahead of them. In a few more steps, the amphitheater lay before the group. A sloping, lofty chamber seemingly hewn from the rock of the planet, it had tiers of rude wooden benches set in a semi-circle around the area. A platform of rough-hewn logs was raised at the empty end, against the rock wall, and more large torches flared from metal cressets around its edge.

The Ruckers, still chatting in low tones, ebbed and flowed about the ample floor space, seating themselves when ready, and more and more streamed in behind them. Acting on Muller's instructions, the group tried to keep fairly close to the entrance, save for Thau Lang, who left them and headed for the platform. At a gathering of this sort, a konsel sat with his peers.

Just as those in the group were about to seat themselves, there was an eddy in the ranks immediately in front of them. A bent figure limped past and took station next to Danna. One side of the oldster's dark, lined face was covered with white weals from some encounter, and a heavy stick of dark wood aided his limping gait. An unpleasant smell came from his direction, and Danna pointedly moved away from him and nearer Slater. The old man paid no attention, except to scratch himself with vigor. If his habits matched his appearance, thought Slater, he was certainly lousy.

He forgot the old derelict, for a sudden hush fell over the assembly. A man was mounting the platform. Behind him came eight more and Slater saw that they were the konsels. Lang marched last, perhaps by accident, but he also remained the one nearest the steps leading up.

The leading elder moved to the front of the platform, the others ranked behind him, and began what was obviously an invocation. His voice was strong and resonant, his words few. He lifted his hand on finishing and joined to the others. Now another stepped forth, and this time the remaining eight sat down on a low bench at the back of the platform.

The new man was Albar Jonzin, a stocky and bullet-headed fellow. He spoke in sharp, bitter phrases. Though Slater could not make out his words, he was obviously exhorting the Ruckers to do something, and the manner was inflammatory and brutal. When Jonzin finished his speech, he waved a hand to the steps. He was clearly introducing the next speaker. The crowd leaned forward and drew in its breath. A Terran mounted the platform. He wore two lasguns in trim cross belts, one under each arm.

JayBee Pelham drew attention just by appearing. It was nothing so simple as physical good looks, although with his white hair and high cheekbones, he was a fine-looking man. Rather an aura of almost electric force emanated from him, a vibration in sympathy with almost every person he encountered. Slater had never seen him live, but he understood instantly how Pelham had seduced half a planet and might do so again if given a chance. He dominated the crowd of Ruckers, perhaps the toughest variant of humanity ever to appear, as easily as he had done with the farmers and technicians of the domed cities. He made no concession to Rucker dress but wore a splendid bush suit, obviously tailored for him, of some expensive deep-blue synthetic trimmed with white fur at collar and sleeves. His face was calm, his eyes thoughtful and considering as they moved slowly around the cavern. He might have been about to address a convocation of religious leaders after lunch at a good Ares restaurant. When he first spoke, Slater was startled.

"Friends!" Though the voice was marvelous, the deep vibrant tones of a great orator, it was the fact that JayBee was using Unit that surprised the officer so. And from the look on the faces of his neighbors, they were as amazed as he. No doubt the enemy language had never been used at a solemn assemblage of this sort in recent history. But the magic of JayBee was strong enough to overcome even that prejudice.

"I speak to you in a language that you can ail understand. It is a language you hate. And rightly so. But I do not apologize. For as a friend to all the True People, here and elsewhere, I must use the tools I have, and not those I hope some day to acquire. I know that each child of the free clans learns Unit as soon as he can be taught it. I shall some day speak to you in your own language. And each child on the Mars of the future will learn the language of the True People, not first but only! For it will be the language of Mars, and Unit will be the language of banished Earth, of the dirt grubbers and the ruins of the domes, the wreckage of the forts, the empty memories of the departed and the dead, the enemies of the True People, obliterated and expelled from the planet on which they have no place!"

And he had caught them. In only a few burning words, he had made the ancient magic possible between people and a natural leader who was an orator. Forgotten was the alien speech, the enemy garb, the hereditary dislike of the foreigner. Slater knew that if he were to live two centuries, he would not see a greater orator in action. The Rucker crowd was on its feet. They were not shouting, that was not the custom, but their intense murmur was combined with the snapping of fingers, the ultimate in Rucker applause. Slater found himself joining in, and not entirely from a wish to maintain his disguise! Beside him, Danna was snapping her fingers with equal enthusiasm. A wink from the grinning Muller brought Slater back to earth.

Pelham continued to speak, his theme a justification for the destruction of Mars Command and the concomitant total shattering of the domed cities, agricultural enclaves, and the mines. All non-Ruckers of any age were to be offered three choices: mingling with a Rucker clan, repatriation to Earth, or death. The simple program delighted his auditors and the finger clicking increased in volume. Slater wondered how JayBee was going to sell his supporters in the cities on the idea of living in the Ruck, but the man was cynical enough to try to sell anyone anything, that was the only answer he knew. Promises made to his supporters in the domes would have no relation to what was said in the Ruck. As the promises grew wilder, Slater's contempt for Pelham grew along with them. But the Ruckers loved it.

At one point Pelham beckoned to a group of men, Ruckers and Terrans, who stood near the base of the platform. A young Rucker warman mounted the stage and handed him a shrouded pole. Was the choice of a Rucker rather than a Terran accidental? Slater wondered. He thought not. JayBee did little that was accidental.

It was a flag, by God! The Ruckers did not use such things, and even the clan emblems were little used in battle, but once again Pelham had struck a right note. The flag was reddish brown, the color of much of Mars' soil, and bore a black circle flanked by two smaller circles of unequal size. Deimos and Phobos, and the planet itself.

"Here is a new thought I offer you—the flag of the free clans, the banner under which the True People will destroy their enemies and cleanse Mars of the pollution of the domes and of the scum who wish the men of Earth to spread over the planet's entire surface." No one in authority wished this, of course, and the land area of Mars was so large that it might have taken five hundred years even if they had wished it. But JayBee's appeal was not to reality. Nor did he make the mistake of explaining how he proposed to create any of his contradictory wonders, such as the self-contained society of peasant-technologists and totally free nomad-hunter-agronomists. His spell needed no second thoughts. The finger snapping was so violent Slater wondered about the possibility of dislocated knuckles.

His attention suddenly became riveted on what JayBee was saying. He was introducing the members of his entourage. The first three were Ruckers, one of them a chief who smiled grimly at the tribesmen and women below, his gray teeth flashing in the flickering torchlight. The fourth was a tall, lean Terran, with a wispy black beard and a rigid face. His name rang across the cave. Medawar! Then this was Mohini "Dutt's" father!

"This man," JayBee shouted, "has given his daughter—his only child—to the cause, our cause! She has been spying on the enemy soldiers for years, from inside, as one of them, and has only recently escaped! Honor this man and listen to him. He will tell you things you need to know about some of those who pretend to lead you."

A familiar figure was mounting the platform. Mohini! She must have been hidden or disguised as a man. But now, her long hair flowing over her combat uniform, she stood with her father at the front of the platform. And she was looking in - their direction!

"Spies sit among us!" Medawar said, his voice hoarse and rasping. "They must be exposed, they must be destroyed! My daughter knows them. They are in hiding, they are in disguise, but she knows them. She has left the enemy fort to smell them out for you. Trust her! She is a faithful servant of JayBee and of free Mars, the Mars of the True People! Let her unmask the traitors and the spies who are with them!"

The silence was suddenly profound. The crowd waited, each man looking at his neighbor, each woman at her sister, all wondering what was up. Only the breathing of the crowd could be heard. The limping old man turned to look at Slater, and it crossed the lieutenant's mind that the creature's rheumy eyes were somehow familiar. His hand felt for his belt gun and he moved closer to Danna.

"Those men in the back of the cave, with the Wise Woman of the Ferkat Clan, they are Greenie officers led by Muller himself. You know who he is!" A sigh rose from many throats. Muller was known to all, the Greenie they could not trick, the man who always outthought them. A thousand sharp eyes glared at them, waiting for the word.

"The Wise Woman is a traitor too. Don't let them escape. There are still other traitors who must be unmasked after they are taken. Take them alive. Make them talk!" Mohini's high-pitched tones rose until they were a scream.

It was only at this point that Slater noticed something. Muller was gone! Somehow, even before Mohini had started speaking, he had slipped out! He had simply vanished! Slater, Feng, and Danna were alone. On the platform, Lang could be seen conferring gravely with his fellow konsels. Obviously Mohini had either not dared to denounce him or been instructed not to.

The Ruckers in front of the three turned and began to move quietly forward, their faces set with hatred. They must have hesitated a little over Danna, but a Wise Woman's being a traitor would in the end make them angrier and less inclined to ask questions. Slater got ready to die, since he did not intend to be taken alive and interrogated.

A great voice bellowed something from behind him, something unintelligible. Whatever it was, it froze the enraged Ruckers who faced them in their tracks. The voice roared out again. On the platform, everyone froze, Mohini still leaning forward, her hand extended in menace.

Someone whispered in Unit. With a start, Slater realized it was their bent old neighbor. "Move slowly toward the door. Don't crouch; Stand straight. Walk as if you have been insulted. Let Danna go last. Whatever you do, don't shoot!"

They stood up and backed unconcernedly toward the passageway to the camp. From the comer of his eye, Slater saw that a giant figure, hands outstretched as if in warning, stood at the tunnel mouth. It was Nakamura. His disguise as one of the clan of giant wizards from the south was perfect. Such was the awe surrounding them that the mass of Ruckers was hesitant. It was enough to hold the furious mob of True People in check, at least for the moment.

Mohini broke the spell. "He's one of them," she screamed. "I know him! He's an officer from the fort, not a true Opener of the Way. Don't listen to him! Take them all!"

It was the fact that she spoke in Unit, perhaps allied to her uniform as well, which prevented total disaster. The conflicting emotions that JayBee had stirred up, the accusations against a Wise Woman, the hated uniform, the alien tongue, all had thrown the True People into confusion. Nakamura added to it now.

He bellowed a string of mysterious syllables in his great voice and held up an object, glittering in the light of the torches. It was the strange poison weapon they had all examined back at the fort. And it was more. It was the thing Slater had seen in the belt of the mysterious hooded boatman in the dream he had shared with Danna! That was what had jogged his memory at the time, the thing he could not recall. All this raced through his mind while he felt for his lasgun under his cloak and eyed the nearby Ruckers who were staring at the group with anger and fear.

Slowly but steadily they shifted through the loose groups toward the tunnel exit. On the dais, heated argument was apparent. Mohini was arguing with her father and Pelham, but her voice was inaudible. Close to them, the konsels seemed engaged in a separate debate, ignoring the Terran delegation. Nakamura's great voice grew louder as Slater and the others approached him. Slater watched his friend caper about, waving the strange weapon in mystic passes as he did so. The True People at whom the object was pointed moved nervously farther away from it. A hum of angry and confused voices underlay the bellowings of the disguised UN officer as the crowd swayed to and fro, confused and frightened at the unprecedented happenings in their midst.

The crouched and evil-scented oldster swung his staff in mystic passes before them now, muttering as he did so. The Ruckers revered the aged, for few of them attained long years. They backed away from the old man, though their eyes were angry as they glared at Slater and the others. Danna stared coldly back and walked as if she had a right to go anywhere, while the men tried to copy her insouciance. Slater felt as if a thousand missiles were about to bury themselves in his body, but he was still more concerned about the girl.

Now they were next to Nakamura. He ignored them, jumping about oddly and yelling discordantly until they passed. As they did, he fell in behind. Still walking, despite the impulse to run, the little party passed into the great tunnel and the light dimmed at once, for the torches that had lit it on their arrival were out or dying.

"Run, all of you" came a hiss from the gloom ahead. "They will break into anger in a moment." It was the old man, now standing straight in the gloom ahead.

"Yes, hurry!" Danna said, clutching Slater's arm. "Listen to Arta. He knows what to do!"

Slater gulped and swallowed in silence. So that was where Arta Burg had been! Danna's second husband. Not dead, not lost in the storm, but disguised, waiting to surface when needed! He felt stupid, since the others seemed to have penetrated the disguise at once.

They ran openly now, Danna and Burg in front, the others following. They had not gone far when the swell of voices behind them rose into a great roar. Ahead they saw the light of the outside world. Behind lay certain death. Would there be guards, Slater wondered as he sprinted, or would the way be clear? And what would happen to Thau Lang, whom everyone seemed to have forgotten?

Behind them, mingled with the roar of the assembly, came the vibration of running feet, but none of them looked back. At least, Slater thought, they aren't shooting. If Pelham and Company had carried the day completely, we'd be targets by now.

The entrance loomed before them and they raced out, weapons drawn. But there were no guards. In the near distance a few children and women stared at them, open-mouthed the herds of bulgotes fed peacefully.

To their right, deep in the shadow of the overhanging arch, though, stood a figure. It was Muller, and with him another man, a younger Rucker whom Slater had not seen before. They were holding the reins of two huge buck bulgotes, the backs of which supported laden pack harnesses. Suddenly he realized the new Rucker was Milla Breen!

"This way," Muller called. "No time for talk. Follow me, all of you—and hurry! We've an ally in camp who will know what to do. Don't waste time!" He led off at once, and Slater found himself leading one of the bulgotes at a rapid lope. They were not heading away from the cave but parallel to it, farther back in the shadows of the great overhang, down a path that led between rock shapes and grew rapidly narrower until they were going single file. The man who had been with Muller at the cave mouth had never moved and as they rounded a sharp curve, his stolid shape was lost to sight. No one of their pursuers had yet come into view either, and as they turned the comer of a right angle, all noise from behind was lost to the ear.

The gray-black basalt grew closer overhead with each stride, as the ceiling and the walls of their passage drew together. The light was very dim. The bulgote Slater led snorted and checked briefly. The young officer wondered desperately what he would do if the great brute reared and began to fight in earnest.

As if he could read minds, Muller was beside the animal in an instant, fastening a dirty cloth bandage over the animal's eyes, crooning to it in a low monotone as he did so. In a second the job was done.

"He'll do," he said quietly. "Talk to him if he shies. He's a lot smarter than a horse." With that, he was gone again, feeling his way past Feng, who was in front of Slater.

The dirt floor of the path changed to hard rock, and they were in another equally narrow black tunnel. When the passage straightened, Slater could see that someone up front was using a pocket beamlight. It was all that was needed so long as the passage kept narrow and straight. The other bulgote, apparently led by Muller or someone right behind him, blocked much of the light. There was little talk, only an occasional whisper, the sound of the animals' hooves, and the padding of human feet. The quiet procession seemed to go on for hours, and Slater felt himself growing numb with fatigue. It was cold too, though not damp. The tunnel bored on and on, only now and then taking a gentle curve. But always it sloped very gently down. The rock walls felt quite smooth to the hand, and he wondered who had carved the shaft and when. He had never thought of the Ruckers as miners, and this seemed expert work.

They had marched four hours without a break when the light up ahead suddenly grew brighter. It hurt Slater's eyes and he blinked and squinted for a moment, before he saw that it was only a wooden torch set alight and that he had emerged into a cavern, or a greatly heightened and widened segment of the tunnel. Behind him the others came, and he smelled Danna's wild fragrance for a second as she walked by him, to where Muller held the torch. The air was moist, dark, and cool, and the walls glimpsed in the torchlight were wet though the tunnel floor was not.

"We'll take a break, but not too long," the colonel said. "Feed and water the animals while I talk. We can't stay here long. Too dangerous. You'll find water bags and grain in the left hand pack on each animal. Hurry it up, now. By the way, Milla was JayBee's flagman. Fun, eh?"

Suddenly Danna was beside Slater as he fumbled with the lashings of the unfamiliar pack. "Let me, you clumsy Terran, or Strombok will bite you." Her voice was gay, and he wondered at it even as he fought back an almost overpowering desire to hold her tight in his arms.

"He's my own baby," Danna said happily. "I raised him from a kid. Isn't he pretty?" She crooned to the huge mutated goat, as if to a child, and Slater was jealous while he listened to the brute crunch its feed.

"I wanted him to be led by you," she went on in a low voice. "He might need to know you later if there's trouble. They won't let just anyone handle them. They are very ... sensible? No—sensitive, that's the word. And I wanted him to like you too."

"He's lovely," Slater said, watching one of the bulgote's amber eyes roll at him in the torchlight. He hoped he sounded sincere. An uglier beast had never existed, he thought. Strombok looked as if it ate babies for breakfast. The great knobbed horns had needle tips; the Ruckers never polled their herds. The horns were needed for fighting off the wild dog packs and such, but Ruckers admired strength and ferocity anyway, hating the clipped and fatted stock of the Terrans. Suddenly Slater realized that Muller was talking.

"A fellow named Gunsmit is on our side. He's a camp chief and a good man. He can lay a false scent and be believed. At least for a while. This tunnel and lots of others are things known to the Wise Women and a few, not all, of the older men.

"Before someone asks, Thau Lang is in no danger. A konsel is usually above attack, unless he declares a feud, and Thau Lang can only be condemned by his own clan, which is a long way off and wouldn't do it anyway. He's a great war leader as well, and famous far beyond his own borders. Neither JayBee nor the U-Men would dare attack him openly, and he's too wise to the danger now to be taken by deceit. He will move out tonight and catch up to us when he can. Milla slipped out while Mohini Dutt was raving at us.

"Finally, we are on our way to the South—the area the U-Men, or their allies, come from—by a shortcut. This network of tunnels may save us as much as thirty miles or more still, before we surface. But we have to move fast. There is only a remote chance that we'll be followed, which would mean that JayBee, the U-Men or both have suborned a konsel or Wise Woman. But not much is known about these caves and tunnels. Certain routes have been charted through them. I have a rough map of ours. But no one stays in them longer than necessary. Many of the first explorers from the clans never came out. Sometimes they were found, or what was left of them. Sometimes there was nothing, just the Long Silence. Save for a few of the shortest and most open, like the big council cavern, they are used only in dire emergencies. So we rest now for half an hour, we guard our perimeter constantly, and then we move out."

A shape moved next to Slater, and a hand touched his shoulder. He could just make out the ragged suit that covered Arta Burg in the flicker of the torchlight.

"Half of the Scorpion Clan, who live over to the west of us, were lost this way many years ago." His voice rang even louder than had Muller's in the silence. "They sheltered deep down from a great wind, much worse than the one two days ago. Only a few bones were found by the ones who looked, a few bones and many long tunnels going back into the hills beyond light and knowledge."

"Hear that, everyone?" Muller asked. "Relax now and try to get some rest. Burg and I will take first watch, he at the way we came in, I up ahead here."

Slater found himself sitting between Danna and Nakamura. Feng and Milla had gone to sleep, each taking a bag from the nearest bulgote. The torch had been extinguished and they sat in the dark, talking in low tones. Occasionally a light flickered at the entrance to the cave or back beyond where Muller and Burg played their pocket beam lights at random. Otherwise it was night in the depths.

"I'm delighted that Arta and Milla were not lost," Slater said. He was, he found, not lying, though he still hated the thought that Danna had two husbands. Arta and Milla were good comrades, decent fellows. It was not Aria's fault that an alien had fallen in love with his wife! A wife he shared with another man anyway!

"It's wonderful," she answered. "Here we are all together. If only my grandfather would come, it would be perfect."

"Your grandfather?" Nakamura was no more puzzled than Slater, but he spoke first.

"Oh, we did not tell you. Thau Lang is my mother's father. Many of the True People still do not bother with much record keeping, who is related and all such things. But the Wise Women know what genetics are. We are not such savages as you Greenies think." She laughed and poked the big lieutenant.

"Besides, it is important to know who the ancestors of a Wise Woman are. We can speak to those gone down at times, and also we wish to be able to breed and transmit our power to the daughters to come. But anyone would want to be related to Thau Lang. He is a wonderful man, a konsel and one of the greatest warriors as well. Usually konsels are only middling fair as fighters. They have to think too much. But he has killed over forty men and many terrible beasts. A wonderful man!"

The combination of superstition and pride at having the most murderous warrior around as a kinsman caused Slater to wince in the dark. But he felt rueful a moment later. Who was he to flinch at his savage love and her pride, he who had been raised on tales of war against the Russians, ancient British, the Sikhs, and the other Afghan and Pathan tribes? Danna's pride was honest, like everything else about her.

She was sitting close enough to Slater so that he could feel her muscles quiver, all in an instant. At the same time her voice cried out, "Back here to the others, Muller and Arta. Something comes!"

Each man reached for his pocket light while Feng and Milla Breen uncoiled from sleep bags only a fraction of a second behind the others. With a rush of racing feet, the two outer men joined them and in seconds they were all seven in a circle, lights and weapons facing outward, the two blindfolded pack beasts in the center.

"I can feel it," Danna murmured, her voice low and unsteady. "It is out there ... watching."

Her outstretched arm was pointing toward the blackness in the direction in which they had been heading.

Chapter 9 – Through the Long Silence

The beams of the small flashlights died perhaps a hundred or so yards away and were swallowed up by the moist dark beyond. The smooth damp wails of the tunnel, even though far wider than their original track, were still visible on either side. Only the roof above lay out of sight. Slater felt a ghost of an acrid scent in his nostrils and wondered if he were imagining it.

"Listen!" Muller said. "I heard something! And I can smell it!"

Now Slater heard it too. It was a curious sliding noise, as if something damp was brushing gently against a smooth surface. They strained eyes and ears, but they could not pinpoint the sound. Nevertheless, it slowly grew louder, though somehow more diffuse, as if a number of different objects were involved. Then they saw something.

At the farthest limit of their beams, something shining came in view, white and featureless, glistening. It seemed small at first, but as it advanced, it grew in girth. Behind it came another and yet another, weaving, twisting, and almost oozing over the basalt floor of the tunnel, yet always approaching. The tips were soft-looking, eyeless and shapeless. But the bulk of whatever the things' length represented grew constantly as they emerged into the light. At the back, the limit of the humans' vision, they were now as thick as cables. And still they came. At least eight of the horrid things were in view, and even as they watched, another appeared. In fascination, the seven watched the inexorable advance.

"It is old," Danna said in a strained voice. "Old and hungry. And also it hates us, for we can see."

As usual, the colonel had not been idle. He broke the spell. "Get down!" he shouted, and threw something far and straight, back into the dark where the living ropes bulked thickest. As he hurled the object he fell forward.

Slater had thrown one arm over Danna as they fell, and now he felt the floor of the cave heave to the blast of the explosion while his ears went numb at the same time. When he opened his eyes, the white glare of the tiny bomb had died but there was sufficient afterglow to see the shambles it had created. Great torn coils of twisting, living, pallid substance writhed in agony, blocking the tunnel as far as they could see, snapping and beating with soft but massive thuds against the walls, reaching and grasping far up out of sight into the dark above. At the same time a pain, a thrilling vibrato cut into his head as if something was screaming on a note that humanity was never meant to hear. His eyes shut again with the agony. He felt Danna choke under his hand and knew that she and the others were having the same experience. The acrid, piercing scent had become a fierce reek.

As suddenly as it had come, the pain died and was gone, leaving only a feeling of stretched nerves and overstrained muscles. One by one the ghastly ropes ceased their movement and slowly settled to the cavern's floor. A foul stench rose from them like steam, and as the party slowly rose, weapons and lights at the ready, the bulgotes snorted and began to rear, straining at their reins. Danna, Milla, and Arta ran to them and soothed them with pats and caresses, crooning until the fear subsided.

"It has gone," Danna said, turning to Slater. "I can feel the hate still, but far away, down deep in the cold water and the dark. It is not dead, but badly hurt."

Muller and Feng had cautiously gone out and were examining the closest of the now-motionless things. They held their free hands over their noses as they peered and probed with lights and booted feet. After a moment they came back, faces drawn.

"You are a great warrior, Muller," Danna said warmly. "None of the True People—no, not even Thau Lang—ever fought such a creature as this!"

He brushed aside the praise. "You warned us about them, or 'it,' as you call it, Danna. How did you know it was coming? We all felt the supersonic cry when it was hurt. Yet you gave us a full minute's warning. And you seem to know something about it. What?"

Surprisingly, it was Burg who answered. "You have lived with the clans, Muller. Thau Lang told us that much back in your fort. You know the True People better than any Greenie on the planet. Haven't you learned anything about a Wise Woman yet? They see and feel the unseen in ways no other can. They can tell when the great storms will come, when water will fail, when the volcanoes come from the rock. They speak with those who have gone down. Why should Danna not know the thing was coming?"

"You're right, Arta. I must be getting old. I have seen enough in the past. There was someone, a woman, once ..." He cut himself off in midspeech, an odd thing for Muller. "What do you think it was, Danna? Is it intelligent?"

In the beamlight, Danna grew thoughtful. "These feelings come, Muller, and they go. I felt rather than knew, do you understand? Now there is nothing beyond a vague sense of hurt, which is far away and growing farther. But it was one thing, I know that, and those were its ... hands. It must be big, very big. It lives mostly in water, and there has not been any water on the top of Mars, until we made it—we humans—for many millions of years. So it lives below. But I felt that once it lived up on top, long long ago, beyond the memory of man. Or maybe its fathers did." She paused. "You asked, 'Is it intelligent?' I don't know how to explain. I feel that it is perhaps, but not the same way we are, if that is something that makes sense. Also"—and her voice dropped a little—"I got a feeling it might have been sent, yet that is not right either. Maybe told, or, what's the Greenie word—alerted. That's closer. But it is all feeling, not something I know with my brain. I hope that helps." She looked at Slater and smiled, as if she were a child who could not repeat a lesson correctly. His heart went out to her at the same time his brain reeled.

Muller had been conferring with Arta, Milla, and Captain Feng. Now he summoned them all to the center of the open space. He took a wooden torch from Strobok's pack and lit it.

"Let's get out of here. The bulgotes come behind, with Arta and Danna leading them, Slater and Milla last. Keep your eyes open, son, and warman Breen. We could still be hit by something from behind. Nakamura, come up here. I need those big muscles of yours to lift this muck. Watch it carefully. Some of those things may have reserve nervous action, even if their owner isn't attached any longer."

Rags were tied over the gotes' muzzles, since the stink of the dead limb segments was overpowering. Slater went to dampen a cloth on one of the dripping walls and made an interesting discovery. Narrow gutters running along the sides of the tunnel, only an inch or so wide, served to carry the moisture away, so that the main tunnel floor remained dry. He reported this when he came back, and Muller looked thoughtful. "Whoever built this knew what they were doing."

"Whoever or whatever," Nakamura muttered. He and Feng carefully cleared a path through the torn mass of white and slimy tentacles, hurling the loathsome things aside and wiping their hands on rags as quickly as possible. Slater touched one in passing and shuddered at the feel, which was both gelatinous and rubbery at the same time. Mars clung to many secrets, and knowledge of the dweller in the deep caves was one the old planet could keep indefinitely as far as he was concerned.

The party passed through the gap thus created, the gotes snorting only a little, and they soon came to a place where the foul remains abruptly ended. The tunnel was narrowing again but still sloped gently down. Before them now, clear in the torchlight, was a broad smear, several yards wide, of glistening slime and ichor. Toe odor was still overpowering, but the way was clear.

Muller led and the others followed cautiously. In the light, the foul track led straight on, but suddenly Muller halted and held his torch high. To their right, a huge vaulted opening loomed in the tunnel wall, its base even with the floor. Into this led the awful trail of the monster, and beyond it, in front of them, the path was dry once more.

They hurried past, weapons ready, wondering if a mass of the things would rise through the black arch and assault them again, but nothing happened. In a few moments they were far beyond the hole, and Muller put out his torch, once more switching to the pocket beamlight.

As they went on, the damp in the air increased, until it was positively humid. The temperature, however, remained constant. The tunnel was narrow again, but never so much as it had been before the cave of the monster, and two could walk abreast easily. Once Muller checked for a moment and shone his light on the floor by the narrow gutter. A pile of some dark rubbish lay there, but the light caught on a glint of metal.

"Somebody drew this map and came back afterward, or there wouldn't be any map. Looks like someone stayed behind too."

The air remained fresh and moist. They encountered tunnel openings with increased frequency, and always passed them as quickly as possible. Their own road had stopped descending some time back.

After about five hours, Muller called another halt. "We ought to get some rest. Nakamura and Feng take the first watch. Danna and Slater next. We'll come, Milla, Arta and I, last. Two hours a watch. That should give us enough to go on."

Exhausted, those not on watch lay down at once. Slater felt he had hardly had a chance to close his eyes, when Nakamura shook him awake.

"Go see the Rucker's Revenge," the giant whispered, pointing to Danna, who stood a little distance off, her torch illuminating her face. "Wish I had your luck. Even the godddamn gotes don't like me." He added, almost as an afterthought, "Nice girl, Moe. Never thought I'd feel that way about one of them." In an instant he was curled up and asleep in his bag.

Slater smiled to himself as he walked to Danna. If someone who hated the Ruckers as much as Nakamura could change, maybe there was hope for an eventual peace after all.

Though the two were supposed to be patrolling opposite ends of the tunnel, they quickly found each other and Danna came into his arms. "We should not be doing this on watch," she said finally, her curly head buried against his chest. When he started to pull away, two strong little arms tightened around him, and he could see the glint of her smile in the torchglow.

"Those who spurn a Wise Woman are said to die unpleasantly, Greenie. And besides, we get so few chances to be alone."

"My friends call me Moe," he mumbled. Then, before he could catch himself, the one thing that had been on his mind for the last three days came out. "Besides—what about your two husbands?"

She pushed him away and looked up at his face. "That bothers you? Ah, I understand. You Greenies!" She shook him gently by the front of his leather jacket. "You thought I was making love to them both!" He heard her choked laughter in the moist gloom.

After the soft laughter had died, she said, "Moe, you know little about us, though that is not surprising. We steal your records, your vid-tapes, your books, your newsheets, and we leave little for you to find in return. Thus we know much of you, but you, only bits and snatches of our lives."

Her voice grew sober as she explained. "Let us walk together in a circle, and we can talk as we do, so that the guard is kept. I will tell you about the Wise Women. My mother was one and she died long ago. My father I never knew. No one speaks of him, not even Thau Lang. He once told me my father was a great warrior of a far-distant clan and that he had to leave me as a baby. Thau Lang told me that some day he would tell me more."

They walked the cave in silence for a moment, circling the sleeping men and the cud-chewing bulgotes at a distance, flashing their lights about at random. Slater's heart was beating harder than he thought it could. Danna was not sleeping with Burg and Breen! For the moment, that was all he needed to make him happy.

"Moe, I was raised by the two other Wise Women in our clan, wonderful old women. It was hoped I had the power too, but it does not always come to the same blood, though it sometimes comes from families that had none in the past. When I was a small child and it was realized that I could see things far off, the clan married me to two boys. They are my brothers and more, and they must always protect me, all their lives, until they die or I should decide to give them leave to marry, I mean really marry." She laughed again, a low gurgle. "Moe, they are the only two men I must not sleep with! They are my teachers, about men's things—how men think—and they are my guards. When Thau Lang told me to be captured and come to help him at your fort, they had to go along. They can never leave me, until I formally dismiss them before the clan." She paused and looked up at him. "I have slept with a few boys, Moe. I was supposed to, to know how men think, you see, which I must know as a Wise Woman. I enjoyed it, but it was only ... fun, nothing more. Does that make you angry?"

"Now that I know you have no husbands, nothing could make me angry, Danna." He paused too. "I think I love you, as we know the thing on Earth. Are you allowed to love me, I mean, after this is over?"

"I can love anyone I want. No one tells a Wise Woman what to do, except our own council, which meets seldom, and then only on the gravest of matters. It will be hard—if we are to stay together, I mean—but I will think of something. I cannot leave my people. It will be hard."

She spoke further about the life in her clan, and he wondered again at the fate that had made him her enemy and that he had ever thought the Ruckers savage. Among themselves, they were kind and open-hearted, laughing a lot and full of fun. She had been on many trips into the wild with only her two guardian "husbands" and they had encountered every kind of danger, had fought shoulder to shoulder against Marswolves and other menaces. Being a Wise Woman had not excluded her from work when younger, and she had had to learn to herd bulgotes, to sew and clean hides, to make ammunition, and to weave the wonderful Rucker blankets that they sold at the Truce Fairs for fabulous prices. Indeed, it seemed that she had to work twice as hard as other girls, for the arduous training of a Wise Woman, about which she would not speak, was simply piled on top of all her other duties. He felt very lucky that such a being had chosen him, and also a little humble.

For him, the two hours went by like seconds, and he did not realize how tired he was until the last three on watch, the colonel, Breen, and Burg, had taken up their posts and he had finally lain down again.

After a quick bite of cold rations and some water from skins on the gotes, they had not marched for more than an hour when Danna called out.

"There is something ahead, Muller, though what I cannot tell. But it is life of some kind. I can feel it. It does not feel bad, or dangerous, just strange somehow. And there is more room, I think. I sense a great open space."

The slope was still level, and Muller crouched and began to examine the Rucker map in the beam of his pocket beamlight. "Nothing marked on here, except a lot of forks and branches to be careful of. I'll go with the map in my hand. Behind Burg and Breen. They're the best shots. Keep your guns at the ready, boys. Danna, Nakamura, and Feng lead the animals and you, Slater, bring up the rear. Everybody need to be told to stay alert? Good, let's move out."

For almost half an hour they marched slowly forward, every sense on the alert. Then a low call from Danna halted them once more.

"There are many things, so many I can't count them. They feel us too, and they are frightened. Should we go on, Muller?"

"We have to, Danna. Watch it everybody. Let's go."

They had gone only a half kilometer more, when the tunnel suddenly widened. They switched on their beamlights, keeping one hand free for weapons, but the powerful beams were lost in the immensity before them. They had entered a cavern so enormous that it simply ate the light, in every direction save down, for the floor stretched level as far as they could see. Here and there rock outcroppings broke the flat expanse and there were viscid-looking piles of some substance staining them and the floor as well, which gleamed in the light. Slater felt a musky and unfamiliar scent in his nostrils. He had the feeling he was being observed too. Then, even as they drew close together, it came.

They heard the sound of the wind suddenly, far overhead; a wind in the echoing bowels of the planet, where no breeze ever blew. A vast soughing wail, it rose from nothing and then—down it came with hurricane force and in an instant was upon them.

"Lie down—get the gotes down flat," Muller screamed above the howl of the storm. There was no time for more.

Slater saw the blackness, a living, pulsating blackness strike the beams of their upheld lights and then he was down on his face as things, countless soft things, flapping beating things, a living blanket of dark life, poured at and just over them, in a tide of matter, moving as one down the tunnel from which they had just emerged. He caught a glimpse of one individual as the wave of creatures hit them and saw the blunt eyeless head, toothless red mouth, the arch of shiny wings, and then nothing more as the gale force of the living wave flew past and through them. The noise of the countless pinions beating was actually deafening to his ears.

As it had come, so it was gone. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. The silence seemed deafening as they raised their heads and stared at each other. The gotes were snorting and trying to rise, and Danna gave them their heads and stroked them until they subsided while the others checked their weapons and examined them and each other for damage. Amazingly, beyond a few bruises, no one was hurt or even scratched.

"I ought to be shot," Muller said suddenly. "Quick, all of you except Danna, use your lights. I was holding the map and the rush of those bloody animals tore it out of my hand. I kept the light and my gun and the map's gone. We have to have that map!"

But the map had vanished. They searched far back down the tunnel and far out into the great cave, whose limits they could not even guess, but found nothing except the long-dead body of one of the creatures that had assaulted them and piles of what they surmised must be the things' excrement, the shiny goop they had first glimpsed in their lights.

The usually silent Feng was almost rhapsodic about the dead animal. "Fascinating! Observe the wings are neither a bat's nor a bird's, but more akin to the ancient flying reptiles of the Jurassic age back on Earth."

The thing was-not too large, the body light and vaguely mammalian in appearance, jet black all over. The earless head was also eyeless. It might have spanned a man's outstretched arms with its strange wings, of which it possessed two pair. There were small claws on the wings and two hook-clawed feet near the rump. The total weight, allowing for dessication of the specimen they held, was no more than two kilograms, about that of a small chicken.

"What can they feed on, and where do they find it?" Feng mused. "There are no teeth. And yet there must have been many thousands of them to overwhelm us the way they did." He carefully stowed the strange carcass in one of the bulgote packs and then joined the others.

"This place is a real maze," Muller said. "Without the map, I have no idea how to proceed. But we have a hidden asset, which has saved us before, and I hope will again. Danna, can you lead us out of here or sense the most direct way to the surface?"

"Let me think for a moment, Muller. Those creatures, which did not hurt us and were very frightened, must have lived far up on the roof of this cave. There are stories among my people of things that fly at night, in great clouds, at certain seasons of the year, though no one has ever been close enough to see what they were. I think these strange things also once had eyes and lived up on the surface, just as I think that devil thing you bombed once did. But they have no thoughts and it did, at least a hate of others. They were only scared.

"Anyway, I think there is a way out up top, far above us. But it will probably be concealed and very small. And we have no way of getting there. I am not happy about this. I cannot sense the surface, not down this deep. In the wild, the Ruck, I can use animals when I am lost. The bulgotes know direction if one tells them what is wanted. Even certain of the wild things will come to a Wise Woman and will not attack, if they are told what to do. But I cannot use the gotes this deep underground. Their direction finding is useless here. If only I could get hold of some other creature, even a ferkat, or something that lives here. But alone, I fear that I can do nothing. Do you suppose we could catch a flier, one of those things that hit us?"

"Don't see how," the colonel said. "Anyone else have any ideas?"

"I surmise they have all gone, perhaps to another cavern that connects to the tunnel," Feng said. "Do you sense any life, Danna?"

She shook her head. Even Muller could think of nothing to say, and they all stood in silence, racking their brains for a way out of this unpleasant impasse. Were they doomed to wander at random in the endless tunnels and caverns until their food and water gave out? It was not a cheery thought, and even the tough soldiers and their hardened foes of the Ruck found it hard to maintain their poise. The Long Silence cast its pall.

At this point Slater had an inspiration. "Danna, how big does the animal have to be? Could it be small? Very small?"

The others crowded around, caught up by the excitement in his voice. "What do you have in mind, Slater?" the colonel asked. "Got some bright idea?"

"Well, sir, it's Grabbit," Slater said, fumbling for the tiny impervium box at his belt. "I took him along and I forgot him, we've been so preoccupied. But he's alive, and I just remembered he was there." He opened the box and the little snapper waved his claws in greeting, his stumpy legs clawing for a foothold on the smooth surface.

"Jesu Christi!" Nakamura exclaimed. "I thought you left that little horror back at the fort. What the Hell did you bring it along for?"

The snapper clicked and hummed audibly as they watched it in silence, trying to climb from its box in vain.

"Moe," Danna breathed, "that is a terrible thing you carry. We kill them whenever we find them. Not even a Wise Woman would have one around. They get into tents and attack children once in a while, or even bite the leg off a bulgote, the bigger ones. You must be very brave." Her admiration was not lost on Nakamura.

"Or very crazy," he snapped. "What-in-hell good is that vermin now?"

"At ease, Lieutenant," Muller said. He turned to Danna. "What do you think, Danna? Can you use Slater's pet? It lives on the surface. I assume it wants to get back there. And it seems to like Slater, which is why I've let him keep it in the past. Want to try your luck with it?" He did not add that they had very little choice.

"I don't know." Danna examined Grabbit at close range with her beamlight. "I never heard of anyone trying to get close to one of these things. Even a rockscorp or one of the big spiders is said to have more feeling to get hold of. But I can feel that you are right. It does like Moe, and it will not attack us. Maybe we can do something. Could we rest, while I look at it more closely and talk to Moe about it?"

Nakamura said nothing as Slater and the girl walked a little apart, but Slater had no trouble guessing at the ribald comment in his friend's mind. But Danna was bent strictly on business. She sat down and held the box on her lap, motioning to Slater to sit beside her. For a long time she stared at Grabbit in silence, as if trying to see through its very armor. To Slater's surprise, the creature had stopped trying to escape and lay quiescent in the container, as if somehow the girl had calmed it. All at once, before he could even protest, she reached down and tipped Grabbit out onto her palm. Slater almost reached over to seize the snapper. It had had no food since they left the fort. But there was an air of authority about Danna that stopped him from moving. He was watching a Wise Woman at work and he felt her power and authority. Grabbit waved its small chelae once and then lay quiet once again, while she lifted him to her eyes and held him only millimeters away. At last she seemed satisfied and gently replaced the odd little creature in its box.

"It really likes you, Moe," she said, patting his hand. "The small mind is very strange, harder to reach even then the things we have seen here in the dark of the world, the flying things and the other. And its kind is very old too, as old as they, but different again. I feel that they grew, as part of Mars, but the snappers, if this one is like the others, are stranger in other ways. They give me a feeling, or maybe this one alone gives it, as if it were a creature that had lost its masters. It's like a tame bulgote that one recaptures after it has run away and joined a wild herd, maybe. But I get the thought that it thinks of you as its master, and it knows enough to leave people and things you like alone and eat only what you give it. Is that so?"

"He never bothers anyone around me. I give him the free run of my quarters, and he catches roaches and things. I keep the door locked when he's not in his box, of course, and I feed him now and then. The scientists I've talked to at Orcus say they can go without food almost indefinitely. No one seems to know how long they live or how big they can get. No one's seen any bigger than a ferkat, unless your people have. I leave wooden stuff lying around and he never chews on it, and the same with cloth."

"How did you get it? What made you get it, I mean?"

"Well, he or it, I guess, found me. I was on a stalk for a wild bulgote with some others and I got separated. I took a little nap under a thornbush and when I woke up, there he was, sitting on my belt buckle, cheeping away. I was a little scared, but somehow, damned if I know how, I knew he was friendly. So ... I gave him some of my ration chocolate. He ate it and I put him in my pocket. When I found out how dangerous they can be, I took him to Colonel Muller. He said I could keep him, and to watch if he did anything interesting or new, so that we could put it in the files. I've had him a Marsyear or more."

Again she fell silent, staring at Grabbit. At length, she picked up the box, rose to her feet again, and they walked back to where the others were eating, the torches laid on the rocks casting a subdued light.

"It may not work, but I can try, Muller," she said.

"I'm afraid it's you or nothing, Danna," Muller said.

They assembled their things and the two warmen took the leads of the pack animals. Then, with Danna and Muller in the fore, they set off.

"I have tried to tell it what I want," Danna said. She held the box, lid raised, in one hand and her light was focused on Grabbit. "We are going to have much luck, if it understands. Now—watch."

As they looked, Grabbit began to move slowly. It crawled to one corner of the box and stopped. The claws were retracted and the blunt prow, for one could hardly call it a head, stayed fixed, pointing in one direction. At the same time, something else happened that made even Muller catch his breath. From behind the turret of Grabbit's one great eye a minute hole appeared. Out of it came a shiny plume, of a dark-blue tint, like an enameled feather from some tiny bird. This grew to about twenty millimeters in height, then bent halfway, at a right angle. The direction in which it pointed was the same as that in which Grabbit faced. Nothing could have been plainer.

"My God," said Nakamura. "The little bastard has his own compass radar set! How about that!"

"When they are dissected," Feng added, "ail the internal organs dissolve in some acid. Nothing like this has ever been noted before."

"From the standpoint of military affairs," Muller said in dry tones, "I'd like my officers to reflect on this creature. It eats anything, lives for an unknown period, is very well armed, and possesses compass-radar or the equivalent. And also it owns an effective self-destruct mechanism that forbids tampering. Any ideas come to your mind?"

"It, or they, were built." The words hung in the silence even as Slater said them. Instinctively, they all looked around at the great dark that lay about them. The fact of Grabbit's abilities had brought the same thought to all their minds. Who or what had dug the tunnels, and who or what had made the snappers, or bred them, and turned them loose?

"The idea is quite logical, especially after all we have seen in these caves," Muller said. "Something we can continue to call Old Martians, for want of a better term, was a bioengineer of fantastic ability. I should not be surprised to learn that the other two life-forms we encountered here, as well as numerous others on the surface, had certain interesting applications. The tunnel system was not dug—nor were the water gutters arranged—by Ruckers. We are in a place built long ago, and for purposes not ours. Be watchful."

In silence they resumed their march, with Danna in the lead, holding her animated compass before her eyes. The others kept their lights on and flashed them from side to side as they walked.

The cave was indeed vast. For a long hour or more they tramped across its floor, finding it quite level except for occasional chunks of rubble that must have fallen from the lofty ceiling. Danna kept steadily on, her eye never leaving the snapper's compass-needle plume.

As he marched Slater found himself stroking the big blindfolded gote he was leading. He realized it only when he stopped for a moment and Strombok nuzzled his ear, the soft lips an obvious caress, and an appeal for more.

Be damned if he doesn't like me. Who would have thought it? He patted the soft nose and kept one hand on the gote's neck after that. At least he had tamed one of the Ruckers' own beasts, and that was quite a thrill too.

At last a great wall loomed before them. In its base were five wide tunnels mouths, set some distance apart from one another. Again they came to a halt around Danna.

"Here's his first big test, Danna," Muller said. "What does he say?"

The plume turned slowly as they all watched, their breaths held in nervous anticipation. After a moment it stopped. It pointed to their left, and they walked slowly in that direction. After a bit, Danna stopped.

"It moves no more," she said. "Look, Muller, now it is straight, pointing to that hole, there." Before them a tunnel opened, the second from the left in the line of five. As they went on Grabbit's strange antenna never wavered, its tip angled always to the black mouth they were approaching. In a few moments they were in the tunnel and marching on.

It might have been the mirror image of the one that had led them into the fliers' cave. At once apparent was that the floor of the new tunnel led up ever so gently. Shallow gutters conducted the damp trickle from the walls, and once again the central walkway was dry.

"Where in Hell does this water end up?" Slater mused. "It has to go somewhere."

"There are striated layers of frozen water in much of the deepest subsoil," Feng said didactically. "It comes down here as melt, I presume. That cave we were in, who knows how large it really was? There could have been a most sizable lake in it or even below it. And no doubt there are many other caves of equal magnitude elsewhere. I am beginning to suspect that the builders of these tunnels led water down to permanent basins."

They marched for four more hours and always the upward slope of the floor continued. Twice they passed tunnel mouths opening into theirs at right angles and once they came to a fork. Grabbit's antenna led them straight to the lefthand one of the two and they had no choice but to follow. They were no longer so depressed, but the monotony of the dark, the echoing damp walls, and the featureless surroundings were wearisome. Yet all were disciplined veterans and no one grumbled.

They halted for half an hour, fed themselves and watered and fed the bulgotes. They were tired, but no one argued when Muller gave the word to go on. The dark and the perpetual silence, broken only by their movements and occasional voices, were so dispiriting that they were all prepared to march until they dropped if it meant getting out of the caves. And Muller never forgot for a moment why they had come. His driving anxiety to make up time infected them all, and they tramped on in his and Danna's path, even though all were weary and suppressing the ache of overtaxed muscles and nerves.

Eventually even Muller had to call another long rest period. They had reached another widening of the tunnel, and again there was a fork. This time it lay behind them, since they had emerged from one entrance to discover another alongside and only one path before.

Slater had the first watch with the colonel this time, and found the latter willing to talk.

"I think that beast of yours will get us out, Slater," he said. "Plus our Wise Woman, of course. But I'm worried about Thau Lang. The map I had made no reference to any danger, nothing about that thing with the tentacles, nothing about the fliers or that vast cavern. Yet it was a Rucker map and he may be following us on it. Also, now that we're relying on the snapper, we may come out nowhere near where I had planned to meet him. This means we may end up nowhere near either JayBee or the U-Men, and/or the new clan from the bad country." He fell silent for a moment. "I can't think what I could have done, besides losing the map, that I haven't."

"We'd all have been dead a dozen times over, Colonel, if you hadn't been with us." Slater was abashed that the legendary Muller could even have a second of self doubt. "Really, sir—"

"I'm not apologizing, young man." His sharp eyes glinted and he looked hard at his young subordinate. "But I am human, you know; I eat, breathe, and relieve myself, just like the rest of you. I even have feelings. Now, get over to the other side. I want to think. And one more thing, boy. Don't hurt Danna. I'm rather fond of her." He turned and left Slater wondering at his last words.

At the end of the rest period, they set out once more. For two hours the trail led on. Side tunnels had ceased, and only the gradually increasing gradient of their own brought any hope. They were silent, all desire to talk having been lost.

Then Danna halted them. "I can smell something. Life is ahead, life that sees the sun!"

Muller quickly arranged them in battle order, Danna leading the two gotes again, and this time put Nakamura up front with the two young warmen and himself. Slater was happy to have the rear. He had come to feel that his Wise Woman was the only thing worth protecting, and he wanted to be the closest to her.

They had advanced cautiously for another kilometer, when a spitting screech, a sound they all knew well, echoed down the tunnel from up ahead.

"Ferkati" the girl hissed, "Maybe we are coming to a den."

The thought was sobering. The savage feral wildcats of Mars could grow to the size of a leopard.

Light! They all saw it at the same time, as they rounded a gentle bend in the tunnel. A diffused, dim-gray light, but it was coming from some external source. It made them blink, gentle as it was. They halted, switched off beamlights, and waited for their eyes to adjust. After a pause they moved forward. The light grew stronger, but there was no further sound, beyond distant insect noises.

"I can smell the cat," Milla said. "I hear nothing and there must have been only one."

Even Slater caught the ammonia reek of the den, and soon they saw piles of litter, dead leaves and sticks that the animal had dragged in for a bed. They rounded another shoulder of rock, all at once rough and broken, and saw they were in a low cave. Light glared in through a jagged crack at the far end, and once more they had to stop and blink until their eyes could adjust. The floor of the den was covered with rubble, and through it they cautiously picked their way.

"Must have been a land slip at this end," Muller said. "The tunnel builders never ended their work this way."

A dense thorn vine grew over the entrance and they hacked it aside, trying to make as little noise as possible. The hole grew and soon they had a passage large enough for the gotes to follow. Muller went first and then the others. Eventually the entire party was standing on a broad shelf, and the view opened up before them. It was dawn and the growing light showed a strange landscape.

Before them unrolled a scene of unparalleled beauty. They were looking down from one wall of a mighty and fantastic gorge. Clouds of mist swirled about them and hid the depths far beneath. Matted vegetation clung to every vantage, save where a few bare rock pinnacles had resisted any growth. Many of the plants were familiar, such as the massive twisted cedars and deodars, but many were alien and new, such as a barrel-shaped monster like a giant, red, up-ended, pine cone, which towered many meters tall on their right near a spine of shrouded basalt. At their very feet, great ferns sprouted head high. All the Earth plants were far larger than any they had ever seen.

The far side of the gorge was out of sight, and they could not tell whether they were on the side of a vast crater or of a giant canyon. Strange hoofing calls echoed out of the mist far below, and once a shrill scream reminded them of the ferkat they had dispossessed. Insects buzzed all about them.

Muller sat down and beckoned the others to join him. "Any thoughts on where we might be?"

The Ruckers shook their heads. "We have never seen a place like this," Danna said. "Most of these Marsplants are new to us."

Captain Feng's voice broke the ensuing silence. "Are we not on target, as it were, Colonel? I see no other explanation."

"I agree, Feng. We've come through the wilds by going under them. This can only be one place. I'm damned if I can escape the feeling that Slater's little pet knew we wanted to come here, somehow. This is the bad country. And we have got here right in the middle of it."

Chapter 10 – The Abyss of Cimmerium

Far away, in the buried central control room at Orcus Prime, the military commander of Mars turned to his executive, a man grown as gray in the UN service as himself. "It's not like Muller to have failed to report somehow, even if by a Rucker message shot into a fort with an arrow. I don't like this at all. We can't wait too much longer, Bob."

General Robert Vivian Campbell Scott, otherwise his Grace the Duke of Buccleugh, smiled at his superior. It had always seemed amusing and appropriate to him that centuries of service had brought his family, through accident, skill, and brains, once more into the service of a king. He looked at his friend's broad, swart face, the crisp white curls, and reflected that even stripped of any ancient powers, Philip Mutesa, the last Kabaka of what was once Buganda, had proved by his rise through sheer merit to UN Marshal that royal blood might still have its uses.

"Our people are rounding up the network of copters and their bases that Medawar had set up, sir. JayBee is quickly going to find himself a little short of supplies and reinforcements. And Earth Command and I-Corps are closing in on United Minerals at home and their hidden bases in the belt, pinching them off at both ends. They were behind JayBee, we now know. This has cooled things a little, you'll agree?"

"Agreed. But what about the U-Men? If they aren't part of this, who are they? And JayBee still has the Ruck, and he knows a hell of a lot more about it this time. Suppose he gets together with them?"

"If Muller's anywhere near that Cimmerium area, Marshal—and he's supposed to be—the spy-eyes are going to pick up very little. The canyons and craters are immense and deep. We've never penetrated that region on foot or even with jet choppers. And we've tried. Atmospherics are terrible, while me fogs are heavy and seldom lift. The planet forces are on full alert. What more can one do, Phil? Except wait, that is. Satellites tell us nothing about those deeper rifts, or almost."

"You're right, as usual," the marshal grumbled. "I just wish I were out there doing something, not stuck in this office with a lot of old fogeys like you who couldn't march three feet without a cane and a cold beer."

"I trimmed your ass in the last squash match without drawing breath," his subordinate said equably. "But the beer sounds good. Let's go have one and I'll show you the latest additions to my Tridee collection, just in from Earth. There's one with five girls and four guys, imitating a frieze from the Black Temple at Konarak. The girls are painted gold, the guys silver. Fantastic!"

"I thought Scots were supposed to be Puritans," the marshal said. But he allowed himself to be led off, still muttering. His fine-honed mind knew that he had done all he could. There was nothing to do but wait. And pray for Louis Muller. Where was the man, goddamnit!

The seven had eaten and were relaxing and observing the landscape of the great rift that spread out before them, pointing out new sights to one another as the mists swirled and thinned, each time revealing new scenes. The three Ruckers were as excited as the four UN men, for this was a part of their own world, hitherto unexplored and wrapped in strange legends. Behind them the two bulgotes, their blindfolds off at last, fed eagerly on any and all of the vegetation that curled about the broad ledge, their snorts of satisfaction punctuating the conversation.

"We'll have to do some cutting," Muller said, "but the slope here doesn't look too bad so far. We may hit a sheer face lower down and have to come back though."

"It's certainly hopeless above," Feng added. "I've prowled the edge and it's all naked rock that way, with pronounced overhangs. We can go down or sideways, but not up."

"Listen!" Danna called from the edge a little distance away. They all fell silent. High above came a sound they ail knew well, the whine of a turbo-jet at low speed, rising and falling as it circled and came back again.

"That's a Greenie," the usually silent Milla Breen said. "I guess they are friends, no?"

The doubt in the young warman's voice made them all laugh, including Arta Burg. "For once we don't duck, Milla, or shoot at it. Maybe later, eh, but for now they are helping."

Muller was already hammering the butt of his big Rucker bush knife on a convenient rock. As the cap broke, he peeled away the shreds and revealed two tiny bulbs set in an impervium base. One glowed red in the morning light, but the other, a yellow bulb, was dim and lifeless. While they watched quietly, he stared alternately at the bulbs and the thick clouds that hid them from their ally far above.

"This be damned," he finally said in disgust. "The red means the homer is going out. But the yellow should light up too, which means the signal is being received by that ship up there. It isn't, that's all. Something is blanketing the signal, as if there were a dead zone encapsulating this place." He opened a belt pouch and removed a sealed lump of plasticene. In a few seconds he had molded a replacement cap for the knife and the stuff was setting solidly.

"It may, of course, be something natural that's doing this. We've always encountered atmospheric trouble in certain areas of Mars, and on Earth too, for that matter. But somehow, I don't think so in this case. I wish Thau Lang were here. He's explored closer in to some of these dead spots than anyone else on the planet."

"Haven't any of our people ever tried to find out about these unknown areas, sir?" Nakamura asked. "After all, we've been here quite a while."

It was Captain Feng who answered. "It's in the I-Corps files, Lieutenant. But I suppose you are entitled to the information. Especially since my exsubordinate, Miss Dutt, had full access to them. In the last fifty years, there have been three attempts, by scientists who had received full combat and ranger training. Two groups were sent by copter to a similar area, not this one. They landed below the mist and there was ... silence. Nothing ever came back, no messages, no anything. The third group tried this very area, five years ago. It was the best-equipped and trained of the three, and each of the six men had three months bush training in the Ruck. Contact, bad but still contact, was maintained for about one-half hour. The team leader spoke of mysterious structures and said the team had detected signs of large life-forms though they had seen nothing. Their pack radar was functioning very badly, it seems. They had the feeling they were being observed, he said. Then he left his speaker, saying he would be right back. Nothing was heard but the hum of the speaker, according to the men in the command copter overhead. This lasted for about ten minutes, and came to an abrupt end with a sound. The sound, and I quote from the report, 'resembled more than anything else that of a small child's crying; that was cut off by a crunching noise, as if the set itself had been crushed.' " In the silence that followed his recital, he added, "The set had a self-destruct mechanism, as did all their technical and heavy equipment. None of it appears to have activated."

"How did they land in the first place?" asked Slater.

"The first two teams, in the other area, by parachute. This last one, the one here, by an armored copter. No malfunction of the vehicle was noted, and it was able to land with apparent ease."

Nakamura whistled. "So there is more than just old Marsrat tales to the Old Martians." He turned to Colonel Muller as he spoke. "Why so secret? I would have thought the Parliament of Man's appropriations for Mars would have been doubled if that had been aired, I mean."

"Probably you're right, Nakamura," Muller said. "But let's consider a few other possibilities, which we have in our laps as of right now, by the way. If there are strange devices of unknown power down here, whose hands do you want them to fall into? Would the inevitable rash of lunatics, adventurers, treasure hunters, and whatnot help? If the original owners still control these areas, what are their purposes and, above all, their powers'! Assuming they exist, are they capable of losing their tempers? And what happens to this planet if they do? No, son, there are far too many imponderables, including the effect of this knowledge on our friends here." He smiled at the three young Ruckers, who were listening intently. "Thau Lang and I don't want them or any of the True People involved with these unknowns. And they have been, we now know, by means of the mysterious new 'clan,'—the giants who come out of this region with their talk of sweeping all non-Ruckers off the planet. And, as if this were not enough, we have JayBee and Company stirred into the soup."

He used his monocular to survey the gorge for a moment and then lowered it and turned back to his audience. "This is what I see, as of now. We are almost certainly ahead of JayBee and possibly the 'new clan' party that preceded him. We are coming down on foot—a method I argued for in vain when the last expedition tried this area. I hope we will be under or inside the blanketing force, whatever it is, that shrouds this place. I hope to look around, get an idea of what goes on here, and, if possible, prepare a reception for JayBee that he won't be expecting. Since we have been out about three days, the cave journey has saved us more time than I dared hope for. I don't see how the others could make it in less than five or maybe a full week. We're cut off from Thau Lang and whatever help he might bring with him, but that's the worst of it, aside from not having any contact with our own forces. But the latter, as I just pointed out, may mean we are actually inside the enemy's defenses, if they are defenses and there is any enemy besides the planet itself. Is that clear?"

At the nods of the others, he continued, "So ... we leave a message on this ledge for Thau Lang, should he be following on our tracks. And we load up and go down, right now. Any questions?"

Muller wrote a short note on a piece of cloth and anchored it with one section sticking out, under a prominent rock.

The others were ready to leave when he had finished, and with Milla leading, they began to cut away the tangled growth at the right end of the ledge. Here they had help, for the well-worn though narrow track of the ferkat gave them a guide to follow. It was hard work even so, and the path had to be made wide enough for the two gotes. They came placidly down, however, still snatching bites from every plant within reach.

Danna was ecstatic about the new things they found and she kept pointing them out to Slater, who stayed close to her. There was a tiny version of the giant red pine cone, which had a tentacle and caught buzzing midges with it. Captain Feng noticed this too and looked thoughtful. Another thing no one could remember seeing before was a snakelike thing—whether plant or animal, they could not tell—but black and shiny. It had no visible head, but many minute stumpy legs, and was over two meters long. As they watched, it slid into the tangle of growth and vanished. The Earth plants made Slater homesick. Some of the cedars were as tall as any on the home planet, though their needles had taken on a bluish tint. Once the group rested under the shade of a willow that blanketed a vast area of the slope like a huge tent. Evidently a combination of rich soil and freedom from the terrible storms that swept the less sheltered reaches of the planet had caused the plant life to grow in ways it could never have done over most of the rest of Mars. Insects, some of them huge, buzzed and occasionally bit. Most were recognizable as mutants adapted from the original seed rockets, but some were clearly not, especially a conical object with two leathery wings and four grasping legs, which appeared at intervals and hovered over them. They watched one catch a large moth and carry it off with ease, though the moth was the size of an Earth crow, if a lot lighter.

"Goddamn it all," Feng kept lamenting. "No one's ever seen half these things. I could spend a year collecting and not do anything but scratch the surface!"

The third time he came out with a similar utterance, the colonel called back, "Remember, Feng, that something collected three previous expeditions, a lot better armed than we are. Our first job is not to join them." The grim reminder sobered the group, and they peered about into the heavy growth with renewed vigilance.

By noon they had made a useful trail down about four kilometers of the great slope. Everyone had taken turns at cutting trail, and all could feel it in their arms. Muller had vetoed a suggestion by Slater that they burn some of the stuff with their lasguns.

"Bad thinking, Slater. One, we want no energy discharges if it can be helped. Two, we may need all our reserve charges. Just keep cutting, son, and pray this place has a bottom."

Danna poked him in the ribs and called him a soft Greenie, which made Slater momentarily angry, since he had been thinking of speed, rather than ease of movement. He wondered to himself as he hacked away whether he would ever reach a stage in which his own thinking anticipated all contingencies, and decided gloomily that he would never make it. Then he reflected that the colonel had probably felt the same way at some time in the past. Suddenly Slater felt more cheerful again.

Their next and last rest stop came in the late afternoon. The light was growing dim again through the fog and cloud cover, and Muller decided that they had better call a halt.

"We have enough hazards, known and unknown, without showing any lights. In a few minutes we'll need them to follow this trail, let alone cut it. We'll have a cold camp, stand watches, and start again at first light. I'm just guessing, but we must be close to halfway down, unless this hole goes into the core of the planet. Feng, have you noticed anything about the air?"

"Yes, sir. Once we stop sweating from movement, it's apparent that it's considerably damper. And new growth, better adapted to the moisture, like heavier mosses and softer, more fragile ferns, are replacing some of the things that grew higher up."

As he spoke, up through the damp fog came the long-drawn hooting cry that they had first heard on the high ledge at dawn. It was now far louder and deeper, and gave a strong impression of size and volume. While they listened, the colonel said, "There are frogs a millimeter or so long back on Earth that one can hear ten kilometers away on a quiet night. Whatever makes that noise could be Grabbit's size, though I admit it doesn't sound much like it."

They listened again, but the sound was not repeated. As the night drew on, the screech and wail of ferkats showed that some Terran life-forms haunted the slopes. Once, far away, a bulgote bellowed its whinnying blare, which made Strombok and his fellow, Breenbull (he was Milla's property), stir restlessly at their tethers.

The great night moths flew by through the mist, the faint flutter of their wings clearly audible in the quiet, and something that sounded like a bird squawked restlessly in a nearby thicket as if it were having trouble settling down for the night. Biting gnats were not absent, but no worse than on any windless night in the Ruck far above. The Terrans used repellent and the Ruckers turned out to have the same tubes, no doubt looted from UN supplies.

Slater and Danna drew the second watch, but when he was awakened, he felt sure that they would have too much on guard to do more than exchange a few words. Danna, however, had other ideas. He had barely taken up his post on the upper trail and gotten settled comfortably in an elbow root of a vast shrub, when he felt a stir in the dark beside him and her warm, sweet scent rose out of the night into his nostrils.

Before he could say anything, she murmured, "Milla and Arta will take our places."

Slater still felt guilty at deserting his post. What would Muller say? The cave was bad enough, but out here in the wild?

He learned that Wise Women had mental tricks too. "Muller cares nothing except that the watch be kept," she whispered, tugging at him. "Come on, you great stupid Greenie! We may die tomorrow!"

She had located a bed of leafmold and moss just off the trail higher up, around a short curve. She also had brought her sleep bag rolled under one arm and now spread it on the ground. Under her leather suit she was naked, and Mohammed Slater, man of many conquests, watched the white shape appear in the night with his breath held and his mouth dry as any boy's with his first love. He had no time to ponder this, for then she was in his arms and he could think of nothing, feel nothing but her hands tearing at his leather jacket.

Much later a whistle, low and clear, brought her out of his embrace with the motion of a greased ferkat. They were at their proper posts and well separated when the two young Ruckers "relieved" them in silence. Slater managed to murmur "thanks," to Burg and felt a friendly squeeze on his shoulder in response. He remembered nothing more until Nakamura's toe prodded him gently awake.

The big lieutenant said nothing, but an eye closed in one large wink before he turned away. A good officer, Slater reflected ruefully, misses nothing! That makes Nak a good officer! He reflected more soberly that he was fully and passionately committed to Danna and allowed himself a second's wonder at what would happen in the unlikely event of their coming out of this jaunt alive. Then Muller's low call summoned them to eat and listen.

It was gray again, but the light was good enough to see ten meters before the dripping mists cut off vision. Though not so loud as earlier, animal noises still came from the distance on all sides. From very far off, a snatch of something like a trill of bird song sounded, and Slater wondered what sort of throat had produced it.

"The copter was back last night, and I tried again to contact it," the colonel said. "No luck, just as I suspected. Marshal Mutesa will be worried. In fact, if I know him, he'll be frothing." The thought seemed to amuse him, but he did not dwell on it. "The thing that hoots like an old Earth train called later, but from a long way off, unless, as is quite possible, there are more of them. Beyond that, did any of you notice anything?"

Slater felt relieved that neither Breen nor Burg did more than shake their heads and hoped the flush over his cheekbones would escape anyone's eye. Danna, he noted, looked as blank. childlike, and innocent as the dawn itself, and he wondered what she was thinking.

"Then let's march. I'll cut trail first. Burg, you guard me, the rest of you come as usual. Maybe today we'll see something besides new plants and animals!"

By midmorning they estimated that they had descended over ten kilometers from the starting point at the tunnel's exit high above. The path was easier then, for the growths and trees were positively enormous and the vines and scrub growing under them seemed stunted from lack of light and nourishment. Dense mosses were everywhere. It was possible to go around many clumps of vegetation in short detours, and the slope was growing steadily less steep, so that the constant strain in then-calf muscles was reduced. All around them, it was now like a jungle in the Terran sense. A hush seemed to have come over the fog-wrapped slopes. Insects were fewer and quieter, and the sound of water dripping from leaves and roots was much louder. Due to fog and the shadows cast by giant trees and other strange growths, vision was not so good. There was no more talking at all, as they stole from one deep shadow to another like ghosts, one pair going first, then signaling the next. The bulgotes caught the mood and came obediently and silently at the merest tug on their halters.

The noise of rushing water suddenly burst upon them as they were about to enter the gloom of one of the monster pine-cone things, this one over seven meters around in girth. Indeed, the water saved them, for it made them halt. It was the first they had come near, and Slater saw Feng, Burg, and Breen, who were leading at that point, waving the others back. They had caught the glimpse of a large body moving through a rift in the mist ahead.

The mist thinned further, and they saw that they were looking across a small but rapid stream whose dark waters poured down from their right, through beds of rank ferns and huge mushroom-like fungi then vanished into the darkness to the left. On the bank of this rivulet, for it was little more, a pair of bulgotes grazed on the succulent mosses. The buck, as big as either of theirs, kept glancing nervously about, as if something had alerted him. While the humans watched, a random shaft of far sunlight parted the mists on high, and the two animals were illuminated by it, their gray coats gleaming against the soft greens and ochres of the moss.

Suddenly a swish was heard in the damp air as it was cut by the movement of a monster whip. From far over the heads of the awe-struck group, a flexible cable of red bronze, almost a meter in diameter, slashed down through the haze, curled about the female gote, and, in one reflex snap, drew the bawling animal out of sight. The buck, baaing in terror, fled down the streambank and was gone in seconds. From the murk high above, there was only silence.

"Quick!" Feng whispered to the huddled humans. "Danna, keep those gotes quiet! We've got to get back near the base of that thing and then go around it. I should have spoken sooner, but it seemed crazy. That pine-cone thing is either a relative or the adult of the tiny ones we saw catching flies higher up. It's not a plant at all as we know them. If we hurry, the gote may keep it busy for a moment."

Following the I-Corps captain and making as little noise as possible, they stole back into the shade they had almost left and angled cautiously away from the great cone thing. The gotes fortunately had not spooked at the sounds of their wild relatives' cries and allowed themselves to be led along in silence. Only when the terrible growth was completely out of sight did the team dare relax, and even Muller said nothing as they spontaneously sat down and mopped their foreheads.

"I take the blame for bringing us into this," Feng said to the colonel. "I wondered about the little bugcatcher Danna found and how much it looked like those giant cones. But they were so damned big! I just couldn't believe they worked the same way."

"Forget it, Captain," Muller said. "No one knows what's here, and you did get us out fast, which is what counts." He looked around keenly. "Anyone need any more lessons in being careful? That was only a plant or animal, after all. We're looking for much worse things—things with brains, human or otherwise. Let's get moving. We're close to level ground, I think, and we ought to be seeing lots more interesting things."

"I hear something," Danna said suddenly, bringing them all to their feet, "I hear it with my mind, not my ears. It sounds like something singing, a funny song, over and over, the same little song. It is not close, but not a long way off. Ah, now it has stopped." They all looked at one another and at her in bafflement.

"Could it have been something like a radio, a machine noise of some sort, on a higher band than most of us can hear?" Slater asked.

"No, it felt alive. It was not a machine. But what it was I don't know."

"We can't waste time on speculation," Muller said. "We have to get on with our work. Let's move out."

The colonel's prediction had been correct. They crossed the little brook lower down and in a short time found themselves on almost level ground. But there the going began to get really rough. There were wide black pools of water between great wrinkled tree roots, and masses of fallen wood and rotting vegetable matter as well. Huge logs, all covered with a riot of fungus growth in every hue of red, brown, and yellow, barred their path at every turn. Dripping fronds trailed down from the mist above and struck them in the face when they tried to move forward. In a short time their pace had been reduced to a crawl as they sloshed through muck and rotting vegetable matter and tried to avoid the obstacles of the dead limb and root tangles. New types of bug appeared too, and stung and buzzed around their sweaty faces. Muller said they should seek the lowest level in the hope of finding more solid ground and, perhaps, a path or-game trail.

They had been wandering in the bogs and shadows for a couple of hours, seeking a more or less dry spot to rest, when Breen, who was leading, held up one hand, stopping them in their tracks.

"I see more light ahead. Danna, come up here and listen, with your head as well as your ears."

She sloshed to the front, pinching Slater's rump as she passed. A merry smile was visible through the dirt and muck on her face. When she peered ahead in the direction Milla indicated, she listened intently, her eyes shut.

"There is no life I can hear but the small things that creep and fly," she said, turning to the colonel. "But—remember, I could not sense that big plant thing that almost caught us. There is so much life here that it is hard for me to pick out one mind unless I concentrate for a long time. But Milla is right; I can see light, or less dark, up there, in front to our left."

They slowly stole forward in the direction Breen was leading. Now they could all see the lighter zone he had spotted, even through the mist. It ran across their path like a fence as far as they could see.

"Slater, you and Arta go up and take a look," Muller said. "Keep your gun handy, Slater, but, Arta, use your bow. If something has to be killed, do it quietly." He turned to the others. "That's a good rule for all of you from now on. No guns or energy emissions except in dire emergencies!"

Slater and Burg crept forward, their eyes hunting every spot of darkness as they sought for danger. All at once they could make out something solid rising ahead, a darker shadow under the light. It was a bank of higher ground that rose like a spine above the mud and water of the level they were on. As they drew closer, they could see more clearly that nothing seemed to grow upon it, save for moss and tiny creeping things, which was why the light filtering down through the constant fog was so much brighter there. At length both of them slid up the side of the mound, or whatever it was, and slowly raised their heads to examine the surroundings. The dirt under the close-growing moss and crawlers seemed dense and firm.

Stretching away on either side, as far as they could see, a close-packed road of beaten soil and crushed moss ran into the mists. That it was a road and not an animal trail was obvious at once, for a section just to their right was timbered, in a place where the road had collapsed in the past. Short logs had been fitted into the hole and dirt and rocks rammed on top, but the butt ends of the logs, with obvious tool marks, stuck over the side of the bank on which the road had been laid.

"Men have passed here, not lately, but not so long ago, either," Milla said. "And they were big men, Slater, as big as your friend Nakamura. Muller must know this. Watch the track while I go back and tell him."

In seconds, Burg was back, the colonel beside him. Slater had been trying to pick individual footprints out of the marks on the road, but beyond seeing that something had passed, he could do no better. The skills bred in the Ruck were not his, he realized.

After a minute of study, Muller made up his mind. "This is where the alleged 'new clan' comes from, the giants. Milla, go back and bring up the others. We'll follow the track, down to the right. One way may be as good as another, but I think that the center of things lies that way. There's still a tiny drift of this swamp water in that direction, and it just feels right, anyway."

When the others crept up, Muller explained what he wanted. "This dike or whatnot is obviously to keep the road above water."

Danna had been studying the tiny mosses that sprouted over most of the road, and now she held up her hand. "Wait, Muller. What keeps the plants from growing here? Right up to the edge of this thing and even over it, they are not just short, they are cut." She held up a few thicker stems to show the trimmed-off tops. "That is not all. Under the footmarks and the moss, Milla, you missed something. This road is pushed down—flat. Something comes along here and it weighs more than a Greenie tank. We have to be very careful, I think."

The colonel scratched his head. "Glad we have a Wise Woman along to show us scouts what to look for, eh, boys?"

Milla Breen looked up, his dark face darker than usual. "I am stupid. I don't deserve to be one of Danna's husbands."

"Forget it," Muller said. "I've spent more time tracking than anyone, except maybe Thau Lang, and I missed it. But thanks, Danna. We'll have to be more careful. If that's possible."

Chapter 11 – The Road to Time's Attic

The group once more took up their march into the unknown. The two Rucker warmen led as points, one on either side of the raised road. Then came Muller, Danna and the two beasts, while Slater and Nakamura brought up the rear, with Feng coming last. Around them swirled the pearly mists, which often cleared for sudden moments to the right, left, or front, then shut down and sealed the view as quickly as they had lifted. The surface they walked remained level, as smooth as if some colossal lawnmower had passed.

From the fogs and shaded swirls on either side came the sounds of Mars they all knew, the buzz of insects, the calls of birds, and some they had never heard. A bulgote bellowed far off and in the silence that came after it, they all strained their ears but caught nothing but the drip of water and the whine of insect life.

They had gone a mile or so when an alert whistle from Burg brought them to a halt, weapons raised. Now they could hear it. From far off came the hooting they had heard from higher in the great rift. After a brief silence it came again. This time it was louder and deeper. Another pause, and again it came, closer yet, as if in the misty depths of the fourth planet, an archaic tugboat from Earth's past was steaming down upon them. But there was somehow an animal undertone to the hooting that no steam whistle ever produced.

Muller was quite ready. He whistled himself, low and clear, and they all left the broad ramp and slid a little down the sloping sides, half going to right, half to left. Each party took one gote and made the animal crouch as it did. Then they waited, as they had planned when they first took up the new section of their march. The hooting cry was very close, and in the next pause they heard other sounds, those of ponderous weight and a massive tread. Whatever it was, was advancing straight at them. With his eyes bravely over the lip of the ramp, Slater stared like all the others at the curling white mists, straining to see what was bearing down upon them.

Then the mists parted as some vagrant riffle of air from far above, some ghost of a wind of the outer surface, thrust a last finger into the planet's depths.

Advancing out of the opalescent fog came a giant bulk, its armor shimmering in the subdued light in a strange, coppery way like that of an enormous tank.

The one great eye gave a reddish gleam as it swiveled in its turret atop the mighty prow. The two great forelimbs, their ends, like colossal, flat lobster claws, clicked and hissed as they swept steadily back and forth before the immense bulk, scissoring the plant growth neatly and as smoothly as any machine could have done. Like giant pistons, the side legs clumped and thumped on the surface of the ramp road, thrusting up and to the sides of the great sloping body. And Slater stared, frozen in disbelief, while one hand clutched at the tiny metal box in his belt pocket.

Vast and inconceivable, a thousand times or more greater in bulk and its armored majesty a thing of many tons—it was Grabbit!

One of the enormous, pillarlike legs smashed down no more than an arm's length from his nose. That bellowing hoot deafened him as the thing called again from close overhead. Did he hear a tiny answer from close to his heart? His veins seemed to freeze as the second great, stumplike leg crashed down, the blunt spike that terminated it sending bits of moss and dirt up in a small cloud before his eyes. He stared fascinated at the domed bumps that protruded from the carapace of glittering skin/shell above him. Each was twice the size of his own head and each, he knew, had a lidded photoreceptor. As Grabbit drew energy from the UV of the far-off Sun, so could this behemoth, which was a monster simulacrum of the tiny form in his belt pouch.

And it passed. He saw the blunt, spiky pointed end of the body disappear in the swirling shrouds of mist to his left. And now before him the sward was clipped evenly down to a two-inch height where the great claws had passed.

A voice, low and amused, broke in on his stunned silence. He spun his head and there crouched Muller a few feet away. "How do you like having a miniature of the world's most efficient lawnmower tucked in your belt, eh?"

"I could only remember our chat a few kilometers up, sir. I mean that Grabbit had been designed for efficiency and had not just grown that way due to evolution."

"Quite so. And who designed it, if that's true? We are at or close to the bottom of the Great Rift of Cimmerium. I think we shall have a few answers to that and many other questions before too long. Mars still has a few surprises in store, I think." A faint smile glimmered at the corner of the colonel's iron mouth. Then he whistled sharply, and it was assembly time again. As his whistle ended, the hooting of the incredible bulk that had passed them sounded again, but a long distance back on the ramp, the way they had come.

They assembled again, gotes and all, and Muller gave them their orders.

They would proceed, in the same way, with the same care, and on the backtrack of Grabbit's giant twin. First, though, Slater had to remove Grabbit and look at him so that they could all see if he was doing anything odd. He appeared not to be and Slater shook him out on his palm. The three Ruckers winced at the thought of what those tiny claws could do to flesh.

But the Martian lucky piece seemed quite indifferent. Slater heard a minute clicking from him and dropped a shred of dried meat on his hand, which was carefully gathered and stuffed into the mouth under the tiny Martian's pointed prow. He was put back in his box and they went on as before.

The noises from the mists on either side had resumed as soon as the giant creature had disappeared, and they could hear the distant cries of ferkats and other familiar sounds. Where does this road go—and to what end are we going on it? Slater could only wonder and keep alert, and he knew the others were in the same position.

Slater soon noticed that the ramp was no longer level, but felt no need of mentioning the fact. Muller and the three Ruckers would have noticed also, to say nothing of Nakamura and Feng.

Deep as they were in the planet's crust, apparently there were deeper levels. The ramp was slowly tilting on the path before them and the tilt was downward.

They had gone only a little way on their resumed march when they all suddenly halted, weapons ready. It was the Ruckers and Muller, of course, who had caught the sound first, and somehow, Slater knew, they had caught a meaning that he did not in that eerie, piercing whistle. It seemed to come from behind them and yet to one side.

The air was clear enough at this point so that he could see Danna's face. To his amazement, he saw his Wise Woman was smiling, her face lit up in a blazing grin. Before this fact had registered, he got another shock. For she puckered up and blew a good strong answer, a whistle that quavered and trilled up and down the scale.

A soft chuckle suddenly sounded from beside him; he saw that the colonel had slid up in his usual manner. "I think we have company, my boy, and God bless the company. I have been very worried."

From the bog that lay to their rear there were some squishing sounds and then the thump of a firmer step. A shape emerged out of a patch of mist, a human shape, with one arm aloft and rifle held flat in greeting. The broad, lined face was clear in the soft light, the forehead chevrons plain to see, and a smile as broad as Danna's lit the strong old face. It was their own konsel, Thau Lang!

They crowded about him and the grins were universal, but Muller coughed after a moment and ordered Milla and Arta to take sentry to front and rear. Even Strombok and Breenbull seemed pleased; Slater got a lavish lick on his left ear from the former. Muller gripped hands hard with the old chief, and the two of them smiled into one another's eyes.

"Took all my ability to find you, comrade," the Rucker said at last. "Those caves and tunnels might have got me, except for the things you left. Once out of them, it was not too bad, though."

"Couldn't leave much," the colonel said, examining his open free palm, which he had just taken from a pocket. Slater felt another small palm steal into one of his and he knew that just as he was staring, entranced, so were Danna and the others.

"Tiny foil balls, from candy wrappers!" Feng yelled. "Have you been dropping those all the way, sir?"

"Only when I felt puzzled myself," Muller said. "At the mouths of those tunnels, for example. The konsel did not have that direction-finding pet of yours, Slater."

Thau Lang looked interested at this remark, and they had to explain to him about Grabbit and his strange little "plume of direction."

"Useful" was his terse reaction. "We must have more of these when we go back. The True People could use such a thing." His wise eyes looked hard at Slater and then shifted visibly to Danna, at Slater's side. "Maybe a Wise Woman of some variety could coax the secret from an unwary Greenie. If she did, perhaps you would have them both shot, eh, Colonel?"

Slater looked at Danna and behold—his Wise Woman was blushing in the pearly light!

The I-Corps saved his pride by breaking into the chuckles of the konsel and Muller. "Better tell the konsel about Grabbit's big brother, whom we just avoided meeting." Feng's crisp tones killed laughter at once. Thau Lang listened as Muller told him of the monster replica of. Slater's pet that had just lumbered past along the dike.

"Hah, hmm," he said when the tale was told. "Let us move then, lest this other return. Let us go on, now we are together once more. We can talk later at length, when we are camped in a safe place, if there is one such on this road."

Within a few moments they were on the march once again, the only difference being that the colonel and the konsel now led the bulgotes in the center of the little column, Danna with them; and Feng, Slater, and Nakamura made up the rearguard, while the two young warmen once more scouted a little to the front.

Eventually the darkening mist told them that the day was ending. Noises from the swamp told them that it was time to rest again. No one wanted to continue in full dark on this strange path and even less did they want to meet Grabbit's large simulacrum in the night. One sight of that armored behemoth in what passed for daylight down there was more than enough.

Milla and Arta settled the problem of a campsite when they came loping back. "We saw a higher place," Arta said, "a little over on the left side. It was rocky and should be easy to get to, if we hurry and the dark holds a minute more away."

He was quite right. They had to go a little forward and then down the ramp and into mud and towering reeds, but mud no deeper than their knees. A kilometer of this brought them to craggy spines of stone that projected from the muck. That they easily scrambled up, for the pitch was not too bad. Strombok and Breenbull seemed to make nothing of it all and kept up the pace with no effort.

On inspection, their refuge seemed to be a little spine of rock, an island rising out of the muck about them. The top was mostly flat but four little crags stuck above the generally level surface at one end, and between them was a little bay in the rocks which made an excellent place to fort up for the night.

They had just begun to unload the bulgotes and to get things sorted out when they heard it.

A long way off, back the way they had come, there sounded an echoing series of hoots. All crouched silent and, at a touch, the bulgotes dropped to their knees and even stopped cud chewing, to listen like the other mammals. Again the hooting came, and as before, it was louder and nearer.

Slater found Lang next to him and was intrigued to notice that the old war chief's eyes were alive with excitement. "So this is a real snapper, my young friend?" the konsel said under his breath. "Maybe it is the mother of your little one, eh, or the father? What think you?"

"Damn if I know, sir," Slater purred back. He knew when he was being kidded. "Might be the mother of all the snappers that ever were. It's more then big enough for the job."

He got a gentle dig in the ribs for his pains, and they all listened as the giant thing approached. That they were not the only ones listening was quite apparent. Aside from the hum of insects, the night or evening noises had ceased. No ferkat squalled nor bulgote bellowed. They knew when the lumbering supersnapper was right opposite them on the ramp road, for they could all hear its great chelae click as it scissored the moss and the thud and crunch as the giant legs slammed down.

As they waited in patient stillness, the hooting and the other sounds faded off to their left flank, as steadily and as regularly as they had come. The regular night noises of the Ruck remade their appearance as the hooting cry of the giant snapper faded in the night of the depths and the little party continued making camp, placing bedrolls and settling down.

"We can tether the gotes down near the edge," Milla Breen said. "They can be watched from up here by whoever is on guard. There is plenty for them to eat here, and if anything comes from the mud and water, they will hear it and so will the guard."

"We have at least four pair of night goggles," the colonel said. "And in the pack of one of the gotes, you will find a small-unit detector. I don't want to use any equipment not necessary, but that one can be set for short range, say a half klick. Then, if anything moves that is not heard, it can be detected. I don't think a low-level device on so small a scale as that could be detected by anything that was not already on top of us."

After a minute's debate, the colonel and the konsel even allowed a tiny fire set back in a rock recess and fed with dry reed stems.

Once watches had been arranged, other ideas crept out of hiding. Slater, who was to go on watch just before dawn, found himself roped into a party that one of his long-dead English ancestors might have called "huntin', fishin', shootin'," if he had thought it worth a name. The two older men seemed to see no harm in it and, save for warning all involved to be careful, did not forbid them to try. It was Slater's quasi-brother-in-law, Arta Burg, who put the idea into words as they had crouched about the tiny fire.

"We should save our trail rations," he said blandly. "Anyway, I hate the damned things. There must be fresh meat of some kind down here in this biggest of Rucks. Let's take some tonight. We are all pretty good hunters, are we not?"

None were very tired and all wanted to try to get something. They drew straws, and Captain Feng scowled at his short one.

"All right, I get first sentry go, but it's unfair. You will all be devoured by life-forms that only I should want to or would be able to classify."

The other, younger folk went in a party to the edge of the rock farthest from the ramp. On a low rock spine they slapped at insects and discussed what to do next. Danna had the first idea or at least gave it voice first.

She pulled a long coil of light paulon plastic line from her belt pouch and fixed a heavy, vicious-looking hook to it. On the hook she placed a very large slug she had found in the mud and also a chunk of dried gote meat from her ration. She whirled this about her head, nearly smacking Nakamura in the eye as she did so, and threw it far out into the reeds. Then she sat firmly down and grinned at the others. "You go and get muddy. A woman will get the best and be comfortable as well." The dark was so thick, Slater could barely see the gleam of those pearl-gray teeth.

The other four went a little farther down the shore of the islet and waded in. The idea was to herd whatever they might encounter back toward the rock. They all had spears, and Danna was to watch the shore side while she fished.

Slater was last in line going out and it was his role not to go too far out. Nakamura, his bulk dimly visible in the dark and fog, was the next one out, and the two warmen were in front of him. When Arta, who was farthest out, gave a whistle, they would walk toward the rocky shore.

The night goggles kept the bugs out of one's eyes, Slater realized as he spat a particularly large one out of his open mouth. He was damp, hot, and feeling immobilized by the thick muck through which he was wading. Ah, there came the whistle from out in the fog. Watching his footing carefully as he advanced, he turned left and began to angle back. He had only found one deep spot so far but had no desire to vanish over his head in a sea of ooze. He pushed through clumps of tall reeds and kept his mouth shut against the reed tops and the bugs, working his way slowly and with great care as he tested for firm footing under the muck before his advancing feet. Then he heard it, a sudden noise in the dank and fog of the dark before him.

A sudden splattering sounded ahead and to the left, and something heaved muck as it broke through the reeds. He could see nothing but he could hear well, and he heard something that lent fury to his movements. It was Danna's voice in a low cry, a cry in which he read horror.

He charged forward, keeping his Rucker spear leveled in the direction of the cry. One part of his mind registered the fact that his friends were following, for he could hear the splosh of their feet out in the dark. Ahead was a dim patch of light and movement.

He churned up on to firmer footing and saw the konsel and the colonel with belt lamps on before him, focusing on Danna and on her battle, for she was indeed engaged in one.

Her feet braced against a boulder, the girl was holding off a pair of shining, black mandibles, their full gape over a yard in breadth. They clacked and snapped as they tried to close on her body, and jerked about so that it was hard for her to keep her footing. Her spear was imbedded in the great mandibles of the thing that tried to reach her.

Slater noted with one eye that the two older men held leveled rifles, but he raced along the short stretch of rock and passed before them with his own spear, which he drove under a spiny leg and into the body just below where its shoulder could be said to be. As he fell, panting, to the rock of the shore, another spear buried itself next to his and Thau Lang's body brushed his own as the konsel drove that one home.

The monster snapped and wrestled for some time, but the main fight was over. Slater, his arm around Danna, watched the end of the fight. Nakamura, Breen, and Burg were all in it, and it was they who finally killed the creature and dragged the body, shining, black, and ten feet or so long, up on the rock to the top where it could be examined by the light of the tiny fire.

It had six legs, three to a side up near the head, which seemed small for the great jaws. The long body was rather slender and tapered.

"Can't blame this on dear old Mars, I fear." Feng, who had been relieved from sentinel and walked over to study their catch, exclaimed. "I should say a Martian version of Dysticus, one of our more predaceous water beetles—and in the larval stage at that. Let's see—I seem to remember looking at one long ago in school. About an inch and a half long, if I recall correctly. The rifts do seem to put bulk on our import and the native stock as well. Still, that giant snapper could use this for a snack."

The Ruckers wanted to know if the thing was edible. Usability was the keynote in Rucker life and the first thing they always asked about. Feng pursed his lips and finally nodded.

"Why on Mars not? Might even be good. One can eat most Earth bugs. Try it and see. That fellow ought to be a lot of meat. He would have eaten us if he could have sunk those mandibles in—or, perhaps, drunk us since I think he pumps in a dissolvant first." This silenced all of them, but they soon got over that and began to hack large chunks of whitish meat out of the chitinous armor. These they toasted on sticks over the fire. To Slater's surprise, he found them excellent. He told Danna she looked smug and pointed out the snapped plastic line that still hung from the small mouth below the creature's hypodermic jaws.

She winked at him, her mouth stuffed with the crisp meat, burned on the outside and semiliquid on the inside. "A Wise Woman always gets her catch, Greenie," finally emerged around her mouthful. "Watch yourself or I'll have you for breakfast for a change."

The next morning they crossed the marsh and regained the ramp, in the same formation as the previous day. They had had a decent rest and were full of food and energy. They had decided to start early and see if they could make good time before the lawnmower-tank analog of Grabbit made its appearance.

The ramp road still led downward, and the going was easy and firm underfoot. Plenty of noises arose from the mist about them, and once in a clear patch Slater and Feng saw a large dark shape flutter out of the white fog with a great moth in its wide mouth. They both saw it clearly.

"That was one of those flying things from the cavern we passed through," the captain said as he made a few notes on his belt pad. "They don't seem to have eyes and they may not like the Martian days, so perhaps they use echo-radar squeaks on an ultrasonic level as bats do back on Earth."

"Don't need teeth either," Slater said, "if bugs such as that big moth are available. Wonder what they ate before the Central Country or someone or other dumped all those bugs here."

"Spare me the ancestral insults." Feng laughed. "If you are going to blame poor old China for misspent zeal, please remember you ate your fill of water-beetle steak last evening." Then he looked thoughtful. "There must have been small flying things in quantity here once, though there are not so many left now—of the locals, that is."

They had been tramping along, in and out of the opalescent clouds of mist and fog, for about three hours when a break came in their progress. Through the many calls and whistles, trills and clickings from the marsh on either side came a new one that froze them in their tracks. It was the long and echoing sound of something like a horn. It seemed to come from ahead. As soon as it began, the cries and sounds from the swamp ceased abruptly, at least those nearby.

A command whistle low and clear brought them all up and back to where the colonel and the konsel stood listening with Danna and the two animals.

"That was certainly a horn or bugle or something of the sort, wasn't it, sir?"

"Certainly it was, Nakamura, unless it was something quite different. We are in the unknown here, Lieutenant, recall that. We could encounter a mushroom that sings operatic arias for all we know. That large replica of Slater's little guide made a sound like a steam whistle."

"The True People use small horns made from the horns of bulgotes," Thau Lang declared. "But the sound is far lower and not like that at all. That sound was deeper and far-carrying. Do you have any ideas, Louis?"

Muller's dark face was thoughtful and his brow wrinkled in a question. "I heard something vaguely similar long ago. But where and when I have no idea. But I do think that sound says 'Earth' to me, not 'Mars.'

They listened in silence but the horn did not come again. Gradually the wildlife in the surrounding mists began to call as it had before the strange horn sounded.

The march continued for another few minutes, until another whistle brought them all up forward. The two warmen had found something.

Milla silently pointed and the others drew up and around. On the left side of the ramp stood a column, and atop the column was a head or face. The column, of some polished, dark-red stone, was about the height of two men. On the top a face looked back the way they had just come. Slater caught his breath as he looked up. He had seen that face before—short nose; ears like cones, blunt and short; great eyes, these carved of some yellow material tapering halfway round the skull. The head was the size of a human head, but it came to a dull peak at the back and there seemed nothing like hair.

And as they stared, the ambush hit them.

Chapter 12 – The Dweller and the Lair

From behind them, the horn bellowed again. It was close! Out of the foggy swirls on all sides came men, leaping and scrambling up the sides of the ramp. Big men they were. Their golden helmets came to a point and bore projections on the sides. Another line of them approached from up the causeway. From behind another raced out of the white mist, suddenly visible in the pearly light. They did not attack though all had long spears and some, swords. On their breasts gleamed metal too, for they wore breastplate armor. And they had beards and long, sweeping mustaches, which gleamed in the light over the kite-shaped shields each bore in the left hand. On four sides, they halted just beyond spear length, and then one of them advanced and held up his empty right hand. In the other he shook a curving horn, a half-circle of gleaming, coppery metal with a trumpet spout at one end and a mouthpiece at the other.

"Freeze and let me do the talking!" Colonel Muller rapped.

Then the light-brown mustache of big man in front lifted to expose gray teeth and from a deep bass voice came the words in accented but clear Unit. "Lower-your weapons, all of you! Take off those that you wear on your persons. We are here to guard the Great Place. We can kill and we will!" The dark eyes shifted to fix on the straight shape of the oldest Rucker.

"You! You are a Wise One of the True People, those who war above on our enemies. Now you face the spears and points of the real True People! You may have heard of us. Maybe you have not. It makes no difference to us what you are up on the top. We will rule this whole world. You have a choice, one choice only. Be with us or against us! Come and learn how to fight the Terrans who befoul our planet. Or die here now!"

The deep voice went silent. With arms folded, the man stood waiting.

Colonel Muller hissed, "Do it!" and his party obeyed, discarding knives, bows, spears, rifles, and lasguns. Slater could see it was a terrible wrench for the Ruckers. As he stood with both hands in his hip pockets, he wondered if any of the others still had a weapon concealed. He thought of one item and smiled inwardly.

The colonel's hands flickered and Slater saw that the konsel also had noticed. Chevroned face impassive, the old war chief stood forward, arms folded across his chest like the leader of the foe, and an impressive figure too, though he had to look up to meet the eyes of the giant who confronted them.

"I have heard many strange rumors, I—a konsel—of a new clan of the True People. I have come and I bring five more of us also to find the truth, four men and a woman. Also, a strange, speechless one, who was found some time ago in Ruck by friends. We think, my friends and I, that he too might be a member of a new clan. Could it be yours?" The friendly interest in the konsel's voice was well done, Slater thought, as the older man pointed at the impassive face of Helge Nakamura.

The enemy leader seemed interested and stepped forward to look more closely at the big Norse-Japanese. Nakamura could and did look him in the eye. Slater noted a ripple of interest in the four lines that hemmed the colonel's party in. The giants looked hard at Nakamura, and Slater could see that many were muttering to each other as they looked. Small wonder, the lieutenant thought, if he had a beard and was dressed right, Nak could disappear into the new clan's ranks.

"We will investigate this," the giants' leader said at length. Why don't they use the Rucker language? Slater wondered. "Much is strange these times and much to be revealed." Then his voice hardened. "So you are a konsel of the so-called True People. Well, let that be so. What then do you do with a group of the enemy in your following?" His hand swept over Muller and Feng and then passed to Slater. "Can these three be the allies and friends of the True People—especially one of their leaders?"

Thau Lang looked slightly puzzled, then his face cleared. "Oh, them?" His disinterest, bordering on contempt, was easy to read. "There have been many strange and new recruits to the True People, as you may know, you of this mysterious new clan. These three fled their base at one of the mines and seemed reliable. We had a new road and a strange one to travel and needed experienced men who could fight. They are not True People yet but if they do well, they might some day be voted as such—if they prove useful, trustworthy, and believers in nothing but 'Death to the Terrans and free Mars for those who love it and live there.' Were we not all Terrans, we or our forefathers, including your own, once upon a time? They are not important."

The tall leader looked unconvinced but thoughtful. Then his brow cleared and he smoothed his long mustache.

"It is not for us here to decide," he said. "We were warned that intruders were in our lands, which are sacred and not to be entered. We have many guards on our lands, some of which you might see and others not. Thus were you taken." He raised his voice again and gave commands. "You will come with us, you and your gotes. You will march in the middle, together, as you are now. We will see who and what you are and those who examine you will know the truth ... all of it."

He rapped out a few orders to his troops in a tongue Slater could make nothing of. It had a lot of glottals and curious hisses that he had never heard before. The commands were terse and smooth and, in an odd way, repetitive, as if given by rote. It was as if the leader were somehow using a ritual language. Slater thought of the ancient Latin of the Christian Church of Rome and the even more obscure Geez of the Coptic Church of Ethiopia. Did the men speak this odd tongue or had they simply learned phrases of it?

Now they began to move, in the direction they were heading before the sudden attack. One rank of guards ahead, one rank behind, one on the left, one on the right, that was the order of march, with the party from the upper world and their two beasts in the center. Danna was on Slater's left, her pert face impassive in the best Wise Woman tradition. To his right towered Nakamura. One glance showed that the big man was excited. His face was flushed and his eyes glittered.

Slater was conscious of Danna's presence, but she walked in silence. Knowing women and something of Rucker customs, he knew she was very angry. Thau Lang had been addressed personally. But the leader of this band of the new clan had totally ignored a Wise Woman! This outfit was ignoring the protocol and the rules of a very tough people.

He smiled inwardly. His own Gilzai and Pathan ancestors had also made that mistake. It had done them no good either.

After they had been marching along for some time, Slater noted that the gentle downward slope of their mossy road was slowly leveling off. The calls from the mist on either side still kept up, but he had not heard a ferkat or a bulgote for a long time. Great reeds and lofty ferns thrust through the mist at intervals, and once he glimpsed a great cone thing like the one they had seen snap up a gote with such ease. The humming and buzzing of insect life was still thick, and several times he saw giant moths and once a flapping object with four wings and a body like that of a small egg, which he had never noted before.

As a matter of course, he counted the guards. Although the mist made it hard to tell, Slater thought there might be as many sixty.

A half hour more passed and then, in front of them, the note of that horn sounded twice. On all four sides the giants halted and so did the prisoners. Then, farther off, another, deeper, horn sounded three long calls.

As they resumed their progress, the mist before them seemed to grow thinner and lighter. Slater soon saw that the apparent change was quite real. A breeze had appeared also, coming from their left. From it he caught a whiff of new odors that were wild and strange. Then he noticed that the bulgotes were rearing and straining at their leads, trying to pull forward; yanking their guides off their feet. Several of the guards broke step and ran to hold the frantic animals, which slowly quieted. But their heads still pointed into the thinning mist, forward and to the left.

The tall, bearded leader bellowed something in the odd language and then walked to the little knot of prisoners. He eyed them coldly a second or two and then spoke.

"I must go back with my men to patrol. I send eight men forward with you, and they will be alert. Any trouble and they kill—quick they kill!"

"That is fine," Thau Lang said. "Where does our brother who leads this group of the True People lead us?"

"You go to be examined by the real masters of Mars. Be truthful and you may be permitted to live, even to join us." Then he turned and yelled another order. In a moment most of the guards were vanishing on the backtrail, the way they had all just come. The prisoners were alone save for eight of the new clansmen, four at the rear and four in front.

One of the four in the rear stepped out a little. "Go," he barked in Unit. "That way," and he pointed his spear in the same direction the gotes were straining. At a hand signal from Muller, the group resumed its march.

As they moved, once again the swirling opalescence of the mist thinned and grew lighter before them. Unexpectedly one of the gotes bleated as it strained forward. And suddenly, before them, lay the goal!

Danna gasped beside Slater. He could not help turning slightly to look at the younger folk of the Ruck. Danna and her two husbands were obviously stunned. For the first time in their lives, they were looking at a thing that they had seen only in pictures, and that rarely. They were gazing down a gentle slope and out over a great expanse of open water—blue-green water, extending far out until lost in the haze and fog.

The eight guards were calm. To Slater, they seemed amused. He moved closer to Danna and leaned over to whisper in her small ear. "It's only water, dear. You've seen water before, up on top, in your own kind of country."

"Oh, yes, Moe, yes, but not like this! You know what we have on the surface. Shallow ponds, sometimes marsh that comes and goes with the ice melt. None are large, ever. In a cave now and then we find ponds. But this, this is one of your seas! No one knew of this. If there were even any tales or rumors about such a thing, I, a Wise Woman, would have heard of them. This is unknown!"

Arta and Milla moved up while Danna and Slater were talking, and they had heard the last exchange. Milla broke in. 'Warmth, plenty of water, and all together in one place. This is a country of the gods, this depth we are in. No such place is known; it should not exist!"

A deeper voice spoke from behind them, and they all whipped about like children caught doing something forbidden. To Slater's eye, even Thau Lang's iron countenance was visibly moved. The old Rucker chief kept his impassivity, but he too was shaken. His dark eyes were flashing. "I have seen wide waters in the bottom of a few of the big craters. Not like this, never like this. I have heard what you young ones said. This is indeed a land of the gods."

One of the guards reached down, picked up a long horn feat lay by a rock spur, and raised the horn to his lips. Slater was conscious of two things. One was the bluish metal of the horn, which was like that of the strange weapon that Muller and Thau Lang had brought into Fort Agnew days before. The other was a memory; the whole scene was familiar to him. But before he could get the memory to surface, he felt Danna's hand on his arm.

"Moe," she whispered. "You Greenie dreamer—are you remembering? This was our dream when we took the Tea of Dreams together. It was like this, I think. Don't you remember?"

The sound of the horn broke in on her, long and echoing. Three times it blew, then the man who used it put it down exactly where he had picked it up.

When he had done so, the guards fell back with leveled spears until they formed a line across the ramp with the prisoners between them and the short stretch of gravel that led to the water. The leader barked to them in Unit. "Wait now and stay in place. A thing comes to take you. Stay in place."

Slater sidled closer to the colonel. When near enough, he muttered to him. "Danna and I had a thing like this happen in a dream, under that Rucker tea back at the fort. I told you, sir."

"You told me. I wondered if you would recall it, boy. Now watch and stay alert. Let's see if the boat is the same, eh?"

And as he finished, the boat appeared. Slater shed the disbelieving expression on his face and tried to concentrate. He stared at the vessel that had emerged from the haze ahead of them and moved toward them across the calm water.

It was not the same as in the dream. For one thing, it was much larger and beamier. A quick look showed him that it could easily hold them all. Also, there was no steersman or pilot of any kind. The blunt-bowed vessel had only a boxy object amidships with a spike sticking up from it.

"Remote-control boat on a nonexistent lake of Mars. Not bad for this new clan of the True People, eh, Mr. Slater?" Muller's voice betrayed his great interest.

As the boat came closer, Slater saw it had four thwarts. From the box in the middle a metallic snake went over the floorboards aft until it disappeared in the stern. Slater figured that the boat had a rudder of some kind controlled from the box.

Soon the vessel was close upon them, heading toward the gravel of the little beach a few yards away. It went aground, bows on, and there is stayed. It was a muddy brown and gleamed as if it was made of plastic.

The voice of the senior guard broke the silence.. "Step into the middle of that thing. When you get in, do not move until it comes to rest on land once more, or you will die when it turns over. There are other guards of the real True People ... some of them live in the water. You would not like to meet them."

"Get in everyone," Muller said. "Thau Lang and I will be up front with Danna Strom between us. Gotes in the middle. Have them lie down. Stay still and don't rock the boat. We'll await events until the other shore or wherever this thing takes us."

They clambered, in, quieting the animals and sorting them-selves on the thwarts. Then they sat, waiting expectantly. Slater, in the stern/with Nakamura, watched as the same man picked up the metal horn and blew a single note.

From what seemed far off in the hazy swirls from which the boat had first come, another note sounded. It did not sound like any horn they had ever heard before. It was more like a strange wail, mournful and yet resonant and echoing, higher in pitch than any of the horn noises. It made Slater's skin crawl. As he tried to focus on the sound, he saw Danna turn on her seat up front and stare back at him over Milla's shoulder. As she did, she raised a hand and made a drinking motion to her lips. He nodded. The sound was a reflection of their dream. Mournful and strident.

'Familiar, eh, from your teatime?" The colonel had been -itching them. "A little precognition, I imagine. Have to get you to the telepathy group at I-Corps Center if we ever get back. They might have ideas."

With hardly a spasm of motion, the strange boat had smoothly backed off the beach and freed itself. Then it glided into a rum until the prow was facing into the mist, when it began to move and Slater sensed the faint hum of whatever was propelling them. As he felt it, he saw out of the corner of his eye that their guards were moving back the way they had come. "Now that we're alone for a bit," Colonel Muller said, "check your holdouts and then conceal them again."

They quickly inventoried what equipment they still had. Nakamura and the colonel had tiny boot knives; they and Slater, three or four miniature grenades of the kind Muller had used on the cave monster with the immense tentacles.

Thought of the cave monster made Slater stare at the smooth blue-green water over which the boat was calmly moving. It was not fast, not much faster than a man could run, but it was steady.

What was in that water? As he stared about, a motion to his left caught his eye. The bulgotes turned their heads also.

A tall, whitish spike, thicker at the base, stood out of the water and towered high over their upturned eyes. As Slater watched it, the end curled and a ripple ran down the thing's length. Slater's scalp crawled.

"Everyone stay still; do not move!" came the sharp tones of Thau Lang. "They said back on the land that we were safe if we stayed in the boat. We must believe that. We were not brought all this way to be killed before they can question us. Don't talk, don't move, stay still!"

As they watched, other spikes, all a ripple with movement, appeared near the first, until eight or ten of the ghastly arms were waving and writhing above the water. The boat moved steadily on until the faint mist hid the writhing tower of palps. Only then did Slater notice the acrid reek hanging over the water.

Nakamura put the thought into words. "That stink and those arms! Why, it was the same thing—"

The colonel cut him off. "Probably not same one, lad. Interesting, eh, Feng? The Martian variant of an Earthly squid can live out of water for long periods and move about on land. Wonder if the damned things are that big on Earth, or if they still exist in the deeps of the sea."

"It was the same kind of thought-life," the Wise Woman beside them said. "That animal was like the one in the tunnels. But something held it off here. It fears something—maybe this." She slapped the gunwale of the strange craft that bore them.

Muller also stroked the boat's side. "What do you think, Thau? Feel anything odd about this boat?"

"Plastic only, but plastic with a strange feel to it. I don't see how it could bother a terrible beast like that one. But, Louis, what about sound? The hum of this box which sends power, that might be a warning to the animal, one that it fears like a bulgote fears the distant howl of a hunting pack."

They sat in silence as the boat prowled on, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Danna looked over her shoulder at Slater and silently pursed her lips in a kiss. He did the same, then looked over her head for he saw a shadow looming. Then the boat left the mist. Land lay ahead. The shadow Slater had seen was the rising ground covered with vegetation.

Before them lay a shore that only two of them had glimpsed. The view was as clear as it was eerie. None of the viewers was a child and four of them had known two planets. But the men of Terra were as new to this landscape as the three Rucker males and the young Wise Woman.

Before the prow of their moving vessel, and no more than a kilometer away, an alien view rose before them through thin steams and wisps of fog. Great reddish fronds hung low, nearly to the shore, from lofty, blackish trunks whose bark looked strangely scaled. Among the strange trees, Slater noted other growth. Great barrel cactuses appeared here and there, and some of the vines that hung down from the taller plants were vaguely familiar. But along the shore, save in one place, grew things like giant reeds that were new to any of them. From their lofty crowns, where an Earth plant might flower, burst a mass of whiplike purple tendrils, which, as the boat drew closer, could be seen to be in constant movement.

"Something like a Terran sea anemone," Feng ventured. "The tendrils sting its prey to death. Watch out when we get close,"

As they drew closer to the shore, one of the reed whips snared a giant moth and enfolded its catch in a ball of shining purple.

"Damned if I think that's even Martian," Feng muttered.

"Perhaps Old Martian, eh, Captain?" Muller asked.

Just then the craft began to angle its approach to the shore, slanting a trifle to the left. There Slater saw an opening appear in the growth. The strange reeds did not block the opening, nor did the more ordinary and smaller ones he now saw among the others. As the boat entered the opening, they saw a small pebbly beach that sloped up to a gap in the strange verdure and a path, wide enough for three persons to walk abreast, which led up the gentle slope a ways before disappearing into the darkness.

The boat grounded itself with a crunch on the little strand of smooth pebbles. Muller's party sat quietly for a moment. Slater noted that the big gotes' eyes were wide open, their nostrils flared. He himself was conscious of strange perfumes, some wild and some sharp and bitter.

"Milla and Arta, get out and keep watch upslope," Muller rapped. "Slater, you and Feng next—take the bulgotes under one of the big trees. We three will make up a rear guard."

Slater realized that Nakamura had been given no assignment, so he was not surprised when he saw Muller whisper to the big man. Without a word, Nakamura faded off to one flank and vanished. Slater let his four-legged ally lick his ear and part his hair with a long wet tongue, and the remainder of the team stood and waited.

They did not have to wait very long. Out of the shadows near where the two young warmen crouched, there was a long hooting wail like the cry of a mourning Marswolf crossed with the rippling voice of some large and very strange bird. As a sound, it was as alien as any of the peculiar plant life about them. More so, for it had in it something clear and beckoning, which caught at one's nerves. It was a summons, and Slater looked at Danna, who nodded. She was on the same wavelength as himself, remembering the dream.

The colonel's voice came to life. "Let's move out. Burg and Breen first, then you three and the gotes, Thau and me last." His voice shifted and dropped. "What say, Slater? Is this the same as your pipe dream? What of yours, Danna? The same?"

"Not quite, sir," Slater said, as he led his beast forward. "But very close in lots of ways." He moved up the path under the trees, Feng and the other gote coming next. As he did so, he heard Danna's voice ripple out.

"In the dream, I had to go or come as the boatman wished and as the voice called. Here I feel the pull, yet I do not have to do anything. I am stronger here than I was then." Slater agreed. He felt an urge but no compulsion to do anything. Muller's next words were quite clear, and he knew were meant for him as well as the girl.

"The call may get stronger," Muller said. "You two may be able to resist better than others because of the dream. But behave and act as if you were as strongly held as anyone else. Stay captive unless I say something or you can't help it for a stronger reason."

They moved up the clearly defined path, which wound among the trees. The long, reddish fronds, which sometimes trailed from lower branches to the ground, were like huge, coarse feathers, as wide as Slater's head but several meters long. The bark was odd also, like a mesh of oiled metal links as much as anything. The smells were odder still and they changed, so that one second, one's nose wrinkled at something acrid, the next, something sickly sweet and cloying. An adapted Martian starling, bigger than an Earth crow, peered at him from a branch once and seemed quite at home. At intervals he could hear things rustling in the darkness under the tree boles. Once he saw a pallid spider as large as his head run up a vine. Strombok was alert and nervous, and his big yellow eyes flickered first one way and then another while he sniffed and snuffed at the unfamiliar scents.

Insects were abundant, and the biting flies seemed far larger than any Slater had encountered before. They hummed and buzzed hungrily. Occasionally he saw the strange four-winged thing with a body like a fat brown pear flap by. After some time, the two gotes snorted and checked, and he heard Feng's voice.

"Did you spot that, Lieutenant? It had six legs at least, but I saw what looked like ears. Nothing in the books or files like that."

As they climbed upward, they kept a steady and easy pace. Half the time he could not even see the two warmen in advance. Slowly it grew lighter and he could see farther through the undergrowth.

Then he heard a quick whistle from ahead and checked the gote he was leading. Back came Arta Burg, one hand raised in warning.

"We are approaching a place where there are no plants, only grass. And there is a building of stone, a big one."

The colonel had moved up from behind, and the other two as well. When he heard the news, he simply made a forward motion with one hand and faded back with the others.

It was quite a sight indeed, Slater found as he advanced. They had got to level ground and the big plants simply stopped. Before them in the misty, amber light reared an odd structure surrounded by twenty-foot walls of red stone, smooth yet weathered. Above and within loomed four domes, of the same material, set like a clump of mushrooms. Metal-structures, like strange blue antennae, quickly appeared at the tops of two of the domes. At the same time, the section of the stone wall at the path's end began to roll up and back like a flexible metal sheet.

A gasp from Danna was silenced by Muller. "That's not stonework there. It has to be metal, camouflaged to look like the rest of the wall. Anyone get a feeling of time about this place?"

Age, incredible age! That was what radiated from the structure. Over the whole place, at every angle and curve, there lay like a blanket of impenetrability vast, stupefying age! Slater had seen many ancient relics like the pyramids of Egypt, but he had never felt the shadow of the aeons that this unknown place cast. Old, very old it was, so old, he felt, that its true age lay almost beyond human reckoning. And yet it was alive—the movement of the strange metal antennae and the rolling up of the gate proved that.

As they watched, spellbound by the mystery that lay before them, a sound broke the hushed silence. It was a voice and it came loud and clear, but with a strange crackle behind and under it. It spoke in Unit, and only one word. "Come!" it commanded. "Come!" it repeated and, after the fifth or sixth time, at the sides of the gate green, glowing flames burned like two great round green eyes.

"Hear that purring, crackling noise?" Muller asked. "I think we're hearing a recording. Let's go. Do what it says. Let's go through that gap." He motioned Slater and Feng first, and they went pulling their two gotes.

As they moved forward, side by side, Slater looked back quickly and saw the others following. He thought of Danna and choked off a curse in his throat. If only she could be saved from whatever peril lay before them! He caught himself and stifled his emotions. Muller knew what he was doing. Besides, he remembered Muller's words on the subject of Danna. He, Slater, was not to hurt the Rucker girl. Why? Because Muller was strangely fond of her. That gave him comfort.

Across the low green and yellow moss of the open sward they went. As they drew near the strange gate, Slater suddenly realized why the turf was so familiar. It was exactly like the covering of the ramp road over which they had come to find this place. It was mowed by a vast replica of his tiny pet, Grabbit.

They saw and heard nothing as they approached the open gate. Only the very faintest breeze moved the cloudy mists above their heads, causing the amber and pink light of the day to change slowly, now darkening, now growing brighter.

Then they were at the gate itself and Slater could not help but halt. Feng did the same, staring ahead. Before them lay more level ground with close-trimmed moss. Across a short bit of green and gold carpet lay another entrance, one with a real door, into a building. The building was topped by the largest of the four domes they had seen from the wood.

Slater noticed something else. Above the door of the building was yet another of the blue metal appendages. It was ridged and flexible, as if constructed of endless socketed joints, and it was moving, like the tentacle of some mechanical octopus.

Its movement ceased when it was angled in a lazy arc pointing in their direction. At its tip was a swollen knob of metal as large as a closed fist. As they watched, a sliding shutter flicked up over the end of the ball and a green lens fixed on them. They were under observation.

The voice still repeated its monotonous command, but the volume had lowered. The source seemed to be directly in front of them, just below the observation lens.

"Go ahead," the colonel said.

Slater and Feng moved out, the two bulgotes obediently behind them. They crossed the short space that lay ahead and entered the doorway side by side. Their feet began to ring on stone flags, and Slater soon heard the others in their wake.

Before them lay a short passage with an arched ceiling in the reddish stone. Ahead was a bright light. They emerged together in a large and very high-ceilinged room, brightly lit from overhead by long blue-white bands of light that seemed to be immense tubes unlike any fluorescents Slater had ever seen.

But he and Feng were looking straight ahead now at a raised metal platform in the middle of the great chamber. On this platform sat a lone figure behind a broad panel of what looked like instruments. The figure was familiar to Slater at least, a thin, bony shape, which by its length, even when seated, must be very tall. The head was hidden by a round metal helmet with two peglike projections where a man's ears would be. A black band of glass or plastic ran across the helmet where human eyes might be. The body covering was a metallic robe that fell to the shod feet and the gloved hands, whose fingers were long and strangely twisted.

"The dream!" Danna exclaimed. "It is the one—the boat man of the dream sea!"

Chapter 13 – The Last of the Attendants

Everyone was staring by then. As Slater watched in fascination, the figure began to move. The hands lifted, one to each side of the ball helmet. The fingers were twice the length of a man's and there seemed to be too many of them. Even the creature's sleek gloves did not disguise their strangeness.

Both hands fixed on the underside of the helmet rim and lifted. The helmet rose higher and higher and, when totally free, was gently laid on a shelf near the owner's chair.

Two immense eyes, lambent jet in color, ran far around each side of the large, rounded head. The head itself came to a blunt point at the top rear. It had no hair and its skin was a very light blue. Two vertical nostrils pierced a nose that was more of a muzzle, short and blunt. Higher than human ears would be were the blunt cones, such as those they had seen on the column head and the helmets of the "new clan" that had captured them. The mouth was a long gash above the round and fluid-looking chin and now it opened.

The sound that came from the dark gap was no surprise. It was Unit, accented with a trilling—high and strange, but easy to understand. It was the same voice that they had been hearing, the voice that said "Come."

"I am Satreel," the being said. "I am the one you seek, whom all must seek, on this fourth world of the system, the world you call Mars." The voice was slow, and somehow Slater knew it was repeating things it had said many times before. He felt numb. He did not need to look at the others to know it was the same for them. From those black, glowing, impossibly large orbs, intelligence gleamed, and the intelligence was alien, utterly different, from outside human understanding. Allah aid us, said Slater's mind to his pounding heart, the Old Martians are real and we stand before one!

The voice went on, the strange purring, trilling voice, and while it did, the odd head swiveled slowly and the enormous eyes, those incredible eyes, took them all in.

"You see before you a judge. I, Satreel, am the judge of all this world. I come from beyond, and I serve those you will never see, the Masters of the Universe, the Le-ashimath. I have studied your race for long, as we of the Far Places have been here for long. You are young, you who were bred on the third planet, young and unguided. I shall show you how things must be done. All things, for everything must be done in the correct way. The only way—for this planet, this small Solar System, is but a step on the road, a mere stop on the way to the ultimate road, the road that was traced before your pitiful race existed ... the path to the stars and beyond."

The humans and the gotes stood unmoving as if Satreel's words had placed them all a stasis field. But Slater heard a familiar penetrating voice from behind, and the voice awakened his nervous system. It was the colonel and he sounded reflective.

"So we're a way station, are we? And this is the secret of the Old Martians. No more Martian than Mercurian or Jovian. They come from Outside."

The voice of their strange interlocutor had fallen silent though he watched them still. Colonel Muller stepped forward. "Why do you not speak in the language of the True People? Why use the tongue of the Earth enemies? Are not the True People over all this planet your allies?... Or your servants?"

"I use what tongues I choose. From the third planet, I can listen to anything, and this installation has done so for so many thousand cycles of these planets that you could not understand. I use the tongue of the bipeds with some glimmering of science. I know them and I know their history. From when they first began to build things that could be seen from space, they have been watched and studied. Long ago, so long it would mean nothing to you here, we went down to that third planet and watched as you humans became what you think of as intelligent. It was from curiosity alone that we went. We needed nothing from you in this system." The voice gave a long keening note then, sounding like a strange and mournful bird, but with a grating, reptilian hiss at the end.

"I think I see," Muller said calmly. "You had a base here and it was forgotten or bypassed long ago. You and yours are only the last of a lost colony. You are the guardian of a long-defunct way station, forgotten by the ones who sent you here in the first place." He paused. "What makes you our judge? You are not of this Solar System but only a living remnant—like some of the strange life-forms of this world—which is no more Martian than you are. With your trees and your foreign animals about you, what gives you the right to judge us, who were born and bred under this Sun?"

Slater braced himself for movement. Satreel rose to its full height and a red flame seemed to glow in the heart of the strange, long eyes. Slater could see a ripple of tiny scalelike spots on the alien skull, as if the alien's skin were the hide of some delicate glassy-blue lizard. The wide mouth opened and then closed several times before an answer was given. The eyes stared fixedly at the colonel.

"What are you, then?" came the rippling, hissing voice. "Never has one of your kind ever addressed me so. You are no native of the Ruck, nor of this planet. You are of the third world." The great black eyes narrowed as if in thought. Then Satreel spoke again.

"I have had new things twice in this cycle. You interest me, for you have used your head in a way that few I have seen on this world could. So, you have concluded that some of the life here is not native to this world? Clever, that thought. I would question you at more length. But others have been brought to me, and they too are not of this world." He fell silent and then one of his long arms moved sideways, and Slater could see what looked like seven fingers. One of the long, slender digits touched something on the panel behind which Satreel stood. There was a buzzing noise and then a series of sounds that were a mixture of clicks and muted bell tolls. They died away and Satreel folded both arms across his front and looked down at the humans. Nothing happened for a half minute.

Then a panel slid aside to the right and behind where the tall figure stood on its dais, leaving a large round opening in the far wall of the great chamber. From this walked a group of figures, four in all.

Striding at the head of the new group was an unmistakable figure, white-haired, hawk-faced, and arrogant. No one who had ever seen Junius Brutus Pelham could ever mistake him. He was Jay Bee, and he paused to stare coldly at his enemies.

The tall figure in the center broke the unfriendly silence. "Here are more new humans from your Earth, who have come through the barriers around the Deeps. They must be taught as this place has taught many others. They must learn the truth of the Rulers from beyond the Rim, as you have done. Can they accept the laws of the Rulers? Can you work with them? Shall I, who speak for the Ancients, accept them? What are your thoughts, you who would rule Mars under my guidance?" The strange hissing tremolo died away. Slater got a good look at the three who had entered with JayBee. One of them he knew all too well, but he remained impassive as he took in her ample form now barely covered in wisps of some blue, silken material and her long, flowing hair.

Pelham broke the silence, his face set in a mocking smile as he spoke. "Lord Satreel, wisest of all who breathe, living spirit of this ancient planet, you have done wisely as only you can do. Behold, you have captured the chief enemy of Mars, of both your ancient rule of this world and my hope to revive it and increase its power." JayBee pointed at Muller, his face contorted with hatred. "There stands the secret leader of the Terrans, the one who hates the True People, who would do anything to block our reconquest of your domain and your emergence from the depths to the surface." He paused for effect.

Mohini Dutt-Medawar was looking at JayBee as if he were God incarnate. Her father, JayBee's chief acolyte, stood nearby. A vital and strong trio, and as Slater thought this, he looked at the fourth in their party, as JayBee spoke again, and his own jaw dropped, for there was a new surprise.

The fourth member of JayBee's group was short and very wide, but had no head, only a dome speckled with dots of light. More than anything else, the thing looked like an upright cannon shell or giant bullet gleaming with a metallic blue shimmer. Where the lights sparked was something more clear, like a smoky plastic. A metal spike rose from its blunt point and three pointed tentacles of coiling metal sprang from its midsection.

JayBee spoke again. "Lord Satreel, you have no reason to fear us three, who are your servants. Do not have your guardian robot waste its strength on us, but rather devote its energies to the disposing of this crew of enemies whom you have been clever enough to capture. They should live no longer, for they oppose the great plan. Destroy them all, unless you can convert the three younger ones of the True People of the planet's surface. Kill the rest." He stared hard at Louis Muller. "Kill them at once, those who are older."

Mohini Medawar chimed in. "Kill that female too! She is one of the so-called Wise Women. Kill her with the UN men! Kill them first though, especially that one!" Her outstretched arm was thrust at Captain Feng. Glancing at him, Slater saw the captain was impassive.

Slater could not help speaking to Mohini on the spur of the moment, though it took an effort. "What's the matter, hot stuff? Haven't found a good bedmate down here? Frustrated?" She spat in his direction but stayed silent.

After a momentary silence, the hissing purr of Satreel broke it. "So, they are enemies and not those who would join the House of the Overlords. This one you call the greatest enemy of all is no fool, JayBee. He has glimpsed something of the past, I think, and of the ages of the dead stars that you have not. I will question them, for much might be learned that you do not know."

"Then, Lord Satreel, I beg of you, search them well and keep them in the most secure of your prisons! They are very dangerous, more so than you can imagine, you who have not fought, yourself for, for—" he hesitated—"well, for a long time."

"Satreel from Beyond, you may kill us and no doubt can do so with ease." As Slater listened to Colonel Muller, he saw that one of the alien's unbelievable hands was hidden by the metal of the instrument panel's back. He saw this and braced himself, then went back to listening.

"You have never tried to see whether our planet, of which I am but a trusted servant, is really your enemy at all. Why should it be? You are great and strange, but perhaps, with all of your vast knowledge, you lack something that we, not our criminals, can give you." He paused, then continued. "They could not find you a path to return. Our knowledge and yours together—such a combination—might find such a trail, to out and back, over the lost years."

. There was a long silence now and it was JayBee who broke it. "He lies! Do not trust him, Lord Satreel. Kill him at once! Kill them all!"

"Silence!" The hissing rasp of the alien throat shut JayBee up instantly. The alien did not like being argued with, that was obvious.

The alien spoke again. "All of you new ones, you who have just come, stand still, well apart from one another. You will slowly take any weapon that you have upon you, anything at all, and any communication device of any sort, and lay them with care and slowness on the floor in front of your feet. When you have done so, move those two beasts over to the left side of this chamber. If any one of you attempts to disobey, you will all die, at once."

When the sibilant trill died away, Muller spoke clearly. "Remember your training. I now give you an order. Do exactly what this lord has said to do."

The little group separated so that each was standing at least two arm lengths away from any other. Muller set the example by placing a little pile of things at his feet: tiny bombs, a boot knife, and a duplicate homer, such as the one in the butt of the knife the outer guards had taken from him. The others, without a word, began to do the same. Slater had managed to move closest to Danna. While divesting himself of anything that might be thought a weapon, he looked at the wild girl and she looked back. Had he seen a wink? He placed a boot knife on his own pile while he thought.

When everyone had divested himself of hidden weapons, in apparent good faith, Satreel spoke again. "You have done well to obey. Now lead those two lower things to the wall and secure them to the loops." The alien turned. "JayBee, you and your two servants go now. I will deal with this."

Without a word, the Master Mind of Mars walked to the back wall, followed by Mohini and her father. Only the squat robot stayed behind. The door opened and they passed through and vanished. Meanwhile, Feng had tied the bulgotes to large metal rings on the right wall. Slater saw splotches of a different color on the wall near those rings and also on the shining floor beside them. He had an idea of what was coming.

"Observe the doom of those who disobey," came the purring tremolo. One hand stroked the instrument board. There was a humming sound, and a broad beam of light struck the tensed bodies of Strombok and Breenbull, and before the horrified eyes of the humans, the two gotes began to dissolve. Ripples ran over them and their outlines blurred. Their legs vanished and became blunt mounds of ichor, their frantic heads melted back into the bodies and became more of the viscid mass. In seconds two masses of slobbering jelly lay on the floor where two large animals had stood. Slater felt a squeeze on his arm just as a vile stench struck his nostrils. He glanced down and saw Danna was clutching his arm, her face bleak with grief. "He turned Strombok into that! He could do it to you, Moe, to all of us!"

Her low, shocked murmur was cut off by the alien voice. "Beware you who may think of disobedience. The Outer Lords left me, their good servant and guard, many powers and many weapons. You have seen what one, the Ray of Dissolution, can do. Stand now, and be searched."

There was the clicking hum again and from one side the strange robot approached. It rolled smoothly up to the colonel, who stood quite still, and its three metallic tentacles began to stroke his body from head to foot. When it was done, the thing moved on to the konsel.

The creature worked very quickly. In no time, it had done the males, all of them, and was making a start on Danna. After a second or two the robot stopped and stood facing its last target. From inside there came an angry buzz, the first sound the robot had made since its appearance.

"So, you have a weapon concealed upon or perhaps within you" came the singsong hiss of the robot's master from his mount. "I have told you what comes to those who defy me and you have seen your beasts, of whom I made an example."

"Wait!" Colonel Muller cried. "Wait, Satreel, you may be committing a grave error. Why does this machine say that the female of our company has a weapon?"

"I know not." Satreel seemed disinterested. "Perhaps it senses mood and can see treachery and rebellion. I can replace the power units in this mechanism and it will obey me. I can even repair it, in simple ways, should some external device be broken or fatigued." His strange voice paused and a faint sadness seemed to come into it. "But I did not build it. The Le-ashimath built it and others, long ago. I do not understand how it was constructed internally, nor all its purposes."

Muller's voice exuded confidence. "Has it ever examined a female of our species? This is a great woman, a leader of those who war on the enemies from the third planet, up on the surface. She has much mental power, much seeing-far-off, which we need to obey you properly and aid you in your quest."

For once the alien seemed hesitant. His purring trill seemed to check and catch as he spoke. "If you think her not an enemy, take her with you. I will have you all placed in secure quarters, whence you can leave only when I bid you to do so. Go then!" As Satreel said this, his hand pointed at Muller. "You, the leader, you stay! I would have speech with you, who seem to know much none of the others do. I will return you to their midst after we have communicated alone."

He pointed one immense, lank arm at the group and indicated an opening in the left wall, opposite the horrible piles of reeking slime that had once been their two gotes. The konsel moved out at once and the rest fell in behind. Slater took Danna's hand and held it. In single file they went through the opened door and heard it slide shut behind them as the last passed through.

Looking about, Slater saw they were in a straight corridor. To right and left were doors, all of them shut. A fluorescent band in the center of the ceiling provided adequate light.

They had gone a little way when the konsel suddenly stopped. He held up his right arm, palm reversed, and they stopped at once.

Slater could see what had halted them. From a side passage a robot had emerged that looked identical, except for its color, to the one that had just searched them. This one was a baleful green-yellow.

With one of its sinuous arms, it was beckoning them forward, toward the opening from which it had just come.

"Follow where it says," the konsel ordered. He stepped forward and the others followed in silence.

The group turned to the right and entered a corridor that seemed identical to the one they had just left. They walked along it for ten minutes or so, and then the robot halted, blocking the passage and pointing past a hinged door that opened out into the corridor. Slater saw the metal locking bar that slid into it.

Led by the old warrior, the group came to where the robot waited. It pointed to Thau Lang, Milla Breen, and Arta Burg. When they had entered, it waved the others back and slid the metal bar in place, firmly sealing the door shut. Then it beckoned the others to the next door on the other side of the dim-it passage. Into this one it sent Feng, Danna, and Slater.

As the door shut behind them, Slater suddenly remembered mat Nakamura was still on the loose. He could have kicked himself. Since Nakamura had been given his quiet instruction by the colonel and slipped away in the forest before they ever got near the place, he had vanished also from his friend's mind. He saw that Feng and Danna were looking at him strangely.

"It's all right. I was just thinking about Nak, out alone in that creepy wood. Hope to Allah he's not hurt. That lousy ray our friend Satreel used on the gotes ... "

"The lieutenant is a trained officer, a bush fighter as good as any we ever produced—and we don't know what the colonel told him to do," Feng said. "Personally I'd like to see if we could find some egress from this hole we're in. While locked up here, we are easier targets for that repulsive beam than the lieutenant!"

"I might add," Feng continued, "that any talking we do ought to be as cryptic and unclear as possible. For all we know, listening devices have been planted in here."

Danna nodded and said, "This is a funny place, isn't it? I think we should look all over through our clothes, very carefully, in case the temperature is lowered. We might get very cold." The wink that she gave made her meaning quite plain to both of them.

Feng smiled frostily. "Good thinking, Wise Woman. I wonder what we have left on us that might keep us warm. Let's lay what we find on the floor, shall we?"

Out of his belt, Feng slid a polished stick of some very dense wood with a delicate curve, about two and a half feet long, with one end swollen into a slight knob. "Call it a knob-kerry," he said. "I've carried it for years and the wood is African. Like the detects in banks and travel ports, our jailer's mechanical sleuth seems unable to find simple wood."

Flinching slightly as she extracted the thing, Slater watched Danna pull a flexible knife, in a flexible metal sheath, from under her curly hair. "I don't know," she said, "but maybe that's why that machine made noises at me." She smiled merrily. "What about you, Moe? Got any Greenie secrets hidden away?"

"Only one, I'm afraid." He took off his belt and placed it on the floor and then uncoupled the buckle. At one end, hidden in the belt, was a three-inch, double-edged dagger. "Rather old, this one," he said. "It was a present from my cousin."

"Let's look about and see what this prison has to offer," Feng suggested. It was not a large cell and seemed to be made of the same unyielding plasticene as the door. It was very dusty. There was no furniture at all save for a stool, also plastic, and a bucket of similar material. The temperature was constant and warm, and the air seemed to circulate through a row of small holes in the plastic ceiling.

Feng examined the door carefully. "Hah," he said. "There's a trap at the bottom of this thing. That's how food and drink must be put in."

Danna started to say something and got as far as "Moe, you've forgotten your other thing—" when they heard metallic sounds just beyond the door. They all sprang back/and Feng at the same time swept up the things on the floor and upended the bucket over them in a back corner.

As they watched, the door swung open. Colonel Muller stood in the doorway, a smile on his face, hands in his pockets, and seemingly at ease. Behind him there bulked the form of the mechanical turnkey that had shut them all in.

Muller walked in casually through the open door and did not even turn when it shut firmly behind him. They could all hear the clunk as the metal bar was slid into place and locked home. "You seem well, all of you." He smiled at them. "How are you feeling?"

"We're fine, sir," Feng said. "We wondered about you and our absent friend."

"We were thinking about what we had to keep us warm, if the heat went off," Slater said, grinning. He removed the overturned bucket so the colonel could see the extent of their resources.

"We've examined this whole place, Colonel," Feng said. "I doubt if we can get out with what we have here. Have something useful?"

"I fear not. So that's what we have, eh. Not much to play with."

The sound of a gurgling laugh, soft and deep, filled the little room. They looked at Danna in surprise but she was choking on her laughter. At length she pulled herself together and bent over the pile of weapons. Still choking, she held up Slater's belt, ignoring the detached buckle knife. "I'm ashamed of you, you big Greenie warman." She was still giggling as she pointed to something and Slater felt indeed like an awful fool. How could he have forgot the tiny metal box on the belt and its small inhabitant?"

It was Feng who saved him. "Damn, I totally forgot your pet, the animal compass, the miniature of that monster that passed us back on the ramp road as we came here. I wonder if it can be used."

Muller had been looking about while they talked but he missed very little. "I think we must try the door. Nothing else seems to be of any use. The walls, ceiling, and floor are simply heavy sheeting of some synthetic, laid over stone."

Slater opened the box and Grabbit scuttled slowly out onto his palm. Danna cooed at the strange little creature and his single red eye blinked up at her. A tiny humming came from him, a note Slater had seldom heard the little creature make.

"He likes Danna," Captain Feng said.

"I think that's the equivalent of a cat's purr," Muller added. "Let's see what we can do with him. Can you get him to chew what I want, Lieutenant?"

Without hesitation, Slater passed the little thing from his open palm to his love's. "She can do anything better than I, I sir. Remember that trick of making him a compass?"

"Right here," the colonel said, pointing with his forefinger. "We'll keep it simple. I want him to gnaw through the plastic or whatever it is and then go to work on the bar that locks this door—if he can. If he can't, we're going to have to think up another idea."

Without a word, Danna held the tiny animal up, then thought at it. Grabbit was happy to help, and his little claws came out and began to cut away at the place his new mistress had laid her finger. He went into the plastic on the door as if it were cheese.

While he was boring in, Slater turned to his commanding officer. "If you don't mind, sir, can you tell us what you and that ... Satreel talked of, while you were alone?"

"Oh, yes," Muller said. "No problem about that. I wanted to learn whether he was alone here, or whether there are more of the aliens about the premises." He sighed. "Also, I must admit to being selfish. I simply had to talk with the first intelligent alien that man has ever encountered. And I wanted to clear up a final suspicion. I was afraid our dear friend, JayBee the clever, might have thought up a robot or dummy of some kind that could pass as an alien."

"I don't worry about that," Danna said flatly. "Whatever he, she, or it is, it is not from this world." Danna turned to Muller. "You are all Greenies, but the konsel and my two husbands would know. Colonel, though you are more at home here than these two, you do not know the feel of this planet as we who are born here. I should not laugh at you—but honest, couldn't you smell that strange smell?" She turned to Slater and smiled tenderly at him. "If I'm going to be in love with a Greenie, I guess I must learn he can't do what I do. The smells of this whole place are foreign and that of Satreel is the most strange of all."

Slater caught Muller looking at Danna and was intrigued to see both an air of affection and something else. Could it be pride? he wondered to himself?

"She's right, of course," said Muller. "I get occasional whiffs of a strange odor or so but, like you two, I was born in a city complex and raised surrounded by machine odors and chemicals. Danna wasn't and she has the keen nostrils of those born in the wild."

"I bow to you, sir." Feng smiled as he did so. "But what did you and the honorable alien have to say to one another?"

"I listened mostly," the colonel said. "I also asked what questions I thought possible. You all heard what I said in the big control room. This is indeed the last of a lost garrison. Where those masters of his came from, I can't guess. But they are from far, far away, that's for sure. Satreel is very, very old, impossibly so by our human rules.

"I also think he may not be alone. He made references to other guardians—attendants, he calls them. Damned if I know who or what they are. They could be like him, but cryogenic cases subject to recall from deep freeze or some kind of stasis that has a similar effect. We have to be careful."

"But, sir, why did he want you alone? He told JayBee and his two to get out. And how did they get here so fast?"

"The latter was simple. I fear we must bounce the I-Corps, Captain. The former Miss Dutt got a UN chopper out somehow. And through JayBee's contacts with Satreel's so-called new clan, JayBee made contact with this place and was vectored in past or through any screens or baffles."

As Muller talked, he leaned over to watch Danna's hand and what it held. There was now an oval hole in the oily brown plastic and Grabbit was in it. As they listened in silence, they could hear a tiny, whirring, crunching sound.

Muller patted Danna on the shoulder. "Good girl. He's through the plastic and into that bar already. Keep it up. Now, what did interest our friend from Out There about me? I tried to make myself interesting. I think he's desperate to get home. He is as loyal to his absentee masters—what does he call them? Oh, yes, the Le-ashimath. He is as locked to them as any good dog to a master. Plus I think he's homesick. Doesn't mean he ever saw what he calls home, you know. Maybe it's not our kind of 'homesick' either, but he misses something and it might be the whole culture complex that spawned him. Or a sun he never saw but his mother told him about. Call it pure loneliness and you do as well as I can."

"That's how I figured it," Slater said. "He wants to go back and he never met anyone before who could make him think he might get there."

"Precisely. For once, Mr. Pelham, the Master Mind, has missed a point. But this one he missed seems to be Comrade Satreel's weak point. I guess JayBee never felt that way about anything in his thorny life, so he couldn't recognize it in anyone, let alone an alien being."

Three of them stood in thoughtful silence, staring at the oily sheen of the brown floor. But the fourth broke in on their thoughts with a sudden squeal of joy. As she did, she held up her open palm on which a small shape was waving its pincer claws and humming quite loudly.

"He's through, Moe, he's through! I can get his think. He cut the locking bar that holds us in and he came back to me and said so!"

Very gently, Muller exerted pressure on the door with his left hand. The others each picked up a weapon. Slight as the pressure was, their path, or its' first step, was now open.

Chapter 14 – Conflict Throughout Nowhere

It was an unquiet evening at Grand Base, Orcus Prime. As men and women of the UN Command moved through the long and echoing corridors, many were armed—and not just with sidearms.

In a small, well-guarded room just off the main Control Room of Base Central, the two top men of Mars Command sat staring at one another briefly. Marshal Mutesa looked hard at his second-in-command, General Scott, and Scott returned his gaze.

"Blast and curse everything and everybody!" the marshal said at length. His face was twisted with frustration. "We know too much and too little at the same time. Robert, where has that freelance Muller got to?"

His junior shuffled a small deck of recent reports, obviously searching for a sensible answer. "Look, Philip, I get everything as fast as it comes in, and you get it as soon as I can get it to you. Neither of us knows anything the other doesn't." He turned back to the reports and then continued. "I'll compress what we know and if I miss anything, jump on me. The Ruckers are quiet—as quiet as they can be, that is. Space Force claims that it has caught all the arms-smuggling ships and blasted the asteroid base they were coming from or to. Okay? Next, Earth Central has raided five of the big corporate headquarters that were, they think, providing the arms and the same ships. 'Investigations continue' and all that police nonsense." He looked at another tab sheet and his ruddy face grew a little more strained.

"We cannot find any trace of JayBee. It took too long to trace the escape of that woman from Fort Agnew. She killed a man and took a jet-heli into the wilds. Because of her Indian background, it looks as if she is linked to Medawar, Pelham's chief of staff. Finally, we have lost Louis Muller. The spy-eyes, the hovering Air Scouts, the airwaves being monitored, have all come to nothing. The one link we had in the big Rucker meeting says JayBee was there, he thinks Medawar, some woman who might be our I-Corps traitor, Miss Dutt, and ail the people sent from Agnew by us. All gone and probably in the Dead Zone around or in Cimmerium." He laughed bitterly. "We Greenies are stumped, baffled, and bewildered."

The marshal's powerful face grew impassive. "I have alerted the whole command, Robert. A strike force of five hundred of our best is on instant standby. You and I sometimes think alike. Let's hear what you'd do with them."

"Sir! Put 'em all on float-ships, ready for a snap putdown. Have the ships hang over the center of Cimmerium."

The last hereditary ruler of a long-vanished African kingdom also sat back, but on his face was a wistful smile. "You forgot something, I think. For two credits I'd forget my age and my job and go instead. Don't be proud. You don't have to beg, not with me. Robert, take command of the group and report to me when aloft."

The Duke of Buccleuch was out of his seat, out the door, and running while his superior officer leaned back and stared at a picture on the wall, a holograph of a particularly tangled piece of the Ruck. "Wish I could go," he murmured aloud to himself. "Wonder what's going on down there. Ah, hell, the Venus Transplant should be ready to go in a year. I'll go on that if things work out here." He turned his attention to another stack of reports.

Very slowly, Muller pushed open the door but he did not step out into the corridor. He listened and the other three waited in silence. At length he beckoned Feng forward to lead then the girl and Slater. The colonel brought up the rear. With two signals, he posted Feng facing to the right up one direction and Danna and Slater to the left on the other. With his guards out, for whatever it was worth, he crossed to the other cell and silently slid the locking bar back.

Before them lay a dimly lighted, boxlike cell. Thau Lang stood facing them, arms folded, and beside him, the two young warmen, Arta and Milla, one to a side. All looked ready for death. When they saw who had opened their prison, joy shone from their eyes.

"Quiet! Not a sound! Move by my signal until I speak," Muller said. He took a plaspad and scripter from his blouse, wrote for a minute or two, then showed the results to Thau Lang. The konsel read for a moment, then showed the message to Breen and Burg. Muller nodded to Danna and handed her the plaspad. She took it and stepped back between her two excellmates. Danna held up four pages of the small pad for Feng and Slater to read. It was quite clear, and in plain Unit script.

1) We're going to snatch Satreel. Burg and Breen go first. They can smell better, hear better, and see better.

2) Thau Lang and I come next. Slater and Danna follow. Feng is rearguard.

3) Carry your weapons at the ready. If we see an enemy, use them fast. Very fast!

4) We'll retrace the way to the control room. There are sound detectors all over this place from what I heard Satreel say. Pattern and location are unknown.

5) There may be monitors or beam-trip devices. If you see anything like that, stop us all. Let's go—and win!

Silently and stealthily down the ancient passage, illumined only by the dim glow of the ceiling strip, they went.

Slater and Danna had just turned the corner to the first passage when they heard a mechanical murmur to one side. An oval door suddenly slid aside at the juncture of the two passages and out of it, metal tentacles whirling, came the bullet shape of the robot jailer. Its only sound was a humming buzz as it rolled after the group in the main passage, at about the speed of a running six-year-old but far more silent.

The machine could not count or it did not bother. Possibly its instruments and sensors were defective. Ahead of it fled six humans and it pursued, its rollers turning. Behind it sped the seventh, and that one was a Kendo man, though his stick was less than a yard long.

Slater turned at the savage hiss and saw what he had hoped would come end even better. Behind the opaque translucence of the robot's dome he saw Captain Feng run up and strike forward with his deadly stick, just below the forward curve of the plastic bullet cap. The knobkerry was as hard as Feng had said. With two lethal blows, the dome split, big shards falling off and flakes puffing away in a cloud. As the machine tried to deal with its new adversary, the third blow struck home in the maze of lights and circuitry that made up the robot's control center. In a matter of seconds, Feng's onslaught had reduced the dangerous mechanism to an immobile pile of scrap. Its lights were out, it sank to its round base, and the flexible arms sprawled like wet spaghetti on the floor of the passage.

Muller walked back quickly and took a careful look. Then, smiling, he punched Feng's nearest bicep and nodded. A rare broad smile split the usually impassive visage of the I-Corps captain, and with no more celebration they all went on, exactly as before.

Along the main corridor down which they had passed only hours before, they ran in utter silence and as wary as aroused ferkats. After what seemed like days, the upraised hands of Arta and Milla, who were well up front, brought them to a poised halt. The team moved up slowly at Muller's signal. Ahead was the panel of the door to the great chamber of Satreel.

Slater squeezed Danna's arm and looked carefully at the door. It was as they had seen, a sliding panel, which, from inside, looked just like any other part of the control room wall. From the rear, though, it looked very different. Continuous bands of sturdy metal ran across the plasticene of the door and a pair of round, bright-blue knobs was set in recessed sockets to one side.

"Those must be manual controls," Muller whispered. "But for whom? Maybe only one of the robots can use them, and if we try we may set off an alarm. Everyone think for a second and see if we can stir up an idea."

Milla Breen said nothing, but he stepped smoothly through the other six and pointed. At the end of his forefinger was a well-concealed but perfectly visible outline in the right wall of the passage, perhaps two feet from the door they had been examining. Moreover, the camouflaged side door had what looked like a very simple recessed manual handle colored the same dull brown as the rest of the blank wall.

"Good man, Warman Breen!" It was the konsel who gave muttered approval, but Muller smiled and tapped Milla's arm. The young warrior drew himself up proudly, managing to give Arta Burg a derisive look as he did.

"Probably nothing more than an access corridor or just a closet for tools." The colonel stepped forward and carefully freed the almost invisible catch. He then slid the narrow door to one side. It moved without a sound. Muller stepped aside with a smile and they could all look.

It was not a closet. Inside was a very narrow passage with room only for one man at a time. It was far too narrow for the bulk of either of the two robots they had seen. It ended in a perfectly plain curve, which seemed to taper away to the left. They all looked to Muller.

"I want the UN people first this time. There will be machines, and we have more training in spotting or using such things. Slater at point, then me, then the four True People and Captain Feng's sharp vision as rear guard. Let's go."

A thrill went through the Anglo-Pathan as he took the lead. He touched Danna's arm as he passed her and entered the narrow tunnel. Satreel or one of his kind could use this, he thought. Or a robot of a kind we haven't seen yet. He paced on slowly and carefully, trying to miss nothing. He heard the scuff of movement at his back and finally the faint sound of the access door sliding shut.

The tight space seemed featureless, with the usual dull-brow plastic on the walls, ceiling, and underfoot. Suddenly Slater checked. He had been wondering if the narrow passage went round the whole control room of Satreel when he saw something in an alcove in the wall to his right front, no wider than his chest and at his shoulder level. It was dark but something was on the curved shelf that formed its floor. He waved the others back. Then he went forward and looked carefully, wishing he had a pocket beamlight. But those had gone to either Satreel or the "new clansmen" he used as guards.

On close inspection, he could see that it was a dust-covered tool of some kind. He examined the bottom of the shelf with great care, but he could see nothing that resembled an alarm.

He signaled behind his back and he knew Muller would come up. With great care, he picked the object up and held it out to his chief. They looked at it hard and Muller looked at him as well. They nodded and smiled. Both of them were veterans, and the younger was not stupid. It was a weapon.

The butt was huge, and when Muller took the thing in his hand, he could not reach the trigger—a button the front of the grip—with his index finger. Under the dust was the alien blue metal of e barrel, which was short in proportion to the grip and came to a blunt point. At the tip of the point was a small hole, and the edge was worn on this opening, worn and fused looking. Finally, on the plastic of the side of the device a strange stamp was embossed. It looked like a circled bullet with arms, made of some different metal.

"Could be used for welding or maybe it's an odd cooking utensil," the colonel said gently. He winked at Slater and then turned and murmured, "Found a gun of sorts" to Thau Lang, who was next to him. The konsel passed the word back. Meanwhile Muller had tapped Slater's shoulder and urged him to move on.

As Slater went on, he began to notice that he could actually "feel" the left curve of the strange passage. That they were indeed going around the control room of their captor finally came home to him. On and on went the slow curve, but no more niches appeared in the walls and the strip of light in the narrow roof caught nothing but greasy dust as it rose in sluggish swirls under his careful feet. He was suddenly conscious of a very dry throat and he knew it was not fear but thirst. They had not had any water for a long time, he realized. How long had it been and how was Danna holding out? His thoughts did not slow his steady progress, and he checked instantly when he saw two things that drove all other thoughts from his head.

First, he saw that the passage ahead lay straight. And not only was it straight but at the end of visibility it was crossed at right angles by a barrier. In an instant he knew what he was seeing—it had to be the passage into the dome of the alien control room, the one down which they had all come when Satreel called to them. He knew there had to be another door there.

From three openings on the left side of the passage, and not so far from his position, there came a glow of intensified light. He was not conscious of signaling to Muller but the colonel was immediately beside him, looking past him intently.

"They must be sealed. I hear nothing. Never noticed them when we were inside there. Might be one-way glass, or could be views of another room just outside the big chamber." He paused. "No point in brooding. Go on, boy. Be careful."

As Slater moved on, he thought of the strange find that die senior officer now carried. Probably empty and tossed away a hundred and fifty years ago by Satreel's mother, said his mind, and then he forgot all about the thing for he had reached the first of the light sources. He peered around the near comer with one eye and blinked as he did. The dim light he had grown used to in the corridor was a different strength from what he was now getting. There could be no mistake about that light, if it had been seen even once. It was the eerie bluish-white glow that lit the great domed control room in which they had seen their helpless animals turned into slime.

Slater instantly ducked down until he was below the port. He hurried on until he was at the third and last of the openings, then carefully rose to one side. Looking around, he saw the colonel at the second opening and Thau Lang at the first. Muller smiled and clicked his fingers once. Then they all three bent to look carefully at the corners of the view.

Slater saw at once that no one had used the port for a long time. The fine dust lay heavy over its surface. He gently began to stroke it away with one finger so that he could see. A side glance showed Muller and the konsel were doing the same at their's.

As he smoothed away the dust, he saw something else. The instant he did, he spun and clicked to Muller. When Slater had his attention, he pointed to what he had seen. Muller looked down at his own port's edge and then looked up and nodded. He then turned and signaled to the konsel.

Slater had found a small, corroded lever on the bottom of the port, a simple manual catch, inset but easy to grasp. Obviously it was a way to open the thing. Slater looked at it again and then made a mental estimate of the opening's size and shape. A horizontal oval, it was quite large enough for a man to get through, and he could see the floor on the other side was no farther down than on his. He bent again and peered through the now-clean corner.

He had a plain view of the control room's central dais and its instrument board. There sat the tall alien in his metallic robe and he was speaking, for Slater could see the mouth purse open and shut. But as if that were not enough, there stood JayBee Pelham, Mohini Dutt-Medawar, and her father.

Not only could they be seen, but they could be heard. The ancient view port allowed sound to come through plainly, if there was no other noise to interfere. During pauses in the conversation, Slater could even hear their footsteps. But now Satreel was speaking, the strange hissing tremolo coming over plainly.

"You know nothing yet, JayBee! Nothing of me and mine or what I have in the way of power. This is not the only center on this forgotten world. I am under orders given by those neither you nor any of your new little world ever knew or guessed at. There are allies to be brought from ancient sleep, in ways and methods you know nothing of. And this is not the only world with installations left by the Le-ashimath. You who come from the third planet know little. The second planet has things you never knew and cannot know. Its heat and clouds cover much."

"Lord Satreel, all is as you say. We are your ignorant servants. We only wish to help destroy all or any who threaten you. I urge you again to kill those who came last, especially their leader, the most dangerous Earth agent on Mars. Only thus can we be sure of complete safety while we plan to take over the planet and restore your rule." Jay Bee sounded sincere, but Slater wondered whether Satreel truly understood human treachery. His handling of the colonel's party certainly left a lot to be desired. Pelham wanted to rule Mars himself, not as anyone's deputy or servant.

"I will destroy any who do not do as I wish. Make no mistake about it, JayBee. Anyone!" Pelham fell silent. The strange high, purring voice continued. "That man you fear is guarded and secure, as are the others with him. He is the one I must talk further with, for he alone has guessed what I really am and what I want. He may be able to help and I want his knowledge—all of it—so that I can plan to go to the ancient stars."

Pelham made a short motion behind his back with one hand and his two allies went into action. Mohini drew a small lasgun and fired instantly. Her father whipped a small knife from a sheath at the back of his neck and threw it straight at the pale blue of Satreel's head. The thin beam of the pocket laser missed Satreel and hit the edge of his control board, but the knife buried itself to the hilt just below the alien neck, at the collar of the shimmering robe.

Instantly Colonel Muller threw the catch on his port and slammed it open. He aimed the peculiar old thing they had found on the corridor shelf, and with both hands managed to grip and fire the piece.

Warned by the noise of the port's being slammed aside, JayBee fell to the floor. A brilliant streak of violet light passed over him and struck Medawar in the side as he leaned forward and blasted a hole in him the size of a man's hand. Medawar fell as if hit by a steel fist, his mouth open and silent, a black hole burned in his side. From the distance, a faint roar, like that of a lion, came to their ears.

Slater wrenched his port open. Ahead, JayBee had gotten to his feet and was moving away while Mohini was turning her lasgun in their direction. .

"Mohini! Look left, you fool," Slater yelled as he fell to the floor of the giant chamber. His diversion worked and her laser beam swung toward him, but well wide. Now she too moved and he saw her race after JayBee, who was almost at the far back wall where a door gaped open.

As Slater rose and began to ran, Arta Burg flashed past him. Burg hurled something bright and metallic, but he was too late. The opening slid shut, and his projectile merely bounced from it.

"Stand fast, everyone!" The colonel called. "We can't follow them now. Let's get weapons and stay ready for whatever is tried next."

In the few seconds all the action had taken, they had all got through the three portholes in the wall. Danna ran over to Slater, squeezed his arm, gave him a grin, and turned with the rest of them to gather round the central platform.

Colonel Muller and Thau Lang were kneeling by a long shape.

"How in God's name does one give first aid to someone bred on a planet we couldn't see with a telescope?" Muller sounded as unsure of himself as anyone had ever heard him be. He was supporting Satreel's thin, wide shoulders in his arms and Thau Lang was examining the place where the knife hilt jutted from the pale-blue skin. The great eyes were open and flicked from one to the other, but the first member of an alien race any human had ever seen did not appear able to move.

But the alien was not dead, and it seemed his brain or whatever he had to think with was still functioning. The great dark eyes turned up to Muller and the toothless mouth opened. "Use the board. Press the lever marked with"—he paused, trying to put it in human terms—"marked with three crooked marks, marks which point down." Something like a sigh came from the strange mouth. "They are marked with colors but your color sense is not mine." He rallied and kept speaking but his vocal apparatus was losing power. "Listen, they will go around and out through the corridors. They know them not and they must search. Press that lever. I have strange pets here, such as none of you ever saw, and yet some came from your own world long, long ago." The eyes like black opals sought the ceiling. "To be killed thus, by primitives with missile weapons! I have much to do and this is not the only base that the absent masters left on this world. There are others and things sleep in them, sleep until this whole world dies." Another pause. "Or unless they are awakened. I myself cannot read all of the codes left me but I think the masters may have left—some of themselves! I had hoped if that were so to awaken them some day. They understood these things, the mighty Le-ashimath. They could stay anywhere, sleep in vaults in any place, on almost any world. In my searching I have found hints of yet another hidden, well-protected place, on the second planet from your sun, where you have never been, you humans."

Another brief silence followed. Then the strange mouth opened again. "Beware! When you press that lever, beware of leaving. It will release life-forms you must be wary of, release them into the outer and the under corridors. They are things bred from seeds preserved many cycles ago, both from your own world and from this one. Look for weapons such as you used on that dead human. They are hidden but they are about. You will need them, for JayBee may find them too. And those things of the ancient past which I bred back and you can release. For them, too."

The voice from beyond rose in a last dying tremolo. "I go, who am alone, and so young too. Only a thousand cycles of your sun have I lived since wakened from the storage cells. I go, my work unfinished, I go to my ancestors beyond time, I, Satreel, the last of the Attendants."

There was silence in the great, high-ceilinged chamber and Muller looked at his friends. "I guess he's gone. The movement of his thorax has stopped." He rose to his feet and looked down sadly. "Poor devil. All alone and trying to do a job he thought sacred, with no help and incomplete knowledge. For all his power, he must have been the loneliest thing in all of space."

Slater thought it a very decent epitaph for the first and the last of the entities from beyond the stars.

Chapter 15 – Animals, Aliens, and Close Combat

They looked about them with interest and trepidation. The great domed room was empty save for themselves and the two dead. One had been an outright and familiar enemy, and he was human. The other, who lay at their feet, his great, gaunt arms spread out, the seven-fingered hands half curled, was more of a mystery dead than alive. It was the girl who first put it into words.

"He is dead, poor thing. So strange, so alone. I saw him in a dream at first, and now it all seems like a dream, a terrible nightmare we are having, and it can't stop or end." Danna moved next to Slater and took his hand, looking forlornly down at the strange face of their former captor.

"Yes, my dear, it may still be a bad dream—that is, if we don't do a thing or two and wake up!" The vibrant tones of the colonel broke into the strange hush like a bugle call in a sleeping barracks. They all stared at him, even the impassive Feng, as if they had just come on an alert.

"Slater," Muller went on, "I think you heard what he said last. Let's find that control with the three marks. We're sealed in here and we must use any weapons we can find, and fast." He turned to Feng. "Captain, you look for a weapons store." He faced Thau Lang next. "Old friend, get everyone to looking at anything that might be a com set. We have to break the shroud of silence that hangs over this whole area, so we can get in touch with the outside world. No one touch anything, just look. We could probably explode this entire point or island or whatever it is simply by pushing the wrong button. Call me at once if you see anything promising, and, meanwhile, I'll prow! about. All clear? Then let's move!"

And move they did, everyone fanning out but Slater, who went to the vast half-moon of the control board. The words of the dead creature raced through his mind. Three crooked or bent marks, which faced down ... Pull the lever! The search was not easy for many controls were marked with bright symbols, in red, blue, orange, green, and purple. He closed his mind to the colorful distractions and began to count marks and slashes. It seemed as if an hour passed before he made his choice. "Colonel!" he shouted. "Come quick, sir. I think I have it!"

Muller was there instantly. "Are there any others that look like that?"

"No," Slater said as they stood looking at the tiny coppery lever. Next to it, colored mauve, were three raised vertical symbols like lightning flashes.

"I'll do it." Muller snapped the lever over as far as it would go. "Let's hope we understood Satreel." He smiled as he spoke.

At first they heard nothing and when they did, it meant nothing. It was simply a humming sound that came from the panel in irregular beats. After a few minutes, the sound stopped. Once more the board was silent and might have been inert, save that here and there a few lights glowed.

A shout came from far over on the right of the vast room. It was Feng. "Found a cabinet with three of those projectors like yours, Colonel!" The three short, bulky things he held out appeared identical to the one Muller had used on Medawar, but far cleaner and newer looking." Slater pointed at one of them.

"This one has different colors on the butt, and the trademark or whatever is red instead of blue. Notice?"

"Yes, I did," said Muller. "I'll give you mine, boy. We know what it does, at least so far. I'll take the odd one. Feng, the other dupe is yours. Give the last to, lessee—well, give it to Thau Lang. He saw what it could do. Now, let's—"

His words were interrupted by another yell, this one from Milla Breen. It was a wild whooping yell, in which the only word clear was "door." As the three on the dais looked left, to where the young warman had been, nothing more was needed.

A concealed door had slid silently open. It was a large door, big enough for three abreast and what was emerging from it was also large. Out of the dark opening had come an enormous head, coarsely furred in gray and brown and with pointed ears. The snout was massive and yellow tusks glinted in the light. Red eyes glared about in baffled anger and the great shoulders of the animal moved out into the open. They were as high as those on a horse, but this was no horse. It looked to Slater like a horrid cross between a large pig and an enormous wolf. Slowly it lurched on into the room and large hooves went clack-clack on the floor as it did. Its vast mouth opened and let out a raging grunt, deep and rasping at the same time. It had many great teeth as well as enormous tusks. The hooves were like those of some distorted deer. When the thing first appeared, Danna had raced toward Slater. She was peering around his left arm as he tried to sight the peculiar weapon, when Muller called, "No one else shoot while I try this thing of mine out!"

The monster had made up its own mind by this time and gathered on its haunches. At the colonel's voice, it began a charge. Muller crouched, used one arm as a rest, and pulled the firing button. This time no violent heat ray shot out. Instead, a stream of silver needles flew from the muzzle. When they struck the foaming jaws of the great brute, they exploded.

The great body collapsed on the spot where it had been hit, the head and much of its chest simply dripping shreds of meat. One instant it was alive and charging, the next its body had crashed to the floor, streaming blood in every direction. Everyone stood agape at both the creature itself and the amazing way it had been killed.

"What do you think, Feng?"

"Well, Colonel, hard to find a nicer device for an antipersonnel weapon." While he spoke, Feng had walked forward. He was kneeling by the dead hulk of the monster, his eyes gleaming. "Fantastic! Who would have thought Mars concealed such a thing as this?"

Muller and the others had moved up to join him, and all were staring at the huge body in fascination. It was the size of a horse, though shorter in the legs. They had trouble avoiding the pools of blood and the animal's own stench was rank and sharp, as coarse to the nose as the thing itself was to the eye. Muller looked thoughtful as he studied the body. Then he turned to Slater. "I think we two have the only clue, young man. This thing could be from anywhere, but I think it's a neighbor of ours, from Earth. Look at the split hoof, like a cow's but narrower ...This is probably one of the creatures Satreel warned us about when he mentioned things from seeds, preserved in time, both from this planet and Earth. If I'm correct, this beastie is an extinct mammal from Earth."

"No wonder that this new clan thought they were in the hands of a god," Thau Lang said. "If I understand you, Louis, these animals and many more have been preserved alive for many centuries, kept as even we, who are no scientists, keep food in the cold and see some of the fishes that Earth sent here stay alive frozen in ice, ready to go away when it melts or someone melts it."

Muller broke the hush that had fallen after Thau Lang spoke. "Remember two things, both important. We want JayBee and we want out. Find the switch that frees this area from the communications blackout."

He turned to Slater. "Have you considered what Prime Base must be at right now? JayBee gone, us gone, that traitor gone, and no word, no report, no nothing! He wheeled on the others again. "Thau Lang and I will provide a roving guard. The rest of you study any controls you can find. Keep looking for more weapons, too."

Slater spoke to the colonel as the others moved out again. "Sir, I do think Captain Feng ought to stay right here. He is I-Corps and they know lots we don't. Wouldn't that master control be likely to be on the control board?" He felt abashed for even vaguely correcting Muller but he had a strong feeling.

Muller eyed Slater appraisingly. "Feng, check out the big board here. I think that the Wise Woman might need a special sort of guard, don't you?"

Slater grinned. Then he and Danna joined the prowl, looking for anything that might be useful. But the next surprise found them. Danna was a few yards to one side of him and had begun to walk around a mass of metal higher than her head when she halted, stared for a second, then stepped back. As she did, she yelled, "Quick, Moe!"

He spun and moved to her, beamer up and cradled. Around the corner of the machine she had been passing, well above their heads, a great limb reached down—an olive-green limb ending in a hooked claw. Along one side of the limb were huge spikes like the teeth of a tremendous saw, but thinner and longer.

"Get behind me, Danna!" Slater shouted. "Look out, everyone! There's a great beast coming out over here!" Then he jumped back for the head of the beast was emerging from behind the unknown machine and was looking down at them from a height three times their own. It was roughly triangular, that head, mostly taken up by two great balls of shining almond eyes. Under the eyes, pointed mouthparts moved delicately. As it came slowly into the strong light, the great goggle eyes seemed to look everywhere and another giant arm also came j into view. The towering almost neckless body, which supported the yard-wide head, was emerging steadily and a few of the tremendous, sticklike legs, set far back on the torso were also becoming visible. Utterly silent save for the faint scrape of its claws on the floor, the towering horror seemed, in some ghastly way, familiar. Puzzled, Slater backed slowly away, shielding Danna as he did.

Then it swept forward with its great bony arms, and he pulled the firing button.

The intense beam of violet heat lashed out of the beamer once again, striking the body just below the head. Whatever the composition of the creature's skin, it was not so strong as I human epidermis, or as Muller pointed out later, a human I survival suit. Almost decapitated, the great tall shape simply fell forward, with a series of feathery clicks and thuds, landing just in front of Danna. The two bulging eyes, pupilless and shining, looked exactly the same as before. No life seemed to have left them, but the whole long shape, which now was seen to have many legs, lay limp and unmoving in seconds. A thick green slime flowed sluggishly from the wound.

The others had all come up by now and were staring, but it was Captain Feng, his face alive with interest, who spoke first. "Incredible what those star rovers had in the way of I science!" He turned to Muller. "This is impossible, Colonel, | even with the lighter gravity of Mars. No insect should be able to even move at that size, nor should its circulatory system work. Quite apart from whatever growth it was bred to, how under Heaven did they do it?"

Muller looked at Slater and smiled. "I had a few tribal ancestors, long ago in the extreme southern part of Africa. J They thought the praying mantis was a god. Here's one they never met but which might qualify, eh?"

Slater turned to Danna and put one arm about her shoulders. "Look, Wise Martian Woman. Here's something from the home of your ancestors, a thing I used to catch and squash when I was young. I squashed this one for you, so it wouldn't pick you up in those claw arms and eat you. Now who's a stupid Greenie?"

"Ugh, horrible!" She smiled up at him and returned the one-armed hug. "Please stay and protect me, Moe. And keep any I of those pets back on Earth."

Thau Lang moved around the immense insect's corpse, then called out. "Here is another open door. How many of these doors can there be, Louis? And why are they now open?"

"Because, my dear fellow, Slater and I opened them. It was the last thing Satreel did for us, telling us how to do it. Before you ask why it would be 'for us,' think a second. Jay Bee and that very nasty girl are also in this building. With this crew of ; killer beasts loose, we have two chances—one of having them killed by the animals, the other of killing them ourselves before they kill us." He turned to Slater who was nearby. "Recall that interrupted humming noise when we pulled the lever? It must have been opening and shutting cage doors. So, my friends, let's get back to work and find whatever else is around. We found good weapons twice. Back to work and find more."

They spread out and began to examine everything they came across. A few strange-looking cabinets were sealed shut, and no one dared try force on them. Ail appeared to be metal, though coated with some plasticene covering. Some were blue, some yellow, and a few even purple.

Suddenly Arta Burg's choked cry made the others stop their roving and turn. Three tall shapes had unexpectedly appeared, their bearded faces furious. In seconds Arta fell, transfixed by a spear he could not dodge.

Danna screamed as the new clansmen, in full battle array, shouted as one man, "Kill the Earthlings, kill them all!" Spears, swords, and shields ready, they rushed to the attack. And behind them more burst from the wall in a milling, tangled crowd, all yelling and waving weapons.

"Shoot to kill!" Muller roared. Even as he said it, he was crouched, firing the alien pistol that shot explosive bullets. He sprayed the new clansmen with silver death. As Feng had guessed, it was a superb antipersonnel weapon. A whole section of the advancing horde's front rank went down, shredded dead on the spot.

Meanwhile, Thau Lang, and Slater had begun to fire their beamers. The three-part barrage of explosives and superlaser fire stopped the wild rash in its tracks. Those new clansmen not hit fled back to the wide doorway from which they had just burst, leaving their wounded and at least twenty dead behind. Blood, charred meat, and fragmented flesh and bone were spattered all over. The battle was over in seconds.

"It seems that JayBee has found allies or servants," Muller said. "These poor devils didn't come here on their own, they were sent. He is somewhere around, taking care not to get hit himself—and I want him! If he gets any real weapons, anything like our stuff, we're dead! I want him dead, not us, and I don't want to give him a chance to escape—which he'll do if he can't get us first." Muller paused while he looked about with cold rage. He tried to not listen to the moans of the wounded giants who lay among the dead and pieces of the dead.

"Listen up, you guys. One thing I want you all to know about," Muller went on. "Outside, before we ever came in this alien hellhole, I gave Nakamura some instructions. Our mission is to finish this place, I hoped that if they got us, he, with his size and his knowledge, might get away somehow as a member of this so-called new clan. I had to take as few chances as possible, and Lieutenant Nakamura was my last hope of getting the word out if we ended up dead. So, look out when you shoot or hit anyone, just because he's big. Nakamura might be in with them."

Slater was wondering if Nakamura was still alive when he noticed Danna and Milla Breen kneeling by a limp form that lay in the middle of the fragmented dead. Realizing who it must be, he ran over to them, trying not to slip in the gore.

Danna looked up, her eyes full of unshed tears. "He never had a chance. Poor Arta. He had just become a warman and he guarded me all his life." She buried her face in both hands. As he looked down, Slater realized that young Burg could not have felt much. The point of the heavy spear was deep in his upper chest. He sensed movement at his side and saw Thau Lang had joined them.

"Come, up, both of you. Milla, you are the last husband now and have more to do. No time for mourning here. We must avenge him. Later we will sing his praises."

The young Ruckers got up, and Slater put his arm over Danna's shoulder. Allah! To think I was once jealous of that poor dead kid went through his mind as he hugged the shaken girl. But before he could get maudlin, Muller interrupted.

"Over here, all of you. We may have found something we can use." Muller was pointing to a lever in a hollow on the floor under the central panel.

Slater crouched and studied the heavy, dull-blue lever that thrust up at a slight angle from a depression on the floor. Next to it, a raised, square-ended projection protruded from the underside of the panel. On the face of that a strange mark was deeply incised in the metal, a hemisphere with lines from the pole to the diameter line. Across the whole thing was something that looked as if it might be a word in a strange script.

Slater looked up at Feng and saw the I-Corps captain was excited from the expression on his face. He looked down again and an idea came to him suddenly. "Might be a picture of a shelter of some kind, like a domed tent. But maybe it stands for a grid, a dome over something. I don't know—"

"Why not a power grid? Over all this area?" Feng asked.

"We know there is one," the colonel said. "This whole area of the rift is one of the Dead Zones; has been since we first came to Mars. There are others. There's one about or near about the mountain. But this is the one we've known about the longest."

They stared at the enigmatic lever until Muller broke the silence. "Let's go. We'll have to take a chance and hope we won't blow ourselves and the whole place sky high. We can't read their script and we have no time to go to school. Pull it over—all the way, Lieutenant."

Slater grinned at Danna and yanked the lever. A long moment went by, in complete silence.

"All right, Feng. Try the thing you think is a radio or whatever." He smiled at Slater who still crouched by the lever. "The captain is reasonably sure he has located a comm of some sort on the top left over there. Let's see if that blows us up."

Feng turned a knob and spoke loudly into an oily cable that ended in yet another knob. "To any UN force within sound of my voice, come in please! This is an I-Corps flash. I repeat, this is an I-Corps flash." Nothing happened, so after a brief pause, he rotated the knob and repeated the call.

The response was immediate but not too loud. Even Muller jumped a little when they heard it. "General Scott here, Captain. I read you five by. I have a fix on you. What's your status? Over." The new voice was projected from under the panel in front of Feng, but Slater could not see from what.

"We need help, sir—" was all Feng got out before Muller leaned over and took the mike from him.

"Colonel Muller here, General. Are you nearby? What's your strength?"

"Almost directly over you," came the answer. "Six floaters and five hundred troops. A crash force I put together. What's the situation?"

"Come straight down, sir. JayBee's here but I think he has little in the way of weapons beyond knives and spears. We killed the communications blackout. He seems to be in control of the new clan. I don't know how many there are, but they are armed with only crude hand weapons. We are holding an al ... we are holding the archaic control room of this fort. Tell your men to touch no controls or odd-looking devices at all. Might blow us up and them too."

"We're descending now, Colonel. Anything else?"

Slater was gesturing wildly and pointing to the body of the hairy monster that had appeared first. Muller nodded. "Strange life-forms wandering about here. Many of them, and they can be very bad news. Instruct the men to kill on sight."

"Very good. Keep this channel open."

Muller leaned back against the control panel and let out a sigh of relief. "I know Scott, a good man. Tough and quick when he needs to be." He looked around with a fresh light gleaming in his eyes. Slater could see a new plan forming even before he spoke.

"We have to get JayBee and this new clan he's inherited. We don't know where they are, or even if they believe enough in JayBee to follow him." He looked searchingly about the vast room. "Captain Feng, you stay here with the com and keep watch. Danna Strom, you stay too. Lieutenant Slater and I will form one team, Thau Lang and Milla Breen the other. We'll fan out through the side corridors and keep looking for JayBee. Feng, you tell General Scott what we're doing,"

But Danna would not stay if Mohammed Slater went. And she carried the point with ridiculous ease, Slater thought, considering that she was opposing Colonel Muller. All he did was listen quietly, smile, and nod. Feng shrugged and settled at the panels of the control board.

And so they set off, the two Ruckers down the tunnel from which the giant mammal had come, the other three down the larger one from which the praying mantis had emerged. Even as they passed through strange doors, they could hear the roar and whistles of noncoms as the UN strike force formed up.

Muller went first, Danna next, and Slater brought up the rear. For a long time the corridor ran gently down on a curving slant. Eventually Muller held up his hand; they halted and drew together, weapons at the ready.

"Listen," he murmured. "I heard something move." As Slater peered ahead, he could see that the dimly lit, featureless passage curved yet again, this time to the left. Further, when he had stared for a few seconds, he had the impression that a larger space lay beyond, from which came a very faint light. He muttered this to Muller who bobbed his head. Then, as they listened, sounds about which there could be no argument burst upon them. One was a high, piercing scream that rose until it hurt the eardrums. The other, which underlay the scream, was something else. Part shrieking roar, part grating hiss, it was a horrid sound and its volume alone gave an impression of great size as well as appalling savagery.

"Let's go!" Muller snapped. They raced for the curve that lay ahead, the two men in front with weapons poised and the girl just behind, her spear ready. They whipped around the shallow curve and burst into a great underground room, a sunken cavern of a place with rough walls arching overhead and a floor of earth and rock littered with small chunks of rubble.

Yet the place was not entirely natural, and it had at least once been used. Overhead a few large fluor lamps glared and here and there were strewn bits of furniture and utensils of some sort. But it was the scene before them that gripped them.

Three persons were backed up on to a low mound of debris, some distance away to their left. They could be seen clearly in the lights. One, taller than the other two, was their greatest enemy. Alongside JayBee, her face twisted in fear, stood Mohini Dutt-Medawar, all beauty gone in her stark terror. And in front of them, her arms held behind her back by JayBee, stood an unknown quantity!

She was young and seemed, in that flashing instant, to be lovely in a strange and unearthly way. She was straining against Pelham's grip. A lovely young woman with orange hair! It did not seem to be dyed hair either, though one could not have said just why, but a flame color that verged on a fire yellow. Her mouth was open and she screamed again, high and piercing. Her teeth were clearly visible and to Slater they looked somehow wrong, though white. But his gaze and that of the others was really fixed elsewhere. The flame-haired woman in her swirls of blue robe was incidental.

Crouched a little lower than the three on the mound was the creature that had made the ghastly roar. As they came in the tunnel entrance, it turned to look at them and it bore the head of a nightmare!

The creature was the size of an ox or one of the extinct giant bears of Earth. Its huge head had small ears, vast jaws full of great teeth and a pair of upper canines that looked like huge tusks. From its lower jaw stuck bone flanges into which the great upper teeth obviously fit when the mouth was closed. The massive body was powerful and bearlike but with a long tail such as no bear ever has or had. The mighty legs had vast paws with longs claws, and the whole close-furred body was striped along its length, white stripes on a reddish background. They could smell its reeking odor, pungent and rank.

Alien fauna, Slater thought. Something they brought from the stars and it got loose when we pushed Satreel's button? But there was no time for much thought. The thing had finally focused on the new prey. That hissing bellow erupted again from the gaping jaws, and it hurled itself at them.

"Fan out!" Muller screamed as he fired. Slater tried to step in front of Danna, but, to his surprise, the colonel beat him to it, so the lieutenant ducked the other way and crouched to get a better aim.

The two weapons did the trick, but not by much. The explosive needles from Muller's gun tore into the giant chest of the oncoming behemoth, while Slater's ray burned through the great right shoulder, which was nearest to him, and he fanned the weapon a little to spread its effect.

With a last coughing, choking ripsaw of sound, deafening even as it gave way to gasps of pain, the creature fell so close to the colonel that a spray of saliva from the dying jaws fell across Muller's feet. The two men ceased their fire but stayed in a crouch, weapons ready in case the monster had some last strength in reserve. Suddenly Danna noticed movement ahead. "Moe! JayBee's getting away over there!"

Behind the mound of earth and rabble JayBee and Mohini had been standing on, was an opening in the rough wall of rock. Mohini had already entered it and JayBee was right behind, dragging the strange girl by one arm.

Slater leaped forward, his pistol raised. Behind him, Muller yelled something, in which the only word he caught was "alien!"

Pelham was out of sight and Slater could see only a rough crevice in the wall. As he rushed forward, the stare of the strange girl, who was pulling in his direction without effect, met his eyes head on. The eyes filled his vision and sent a chill down his spine. Large eyes they were, and reddish. The pupils were narrow, jet black, and vertical. No human eye ever had such a pupil!

The girl disappeared in the crevice before he could reach her. Without a pause Slater ran into the opening but found it was dark and lightless. He rushed on as fast as he could and he heard a grinding noise in the blackness ahead, a noise that ended with a heavy thud. Seconds later he ran smack into a hard barrier and bruised his out flung left arm badly. He tripped on a piece of loose rock and fell to the floor, annoyed and blind.

Then, suddenly, a light went on behind him and he whirled, heat beam ready, just as Danna and Muller rushed up. Danna was holding a small pocket beamlight.

"Found it on the mound," Muller said. "JayBee must have dropped it while struggling with the girl."

They carefully checked the great door that had blocked the passage. It was made of some dense, dull metal. There was no control or latch, nothing but blank, immobile metal in one huge slab, which closed the rocky tunnel from floor to roof.

"Shouldn't we go back to the big room, sir? We might find another of these openings there." Danna's hand slipped into Slater's own behind his back.

"We may have to." The colonel was using the small beam to examine the vast block in the passage very carefully. "May still have to," he went on, "but let's try something first. We'll all get our hands fiat on the surface and push. First, this way, to the right."

Under their pressure, the great slab was quite motionless and inert. "Now the left," Muller prompted, and to Slater's amazement, the huge thing began to slide.

When a narrow opening had appeared on the right, the colonel made them stop, while he reconnoitered, peering around the corner very carefully. "Nothing," he said at length, standing back. "Just an empty passage, dimly lit, but a smooth one, not like this at all. Plastic coating all over, I think, under the dust. The footprints went straight on and there were broad smudges. JayBee must have been dragging that very odd captive of his. Anything about her strike you as peculiar, lieutenant, aside from the startling hair?"

Slater gulped, his mind racing. "Well, sir, her eyes. They had vertical and very long pupils. Like a ferkat's, only bigger. Maybe something strange about her teeth too, although I can't think what it was."

Muller laughed softly and the laugh wrinkles about his eyes crinkled in the reflected torchlight. "They were fangs, young man—pointed, very sharp fangs. I missed the eyes myself but you got closer. Good observation." The laughter died from his face and it grew solemn for a moment. "Glad to see Danna's man has good vision. Makes an old fellow feel better."

At their look of joint incomprehension, he smiled again. "I have a responsibility to Danna, lieutenant, quite apart from my job and rank and this search of ours." He paused and then reached out his free hand and patted the girl's shoulder. "We won't go into the details right now. I had never seen her until she came to Fort Agnew. But I knew about her long before." His powerful arm left the girl's shoulder and slipped around her slender waist as he pulled her in close to his body.

Grinning over her shoulder, his clear gaze met that of the startled younger man. "Not to worry, boy. She happens to be my daughter. I think I ought to begin worrying about her choice of a man, don't you?"

Danna pulled loose from Muller and stared at him. "But, but—what do you say? My father was a great warrior of the True People. He was from a foreign clan from far away in the North. When my mother bore me she died, but all have told me this and Thau Lang, he ... "

Muller smiled but a sadness was mixed with the smile. "I posed as a faraway clansman, my dear. I loved your mother and Thau Lang knew who and what I was. He was her father, after all."

Danna looked at the colonel and her mouth was soft and her lips just parted. "You speak the truth, I think." She turned to Mohammed Slater and he saw a hint of the tears in the amber eyes as she came to his arms. He stroked the short ruffled mass of her hair and she said into his shoulder, "I am half a Greenie myself and so it is all right." He murmured as he would to a child and held her tighter.

It was Muller who brought them back to reality. He had been watching the narrow gap of the great metal door and now he spoke. "We will have a long time together to discuss family matters. But first and now—JayBee!"

The man and the woman drew apart and, at his orders, fell on the door again and pushed it open wider. The dusty corridor led down.

They watched the walls closely as they went and kept their weapons poised. The very weak line of fluors in the ceiling on that side of the sliding door was enough to follow the trace they sought. It was all gray and extremely gloomy, that untenanted road to nowhere, yet they felt stronger just because they were together.

Slater's wristchron said they had been on the sepulchral route for about fifteen minutes when Muller, who was leading, held up one hand and pointed—the sloping passage leveled off ahead and another barrier seemed to seal it.

"This may be it," Muller said quietly. "We'll go down with care and look that door over. I want JayBee and I want that other even more." Slater had no doubt that the "other" his superior meant was not Mohini.

Chapter 16 – The Last of the Best

The new barrier was quite different from the one they had encountered higher up, just a dull plastic finish with transverse bars of metal cutting across. But Danna pointed to the wall on the left side of the passageway.

Sure enough, under the dust, there was another small door, just as there had been by the Control Center. And it too had a recessed manual catch.

Muller released the handle, opened the narrow portal slowly, and beamed his torch into the dark interior. After he had checked the darkness that lay beyond as well as he could, he said, "I'll lead, Slater will bring up the rear. You, daughter, will stay in the center. Watch my light and anything else you can see. I think we're getting close to our quarry and I want to avoid accidents."

Silently and slowly, they filed into the dark, the colonel's beam providing the only light. The walls and floor were the same dull plasticene as those above, but dustier. They walked for a considerable distance, and all that kept Slater hopeful was the gentle right-hand curve of the walls. It seemed the corridor circled a much larger space, just as had the one above. But no shelves, openings, ports, or lights were apparent on this one. They went for minute after minute until Muller suddenly stopped.

Ahead of them, the surface of the floor had changed. For a stretch of about thirty feet, it had become a bluish metallic surface, which looked as if it had been oiled. Beyond that as far as the light could show, the old floor wound away into the darkness.

"What do you think?" Muller asked.

"I don't know, sir," Slater said. "It looks as if it had just been cleaned."

"I don't like it," Danna said.

"I don't like that smooth bit at all."

The colonel looked reflective as he mulled over the situation. Finally he spoke. "I think we have to try it. Going back gets us nowhere, and we are sure JayBee came this way. He must have guessed we'd follow even if he hasn't yet been alerted about the troops Scott is landing up above. If we try to force the big door back there and he is inside it, he'll be waiting for us. I'm afraid we'll have to look for another entry—hell, there has to be a reason for this thing we're in to keep going on."

Muller walked carefully out on the metal surface and the others kept him covered from behind. Nothing at all happened. The floor was quite solid. He turned and waved the other two on after him, and soon all three were standing on the dust-free surface. Muller was only a yard or so from the other side when the floor tilted sideways.

Danna screamed once. The two officers remained mute, but in that blinding moment when the footing suddenly vanished, Slater just braced himself for sudden death. The result of the fall was certainly sudden but it was not death.

Almost as quickly as the foothold had vanished, another hard surface took its place beneath them. Without any real impact, the three bodies jumbled together and all three continued downward together, but this time on a sharp slant. They slid, with increasing rapidity, down a long and very slick tube.

Even as he twisted and writhed, trying to find a foothold or a hand grip somewhere, Slater was, in another part of his mind, reasoning. Was it for them, this collapsing floor trap, or for others? When had it been set first, and by whom! And as his mind raced, he managed to get Danna's arm out of one eye and Muller's heel out of his left armpit. But that was all, and still the fall went on, on and down.

Unexpectedly they fell to a stop, all three in one tangled mass, but quite unhurt and on some soft surface that had cushioned their arrival. The long slide down that corkscrew chute and its sudden end had done them no harm at all.

As they freed themselves from the tangle of their own bodies, Slater felt heavy plastic under his groping hands. A large mat lay beneath them, and he could stand on it even though his knees shook. But no sooner was he erect than he was half blinded.

Trying to focus through aching eyes, he watched as one wall of the pit began to move upward. And strong light flooded under it. The illumination grew stronger as the curved surface rose above their heads, and to add to the confusion, there were shouts, raucous laughter, and catcalls.

"Look at the Greenies! All in a cage! Burn 'em down, JayBee—fry 'em to a crisp like they did us." Finally Slater's eyes were beginning to adjust to the intense light.

He, Danna, and Muller were in a nearly circular space with a padded floor. A row of massive bars rose higher than his head from floor to the roof of the aperture. Outside the bars, which he immediately realized were not close enough to stop his passage, was the enemy.

None was close but all were within easy distance. A mob of the new clan giants in the usual uniform danced and waved along one side of a huge subterranean chamber. Vivid blue fluor tubes blazed on the arched ceiling above the giants. On a platform at the far end of the domed cellar, JayBee Pelham crouched over a UN-issue heavy lasgun. Over the heads of his impassioned followers, his black eyes were gleaming in malignant triumph. His waving white hair was disarrayed and he looked as if he had run hard and fast. He had won and they had lost, and he reveled in his moment of victory.

"Silence, all of you! JayBee commands here!" His voice had not lost its power or charm, even in curt commands. The thirty or so new clan warriors fell silent at their leader's order.

In the quiet that followed, Slater could hear the breath of the two behind him. He moved very slightly, shuffling his feet on the pad, and managed to move in front of Danna.

"I do believe it is my dear friend Colonel Muller. You took me once, I recall, and put me behind bars. Now you are the one behind bars, and I shall not make the mistake you did. The Master Hunter of Mars himself, and two flunkies! What a downfall, eh, Muller? Strange how life always favors the better man, right?"

Louis Muller's voice was calm. "I told them to execute you, Pelham. I said you were as dangerous as plague spore and ought to be expunged. But you know how politics is—perhaps better than any. Your judgment and sentencing had to be done by the letter of the law. I live under rules and the law. You live under nothing but your own desire to be omnipotent. And you are not stupid. So the plague bacillus escaped and like any kind of disease germ, found itself a wound to fester in. And, of course, you found allies as well, like these poor men who don't know you or even what they really want or what's good for the planet. I'd call ii a bad turn of the dice, Pelham, that's all. And don't try to lie to me and tell me you had us trapped!"

There was a surge of the muttering now. The savages who glared at them picked up the contempt in Muller's voice. They understood little Unit, but keen ears could easily detect the lack of respect and the cold dislike in their imprisoned enemy. So could Pelham, and he lost his temper.

"You fool! You are in my grip and you have the gall to say / didn't trap you!" His voice rose in anger and Slater could see that Muller was provoking him. The longer he could keep the Master Mind busy and arguing, the longer it gave Scott and the strike force to penetrate down to their underground prism.

The colonel's level voice, unexcited yet very audible, was quick to reply. "This slide is too big for just a few people and you know it. Satreel's race and what came before them must have built it for something else. Probably a trap for any of the big animals that got loose which could be herded into that passage or lured in with food."

He laughed, a sneer evident in the sound, and then waved at the men assembled across the room from JayBee.

"I could see that they all were surprised as well as impressed by your great cleverness, Pelham. I'd be willing to bet you had no idea where we were at all until this tube spilled us down here. Sheer dumb luck—so of course you're claiming credit for it. Bah! Spare me your boasts. Impress these peasants as you did the more stupid colonists up top when you were still a respectable petty crook on the make."

Slater watched the play of emotion on JayBee's furious face, then scanned the other members of the audience. Something registered on his brain. One of. the tall, scowling figures—a very tall one, dirty and unshaven—was known to him! Their eyes met for an instant and he had it. It was Nak!

Slater turned back to warn the colonel but he was distracted as Pelham, his face livid with rage, was preparing to fire. He was obviously aiming at Muller who stood to Slater's left. But Pelham had forgotten something. Suddenly a small door behind his platform whipped open and first one and then another figure darted out.

The flame hair of the first was evidence that the strange captive was loose. Behind her ran Mohini Dutt-Medawar as she tried to catch the fugitive. "Stop her, JayBee, stop her before she does something!"

The big clansmen merely gaped and even Pelham seemed momentarily paralyzed. But one brain did not freeze. "Run, now, through the bars," Muller hissed.

The incredible orange-fire hair had come to a sudden halt, at an angle of the wall between JayBee and his followers. She leaped up and to the side and seized a thin lever that jutted inconspicuously from a boxlike bulge in the wall. The rod was a strange mixture of flaming pink and subtle blue. With both hands, the fugitive wrenched at the thing and it descended with a loud, grinding sound. A strange low hum became audible.

At this point, Pelham seemed to come awake. He wheeled the big lasgun and took aim, but he was too late and too fast on the trigger. Mohini had just grasped one arm of the captive when a line of white light and inconceivable heat struck both bodies. In a second they were ash, the wall behind them molten plastic and stone.

Slater had lost his alien gun in the fall down the shaft and had not had a chance to find it. But Muller, with the instinct of the born old fighting man he was, had not lost his. He took aim now and yelled as he did so, for he was out past the wide-spaced bars and in the room.

"Try this for size, Pelham, you butchering bastard!" Then he pressed the button to release the explosive bullets. Alas for the colonel. Nothing happened at all. The fight with the last monster had exhausted the load.

Pelham whirled to fight, but another was quicker still. One of the new clansmen had drawn back his arm at the colonel's shout and hurled a light spear like a striking snake.

Slater had turned and grabbed Danna's sword then leaped forward, but he was not fast enough. The spear drove deep into Muller's body, and he staggered and fell at the impact. The crowd yelled and JayBee's voice was higher and louder than any.

"Good shot! Now let me get the other Greenies and that's it, True People!" He turned and leveled the lasgun. Slater braced himself for a hot and instant death, but he had forgotten something and JayBee, sure of triumph, had never known it at all. A bull's bellow shook the whole room and a giant figure leaped high, in a way no one born under Martian gravity could have done. "Try this one, Pelham," Helge Nakamura roared. And as he reached the summit of his upward leap, well over the heads of the crowd around him, he hurled a spear with all the power of his great arm. As a balancing act, despite the lesser gravity, it was superb. It was also accurate! The spear flew like an arrow, and it took JayBee Pelham to death, hitting him at the base of his corded throat with such an impact that he was hurled off his platform and hit the floor with an audible thud.

The mob of Rift-dwelling clansmen froze in horror. That one of their own should slay their new leader held them numb and shaken with combined amazement and horror.

Slater was already on the move. He had a clear path in front of the stupefied warriors and he took it straight to JayBee's platform, now empty of its occupant. In ten or so strides he was there and had vaulted up. Spinning and stooping, he levered the fallen lasgun onto its tripod and leveled it at the new clansmen, his finger in place on the trigger.

"Freeze or I kill!" he yelled. "Any of you move and you all die!" He kept the barrel swiveling back and forth. They flinched as he did. "Get up here, Nak, while I have them covered!" His second yell was unnecessary for Nakamura was already moving to him, keeping to the side so as not to interfere with Slater's field of fire. In an instant he was beside Slater with a great sword in his fist.

"Drop weapons! Drop all weapons! Do not move or I kill all of you!"

The new clansmen obeyed.

"Take over this thing, Nak, and keep them quiet. I have to see to the colonel."

Slater ran to one side and raced to where Danna keeled beside Muller's prostrate body. As he ran up, he could see the spear was still protruding from the colonel's chest and wondered why she had left it.

Muller's calm voice answered the unspoken thought. "Hurry up, my boy. That spear caught me cold. If she pulled it out, I'd be gone in a second. I have a little time and I want to use it well.

"Be good to each other. I loved Danna's mother and I would have left the service for her. She died when I was far away. Get Thau Lang to tell you about her, dear. He knows it all. You two can bring a new message to the planet to the True People can live in peace without losing their independence. Look up the history of the treatment of Amerindians of that area today called the United States of North and Central America. Learn what the rulers did wrong and the few things they did right." He smiled wearily, but his strength was fading. "I wish that damned maniac had not killed the redheaded female. She wasn't one of us or Satreel's people. I think you'll have to find who and what she was, Slater. Perhaps one of the ancient rulers of Satreel's race, frozen or something—Wish I knew." His voice was growing fainter and they bent over his head, straining to catch every word.

"Now, listen hard and move fast—That lever that she pulled. I think it means death, death and destruction. It's what I would do in that place she was in. Hear that droning hum? I think something's running down or winding up. The three of you, leave me and go. Go now, That's an order!"

Slater took Danna's arm and she gave no trouble, just bent and kissed Muller on the mouth once. Then she was up and following her man.

"Nak, we're getting out and fast. Give me that weapon. You lead. The colonel thinks the whole place is gonna blow."

Nakamura handed over the lasgun and bellowed once at the silent and disarmed men. "We are leaving. All should follow. This place becomes a place of death. Those who stay will die, die in agony. Follow us!"

With that, he led off at a fast trot and the other two followed. Slater cradled the lasgun, which was heavy but not impossible, once he had freed it from the tripod. As he followed Nakamura into the large tunnel upward, the group of new clansmen began to follow. And he saw the prone figure wave one arm and then let it drop. Moisture burned his eyes and he blinked rapidly to clear them. Then he and Danna rounded a corner and the scene was lost.

They ran upward at a steady jog, and he could see over his shoulder that the men of the Rift were following. They were not too close however. They knew what he carried in his arms and they thus kept back a little.

As they ran, Nakamura shouted over his shoulder about how he had managed to mingle with the giants. "Colonel Muller told me to wait outside until I decided you weren't coming at all-—then I was to try to get out and get the word to base. I stood it until I saw this bunch coming through the woods. They weren't any we'd seen before, so, when they left a guard at the tunnel entrance I waited, until the sentinel was alone, killed him, and ran down. They were so hyped up no one even noticed me. It was simple, really." He led on, panting only a trifle.

When they had made several broad but easy loops up the tunnel, they emerged into an open space like a high-ceilinged warehouse or a great barn. They had ran steadily upward all the time and Slater was sure they were close to the surface if not on it already. Any doubts they might have had were soon brought to an abrupt halt.

"Freeze, Ruckers! Drop that piece, you in front. Anyone moves and they're dead!"

"We're officers from Fort Agnew in disguise," Nakamura shouted, dropping his sword. Slater had let go of the lasgun with relief. "Take us to your chief and get moving, you guys, get moving fast! This whole place may blow in a few minutes!" Nakamura's voice was a help. In seconds they had been checked out and were explaining to a grizzled sergeant and his squad of Space Marines. They warned him of the disarmed men following and to lead them out in a hurry.

They were led to Scott. Captain Feng was with him, as were Thau Lang and Milla.

"We've got to get out of here, sir, and get out damned fast," Slater explained to the general.

"Give me details on the way out," he snapped and issued instant orders. "We'll get everyone in those ships, crowded or not. I'll take as many of those disarmed locals as we can. If Muller thinks this place is mined somehow, then, by God, I listen."

"A steady drone from the control board started about twenty-five minutes ago," Feng said. The general nodded and kept up his crisp volley of orders. Out of the various tunnel openings, men began to pour, mostly Marines but some of them pulling members of the new clan and even a few women and children.

Noting the bafflement on Slater's face, the general explained. "We found a village back in the woods behind this place. Took as many as we could alive. Some wouldn't surrender at all. Regrettable."

In less than a quarter hour, they were ail in one or another of the big floaters that were grounded outside.

As they lifted off in the command ship, Slater suddenly felt the exhaustion of the last few days wash over him. He slumped by a port, staring out foggily while Danna hummed to herself and stroked his weary head.

"We're well away and getting farther," Nakamura yelled.

"If the colonel was right, we may have done it. Place looks peaceful, though, and I—-God almighty! Get down and hang on, everyone!"

The whole point of wooded land on which the alien base lay was sinking into a smoking crater that had come into existence in a second. Steam rose about the edges of the vast and horrid subsidence, but the waters of the strange lake, whose shape they could at last see, rushed into quench any flames. They could make out the ground and the trees rippling at the land's edge where the point had once thrust out. And that was all, really. In only a few minutes, the swirling and discolored water, its murky rim growing wider as they watched, was the only trace of the lost colony from the stars.

"A good tomb for the colonel and a peaceful memorial," he heard a strange voice say. As he fell into total exhaustion, he knew it for his own voice.

The conference held several days later was tightly restricted. Aside from Marshal Mutesa and General Scott, only Captain Feng of I-Corps and Senior Lieutenants Nakamura and Slater were present of the UN forces. By invitation there were some odd guests, however. An elderly war chief of the Rucker clans was one. Another was a young native woman, the recent wife of Lieutenant Slater. And the third was a young Rucker war-man, who, apparently mixed up, introduced himself as Mrs. Slater's husband.

"I'll start off," Scott said, "since I was there, at least for the last round. The marshal says we'll be informal. Just raise your hand if you want to ask anything or comment. Clear enough?" He was smiling and the others were also.

"What about that last bomb, the one that wrecked the alien's whole base and sank it, sir?"

Nakamura's answer came from the marshal. "Your unknown female seems to have done that, son. If the colonel was right and she was actually a revived alien, she knew her tricks. As well as my experts can figure it, there was a big fissure or cavern way beneath the base, and it may not have been natural. Whatever she blew off simply knocked the floor out from under everything. So the whole place just sank. There was no trace of atomic power in use. What they had there, we simply don't know."

"What about the animals, sir? Were any identified? Were any of them left, either dead or alive?" Feng was a zoology nut and his interest was intense.

"Nothing alive, but quite a few floating bodies that rose to the surface," Scott said. "We have all your reports on tape as well, while my boys took a few pictures." General Scott smiled and looked at the marshal. "Sorry you couldn't have been there, sir." He turned back to business. "As you all know, we were mainly out to prevent a planet-wide rebellion of the True People clans.

"Well, some of the pictures have been transmitted to Earth and the science boys were called in. From the pics alone ... the giant mantis, a miracle of breeding. That first big animal you killed in the control room: It sounds very much like a long extinct creature called Dinohyus, a vague ancestor of the pig, only much bigger and far meaner." He checked another page. "That one Slater and Muller got when you found JayBee pinned down by it sounds to them like one of the great carnivorous marsupials that lived in South America a million years or so ago, I think." He stopped reading and looked up. "Any questions? Those notes are on just the three animals you encountered before I got down with my men, and they're only guesses. There were a number of weird things no one can identify or will even try. The scientists don't think they were from Earth or even Mars. Well, let's have it."

Slater had his hand up, barely beating Feng, and got the general's nod. "Sir, what are the conclusions? That Satreel's people or their rulers came to Earth on collecting trips a million years ago? Then managed to save the embryos or adults as well and keep 'em alive somehow until now?" They sat in silence as the idea was voiced aloud. They had talked of it among themselves but were understandably wary of others.

"It may be fantastic," the general said calmly, "but that's what the feeling is." He nodded to Feng.

"Sir, what have we concluded about the, ah, Le-ashimath, those rulers that Satreel referred to? His kind seemed little more than their servants, if we heard right."

Scott looked at the marshal, and he did not speak until he got a nod from Mutesa. "Frankly, we think you saw one of these entities yourselves."

"The red-haired creature who JayBee blasted sounds as if she may have been one, kept in stasis for God knows how long. We don't really know. But she pulled the destruct switch. If the ancient rulers did leave some of their own in some kind of hibernation or stasis, we won't find it in the ruins of the base. Still, some might be elsewhere. On this point, I am turning you over to the marshal."

Mutesa leaned back in his chair and he smiled at the group. His ebon face shone with bland authority. "I will tell you a number of things, my friends. I think they'll please you. I wish I were more junior in rank and younger as well. Anyhow, here it is. A top-secret team is being formed to investigate other Dead Zones. One, for instance, is to explore Mount Victory." There was silence at this. The lofty volcano of Mars was a grim mystery, and no one who had ever gotten there and stayed for long had ever come back. The marshal went on. "We have selected a major and two captains to head up this team. They will select the remainder from the UN service or out of it, whoever they think they need." He paused and surveyed the crestfallen faces of Feng, Nakamura, and Slater before continuing. "I think Major Feng, Captain Nakamura, and Captain-Slater might do, don't you? All three have exemplary records." He fell silent.

Slater knew they had all done well but the spot promotions were a bit stunning. He felt numb. He finally managed to mumble, "Thank you, sir."

The marshal continued as smoothly as ever. "There is evidence also that something lies buried on Venus. When you people finish on Mars, we will perhaps take a look there." He stopped and stared out the window. The room stayed quiet. Then he went on. "Wish I could go. Maybe you'd let me volunteer, perhaps without rank, eh?"

The room exploded in yells of triumph and excitement and all of them joined in except for Thau Lang. When his silence was noted, the others fell silent also. He smiled quietly.

"I know why you yell and you do well, for this is wonderful. But I am old and I think only of this planet. I think also of a man not here, my friend. It may not be an Earth custom but I ask a minute's quiet for a prayer of thanks. To my friend Louis Muller, for due to him alone, we are all alive."

Every head bowed, then the officers rose and stood at salute.

The End

Sleipnir 

06/12/2012