Tikil was really three cities loosely bound together,
two properly recognized on the maps of Korwar's
northern continent, the third a sore—rather than a
scar—of war, still unhealed. To the north and west
Tikil was an exotic bloom on a planet that had harbored
wealth almost from the year of its first settlement. To
the east, fronting on the spaceport, was the part of
Tikil in which lay the warehouses, shops, and estab-
lishments of the thousands of businesses necessary for
the smooth running of a pleasure city, this exotic
bloom where three-quarters of the elite of a galactic
sector gathered to indulge their whims and play.

To the south was the Dipple, a collection of utili-
tarian, stark, unattractive housing. To live there was
a badge of inferiority. A man from the Dipple had
three choices for a cloudy future. He could try to exist
without subcitizenship and a work permit, haunting
the Casual Labor Center to compete with too many of
his fellows for the very limited crumbs of employment;

he could somehow raise the stiff entrance fee and buy
his way into the strictly illegal but flourishing and
perilous Thieves' Guild; or he could sign on as contract
labor and be shipped off world in deep freeze with no
beforehand knowledge of his destination or work.

The War of the Two Sectors had been fought to a
5

stalemate five years ago. Afterwards, the two leading
powers had shared out the spoils—"spheres of influ-
ence." Several major and once richer planets had to be
written off entirely, since worlds reduced to cinders on
which no human being dared land were not attractive
property. But a fringe of frontier worlds had passed
into the grasp of one or the other of the major
powers—the Confederation or the Council. As a result,
the citizens of several small nations suddenly found

themselves homeless.
At the outbreak of the war ten years earlier, there

had been forced evacuations from such frontier worlds;

pioneers had been removed from their lands so that
military outposts and masked solar batteries could be
placed in their stead. In this fashion, the Dipple had
been set up on Korwar, far back from the fighting
line. During the first fervor of patriotism the Dipple
dwellers met with good will. But later, when their
home worlds were ruined or traded away across the
conference tables, there was resentment, and on some
planets there were organized moves to get rid of these

rootless inhabitants.
Now, before dawn in Tikil, men from the Dipple

leaned their bowed shoulders against the outer wall of
the Casual Labor Center or squatted on their heels
before the door that marked the meeting place between

the haves and the havenots.
Troy Horan watched the pale gold in the morning

sky deepen. Too late to mark stars now. He tried to
remember the sky over Norden—and had again one of

those sharp picture flashes of recollection.

A silver bowl arching above a waving plain of grass,
grass that was pale green, mauve, and silver all at

6

once, changing as the wind rippled it. He knew the
warmth of a sun always half veiled in rainbow haze,
felt the play of muscles as the animal he perched upon
as a small boy, rather than bestrode, broke into a
rocking canter. That was one of his last memories of
Norden. They had been out "riding track," cutting a
wide circle about the grazing herd of tupan to check
that none of the animals had drifted toward the
quicksands near the river.

It had been that same morning that the Council
ships had cut out of the sky, burning portions of the
plain to charred earth and slag with their tailbursts.
Within three days Troy and his people had left Norden
for Korwar—three Horans, a small clan among all the
others. But not three for long. His father—big body,
laughing voice, quiet steady eyes, a pair of hands that
did everything'well, a man who was able to establish
a strange bond of sympathy with any animal—had
put on a trooper's tunic and vanished into the maw of
a transport. Lang Horan had not returned.

After that the Big Cough had hit the Dipple, leaving
only Troy Horan, a lanky adolescent who inherited
skills and desires for which there was no need on
Korwar. He also possessed a stubborn, almost fierce
independence, which had so far kept him either from
signing on as contract labor or from the temptation
offered by the Guild. Troy Horan was a loner; he did
not take orders well. And since his mother's death, he
had no close attachments in the Dipple. There were
few left there now who had come from Norden. The men
had volunteered as troopers, and, for some reason, their
families had been particularly susceptible to the Cough.

The door that was their gate to the day's future slid
7

back. Men stood away from the wall, got up. Mechani-
cally Troy made a brushing gesture down the length
of his thin torso, though nothing would restore a vestige

of trimness to his clothing.
Spacer's breeches, fifth-hand, clean enough but with

their sky blue now a neutral, dusty gray; spacer's
boots, a little wide for his narrow feet, the magnetic
insets clicking as he walked; an upper tunic that was
hardly more than a sleeveless jerkin, all in contrast to
the single piece of his old life that he wore pulled
tight about his flat middle. That wide belt of a Norden
rider was well oiled, every one of its silver studs
polished and free of tarnish. Those studs formed a
design that was Troy's only heritage. If he ever rode
the grass plains again, with tupan galloping ahead—
well, those tupan might bear that same pattern on their
cream-white hides. Lang Horan had been Range Master

and Brand Owner.
Because he was young, tough, and stubborn, Troy

was well to the fore of the line at the mechanical
assignor. He watched with alert jealousy as three men
ahead ran toward the stamper, assured of work—the
mark on their wrists giving them the freedom of the
city, if only for a day. Then he was facing that

featureless, impersonal mike himself.

"Horan, class two, Norden, lawful work—" The same
old formula he uttered there day after day. He stood,
his feet a little apart, balancing as if the machine
were an opponent ready for battle. Under his breath
he counted five quickly, and a tiny hope was born.
Since he had not been rejected at once, the assignor
did have some request that might be matched by his

meager qualifications.
-8

The five he had counted doubled into ten before the
assignor asked a question: "Knowledge of animals?"

"That of a Norden herd rider—" Troy stretched the
truth to a very thin band, but his small hope was
growing fast.

The assignor meditated. Troy, through his excite-
ment, felt the impatience of the men behind him. Yet
the length of time the machine was taking was so
promising—

"Employed." Troy gave a small gasp of relief. "Time
of employment—indefinite. Employer—Kossi Kyger,
first level, Sixth Square. Report there at once."

The plates in his boot soles beat a rataplan as he
hurried to the stamper, thrust his hand into the slot,
and felt that instant of heat that set the work mark
on his tanned wrist.

"First level, Sixth Square," he repeated aloud, not
because it was so necessary to impress his memory,
but for the pure pleasure of being able to claim a work
address.

Sixth Square lay on the outer fringe of the business
district, which meant that Kyger was engaged in one
of the upper-bracket luxury trades. Rather surprising
that such a merchant would have need for a C.L.C.
hireling. The maintenance force and highly trained
salesmen of those shops were usually of the full-
citizen class. And why animals? Horan swung on one of
the fast-moving roll walks, his temporarily tattooed
wrist held in plain sight across his wide belt to prevent
questions from any patroller.

Because it was early, the roll walks were not crowded,
and few private flitters held the air lanes overhead.
Most of the shutters were still in place across the
9

display fronts of the shops. It would be midday before
the tourists from the pleasure hotels and the shoppers
from the villas would move into town. On Korwar,
shopping was a fashionable form of amusement, and
the treasures of half the galaxy were pouring into
Tikil, the result of stepped-up production after the

war.
Troy changed to another roll walk. The farther

westward he went, the more conspicuous he became.
Not that clothing was standardized here, but the
material, no matter how fantastically cut and pieced
together, was always rich. And the elaborate hair
arrangements of the men who shared the roller with
Troy, their jeweled wristbands, neck chains, and
citizens' belt knives, took on a uniformity in which his
own close-cropped yellow hair, his weaponless belt,
his too-thin, fine-boned face were very noticeable. Twice
a patroller stirred at a "heck point and then relaxed
again at the sight of the stamp on the boy's bony

wrist.

Sixth Square was one of the areas of carefully tended

vegetation intended by the city planners to break the
structure pattern of the district. Troy jumped from the
roller and went to the map on a side pillar.

"Kyger," he said into the mike.

"Kyger's," the finder announced. "Gentle Homoa,
Gentle Ferns—visit Kyger's, where the living treasures
of a thousand worlds are paraded before you! See and
hear the Lumian talking fish, the dofuld, the priceless
Phaxian change-coat—the only one of its kind known
to be in captivity alive. Follow the light, Gentle Homo,
Gentle Fern, to Kyger's—merchant dealer in extraor-
dinary pets!"
10

A small spark, which had glowed into life on the
wall below the map, loosed itself and now danced
through the air ahead, blinking with a gem flash. A
pet shop! The inquiry about animal knowledge was
now explained. But Troy lost some of his zest. The
thin story he had told the assignor was now thinner,
to the point of being full of holes. He was ten years
out of Norden, ten years away from any contact with
animals at all. Yet Troy clung to one hope. The assignor
had sent him, and the machine was supposed to be
always right in its selection.

He looked about him. The massed foliage of the
center square was a riot of luxuriant vegetation, which
combined plants and shrubs from half-a-dozen worlds
into a pattern of growing—red-green, yellow-green,
blue-green, silver— And he began to long with every
fiber of his semistarved body that he would be the one
Kyger wanted, even for just one day.

His spark guide danced up and down, as if to center
his attention on the doorway before which it had
paused, and then snuffed out. Troy faced Kyger's display
and drew a deep breath of wonder, for he seemed to be
staring at four different landscapes, each occupying
one-quarter of the space. And each landscape was
skillfully contrived so that a section of an outlandish
planet had been transported in miniature. In each,
small creatures moved about the business of living
and dying. It was all art tri-dee, of course, but the
workmanship was superb and would completely en-
thrall any prospective customer.

Reluctantly Troy approached the door itself, a barrier
where plexaglass had been impressed with a startling
and vivid pattern of weird and colorful insects, none of
11

which he recognized. There was no sign that the
establishment was open for business, and he had no
guide to lead him behind the mass of buildings to a
rear entrance. Troy hesitated uncertainly before the
closed door until, among the imprisoned creatures of
the center panel, a portion of face with reasonable
human features appeared. Round dark eyes set in
yellow skin regarded him with no trace of interest or

emotion.

Troy held up his wrist so that the employment mark
might be fully visible to those eyes. Unblinkingly
they centered upon it. Then the stretch of yellow cheek,
the broad nose, vanished. The creatures in the panel
seemed to flutter as that barrier arose. And a flow of
warm air, redolent with many strange smells, engulfed
Troy. As if drawn by an invisible cord, he entered

Kyger's.
He was given no time to look about the outer

reception lounge with its wall cabinets of more min-
iature other-world scenes, for the owner of the eyes
was awaiting him impatiently. Used as he was to
oddities, human, humanoid, and nonhuman, Troy still
found the small man strange enough to study covertly.
He could have walked under Horan's out-stretched
arm but his small, wiry body was well proportioned
and not that of a dwarf. What hair he had was black
and grew in small tufted knobs tight to the rounded
bowl of the skull. In addition, there was a rough brush
of the same black on his upper lip and two tufts or
knots on his chin, one just below the center of his
lower lip and the other on the point ofthejawbeneath.

His clothing was the conventional one-piece suit of
an employed subcitizen, with the striking addition of

12

a pair of boots clinging tightly to his thin legs and
extending knee-high, fashioned of reptile skin as soft
as glove leather, giving off tiny prismatic sparks with
every movement of their wearer. About a slight potbelly
he had a belt of the same hide, and the knife that
swung from it was not only longer but also wider than
those usually worn in Tikil.

"Come—" His voice was guttural. A crook of finger
pointed the way, and Troy followed him through two
more showrooms into a passage from which opened a
number of screened doors. Now the effluvium of
animal—a great many animals—was strong, and
sounds from each of the screened doors they passed
testified to the stock Kyger kept on hand. Troy's guide
continued to the end of the hall, set his small hand
into the larger impression of a palm lock, and then
stood aside for Horan to enter.

If the yellow man was an oddity, the man who sat
waiting for Troy to cross his office was almost as great
a surprise. Horan had seen many of the merchants of
Tikil, and all of them had been glittering objects indeed.
Their jewels, their ultrafashionable dress, their eye-
catching coiffures had all been designed as advertise-
ments to attract general attention.

But Kyger, if this was Kyger, was no such starburst.
His muscular body was covered with a hora-silk half
tunic and kilt, but the color was a dark and sober
blue, and he wore no jewels at all. On his right wrist
was the broad service bracelet of a veteran spacer
with at least two constellations starring its sweep,
while his skull was completely shaven as if to accom-
modate the helmet of a scout-ship man. The bareness
of that deeply tanned stretch of skin made the red,
13

puckered acar down along his right ear the more
noticeable. Troy wondered fleetingly why he chose to
keep that disfiguring brand; plastic surgery could have
erased it completely.

The other regarded Troy for a long moment, his
stare both as aloof and as searching as that the yellow
man had used through the door panel.

"The assignor reported you as Norden," he remarked,
but gave the planet name a slight accent new to Troy.
"I would rather have thought Midgard—"

Troy met him eye to eye. This man had a spacer's
knowledge of racial types and other worlds right
enough.

"I was born on Norden—"

The other might not have heard him. "Midgard—or

even Terra—"

Troy flushed. "Norden," he repeated firmly. Lang
Horan's father had been from Midgard, right enough.
Before that—well, who traced any planet-pioneering
family back through generations and star systems to

the first hop?

"Norden. And you think that you know something
about animals." Those gray eyes, cold as space between
far-flung suns, dropped from Troy's face to the belt
with its lovingly polished silver studs. "Range Master,

eh?"

Troy refused to be drawn. He shrugged, not knowing
why the other was trying to bait him. Everyone knew
that Norden had been handed over to the Confederation,
that none of her former inhabitants could hope to
return to her plains.

"All right. If the assignor sent you, you're the best
it could find." Kyger arose from the enveloping embrace
14

of his eazi-rest. The yellow man slipped to his side.
"Zul will give you your orders. We are expecting a
shipment in on the Chasgar. You'll go to the dock
with Zul and do just as he tells you—no more, certainly
no less. Understand?" There was a flick of razor-sharp
whip in that. Troy nodded.

Zul was certainly not a talkative companion. He
merely beckoned Troy out through another door into a
courtyard. This, too, was sided with pens and cages,
but Troy was given no time to inspect their inhabitants.
Zul waved him to a waiting flitter. As Troy took his
place in the foreseat, the small man reached for the
controls and they lifted with practiced ease to the air
lanes. Zul circled, then headed them toward the west
and the spaceport.

There was more traffic aloft now, personal flitters,
heavier vans, and small flyers such as their own. Zul
slipped through the lanes with a maximum of speed
and a minimum of effort, bringing them down without
a jar on the landing strip behind the receiver station.
Again a jerk of thumb served to bring Troy, trailing
his guide, into one of the many entrances of the
clearance section. His small companion was well known
here, for he bypassed two barriers without explanation,
their guardians waving him on.

"Kyger's." Zul spoke at last, putting a claim disk
down before the man in charge of the third grill.

"Right section, third block—"

Now they were in a corridor with a wall on one side,
a series of bins, room size, on the other, each well
filled with shipping crates, bales, and containers. There
were men hauling these in and out, which testified
that the contents of the packages in this particular

15

section were too precious to be left to the mechanical

transportation of the port robots.

Zul located the proper bin room and dropped his
disk into the release frame at the door. The protecting
mesh rolled up, and a light flashed on above two crates
and a large, well-padded travel cage. All three packages
were bulky, and Zul, fists on hips, eyed them closely
before he said over his shoulder, "Get a truck."

Troy went back up the corridor to claim one of the
motored platforms. He was wriggling that out of a
line of its fellows when he caught a half glimpse of a
face, a familiar face. As he jumped on the platform,
dug his boot toe into the activating button, and headed
the vehicle down the line, he wondered just what
would happen if he shouted out that a newly accepted
member of the Thieves' Guild was working here, in
the very center of the supposedly best-protected trea-
sure-transhipping center on Korwar. Every man who
entered this building had been scanned by the psycho-
check at the door, and everyone not on legitimate
business would have been unmasked by that latest
weapon in the armory of the patrollers. Yet Troy was
certain he had seen Julnuk Varms shifting a crate,
and he knew for a fact that Varms had crossed the
line into the apprenticeship ranks of the Guild.

The platform rolled to a stop before Zul, and they
went to work shifting their cargo to its surface. Each
piece was heavy enough to require the combined efforts
of the mismatched workers, and Troy wiped his hand
across his face as the second settled into place. He
eyed the curtains covering the sides of the cage,
wondering just what kind of exotic creature cowered

within.
16

Cowered? That was the wrong word. The inmate of
that cage was curious, interested, alertly eager—not
in any way cowed. Inmate? Inmates—two of them—

Troy stood very still, staring at the closely curtained
transport cage. How did he know that?

Interest—now increasing— Something touched him,
not physically, but as if a very soft, inquiring paw had
been drawn lightly along his arm to test the quality of
his skin, the strength of his muscles, the toughness of
the bone beneath that covering. Just so did he feel
that something had very lightly touched what was his
inner self in exploration. Touched—and flashed in-
stantly away—so that the sensation was cut off almost
the same moment that he was aware of it. Troy helped
Zul boost the cage onto the platform. There was no
feeling of movement from within—nothing at all. Had
there ever been?

Two

The cage was stowed with extra care just behind the
driver's seat in the flitter, and during the transfer
from warehouse to flyer there had been not the slightest
sound from its interior. Yet twice more Troy had been
aware of those paw taps of exploration, touches that
were gone the instant he was alert to them. He was
thinking hard as he left Zul in the flitter and went to
return the platform. The other had shown no signs of
17

surprise or interest in the cage. Did Zul find those
subtle inquiries ordinary—or did he not feel them at
all? What kind or species of animal traveled in that
container?

Native life on a thousand worlds was now known to
spacers, explorer scouts, pioneers. And Troy had heard
tales told in the Dipple by men gathered from planets
in a wide sector of the galaxy. Yet never before had
there been any suggestion that a form of life existed
that was able to contact men mentally. Mentally!

Troy paused. Mentally! So—that was it! He had put
a name to that elusive touch. But—

He did not know that his eyes had narrowed, that
his fingers were drumming a faint tattoo on his belt.
This was something to consider by himself. Out of the
far past an emotion other than surprise awoke, sent a
warning through him. Look, listen, and keep one's
thoughts to oneself—the law of survival.

Troy swung around so suddenly that he caught the
slight movement of a man he must have startled into
that tiny betrayal. Varms stood just outside, his elbow
resting on a pile of boxes, obviously waiting for orders.
Yet he had been watching Troy, just as he was so
patently not watching him now. Did Varms expect (
Horan to spark a patroller? He knew the inner laws of
the Dipple better than that. As long as Varms made
no move toward looting Kyger's, where Troy's loyalty
was temporarily pledged, Horan would not reveal any
knowledge of him.

He walked past Varms without a sign, heading
toward the flitter. It was only chance that dictated the
next warning. A porter was wrangling with one of the
bin attendants, and they now carried their quarrel to
18

the section manager. Since the object of their dispute
was large, they were hot-tonguing it, not in the inner
office but outside in the corridor. A length of crystal
mirror, bright and backed with red-gold, bore a
disfiguring crack down its side.

.That crack might distort a reflection, but it could
not conceal it. And in that patch of mirror Troy caught
a glimpse of a tailer—Varms! The interest a new
recruit of the Guild might have in a C.L. from the
Dipple was negligible, but in a cargo—that was a
different matter. And Varms, clumsy and inept as he
was, might well be after the contents of the cage—or
of the two crates that accompanied it.

Troy came out into the brightness of the flitter
park. There were rows of waiting vans, very few
passenger flyers. A series of two-story patroller towers
quartered the whole area. There must be spy rays
throughout every lane here. No one had ever dared a
highjacking job in this place. And he did not see how
he and Zul could be tackled once they were in the
air— If they had been on wheel lock, now—

But he discovered that surface travel was just what
Zul was intending. The wheels were extended from
the body flaps, and the little man edged the vehicle
out on ground level.

"What's the idea?" Troy folded his long legs into the
cramped quarters beside Zul. "Don't we lift back?"

For the first time those wide lips split in something
approaching a grin.

"No, no lift back." The other mimicked his tone.
"We carry those who must ride easy."

Not much of an explanation, Troy thought. If the
occupants of the cage had managed to survive passage
19

in a space freighter, they certainly could take very
easily a short air flight back to Sixth Square. He had
something other to chew on also—that move by Varms.
Taken together with this action of Zul's, it began to
make sense. Could the yellow man and the novice
thief have rigged a highjack between them, with himself !

set up to pin the blame upon?

Troy dismissed that thought. Too many loose ends.
He was not driving; Zul was. He could prove that he
had had no connection with Kyger's before this morn-
ing, knew nothing of any cargo that was coming in for I
the shop. And somehow he was certain Zul was not
planning any double cross of his employer—in spite of
Varms. But there had to be a reason, other than the
one he had been given, for this ground-level progress.

It was not a straight-line progress either, he noted.
Troy knew the warehouse section of Tikil well enough
to be certain with every block they passed that Zul
was taking a round-about way. Why? A sidelong glance
at the other's closed face argued that this was another
question Zul was not going to answer.

-Troy settled back as far as he could in a seat adjusted
to Zul's comfort, not his own, and waited for further
enlightenment. Once more he was conscious of activity
in the cage, mental activity. It was no longer directed
toward him, but at their surroundings. Troy's breath
caught in a tiny gasp as he realized—picking im-
pressions and hints out of those vague, strange cur-
rents—that the occupants of the cage were engrossed
in studying tlieir new surroundings. Yet how could
they see through the thickly padded covering of the
cage—unless that covering was not what it seemed to
superficial examination?
20

He would have given a great deal at that moment to
be able to turn and sweep the covering to the floor of
the flitter, to see the unseen. A great deal, but not
today's employment. Troy was very sure that such a
move on his part would see Zul's summoning of the
nearest patroller, his own ignominious and disastrous
return to the Dipple. Curiosity was not spur enough to
risk that.

They made two more unnecessary turns. There were
other flitters wheeling—usually private jobs delivering
passengers to the buildings, so Zul's method of progress
was in no way extraordinary. But Troy's attention
went now to the visa-screen above the controls. He
watched for Varms-—was the other still trailing?

He could pick out no following flitter that seemed
suspicious. But Troy would be the first to admit that
he could not match skills with any of the Guild. For
all he knew, every one of those flyers and the men and
women in them could be part of some fantastic scheme
to loot the one in which he was traveling. Should he
warn Zul?

The latter was driving at a rate well within the
safety regulations of ground level. A portion of vul-
nerable skin and muscles between Troy's shoulders
began to itch as the feeling of expectancy built up
inside him. And his growing distrust was shared by
those in the cage. Their interest had changed to a
desire to warn—or alert—

Troy opened his mouth to speak. A yowling wail
burst from the cage, loud enough to drown out any
spoken word. Zul's head jerked up. The yowl sank into
silence but Troy caught the message—danger was
coming, and fast. His hand shot out, fingers fumbling
21

with the catch of the arms locker. But his thumb

pressure could not unlock it.

Zul sent the flitter into a burst of speed, which tore
them out of the mouth of an avenue into one of the
circles of space surrounded by the first ring of shops.
With an expert's skill the small man wove a devious
pattern among the other flitters there. Troy, tense,
kept his attention divided between the path ahead
and the near misses Zul guided them through. There
had been no further outburst from the cage. But he
did not need the wave of expectation issuing from
there to warn him of trouble yet to come.

They might have made it free and clear had not Zul
miscalculated, or been outplayed, by inches. Troy was
slammed against the arms locker, his raised arm
protecting his head, as the flitter smashed into an
ornamental standard, edged into that to avoid the

forward ram of another flyer.

The shock of his impact must have sprung the lock
on the arms compartment. As Troy pushed back from
it, the panel gaped and he grabbed the butt of a
stunner inside. The arm that had taken the shock of
his weight was numb, hanging heavy from his shoulder,
but the other was all right and his fingers curled

hungrily about the weapon.

On Zul's left the door had burst open, spilling the
little man into the street. He was already dragging
himself up, blood pouring from a cut over one eye.
When he tried to stand, he gave a grunt and reeled
back against the flitter, apparently unable to rest his

weight on his right ankle.

Troy sent his shoulder against the door on his own
side, went out and down in a roll, the stunner in his

22

hand and ready. He was sure he was going to face
some aggressor more dangerous than any indignant
flitter owner Zul might have scraped. As he brought up
against the twin of the pillar they had crashed, he
saw Zul draw his knife and a man leap with the ease
of a trained street fighter from between two parked
flitters.

There were pedestrians, a crowd of them, gathering.
But until they knew that this was not some private
challenge-fight, none would call a patroller. By drawing
his belt knife instead of trying for a stunner, Zul had
labeled this a meeting-of-honor, unorthodox as its
setting might be. And had not Troy been warned, he
might have hesitated to come to the other's assistance.

His numbed arm bothered him, and he rested the
barrel of the stunner on his knees to take aim against
the attacker. Knife blades flashed in the sunlight.
Zul, his back braced against the wrecked flitter, was
seemingly cornered and on the defensive from the
first.

Troy pressed the firing stud of his weapon, remem-
bering the long-ago training by Lang: "Point your
barrel as you would your finger, boy. Aim means more
than speed."

There was the faint "pssst" from the stunner. The
man fronting Zul wavered, slewed partly around, and
staggered back, bringing up against one of the parked
vehicles, shaking his head dazedly. But the small man
he had attacked did not try to follow up the advantage.
Troy tapped with his thumb, sending another charge
into the stunner.

He was just in time, for again that ear-torturing
wail sounded from the interior of the flitter, and the
23

impact of warning reached him full blast. Instinctively
he hurled himself to the right. A knife struck the

pillar and clattered to the ground.
The man who had hurled it was holding back, but

his companion came on, ready for another try, hia ;

eyes narrow and calculating. Troy aimed at the other's -
head, praying he would not be wearing a force screen. ;

The determination of the attack, and the time and
place it had been delivered, argued that the Guild
men either were after some fabulous loot or had been
hired at the high rate, which in turn suggested they

would have top equipment.
But Troy never had a chance to discover if his fears |

were correct. A white coil materialized out of thin air ^
only a foot or so above the head of the advancing
knifeman. It whirled in a circle, throwing off, with
almost dizzying speed, a web of white filaments that
fell about the attacker, touching and then clinging to
shoulders, arms, body, and, finally, legs. The man |
struggled against the enwebment fruitlessly. Within a
matter of moments he was down, as well packaged as :

a spider's prey. And a second web had taken care of i

his companion.

Troy straightened up, dropped the stunner to the

ground well out in view, not having any wish for the
patrollers to start in on him. Leaving the weapon

where it lay, he went to Zul.
Blood made a gory and devilish mask of the small

man's face, and he clung to the swinging door of the
wrecked flitter with one hand, as if he needed that
support badly. As Troy came to him, the younger man
was suddenly aware of the fact that the warnings that

24

had flowed from the cage were at an end; there was no
contact with its inhabitants now.

The first patroller took charge. Troy answered
questions with the strict truth concerning what he
had seen—but he did not mention the unheard warn-
ings. And Zul either could not or would not elaborate
on that report. Somewhat to Troy's surprise, Kyger
himself stepped out of the second patrol flitter. And
his efficiency matched that of the law. Zul was sent
off to have his hurts tended before Kyger examined
the cage. When Troy helped him swing it out to the
pavement, he was brisk.

"No harm done, officer," he informed the patroller.
"Apparently it was just an attempted highjack—not
that such a theft would have done them any good."

"Why not?" The patroller was a Swatzerkan, his
green-tinged skin showing a faint lacing of scales across
the backs of his hands as he held a small recorder to
catch their answers.

"Because these animals cannot live long without
their own imported food and trained care, officer. They
are a special order—for the Gentle Fern San duk Var—"

The Swatzerkan did not exactly blink, but perhaps
there was a shade more deference in his voice when
he replied, "You have indeed been favored by fortune,
Merchant, in that your shipment did not fall into the
hands of these worms' castings." His eyes touched
briefly on the bound, or webbed, prisoners. "It will be
your wishing to take these precious creatures to your
shop. But one fears that your flitter is beyond the
power of rising—"

"An accommodation will serve."

25

"Ah—so. Mulat, an accommodation for the merchant!"

One of the other patrollers went to the corn unit of
the official flitter. And for the first time Kyger appeared
to really notice Troy.

"You used that?" He nodded toward the stunner
still lying by the knife-scored pillar.

"Yes."

"Good enough." Kyger crossed to retrieve the weapon
and hand it to the Swatzerkan. "I witness my man
used this in defense of my goods," he said, using the
formal, responsibility-assuming phrase.

"It is so noted, Merchant."

Troy stared at Kyger. Such a move was made on the
behalf of a full-time employee, a subcitizen, not for a
day laborer out of the Dipple. Did Kyger mean—?

But this was no time to ask questions. An accom-
modation flitter set down on the clear oval beyond the
pillars, and Troy helped Kyger move the cage and the
two crates into it. There was still nothing from the
transport box. One could almost imagine that he had
dreamed that questing thought process. But Troy's
curiosity pricked the more fiercely after the events of
the past half hour.

Any pets offered to the wife of Var suk Sark would
indeed be the most exotic as well as the most expensive
obtainable. Suk Sark was of one of the Fifty Noble
Families on Wolf Three. But the Gentle Fern San duk
Var was not accepted in that lineage-conscious assem-
blage. Gossip was undoubtedly correct in ascribing
the present residence of the Var household on Korwar
to that fact. One could not buy one's way into the
Fifty, no matter how limitless was the pile of credits one
could dip into. But there were other circles one could
26

impress with one's importance—many such on Korwar.

Troy wondered how suk Sark enjoyed running his
autocratic government of the Sweepers from so far
away. The Sweepers in the galaxy as a whole were
small fry, a collection of six minor solar systems, and
they never ventured too far into the conflicts between
the real lords of space. But sometimes even such small
organizations had moments when their allegiance or
enmity could tip the scales of an uneasy balance of
power. Suk Sark was only one of the "powers" who, for
one reason or another, made Korwar their residence,
apart from their official headquarters.

"You have a family in the Dipple?" Kyger's abrupt
question broke Troy's line of thought.

"No, Merchant."

"Would you take contract, for a limit of time?"

"With you. Merchant?"

"With me. Zul will be of little use for a while. I will
need an extra pair of hands in his place. Who knows?"
Kyger glanced at him and then away. "It may lead to
something better, Dippleman."

"I will take contract, Merchant." Troy schooled his
voice, hoping his elation was not too apparent. Somehow
he did not wish this spacer-tumed-merchant to know
just how much that offer meant to him.

They lifted from the square of the crash and took
the straightest line to the court at the rear of the
shop. Troy was told to load the two crates on a runner
and put them in the storeroom. Kyger himself remained
by the curtained cage once he had returned the
accommodation flitter on auto-control to the rental
station. So far he made no move to open the cage, and
Troy's desire to see what was inside grew.

27

"Shall I take this also, Merchant?" Troy asked as he
returned and brought the runner to a halt beside the
cage.

Kyger turned on him once more the searching stare
with which he had measured him at their first meeting
that morning. Then the shop owner pulled at some
hidden fastening. The padded curtains fell away and
Troy looked into a very well-appointed traveling box.
The flooring, sides, and roof were padded with plasta-
foam, a precaution against the pressure of ship accel-
eration, and there were two inset feeding and watering
niches. But the occupants were close to the mesh front,
sitting on their haunches, their front paws placed neatly
together, the tips of their tails folded over those paws.

One was black, a black so deep as to have, in the
sunlight, a bluish tinge—or perhaps that was a
reflection from its companion's coat, for the second
and slightly smaller animal was blue—or parts of its
close, thick fur coat held that shade, muting into a
gray that was very dark on head, legs, and tail. And
the four eyes of the pair, regarding both men im-
partially, were as vividly blue-green as aquamarines.

"Terran," Kyger announced with a note of pride
plain in his voice. "Terran cats!"

28

Three

Troy studied the animals. Although those blue eyes
regarded him squarely, there was no other contact.
Yet he was sure it had not been only his imagination
that had stirred him earlier.

, Kyger opened the cage. The black cat arose, arched
its satin-smooth back, extended forelegs in a luxurious
stretch, and then padded out into the courtyard, its
blue companion remaining behind while the black
scouted with eyes and nose.

"Sooooo—" Kyger subdued his usual authoritative
tone into a coaxing murmur and held out his hand for
the black to sniff.

Cats were part of the crew of every spaceship. Troy
had seen them about the docks. But centuries of such
star voyaging must have radically mutated the strain
if these were the parent stock. None of those possessed
such sleek length of limb, or the sharply pointed muzzle,
large, delicately shaped ears, color and rich beauty of
fur. He might have compared his own bony, work-
scarred hand to the well-kept fingers of a Korwarian
villa dweller.

The black leaped, effortlessly, to the top of the cage,
and its smaller mate emerged. From that mouth ringed
in dark gray came no soft appeal but a sound closer to
the ear-shattering wail that had screeched through
the flitter before the crash. Kyger laughed.

29

"Hungry, eh?" He spoke to one of the yardmen.
"Bring me a food packet."

Troy watched the merchant break open the sealed
container and shake a portion of its contents into the
bowls he had loosed from the interior of the cage. The
stuff—tough, dry-looking as it sifted down—turned
moist and puffy in the dishes. The cats sniffed and
then ate decorously.

They were to be Kyger's own charges, Troy dis-
covered, though the shop had a resident staff—two
yardmen to tend the cages in the courtyard and some
for interior work. Oddly enough, Troy was set to work
inside, perhaps taking over some of Zul's tasks.

His shoulder still ached from the bruising impact of
the crash, but he tried to satisfy Kyger as the other
guided him around, issuing a stream of orders, which
at least were concise and easy to obey.

Of the four cage rooms along the corridor between
office and show lounges, the first two were for birds,
or flying things that might be roughly classed under
that heading. Troy had to snatch observations between
filling water containers, spreading out a wealth of
seeds, exotic fruits, and even bits of meat and fish.
The next two chambers were dissimilar. One was filled
with tanks and aquariums holding marine dwellers;

Troy merely glanced into that since there was a trained
tankman on duty. The other was for small animals.

The cats disappeared into Kyger's own office and
Troy did not see them again. Nor, as he worked about
the cages in the animal room, did he again experience
that odd, somewhat disturbing sense of invisible contact.
All the creatures were friendly enough, many of them
clamoring for his attention, reaching out to him with
30

paws, calling in a whole range of sounds. He was
amused, intrigued, attracted—but this was not the
same.

He ate his noon rations in the courtyard, apart from
Kyger's other employees. C.L. men and subcitizens
were never too friendly. And in the midafternoon he
witnessed the departure of the Terran cats.

A service robot carried the traveling cage and a food
crate at the head of the small procession. Then came a
jeweled vision of the hired-companion class, for she
swung several small bags on their cords. Next, trailed
diffidently by Kyger—if that ex-spacer could ever act
a merchant's deference—was a second woman, her
features hard to distinguish under the modish painted
design of glitter stars on cheek and forehead, the now
ultrafashionable "modesty veil" enwrapping mouth,
chin, and the rest of her head. Her long coat and tight
undertrousers were smartly severe and as unadorned
as her companion's were ornately embellished.

As she spoke, her voice held the irremediable lisp of
the Lydian-born. And it was plain she was delighted
with her new pets. Troy ducked into the door of the
fish room to let them pass.

He did not understand why he felt that strange
prick of irritation. The Gentle Fern San duk Var was
almost the wealthiest consort on Korwar, and the cats
had been specially ordered to satisfy her whim. Why
did he resent their going? Why? He had had his own
piece of luck out of this transaction—the chance that
Kyger might keep him on the staff, at least until Zul
returned.

Kyger, having seen the party off, called Troy to his
office. The corn plate on the wall was already activated,
31

and on it was the palm-sized length of white Troy had
hardly dared to hope he would ever see.

"Contract"—Kyger was clearly in a hurry to have
this done—"to hold a seven-day term. No off-world
clause. Suit you, Horan?"

Troy nodded. Even a seven-day contract was to be
cherished. He asked only one question. "Renewal for

kind?"

"Renewal for kind," the other agreed without hesi-
tation, and Troy's confidence soared. He crossed the
small room, set his right hand flat against that glowing
plate. "Troy Horan, Norden, class two, accepts contract
for seven days, not off-world, from Kyger's," he recited,
allowing his hand to remain tight against the heated
panel for a full moment before he gave way to Kyger.

The other's hand, wider, the fingers thicker and
blunter at the tips, smacked against the white oblong
in turn.

"Kossi Kyger, registered merchant, accepts contract
for seven days from Troy Horan, laborer. Record it so."

The metallic voice of the recorder chattered back at
them. "It is so sealed and noted."

Kyger returned to his eazi-rest. "Shop uniform in
the storehouse. Any reason for you to go back to the
Dipple tonight?"

Troy paused to shake his head. His few possessions
of any value had been thumb-locked into a Dipple
safe pocket that morning. And the lock would hold
against any touch but his own for ten days. He could
pick up the contents of that very small locker any
time. Was it imagination again, or did Kyger seem to
be relieved?

"Zul furnished night watch inside here. One man
32

inside, a yardman out, a patroller on alarm call. Some
of the stock are delicate. You'll make two rounds—"

He was interrupted by the showroom gong and pulled
himself to his feet. "Change and get to work," he
ordered as he left the office.

Troy sealed the fore seam of the shop coveralls and
strapped on again his rider's belt. The Kyger livery
was of the same dark blue that Kyger affected in his
own garments, and it did not include the reptileskin
boots Zul had worn—nor was there any knife for the
belt. He had risen one short step above the Dipple, but
that was all.

Shopping hours ran on into the late evening, and
twice Troy was summoned to the display rooms to carry
in some animate treasure for inspection. He had just
returned a squirming cub, listed as an animal but
with fluffy feathers instead of fur and six legs waving
wildly in the air, a big-eared head digging chin point
into Troy's shoulder as it looked with avid interest at
the world, to a cage, where three more of its kind
immediately fell upon it in mock attack, when Kyger
came to the door.

"That closes us for tonight. Guard quarters are next to
the storeroom. I'm aloft—over there." He jerked a thumb
at the back wall of the courtyard and the line of win-
dows looking out from a second level. "Here—" His hand
cupped over a knob of brilliant scarlet just inside the
door and now glowing in the subdued light of the cage
room. "Need help, hit one of these. There's one in each
room. You'll make rounds at three, again at six. Mean-
while"—below the knob was a lever he pushed up—
"you'll be able to hear them through the corn if there's
any disturbance. The yard cages are not your concern."
33

"Yes, Merchant," Troy assented.

Kyger went on down the corridor, stopping to
thumb-seal the door of his office—almost ostentatiously,
as if he wanted his most recent employee to witness

that act.

Then, without any good night, he was gone. Troy

felt the nudge of responsibility. He stepped inside
each bird room. The light was dimmed; many of the
inhabitants were now asleep. In every room the lever |
was up, the corn safely on. Then he went to the padded |
wall shelf in the cubby off the storeroom, still a little |

too excited to sleep.                                  |
Within a matter of three days the pattern of Kyger's

had become a routine into which Troy fitted easily. He
had been successful in caring for a delicate and rare
fussel hawk, which Kyger himself had been unable to
handle, and had begun to hope that perhaps his week's
contract might indeed be renewed. He also discovered
that Kyger's not only sold—but bought.

There was a second entrance to the shop through
the courtyard, an inconspicuous covered way through
which men, mostly wearing spacer uniform, found their
way, with either carrying cages or other wild-life
containers. All of these, he had his orders, were to be
shown directly to Kyger's private office. And should
the merchant be busied with customers, a certain signal

of gong notes was to be sounded.

At the conclusion of one of these visits Troy, or a
yardman, would be summoned to take away a purchase.
But the majority of these were sheltered in the yard,
not among the rarities of the inner shop. And it
appeared to Troy that the number of such sellers did
not match the number of visitors—as if some of those

34

unobtrusive men might have visited the ex-spacer for
another reason. But that too might have an easy
explanation; shipmates from old runs could well drop
in while in port. Or there might be still a third
reason—one that fitted the attack made upon Zul
himself with the interest Varms had shown.

Tikil was a luxury port. And the luxuries were not
always within the bands of legal imports. Troy could
name four forbidden drugs, a banned liquor, and several
other items that would never arrive openly on the
planet but would promise high returns for the men or
man reckless enough to run them through port scan-
ners. If Kyger had activities outside the port laws,
however, that was none of his cage cleaner's concern.

On the fourth afternoon after he had taken contract,
Troy was called to the showrooms. Two customers
were present, and Kyger's attention had been claimed
by the one who, with her party, was in the outer
lounge. He waved Horan to the man waiting.

"Show this Gentle Homo the box of tri-dees from
Hathor. Yes. Gentle Fern"—the merchant turned back
to the glittering party he was serving—"there are
many other Terran beasts which one might consider,
fully equal in beauty and intelligence to cats. Let me
show you—"

When Troy would have led the way to the next
lounge, the man he was to assist stopped him with a
shake of the head. It appeared that he also wanted to
see the wonder Kyger was about to reveal.

The merchant pressed a button. A small viewing
screen moved outward from the wall at a comfortable
eye level for the woman in the foreseat of the party.
She was older than Var's consort, and far more
35

elaborately dressed, affecting the semitransparent robes
of Cynus, though they were not in the least flattering
to her emaciated figure. Her voice was a shrill caw,
but as Troy caught sight of her sharp-featured profile, ;

he knew her for the Grand Leader One from Sidona. j
That was a matriarchate in name only now, a cluster '
of three small planets about a dying sun. But it still
occupied a strategic point on an important star lane,
and what power the Grand Leader Ones might have
lost in battle they still possessed in alliances.

"This, Gentle Fern"—Kyger clicked thumb and finger
together and was answered by the instant appearance
on the screen of a tri-dee—"is a fox. I have already a
pair in transit so I can promise an early delivery."

"So?" The Grand Leader One leaned forward a little,
the corners of her pinched mouth drawing down to
deepen lines from a beak nose. "And how many credits
will the coming of such take from my purse, Merchant?"

Kyger named a sum that five days earlier would
have made Troy incredulous. Now he merely wondered
how long the bargaining would continue.

"A fox, now," the man standing beside him said
very softly, his observation hardly above a whisper, as

if he were thinking aloud.

The animal in the tri-dee was clearly depicted life-
size, the usual procedure for smaller beasts. It had a
thick coat of orange-red, black legs and feet, a white
tip on its brush of tail. The head was almost triangular
with sharp-pointed ears and muzzle, and greenish eyes
slanted in that alert and mischievous mask. It was
larger than the cats, but its expression of sly intel-
ligence was most marked.

But something in the way his own waiting customer

36

had said "fox" suggested to Troy that the other was
not unacquainted with the Terran exotic. However, he
did not linger now but stepped into the second lounge,
and Horan had to accompany him.

"I understand you have a fussel hawk."

"That is so, Gentle Homo."

"Have you flown it yet?"

"No, Gentle Homo. The ship passage left it fretful—
we have allowed it cage rest."

Those strangely golden eyes flickered to Troy's middle
and the wide belt there.

"YouareofNorden?"

"I was born there," Troy replied shortly.

"Then you have perhaps already hunted with a
fussel."

Troy's lips twitched. "I have seen such hunting. But
Norden is many years behind me, Gentle Homo. There
was a war." He kept his tone respectful; in fact, he was a
little surprised. The stranger had no signs, such as
Kyger carried, of being an ex-spacer. Yet not one
Korwarian in ten thousand would have recognized
Troy's belt, or would have known that the riders of
the Norden-that-was had hunted with fussel hawks in
the mountain valleys. He studied the other covertly as
he made ready the viewing screen.

They were nearly the same height, but the Korwarian
was perhaps ten planet years older. He did not have
the look of a villa aristocrat, not even of one who
played hard and kept his body in top condition. Since
he wore no official uniform, he was not a member of
any of the three services. Yet plainly he was a man
who knew action and the outdoors. His skin must be
as fair as Troy's under the even tan of much exposure.
37

In a concession to fashion he had a braided topknot of
hair, banded with two golden hold rings, and that hair
was a dull red-gold, not far removed in shade from the
metal. His loose tunic and kilt were of a creamy-
brown nubb-metalla in which a small golden spark
flashed here and there as he moved. There were yellow
gems in the hilt of his belt knife and ringing his wrist
bracelets, so that the whole effect was that of a golden
man, yet did not in any way suggest a villa fop.

"I have not seen you here before. Where is Zul?"
There was no arrogance in the question. The stranger
asked as if he had a real interest in who might serve
him.

"He was injured—there was a flitter smash," Troy
replied somewhat evasively, and then added with the
strict truth, "I am C.L., on a fill-time contract."

"From the Dipple?" The other gave the name none
of the accent that had made that place of abode a
fighting word in Tikil. "Well, and what has Kyger got
to offer in his Hathor tri-dees?"

He seated himself at last, waving aside the selection
of smoke sticks and drinks Troy offered. Horan snapped
the button and the first of the views flashed on the
screen. It was apparent from the series that this would-
be customer was interested only in birds of prey that
could be trained for the hunt. But when Troy had run
through the entire Hathor collection, the man shook
his head.

"When one knows there is a fine weapon within
reach, one does not pick up the second best. If Kyger
has a fussel worth training, I shall not order from
these." Now he did pick a smoke stick, struck it against
his fingernail to set it burning with its herb-scented
38

smoke. "Ah, Kyger!" He looked up as the merchant
entered. "And did you make that stellar sale? How
long will the august mother of three worlds have to
wait for her new toy?"

There was something in the lounge, as invisible as
the touch from the cats' cage. This was a tenseness,
the faintest possible suggestion of strain. Yet both
men were outwardly at ease. Kyger seated himself in
another chair as if there were no barriers of rank
between them.

"Not too long. I have a pair arriving on the Shammer."

"So? Gambling in Terran imports now, Kyger?"

The ex-spacer shrugged. "They want to build up
their export trade—and they are willing to pare prices
to open a new market. My friends on the ships pass
the word—"

His customer nodded. "Yes. Well, trade makes ties
to defeat war. And if you can get the Terrans well tied
up, you'll have the smiles of the Council, Kyger."

Again that flash of feeling. Troy could not be sure
which man was involved. The golden man stubbed out
his smoke stick.

"You have a fussel—"

Kyger picked up a refreshment bulb, squeezed its
contents into his mouth. "I have. It'll have to prove
itself in flight, though, before I market it."

"Just so. I am due to make an inspection trip through
the Wild. Trust me with that testing—send along your
man here."

Kyger glanced at Horan. "All right. He knows how
to handle the bird, uncrated it when the rest of us
couldn't get near. Very well, Hunter. When do you
wish to leave, and for how long?"

39

"Three days to be gone. I must swing up as far as
the Marches. As to when—well, shall we say in two
days? That will give your bird that much longer to

rest before we take him out."

Kyger crushed the beverage bulb in one hand.

"Agreed. You," he said to Troy, "will hold yourself

ready for the Hunter Rerne's orders."

The golden man left, walking with an almost sound-
less tread that Troy did not now find surprising. Kyger
continued to sit for a long moment, his eyes still on
the door through which the other had gone.

"Reme." He repeated that name very softly. If there
was any expression in his tone, Troy failed to read it.
The Hunters, the rangers of the Wild, were con-
servation experts. Guardians of the vast sections of
carefully preserved forest and unsettled lands, into
which parties of visitors or the villa dwellers of Korwar
might be guided to enjoy the thrills of primitive living
while still in flyer touch with the safety and luxury of
civilization, they were almost legendary in Tikil. And
the office had become, through two centuries, heredi-
tary, going to the members of some ten or twelve
families, all of them First-Ship pioneers on Korwar.
Reme's Clan lived to the north. And this man,
because of his youth, must be one of the two ^brothers
whose discovery of the ill-fated Fauklow expedition
was still something of a saga in the port city. Troy
fingered the belt from which no knife hung. Even a
subcitizen could seldom hope for a chance to penetrate
the Wild. The trackers, foresters, woodsmen themselves
all came of lesser families allied by old ties to the
Clans. Yet he was going with Reme in two days' time!

. 40

Four

The news flash came during the slack time at the
shop. Those visitors who favored the afternoon had
gone, and the evening strollers were not yet abroad.
Kyger had retreated to his office; his employees
gathered for their evening meal. Troy balanced a plate
on his knee in the courtyard. Through the window
vent over his head he could hear the mechanical
recitation of the day's events over Kyger's corn.

"—the so-far unexplainable and sudden death of
Sattor Commander Varan Di."

Troy stopped chewing. Two feet away stood the flitter,
and right now there was a box resting in it intended
for the hillside villa of Sattor Commander Varan Di, a
special shipment of food for the Commander's pet.

"—resigned from the overlordship of the Council
during the previous year," continued the drone from
within. "But his years of experience led him to agree
to continue as consultant on special problems. It is
rumored that he was acting at present as adviser on
the terms of the Treaty of Panarc Five. This has been
neither confirmed nor denied by government spokes-
men. Statement issued by the Council: 'It is with deep
regret—'"

The monotone of the corn snapped into a silence, the
more noticeable because of that sudden break. Troy
41

went on eating. The death, "unexplainable and sudden"
as the corn had it, of a retired military leader and
former Council lord now had very little to do with
Troy Horan. Ten years ago—again Troy's hand paused
on its way to his mouth—ten years ago matters might
have been different. It had been Varan Di who had
arbitrarily decided to make a military depot for
Sattor-class ships out of Norden. Not that that made

any difference now.
"Horan!" Kyger came to the courtyard entrance.

Troy put down his plate, noting small signs of irritation
in his employer. "Take the flitter up to the Di villa

and deliver that package."
Well, Troy supposed, eating, even for a pet, went on

when the master was dead. But why the rush to send
him now—and why him at all? The yardman usually
took the flitter out on such errands. But this was no
time to ask questions. He folded his long legs into the
driver's seat, made a creditable lift from the courtyard.
The journey tape had already been set for the trip;

he had nothing to do but take off and land, and be
ready to assume manual control if any remote emer-
gency arose. In the meantime he settled back in the
cramped seat to enjoy this small time of privacy and

ease.
The golden haze, which was Korwar's fair-weather

sky, somehow reminded him ofRerne and the promised
trip into the Wild. Troy had taken time twice that
afternoon, after the Hunter had left, to visit the fussel.
And on the second inspection the big bird had stirred
on his perch and stretched his wings, which was a
very encouraging sign. The fussel was male, perhaps
two years old, so just entering the best training age.

42

Wild as he had been when loosed from the traveling
cage, he had not struck at Troy, as he had attempted
to do at both Kyger and the assisting yardman, which
could—or might—mean that the bird would be willing
to ride with Horan.

"Lane warning—lane warning!" The words spat from
the mike on the control board, a light flashing in

additional emphasis.

Troy looked up. A patroller hung poised, as the
fussel might poise, over the flitter, ready to swoop for

the kill.

"Identify yourself!" came the order Troy expected.
He pushed the button that would report to the law
the destination and reason for the errand as it appeared
on his journey tape, expecting instructions to take
manuals and sheer off. If the patrollers were inves-
tigating a suspicious death, they would not allow him
to set down at the Di villa.

But surprisingly enough he was told to proceed. Nor
was he challenged again as the flitter settled before
the service quarters of the late Sattor Commander's

mountainside retreat.

Like all Korwar aristocrats, Varan Di had con-
structed a dwelling on a plan native to another world,
choosing for a model the stark simplicity of the Pa-ta-du
of the sea mountains of Qwan. Even a growth of pink-
gray lace bushes could not disguise the rugged wall
posts, though their softening color was reflected by
the sheets of barmush shell that formed the wall
surfaces between those posts. Troy tried to estimate
the number of credits that must have been spent to
import posts, shell sheets, and doubtless all the rest
from across stellar space. And he doubted if it all
43

could have been done on the legal pay of either a
sattor commander or a Council lord's post.

He pulled the case of food out of the flitter, shouldered
it, and turned toward the delivery port of the villa.
Men were moving in the garden, patrollers' uniforms
very much in evidence. Their attention appeared to be
centered on a small structure half hidden by an
artificial grouping of plume trees, a structure as
architecturally different from the villa it accompanied
as the fussel was from a bob-chit. In place of shell-post
walls, translucent, this was a solid block of stone, cut
and set with precision, but also giving the impression
of a primitive erection from some prespace-flight
civilization thousands of years removed in time from
the larger house.

A man came out of its doorway, and Troy stopped
short. Just as the invisible touch of exploration had
alerted him in the warehouse, so now did a feeling
within him answer a new, voiceless cry for help. The
sensation of terror and, beyond that terror, the breath-
less need to convey some vital information struck into
his mind almost as a physical blow. And without
conscious thinking he answered that plea with an
unvoiced query in return: "What—where—how—?"

The man who had come from the stone-walled garden
house twisted and made a grab into the air as some-
thing wriggled from his clutch and sprang into the
nearest plume tree. Only an agitation of foliage marked
its path from there to the villa—or was it toward
Troy? A tree branch bobbed and from it a small body
flung itself in a crazy leap through the air.

Troy put down the box just in time to take the shock
of that weight landing on his shoulder. A prehensile
44

tail curled about his neck, small legs clutched him
frenziedly, and he put up an arm to enfold a small,
trembling, softly furred animal. A round, broad head
butted against him, as if the creature were trying to
ball into a refuge. Troy stroked the thick yellow-
brown fur soothingly.

"Kill—" No one had spoken that word aloud; it
flashed into his mind, and with it a wavering, oddly
shaped picture of a man crumpled in a chair. Troy
shook his head and the picture was gone. But the fear
in the animal in his arms remained alive and strong.

"Danger—" Yes, that got across. Danger not only
for the creature he held, but for others—men—

The man who had lost this animal was hurrying
forward, and two of the patrollers also made their way
purposefully toward Troy. In that same moment he
knew that he intended to protect the thing he held,
even against the weight of Korwar's law.

"Sooooo—" He made the same soothing sound Kyger
had used with the cats, stroking the furred back gently.
The butting of the head against his chest was now not
so violent. And Troy tried to establish a contact
promising protection and aid. What he was doing, or
why and how he could do it, did not matter now—that
he was able to establish the contact did.

"Who are you?"

Troy settled the still-shivering animal more firmly
into the hollow between shoulder and arm and looked
with very little favor at his questioner. "Horan." He
pointed with his chin at the flitter, with the shop
name clearly lettered on its body. "From Kyger's."

One of the patrollers cleared his throat and then
spoke with a deferential note that suggested the
45

importance of the civilian interrogating Troy. "That's
the animal and bird importer, Gentle Homo. I believe
that the Sattor Commander purchased this thing

there—"

The man he addressed was harsh-faced, flat-eyed.
He stared at Troy as if he presented some very
elemental problem that could be speedily solved—not
particularly to the problem's advantage.

"What are you doing here?"

Troy touched with the toe of his boot the box he had
just set down. "Delivery, Centle Homo. Special food
for the Commander's pet."

The flat-eyed man looked to the second patroller
and that individual nodded. "It was referenced for
today, Gentle Homo. Special imported food for the—
the—" He hesitated over the unfamiliar name before
he offered it. "The kinkajou."

"The what?" his superior demanded.. "What kind of
an outlandish, other-sun thing—?"

"It is Terran, Gentle Homo," his second underling
answered with a small flash of importance. "Very rare.
The Sattor Commander was quite excited about it."

"Kinkajou—Terran--" The officer advanced a step
or £wo as he tried to see more of the animal clinging
to Troy. "But what was it doing rummaging through
the Sattor Commander's desk if it is just an animal?
Do you have an answer for that?"

"Danger!" Troy did not need that flash of warning
from the creature in his arms. It was plain to read in
the whole stance of the man before him.

"Many animals are very curious, Gentle Homo."
Troy sought to divert the officer. "Do not Korwarian
kattans open any package they can lay claws upon?"
46

The voluble patroller was nodding assent to that.
And Troy pushed a little further. "Animals also imitate
the actions of men with whom they are closely asso-
ciated, Gentle Homo. The kinkajou may have been
following the routine of the Sattor Commander. What
else could it be? Surely it would not be doing so for a
purpose—" But, Troy guessed now, that must have
been what the creature was doing when caught. Did
this officer have more exact knowledge of that fact?

"Possible," the other conceded. "Just to make sure
that there shall be no more such mischief, you will
take this kinkajou with you and return it to Kyger.
He shall be responsible for it until the investigation
into the Sattor Commander's death is completed.
Tell him the Commandant of the West Sector orders
it."

"It is done, Gentle Homo."

Troy tried to put the kinkajou into the flitter first,
before he replaced the box. But the animal refused to
loose its hold upon him. In addition, rising above the
fear it conveyed to him, there was again that urgency,
an urgency that was clearly connected with the stone
house in the garden. The kinkajou wanted him to
return it to that building until it finished some task,
protecting it meanwhile from his own kind. But to that
he dared not agree. For the first time the animal gave
tongue, uttering sharp, chittering cries, as if so it could
enforce the volume of their silent communication*

"Get aloft!"

The Commandant had gone back to the garden house,
and the patrollers moved in on Troy. He had no wish
to have them turn ugly. Somehow he managed to tip
the box back into the flitter, the kinkajou protesting
47

the retreat bitterly—though Troy noted ft made no

attempt to leave him.

Once they were aloft again, the animal quieted down,
apparently accepting defeat. Seated in Troy's lap, its
tail curled about one of his arms as if for reassurance
and support, it surveyed the world of the sky through
which they flew with what might have been taken for
intelligent interest. But it made no more attempts to

reason with him.
When the flitter set down in the court of Kyger's

establishment, the kinkajou moved to the cabin door,
patted it with front paws, and looked to Troy entreat-
ingly, every line of its rounded body expressing
eagerness to be free. He caught at the prehensile tail,
having no wish to see the creature escape by one of its
spectacular leaps. Leaving the flyer and grasping his
indignant captive firmly, Troy went toward his em-
ployer's office.

Kyger appeared at the corridor door, and when he

saw the squirming animal in Troy's hold, he halted
nearly -in midstep. Again Troy caught that spark of
unease which he had detected in the meeting between

the ex-spacer and Rerne.

"What happened?" Kyger's tone was as usual. He
stepped back into his office and Troy accepted the
tacit invitation to enter. The escape attempts of the
kinkajou were at an end again. Once more the animal
pushed against Horan's chest as if in mute plea for
protection. But the mental contact had utterly ceased.

Swiftly and tersely, as a serviceman giving a report
to a superior officer, Troy outlined what had happened
at the Di villa. But he made no mention of the odd
contact with the Kinajou. He had early learned in the

48

hard school of the Dipple that knowledge could be
both a weapon and a defense, and something aa
nebulous and beyond reason as his odd mental meeting
with two different species of Terran life he preferred
to keep to himself—at least until he knew Kyger
better.

Kyger made no move to separate the clinging animal
from Horan but sat down in the eazi-rest. His fingers
rubbed up and down the scar seam from his ear.

"That's a valuable specimen," he remarked mildly
when Troy had done. "You were right to bring it back
here. Curious as a ffolth sand borer. There was no
reason for the law to upset it to the point of hysteria!
Put it in the empty end cage in the animal room, give
it some water and a few quagger nuts, and leave it
alone."

Troy followed orders, but once at the cage he had
some difficulty in detaching the kinkajou. The animal
appeared to accept Horan as a refuge in the midst of a
chancy world, and he had to pry paws and tail loose
from their hold on him. As he closed the cage door, the
captive rolled itself into a tight ball in the corner
farthest from the light, presenting only a stubborn
hump of furred back to the world.

During the few days he had been at Kyger's, Troy
had come to look forward to the early hours of the
night when he was left alone in the interior of the
main buildings. He made two watch rounds according
to his orders. But each night before he napped, he had
his own visiting pattern. The fussel hawk, the blue-
feathered cubs that always greeted him with reaching
paws and joyous squeaks, and several other favorites
were then his alone. Tonight he came also to the
49

kinkajou cage. From the appearance of that furred
ball still wedged into the corner, the creature had not
moved from the position it had assumed when he first

put it there.

Deliberately Troy tried mental contact, suggesting

friendship, a desire for better understanding. But if
the kinkajou received those suggestions, it neither
acknowledged nor reacted to them. Disappointed, Troy
left the room after setting the corn broadcaster.

When he stretched out on his bunk, he tried to fit
one event of the day to another. But when he remem-
bered Rerne and the other's request for his services in
testing the fussel in the Wild, Troy drifted into a
daydream, which, in a very short interval, became a

real dream.

Troy rolled over, his shoulder bringing up against

the wall with a smart rap, his head turning fretfully.
There was a thickness behind his eyes, which was not
quite a pressure of pain, only a dull throb. He opened
his eyes. The dial of the timekeeper faced him, and
the hour marked there was well past the middle of the
night—though not quite time for his round. But as
long as he was now thoroughly awake, he might as

well make it.

He sat up, pulled on his half boots. Then he pressed

his fingertips gently to his temples. The dull feeling
in his head persisted, and it was not normal. In fact—

Troy's hand flashed to the niche above the head of his
bunk, scooping up the weapon that lay waiting there.

Though he had never experienced that particular
form of attack before, his wits were now alert enough
to supply him with one possible explanation. With the
stunner in his hand, he walked as noiselessly as he

50

could to the doorway, peered out into the subdued
lighting of the corridor.

To his right was Kyger's office, thumb-sealed as
usual. And there had been no betraying sound from the
corn. No betraying sound! But a lack of normal sounds
can be as enlightening. Troy had become accustomed
to the small twitters, clicks, chattering subcomplaints
of the night hours—a myriad of sounds, that issued
normally from the cage rooms.

The dull pressure in his own head, together with
the absence of those same twitters, clicks, chatters,
spelled only one thing. There was a "sleeper" in
operation somewhere on the premises—the illegal
gadget that could lull into unconsciousness living things
not shielded from its effect on the middle ear. And a
sleeper was not the tool of a man who had any
legitimate business here. It must be turned low enough
to handle the animals but not to stun Horan himself
into unconsciousness—why?

Troy tested Kyger's sealed office doorway with one
hand, the stunner ready in the other. The panel refused
to move, so at least that lock had not been forced. He
slipped along the wall, paused by the tank room. The
gurgle of flowing water, the plop of an aquarium
inhabitant—nothing else. The marine things appeared
not to have succumbed to the sleeper either.

Horan crossed to the animal room. Again no sound
at all—which was doubly suspicious. Inside that door
was the alert signal, which would arouse the yardmen
and ring straight through to Kyger's quarters. Troy
edged about the mesh door, his back against the wall,
his free hand going to that knob, ready to push it flat.

"Danger!"

51

Again that word burst in his brain with the force of
a full-lunged scream in his ear. He half turned, and a
blast of pure, flaming energy cut so close that he cried
out involuntarily at the searing bite of its edge against
the line of his chin. Half blinded by the recent glare,
Troy snapped the stunner beam at the dark shape
arising from the floor and threw himself in a roll
halfway across the room,

Troy shot another beam at a black blot in the
doorway. But the paralyzing ray seemed to have no
effect in even slowing up his attacker. Before Troy
could find his feet, the other had made the corridor,
and Troy heard the metallic clang of the outer door.
Horan stumbled across the room, slammed his hand
upon the alarm signal,. heard the clamor tear the
unnatural silence of the cage room to shreds. Perhaps
the aroused yard guard would be able to catch the
fugitive now in the open.

Five

The fact that there was no corresponding uproar from
the cage rooms confirmed Troy's belief that a sleeper
had been set within the shop walls. He turned up the
light power to full strength and began a careful search
of the room. This was where the intruder had been
occupied; what he had sought must lie here.

In the cages the occupants were balled, or sprawled,
52

in deep, beam-induced slumber, save for that corner
cage where the kinkajou had been put. Bright beads
of eyes peered out at Troy, small paws rested against
the netting. Troy gained an impression of excitement
rather than fear. The signal of danger had been meant
as a warning toJiim, not a cry for assistance such as
the animal had made in the villa garden.

Troy ran his finger down the netting, looked into
those round eyes. "If you could just tell me what is
behind all this," he half whispered.

"Someone comes—"

The kinkajou retreated. Before Troy's eyes it rolled
quickly into its chosen ball-in-the-corner position once
again. Troy's boot struck against some object on the
floor, sent it to rebound from the wall with a metallic
"ping." He wriggled halfway under the rack of cages
and picked up a dull-green cube—the sleeper.

He glanced once more at the kinkajou. To all
appearances that animal was now as deeply under the
influence of the gadget he held as all the other beasts
in the room.

But if the stock of Kyger's establishment had been
so subdued, the human inhabitants of the building
were not. Two yardmen, stunners in fist, came through
into the corridor. And Kyger ran in their wake, his
chosen weapon a far more deadly hand blaster, which
must be a relic of his service days.

Troy held out the sleeper cube, told his story of the
assailant who had appeared so totally immune to the
direct fire of a stunner.

"Wearing a person-protect, probably," Kyger snapped
impatiently. "Anything gone here—or disturbed—?"

He passed down the line of cages, but as he reached
53

the end one, he paused and gave a searching glance at i
the ball of sleeping kinkajou. Troy made no mention
of the fact that the animal had been able to defy the
wave of the sleeper, had saved his own life by its
warning. In spite of Kyger's treatment of him, some
deep-buried and undefinable emotion kept him from
warming to the merchant as he had to Rerne. He had
no idea what could lie behind the invasion of the shop,
but he wanted to know more of what was going on

here.

"I could not see anything wrong," he reported.

Kyger had turned, was walking back along the cages,
and his fingers rasped across the netting of the one
that held the kinkajou. The ball of fur remained
unstirring. As the merchant joined Troy once more, he
caught the younger man's chin, turning his head

directly to the light.

"You have a flash burn there." His tone was almost

accusing.
"He was armed with a blaster," Troy explained.

"What is going on here?"
The yardmen in the doorway were elbowed aside; a

patroller came in, blaster ready. Kyger answered with

a bite in his voice.
"We had a visitor, who brought this—" He nodded

to the sleeper cube on the top of a cage. The patroller
scooped it up, his eyes cold.

"What is the damage?"

Kyger's hand fell from Troy's chin to his shoulder.

He held that grip, propelling the younger man before

him down the corridor.
"So far none, except a flash burn—too close for

comfort. Mangy! Tansvel!" The yardmen snapped to
54

attention. "Check out the rest of the rooms; report to
me in the office. This officer"—Kyger nodded to the
patroller—"will help you."

Troy stood quietly as his employer patted cov-aid
dressing along the line of the burn. "Just grazed you."
Kyger retopped the container. "You were lucky."

"It was dark and he was off orbit."

But Kyger was watching him with an intent stare
as if he could see straight into Troy's memory and
pick out the events as they had really happened—the
. incredible fact that a warning had struck from an
animal's mind to his.

"He must have been badly jigged," Kyger commented.
"So much so that I wonder. A sleeper makes this a
Guild job—and I have one or two unfriends around
here who might just employ such means to make
trouble for me." He was frowning a little. "Only Guild
men do not get jigged—"

"A novice might."

Kyger spread both hands on the top of his desk. "A
novice? What do you know about this, Horan?"

"I noticed a new buy-in man at the warehouse before
they tried to lift us on the street." Troy trusted now to
Kyger's own background. To a merchant-born he would
not have made such an admission, unless the matter
had proved far more serious than it was. But to a spacer
who had himself lived by a more flexible code of
ethics—or rather, a different code of ethics—he could
confess that much.

"A proving job for a novice." Kyger considered that.
"Might fit this flight pattern, at that. This buy-in man
knows you?"

"He saw me at the warehouse—just as I saw him."
55

"Any challenge between you two?"

"If you mean was this personal—no. He was Dipple
and I knew him by name, but we never messed
together."

"Silly jig, hitting here. Unless it was just for nuisance
value. There is nothing he could pick up to trot to the
pass-boys."

Troy wondered about that himself. Portable property
was to be had for the ingenious lifts of the Guild
anywhere in Tikil, where theft had become both a
business and a fine art. Why would anyone try to
lift living creatures, most of which required special
food and attention? There was only one possibility.

"Some one-of-a-kind already promised?" he hazarded,
knowing Kyger's promises to his elite customers. A
unique pet, certified to the the only one of its kind on
Korwar, might be an inducement.

"No profit in that. It would have to be kept under
cover." Kyger put his finger on the weakness in that.
Yes, the value of such a pet to the vain owner would
be largely in its display before the envious.

"To keep someone else from having it?"

Again that disconcerting stare from Kyger. Troy
thought he had found another small piece in this
match puzzle. That had hit, if not straight to the heart
of the target, reasonably near.

"Might be. That makes a spot more sense. You can
bunk in. I might cover the rest of the night watch."

That was straight dismissal. Troy went back to his
bunk, this time easing out of his clothes. The dressing
had taken most of the smart out of his burn. But his
mind was active and he did not feel in the least inclined
to sleep. He closed his eyes, trying to will relaxation.
56

Instead, as if some tenuous circle of thought had
coiled out into the air—as Lang Horan's rupan rope
had done so accurately years before to catch and hold
a twisting, bucking quarry—Troy's heightened sensi-
tivity touched and held something never intended to
join more than one pair of minds under that roof this
night.

"He died quick. No time to see the report before put
away—"

"Must return!" That was an order, final and harsh.
"Not so. No good. Man saw Shang look for report.
Was suspicious!"

"There must be no suspicion!" Again the harshness.
And now there was no more.protest in words, rather
a thread of fear, a thread that grew into a choking
rope. Troy's eyes opened. He sat up on the bunk, alive
and vibrating to that fear as if its force raged in him
also.

But if there was fear in that band of communication,
there was also something else he recognized—a deter-
mination to fight. And to that his sympathy responded.
"If there is suspicion, there will be questions."

Silence from the harsh one. Was that marking
thoughtful consideration of the argument? Or rejection
of its validity? Troy's hands were sweat-wet and now
his fingers clenched into fists. If what he suspected
was true— The kinkajou and Kyger? But why? How?
Terran animals able to communicate being used for a
set purpose? Yet Kyger was no Terran—or was he?
Troy himself was too ignorant of other worlds, except
for the people of the Dipple, to make a positive
identification. He remembered Kyger's own questions
about his past on the day he had been hired.

57

Terra was the center of the Confederation—or had
been before the war. But she had not come out well at
the end of that conflict; too many of her allies had
gone down to defeat. From the dominant voice she had
sunk to a second-rate, even third-rate, power at the
conference tables. The Council and the Octed of the
Rim maneuvered for first power, while the old Confed-
eration had fractured into at least three collections of
smaller rulerships. His thoughts were broken once
more by that unidentifiable thought stream—again
the master voice: "Who came tonight?"

"One who knew nothing. He was an enemy outside
the scheme. There was no touch."

"Yet he could have been hired by another. Traps
need bait."

Troy read the thought behind that last. So—if he
were right and it was the kinkajou and Kyger who
were talking so—then such an animal might well be
stolen to serve as bait for its master.

But why had not the animal reported Troy's ability
to receive the mind touch, if not with the ease and
clarity of this exchange, then after a fashion? Or did
the kinkajou, fearing its master, hold Troy in reserve
as a possible escape, as he had been for it at the Di
villa?

"An enemy outside the scheme!" The master voice
picked that up now. "Against me?"

"Against you," the kinkajou (if it was that) agreed.
"He was paid to cause trouble, bring you into the shop
that he might kill—"

"Kill." That word throbbed in Troy's head. He
strained to catch an answer. But there was no more
that night. At last he slept fitfully, awaking now and
58

then to lie silent, listening not only with his ears but
with the portion of his brain that had tapped the
exchange. But save for the sound of the birds and
animals coming out of the daze of the sleeper to their
normal nocturnal restlessness, he heard nothing on
either plane of the senses.

In the morning, after the general round of cage
tending and feeding was over, Kyger summoned Troy
to the fussel hawk. The big bird was definitely emerging
from its sullenness of the landing. It held its crested
head high, turned it alertly from side to side. Still
young enough to have some of its adolescent tail
plumage, it was yet a strikingly beautiful bird with
its brilliant, iridescent-black rakish crest above its
bright golden head, back-patched by warrior scarlet.
The golden glow of breast and the scarlet of back were
blended on the strongly pinioned wings to a warm
orange beneath which the darker tail and black legs
again made contrast. But it was not for beauty alone
that the fussel was esteemed.

On countless worlds—human, humanoid, and even
nonhuman—intelligences had trained birds of falcon
and hawklike strains to be hunter-companions. And
now when the highly civilized were returning to more
primitive skills and amusements for pleasure, hunting
—not with high-power kill weapons, but with hawk or
other trained birds and animals—was well established.
The fussel—with its intelligence, its ability to be easily
trained through the right handling, and its power to
capture rather than kill a quarry upon demand—was
a highly valued item of sale for any trainer.

Now, seeing the stance of the bird, Troy drew his
fingers slowly, enticingly, across the front of the cage.
.   59

Unlike its attitude of only two days earlier, it made
no lighning stab to punish such impudence. Instead,
deep in its throat, the bird gave a sound of interested
inquiry and moved along the perch toward the door
opening of the cage as if awaiting release.

"Shall I man him?" Troy asked.

Kyger snapped his fingers at the opposite side of the
cage. That act, which had brought the fussel into
raging battle before, now only led it to turn its head.
Then it looked back again expectantly at the cage

door.

"Here." Kyger tossed the hawker's glove to Troy. As
the latter drew it on, the fussel uttered its soft cry,
this time with a half-coaxing note.

Horan loosened the door, extended protected hand
and wrist into the cage. The fussel ducked its head,
not to stab, but to draw its curved beak along the
tough fabric of the glove. Then sedately it moved from
perch to wrist, and Troy carefully lifted the bird out
into the open of the corridor into which they had
moved the cage for this experiment.

"Olllahuuu!"

Both men turned quickly at the Hunter's call of
appreciation. Rerne stood there, smiling a little.

"Your friend here looks eager for a casting," he

remarked.

The fussel mantled, raising wings wide in display,
shaking them a little as if glad to be free of the cage.
The clawhold on Troy's wrist was firm, and the bird
gave no sign of wanting to quit that post.

"Truly a beauty," Rerne complimented Kyger. "If he
performs as well as he looks, you have already made a
sale, Merchant."
60

"He is yours to try, Gentle Homo."

"When better than now? It seems that there is an
earlier demand for my services in the Wild than I had
thought. I am come one day ahead of time to claim this
man of yours and the bird."

Kyger made no protest. In fact the speed with which
he equipped Troy with the loan of a camp kit and the
affability with which he saw them both away from the
shop made Horan uneasy. He had had no chance to
visit the kinkajou alone. And when he had been
engaged in cage cleaning earlier that day, Kyger or
one of the yardmen had been in and out of the room
and the animal had remained in its tight ball. He
wished that he could have taken it with him, but
there was no possible way of explaining such a request.
And he had to leave with a small doubt—of what he
could not honestly have said—still worrying him.

Rome's flitter was strictly utilitarian, though with
compact storage space and the built-in necessities for
a flyer that might also provide a temporary camp
shelter in the wilderness. Oddly enough he had no
pilot, and when Troy, with the fussel again in the
transport cage, climbed into the passenger compart-
ment, he found no other but the Hunter awaiting him
there. Nor did Rerne prove talkative. His city finery
was gone with his city manners. Now he wore soft
hide breeches, made of some dappled skin, pale fawn
and white, and tanned to suppleness of fabric. His
jerkin was of the same, sleeveless and cut low on the
chest so his own golden-tanned skin showed in a wide
V close to the same shade as the garment. The rings
of precious metal that had held his hair had been
traded for thongs confining the locks as tightly but far
61

more inconspicuously. And about his waist was a belt,
plain of any jeweled ornament, but supporting stunner,
bush knife, and an array of small tools and gadgets,
each in its own loop.

Under his expert control the flitter spiraled well up
above the conventional traffic lanes between villas
and city and headed northeast. Beneath them carefully
tended gardens or as carefully nurtured "wild" gardens
grew farther and farther apart. And as they topped a
mountain range, they put behind them all the year-
around residences of Tikil. There was a scattering of
holiday houses and hunting lodges in the stretch before
they came to the Mountains ofLarsh—and the territory
below, as uninhabited as it looked, was still under the
dominion of man.

But beyond the Larsh, into the real Wild, then man's
hand lay far lighter. The Hunting Clans had delib-
erately kept it so and profited thereby. Through the
years they had made a mystery of the Wild, and now
no one ventured without their guidance past the Larsh.

In the cabin of the flitter the quiet was suddenly
broken by a call from the fussel—a cry that held a
demand. As Troy tried to sooth the captive, Reme
spoke for the first time since they had taken off: "Try
him out of the cage."

Troy was doubtful. If the hawk would refuse the
wrist, take to wing, or try to, in this confined space,
that action would make for trouble. On the other
hand, if the bird was to be of any use in the future, it
must learn to accept such transportation free of the
cage. A fussel caged too much lost spirit. He pulled on
his glove, offered his wrist through the half-open door,
and felt the firm grip of the talons through the fabric.
62

Carefully he brought his arm across his knees, the
fussel resting quietly, though its crested head turned
from side to side as it eyed the cabin and the open
skies beyond the bubble of their covering. As it showed
no disquiet, Troy relaxed a little, enough to glance
himself at that rising wall of saw-toothed peaks which
was the Larsh, gnawing at the afternoon sky.

They did not fly directly across that barrier range.
Instead Rerne turned more to the north so that they
followed along its broken wall. And they had covered
at least an hour's flying time on that course before
they took a gateway of a pass between two grim peaks
and saw before them a hazy murk hiding the other
world Tikil knew little about.

Reme sent the flitter spiraling down, now that they
were across the heights. There was a raveling of lesser
peaks and foothills, bright-green streaks marking at
least two rivers of some size. Troy leaned against the
bubble, trying to see more of the spread beneath.
There appeared to be a fog rising with the coming of
evening, a thick scum of stuff closing between the
flitter and the ground.

With a mutter of impatience, the Hunter again
altered course northward. And they had not gone very
far before a light flashed red on his control board.
When they continued on their path without any
deviation, those flashes grew closer together so that
the light seemed hardly to blink at all.

"Warn offl" The words were clipped, with a patroller's
snap—though the law of Tikil did not operate east of
the Larsh.

Reme spoke into his own mike. "Acknowledge warn
off. This is Rernes' Donerabon."

63

"Correct. Warn off withdrawn," replied the com.

Troy longed to ask a question. And then Rome
spoke, not to the mike, but to his seatmate. "To your
right—watch now as we make the crossover."

The flitter dipped, sideslipped down a long descent.
There were no streamers of mist to hide the ground
here. No vegetation either. In curdled expanse of rock
and sand was a huddle of structures, unmistakably,
even from this distance, not the work of nature.

Troy studied them avidly. "What is that?"

"Ruhkarv—the 'accursed place.'"

Six

They did not pass directly over that outcropping of
alien handiwork, older than the first human landing
on Korwar, but headed north once more. Troy knew
from reports that, what he saw now as lumpy pro-
tuberances aboveground were only a fraction of the
ruins themselves, as they extended in corridors and
chambers layers deep and perhaps miles wide under
the surface, for Ruhkarv had never been fully explored.

"The treasure—" he murmured.

Beside him Rerne laughed without any touch of
humor. "If that exists outside vivid imaginations, it is
never going to be found. Not after the end of the
Fauklow expedition."

They had already swept past the open land that
64

held the ruins, were faced again by the wealth of
vegetation that ringed the barren waste of Ruhkarv.
And Troy was struck by that oddity of the land.

"Why the desert just about the ruins?" he asked, too
interested in what he saw to pay the usual deference
to the rank of his pilot.

"That is something for which you will find half-a-
dozen explanations," Rerne returned, "any one of them
logical—and probably wrong. Ruhkarv exists as it
always has since the First-Ship exploration party
charted it two centuries ago. Why it continues to exist
is something Fauklow may have discovered—before
he and his men went mad and killed themselves or
each other."

"Did their recaller work?"

Rerne answered obliquely. "The tracer of the rescue
party registered some form of wave broadcast—well
under the surface—when they came in. They blanketed
it at once when they saw what had happened to
Fauklow and the others they were able to find. All
Ruhkarv is off limits now—under a tonal barrier. No
flitter can land within two miles of the only known
entrance to the underways. We do pick up some
empty-headed treasure hunter now and then, prowling
about, hunting a way past the barrier. Usually a trip
to our headquarters and enforced inspection of the
tri-dees we took of Fauklow's end instantly cures his
desire to go exploring."

"If the recaller worked—" Troy speculated as to
what might have happened down in those hidden
passages. Fauklow had been a noted archaeologist
with several outstanding successes at re-creating
prehuman civilizations via the recaller, a machine
65

still partially in the experimental stage. Planted
anywhere within a structure that had once been   [
inhabited by- sentient beings, it could produce—under   I
the right conditions—certain shadowy "pictures" of   (
scenes that had once occurred at the site well back in   f
time. While authorities still argued over dating, over   \
the validity of some of the scenes Fauklow had recorded,   ^
yet the most skeptical admitted that he had caught   |
something out of the past. And oftentimes those wispy
ghosts appearing on his plates or films were the starting
point for new and richly rewarding investigation.

The riddle of Ruhkarv had drawn him three years
earlier. While men had prowled the upper layers of
the underground citadel, they had found nothing except
bare corridors and chambers. The Council had willingly
granted Fauklow permission to try out the recaller,
with prudent contracts and precautions about securing
to Korwar the possession of any outstanding finds
that might result from the use of his machine. But the
real answer had been a bloody massacre, the details of
which were never made public. Men who had worked
together for years as a well-running team had seem-
ingly, by the evidence, gone stark mad and created a
horror.

"If the recaller worked," Rerne answered, "it did so
too well. The mop-up crew did not locate it—so the
thing must have been planted well down. And no one
hunted it there. It was shorted anyway as soon as we
guessed what had happened. Ah—there is our beacon."

Through the gathering twilight the quick flash of a
ground light shone clearly. Rerne circled, set the flitter
down neatly on a pocket of landing field within a
fringe of towering tree giants that effectively shut off
66

the paling gold of the sky except just over the heads of
the disembarking men. The fussel on Troy's wrist
fanned wings and uttered a new cry, not guttural in
the throat, but pealing up a range of notes.

Rerne laughed. "To work, eh, feathered brother?
Wait until the dawning and we shall give you strong
winds to ride. That is a true promise."

Two men stepped from between the trunks of the
tree wall. Like Rerne, they were leather-clad, and in
addition one had a long hunting bow projecting beyond
his shoulder. They glanced briefly at Troy but had
more attention for the bird on his wrist.

"From Kyger's." Without other greeting Rerne
indicated the fussel. "And this is Troy Horan who has
the manning of him."

Again each of the foresters favored him with a raking
glance that seemed, in an instant's space, to classify him.

"To the fire, to the fireside, be welcome." The elder
of the two gave a strictly impersonal twist to what
was evidently a set formula of welcome. Troy was
aware that in this world he was an interloper, to be
tolerated because of the man who brought him.

And while he had long known and accepted Tikil's
evaluation of the Dipple dwellers, yet here this had
a power to hurt, perhaps the more so because of the
different attitude Reme had shown. Now the Hunter
came to his aid again.

"A rider from Norden," he said quietly with no
traceable inflection of rebuke in his voice, "will always
be welcome to the fireside of the 'Donerabon.' "

But inside Troy there was still a smart. "Norden's
plains have no riders now." He pointed out the truth.
"I am a Dippleman, Gentle Homo."

67

"There are plains in a man's mind," Rerne replied
obscurely. "Leave the fussel uncaged if he will ride
easy. We shelter in the Five League Post tonight."

There was a trail between the trees ringing in the
landing clearing, firm enough to be followed in the
half-light. Yet Troy was certain that the three men of
the Wild ranger patrol could have found it in the
pitch-darkness. It led steadily up slope until outcrops
of rock broke through the clumps of brush and the
thinning stands of trees, and they came out on a broad
ledge hanging above the end of a small lake.

The lodge was not set on that ledge, but in the cliff
wall backing it. For some reason the men who patrolled
this wilderness had sought to conceal their living
quarters with as much cunning as if they were spies
stationed behind enemy lines. Once past the well-
hidden doorway, Troy found himself in a large room
that served as general living quarters, though screened
alcoves along the back wall served for bunk rooms.

There was no heating unit. But a broad platform of
stone with an upper opening in the rock roof supported
smouldering wood, wood that gave off a spicy, aromatic
fragrance as it was eaten into ashes. A flooring of
wooden planks had been fitted over the rock beneath
their boots, and here and there lay shaggy pelts to
serve as small rugs while on the walls were shelves
holding not only the familiar boxes of reading tapes,
but bits of gleaming rock, some small carvings. Brilliant
birdskins had been pieced together in an intricate
patchwork pattern to cover six feet of the opposite

wall.

It was very far removed from Tikil and the ways of
Tikil. But in Troy old memories stirred again. The
68

homestead on Norden had not been quite so rugged,
but it had been constructed of wood and stone by men
who relied more upon their own strength and skill of
hands than upon the products of machines.

The fussel called and was answered from one of the
alcoves—not in its own cry, but with a similar note.
Troy's other hand shot out to imprison the legs of the
hawk before it could fly. But the fussel, stretching out
its red-patched neck, its black crest quivering erect,
merely uttered a deeper, rasping inquiry. Rerne strode
forward, pushed aside the screen. There were three
perches in the alcove, one occupied by a bird very
different from the one Troy bore.

Where the fussel was sunlit fire, this was a drifting
shadow of smoke. Its round head was crestless, but
the tufted ears stood erect, well above the downy,
haze-gray covering on the skull. Its eyes were unusually
large and in the subdued light showed dark as if all
pupil. In body it was as large as the fussel, its powerful
taloned claws proclaiming it a hunter, as did the tearing
curve of its beak.

Now it watched the fussel steadily, but showed only
interest, no antagonism. One of the foresters presented
a gloved wrist, and it made a bounding leap to that
new perch.

"An owhee," Rerne said. "They will willingly share
quarters with a fussel."

Troy had heard of the peerless night-hunters but
had not seen one before. He watched the ranger take
it to the door of the lodge and give it a gentle toss to
wing away in the twilight. And a moment later they
heard its hunting call: "OOOooowheeee!"

Reme nodded at the perches and Troy went to let
69

the fussel make a choice. After a moment of inspection,
the bird put claw on the end one and settled there,
waiting for Troy to offer him his evening bait.

He who Hew the owhee and his partner of the resident
staff did not linger after Rerne, Troy, and their kit
were in the lodge house. Each forest ranger had a
length of trail to patrol by night as well as by day.
They said very little, and Troy suspected that it was
his presence that kept the conversation to reports,
questions, and answers. He tended the fussel and tried

to keep out of the way.

But when both had gone and Reme brought out a
pack of Quik-rations, they settled by the fire, which
the Hunter poked into renewed life. There were no
chairs, only wide, thick cushions of hide stuffed with
something that gave forth a pleasant herbal smell
when crushed beneath one's weight.

As they shared the contents of the food pack, the
Hunter talked and Troy listened. This was the stuff of
the other's days—the study of the Wild, the policing of
it after a fashion, not to interfere with nature, only to
aid her where and when they could, to make sure that
the natural destruction wrought by man himself
wherever and whenever he came into new territory
did not upset delicate ecological balances.

There were stands of fabulous woods that could be
cut—but only under the supervision of the Hunting
Clans. There were herbs to be sought for the healing
fraternities of other worlds, studies made of the native
animals. The Wild was a storehouse to which the
Clans held the keys—keeping them by force if necessary.
In the tree-filled valleys, on the spreading plains
yet farther to the east, battles had been fought between

70

poachers and guardians. And only because Korwar
had been proclaimed a pleasure planet did the Clans
have the backing to keep the looters out. Most of this
Troy knew, vaguely, but now Rerne spoke of times
and places, named names.

The story was absorbing, but Troy was no child to
be beguiled by stories. He began to wonder at the
reason for Rerne's talkativeness.

"There is no carbite on Korwar," Rerne continued.
"But let its equal be found here—and let the barriers
against mineral exploration go down—"

"Is there any chance of that happening?" Troy
ventured, suddenly aware that he, too, was now
thinking as a partisan, ready to protect the Wild against
willful destruction. Something in him was stirring
sluggishly, pressing bonds he himself had welded into
place as a self-protection. Like the hawk, he wanted to
test his wings against a free and open sky.

Rerne's lips twisted wryly. "We have learned very
little, most of our species. I can name you half a
hundred planets that have been wrecked by greed.
No, not just those burned off during the war, but
killed deliberately over a period of years. As long as
we can keep Korwar as a pleasant haven for the
overlords of other worlds, some of them the greed-
wrecked ones, we can hold this one inviolate. One does
not want such desolation in one's own back yard. So
far those of the villas have the power, the wealth, to
retain Korwar as their unspoiled play place. But how
long will it continue to be so? There may be other
treasures here than those fabled to lie in Ruhkarv,
and far more easily found!"

"You have had two hundred years," Troy said, with
71

an old bitterness darkening that elation of moments
earlier. "Norden had less than a hundred—thanks to
Sattor Commander Di!"

"No length of years will satisfy a man when he sees
the end cf a way of life he is willing to fight for. What
does the past matter when the future swoops for the
kill? Yes, Sattor Commander Di—who died of poison
in his own garden house and whose murderer is yet to
be found—and even the method by which the poison
reached him determined—has to answer for Norden."

How did Rerne know all that about Di? The fact of
poison had not been broadcast on the general corns.
Troy felt like a sofaru rat over which the shadow of a
diving fussel had fallen, powerless before the strike of
an enemy not of his own element. Was this behind
Reme's talk, merely a softening-up process to prepare
him for subtle questioning about the kinkajou? Or
was his own half-guilty feeling suggesting that?

But the Hunter did not enlarge upon the case of
Sattor Commander Di. His explorations into the past
were not so immediate. Rather now he led Troy to
talk about his own childhood. Though in another
Korwarian Horan might have considered that ques-
tioning presumptuous, there was something about
Rerne's interest that seemed genuine, so that the
younger man answered truthfully instead of with the
evasions he had used so long for a shield—including
the fact that his memories of Norden's plains and the
free life there were hazy now.

"There are plains here, too. You might consider
that," Rerne suggested cryptically as he arose in one
lithe movement. "Given time, the right man might
learn much. The bunk at that end is yours, Horan. No
72

evil dreams ride your night—" Again the phrase had
some of the formality of a ritual dismissal. Troy looked
in upon the fussel, saw that it was asleep with one
foot drawn up into its under feathers after the manner
of its kind, and then went to the bunk Rerne had
indicated.

There was no foam plast filling its box shape. Inside
dried grasses and leaves gave under him, then remolded
about his body, and the fine scent of them filled his
nostrils as he fell asleep easily. He did not dream at all.

When he awoke, the door of the big room stood ajar
and from that direction he heard the calls of birds.
Still rubbing sleep from his eyes, Troy rolled out of
the bunk. The fire on the hearth was out and there
was no one else in the room. But the clean smell of a
new day in the Wild drew him out on the ledge, to
stand looking down into the valley of the lake.

Something rose and fell with a regular stroke not
far from the shore, and he realized he was watching a
swimmer. A series of steps cut in the rock led down
from the ledge, and Troy followed them. Then a loose
sleeping robe draped over a bush beckoned him on
and he shed his own in turn, testing the temperature
of the water with his toes, plunging into it in a clumsy
dive before he could change his mind because of that
chill greeting.

Troy floundered along the shore, being no expert as
was that other now heading, with clean arm sweeps
and effortless kicks, back from the center. His thresh-
ings disturbed mats of floating blossoms shed by trees
bordering a rill that fed the lake at this point, and the
bruised petals patterned his wet skin as he found
sandy footing and stood up, shivering.

73

"Storm-cold, Gentle Homo." he commented as Rerne

waded in.
The other stopped to wring water from his braided

hair knot and then, surveying Troy's dappled body, he

laughed,

"A new refinement—flower baths?"
Troy echoed that laugh as he skimmed the wet
masses from him. "Not of my choice, Gentle Homo."

"The name is Rerne. We do not follow the paths of
Tikil here, Horan." The other was using his nightrobe
as a towel, kicking his feet into sandals. With the robe
now draped cloakwise about him, he stood for a moment
looking out over the lake, and his face was oddly
relaxed, much more alive than Troy had ever seen it.

"A fair day. We shall go to the plateau above Stansill
and see just how good our feathered one really is."

The flitter took them east and north again. And
once more the vegetation beneath them thinned. But
not to a waste scar such as that which held Ruhkarv,
rather to open plains of tall grasses and scattered,
low-growing shrubs. Twice Reme buzzed the flyer above
herds of ruminants, and horned heads tossed angrily
before the heavy-shouldered beasts pounded away,

tasseled tails high in wrath.

"Pansta," Rerne identified them. "Wild cattle of a

sort."
"But they are scaled—or at least they look so!" Troy

protested, thinking of his own lost tupan that had
grazed so and might have run from a buzzing flitter in

the same pattern.
"Not scaled as a fish or a reptile," Rerne corrected.

"Those are plates of hardened flesh—something like
an insect's wingcasing shell. The herds are dwindling

74

every year, fewer calves born; we do not yet know
why. We have reason to believe that they were once
domesticated."

"By those of Ruhkarv?"

"Perhaps. Though who or what those of Ruhkarv
were—" Rerne shrugged.

"Did they leave only one ruin behind them? I know
only of Ruhkarv."

"And that is another mystery. Why a single known
city for a civilization? Were they only an outpost of
some long-lost stellar empire vanished before man
took to space? That was one theory Fauklow wanted
to prove or disprove. There is one other trace of them
on Korwar—north beyond the plains. But that is
all—and that is a very small post. I do not think they
were native here. Just as the pansta are so alien to
the other animals of the Wild that they do not seem to
be native either. The feral herds of a long-gone race,
which have outlasted their unknown masters."

The edge of the plains where the pansta ran dropped
behind them, and now there were ridges and rising
slopes once again, until the flitter climbed to a tableland
open to the sky, seeming otherwise cut off from any
contact with the lower stretches. Under the golden
light of a perfect morning there spread a patched
flooring of flowering grasses, a few scattered trees, so
removed from any touch of man's passing that Troy
thought they might have been the first to find that
place if his companion's knowledge of it had not argued
otherwise.

Reme brought the flitter down on a stretch of gravel
beside quiet water that was neither as large as a lake
nor as small as a pond. They climbed out and stood
75

with the breeze pushing against their bodies. The
fussel spread wings, gave voice.

"Let him hunt! Ollllahuuuu!"

Troy gave the wrist flex that was a signal of freedom
to the bird he bore. And the fussel arose in great
sweeps, beating into the topaz sky until neither man
could see him clearly.

Seven

The sun was hot, and from under and around Troy as
he lay, the smell of the grass flowers and the grass
itself was heady in his nostrils, long pinched by the
town and the Dipple. He was relaxed, drowsy, yet not
ready to sleep.

It had been a wonderful morning on this piece of
Korwar raised into the skies and kept inviolate. Now
even the fussel had had enough of the freedom of the
wind and the clouds and was content to perch on a
tree limb Troy had trimmed and set in the ground for
the bird's comfort.

Here the insects seemed few or innocuous. There
was no stinging or biting to plague the would-be sleeper.
Yet a part of Troy argued that this was very fleeting
and that it was a pity to waste a moment in such
sloth.

He levered himself up from the warmth. Avoid-
ing the fussel's perch and Rerne's chosen couch, he
76

walked out alone into the open, away from the flitter
and all intrusions of Tikil. And as he stood there, the
wind trying in vain to pull at his close-cropped hair,
pushing protestingly against his straight body, Troy
suddenly had a mental picture of a far different
place—an artificially lighted room ranked with cages,
and the brown-furred back of a creature that had
curled into a ball to escape.

The cats—the kinkajou— Here was the fussel, intel-
ligent after its kind—to be trained as another, if beloved,
tool or weapon for the use of man. But the Terran
creatures—there was a difference, as if somehow they
had taken a huge step forward to close ranks with
man himself. And Troy knew a tiny flame of excite-
ment. What if that were true? The new world it would
open!

He glanced back at Rerne, more than half tempted
now to share with the Hunter what was hardly a
definite secret—more a series of guesses and surmises.
Somehow he thought that in Rerne he would find a
believer. Nowhere else on Korwar had he met another
with whom he dared be himself, Troy Horan—not a
Dippleman, but a free equal. Ever since they had
entered the Wild together, this sense of being alive
and real again—not aloof from his fellows, but entering
once more into a pattern that made for security and
solidity—had been growing in him. Now Troy moved
slowly, still wary of the wisdom of his half-made
decision, but drawn to it. He turned toward Reme—too
late, for the sky was no longer an unoccupied arch of
gold. There was a second flitter descending at a speed
and angle of approach that suggested urgency.

Rerne sat up in his grassy nest, instantly alert and
77

ready for action. The flyer touched earth not far from
their own flitter. The man swinging out of its cabin
wore not the tanned-hide uniform of a ranger on duty,
but the more elaborate kilt and tunic of a city dweller.
He spoke hastily to the Hunter, and then Rerne
beckoned Troy to join them.

"Harse will fly you back to Tikil," he said abruptly,
making no explanation for the change of plan. "Tell
Kyger that I want the fussel. I will call for it later."
He paused, his gaze lingering for a second or two on
Troy, almost as if he wanted to add something to that
rather curt dismissal. But then he turned away, without
any other farewell, climbing into his own flitter.

Troy, chilled, shut out again, a little angry at his
own thoughts of only a few moments before, took the
fussel on his wrist and joined Harse in the second
flyer. Rome's ship took off in a steep climb and
continued north—toward the Clan holdings.

Harse chose the shortest lane back to Tikil. It was
late afternoon when, after steady flight, Troy once
more entered Kyger's shop. The merchant met him in
the courtyard corridor.

"Hunter Rerne?" The ex-spacer looked beyond Troy
in search of the other.

Troy explained. Kyger heard him out, his fingers
tracing the scar on his cheek as he listened. And it
seemed to the younger man that the merchant was
waiting to hear something of greater importance than
just the confirmation of the fussel's sale.

"Cage it then," Kyger ordered. "And you are in time
to help with the last feeding. Get to it!"

One of the yardmen was busy with the water pans
in the animal room, but he did not look up as Troy
78

went down the line of cages to that which had held
the kinkajou. Only this time there was no round ball
of fur in its comer. Another quite different creature,
pointed-nosed, sharp-eyed, gazed back at him.

"Back, eh?" The yardman lounged over to lean
against the wall. " 'Bout time you got to it, Dippleman.
We have done your work an' ours too, an' we have had
'bout enough of that. How did your ride with one of
the lords-high-an'-mighty go?"

"Sold the fussel." Troy made a noncommittal answer.
He was more interested in what had happened here.
Though one Terran animal had disappeared during
his absence from the shop, here was another established
in the same cage, for he was sure that this newcomer
was the beast Kyger had shown to the Grand Leader
One, via tri-dee, as a fox.

One Terran animal—no, two! He saw the second
one now, curled up much as the kinkajou had been, its
back to the world, in the far part of the cage. And he
noted that the eyes of the one on guard were as
searching in their inspection of him as had been the
eyes of the cats. The one on guard—why had he thought
that?

"One guards—one sleeps—"

Out of nowhere had come the answer. The fox seated
himself now, much as the cats had done in their
traveling cage, no longer so wary, more as if ready for
some answering move on Troy's part.

"New—what are they?" Troy appealed to the yardman
merely to cover his interest in the occupants of the cage.

"Extra-special. And you do not take care of these,
Dippleman. Boss's orders. He takes care of them
himself."

79

"Horan!"
Hoping he was able to disguise his somewhat guilty

start, Troy glanced back to see Kyger standing at the

door of the cage room beckoning.

"Get over here and help Jingu." He shepherded Troy
into the tank room where the marine creatures were

on display.

On the table at the far end of the room stood a

traveling container into which Jingu, the attendant of
those particular wares, was measuring a quantity of
liquid with an oily sheen to it. A small aquarium
containing the same liquid stood before him. Ahd
plastered against the side of that was something Troy,
at first sight, could not believe existed outside the
imagination of some V-dee fantasy creator.

He had seen many weird life forms, either in the
flesh or in Kyger's range of tri-dees. But this was not
strange; it was impossible—impossible with a kind of
stomach-turning horror. He did not want to look at it
and yet his eyes were continually drawn back to the
aquarium, and, when the thing moved, he fought an

answering heave to his stomach.

Leaning against the end of the table, intent upon
Jingu's task, was a stranger, a small man wearing the
tunic of one of the minor administrative bureaus. He
was a colorless man whom one might not have noted
or remembered unless seen as he was now, both hands
set on the table top as if to lever his slack-muscled body
closer to the monster in the aquarium, his eyes avid
with—Troy realized—greed, his pale tongue moving
back and forth like a lizard's over pale lips. He turned
his head as they came up and his eyes were bright.
"Beautiful, Merchant Kyger, beautiful!"

80

Kyger regarded the aquarium occupant bleakly. "Not
to me. Citizen. Those hur-hurs are"—he shook his
head as might a man at a loss for a descriptive word
pungent enough, and then ended rather mildly—
"hardly considered beautiful, Citizen Dragur."

The small man might have been the fussel lifting
its wings, ready to dart head toward in a beak-sharp
attack. "They are a rarity, Merchant Kyger, and of
their kind beautiful!" He bristled. "A splendid addition
to my collection." He looked from Kyger to Troy. "This
young man is to aid in the transporting? I trust that
he knows how to handle such valuables safely? I shall
hold you responsible, Kyger, until this magnificent
specimen is safely installed in my pond room."

Troy opened his mouth to deny that he was going to
have any part in the transportation of the hur-hur.
Then he caught Kyger's glare and remembered that
the seven-day contract was close to renewal time. After
all, the carrying jug, or bucket, or whatever they
termed it, which Jingu was filling so carefully, did
have solid sides, and a cover was waiting to be placed
on it. If he did lug the thing around, he did, not have
to continue to look at it.

Jingu now took up a rod and inserted it carefully, a
few inches at a time, beneath the surface of the water
in the aquarium. Then he prodded the hur-hur gently.
Troy, unable to look away, watched with fascinated
disgust as the monster embraced the rod with its
profusion of thread-thin tentacles, planting the suckers
beading those same tentacles fast on the rod. Then
Jingu whipped the rod and hur-hur out of the aquarium
into the container and clapped on the lid, adjusting a
carrying strap.

81

Troy lifted the cylinder gingerly, felt it quiver '
between his hands as apparently the hur-hur chose to
resent its new prison with some spirited movements.
His fingers shrank from even that contact with the
thing inside.

"Be careful!" Dragur shuffled along beside him as
he steadied the strap across his shoulder. But Kyger
came to his employee's rescue.

"They are not as fragile as all that, Citizen. And
here are your obaws for feeding.

He almost thrust a small cage into his customer's
hold. The small animals inside were running madly
about, squeaking wildly as if they had foreknowledge
of their dismal future. Troy, knowing just what that
future was in connection with the hur-hur, fought
another sharp skirmish with his stomach.

. His task was not just to carry the container as far
as the flitter awaiting Citizen Dragur, Troy discovered,
but to accompany the patron to his home, insuring the
safety of the hur-hur while Dragur himself piloted the
flyer, at a pace hardly faster than a brisk walk on the
ground. Dragur, unlike Rerne, proved to be a babbler.
Not that much of his conversation was directed to
Horan. Instead, the words that flowed were thoughts
uttered aloud and mainly concerned with his now
present ability to confound some fellow collector by
the name of Supervisor Mazeli, who might outrank
Dragur in the hierarchy of the department in which
they were both incarcerated until they reached age-
for-ease pay, but whose ambitious collection of marine
life did not embrace a hur-hur.

"Beautiful!" Dragur crawled the flitter across an
intersection of avenues, turned into the slightly wider
82

one that led to the outskirts of Tikil. "He will never
believe it—never! Next Fellowsday I shall invite him
and, say, Wilvins and Sorker. And then I shall escort
him around the room, show him the Lupan snails, and
the throwworms, give him a chance to enlarge on
what he has—then—" Dragur lifted one hand from
the controls, reached out to pat the top of the container
now riding on Troy's knees. "Then—the hur-hur! He
will never, never be able to match it. Never!"

For the first time the small man seemed to recollect
he did have a human companion in the flitter. "That
is correct, is it not, young man? When Merchant Kyger
gives a certificate of one-of-a-kind, he does not import
during the lifetime of the first specimen? That is truly
correct?"

Troy had not heard of that arrangement, but pru-
dence dictated a reply in the affirmative. "I believe so,
Citizen."

"Then Mazeli will never have a hur-hur—never!
Their life span is two hundred years—maybe three—
and Kyger has certified that this is a young one. Oh,
Mazeli may wish but he cannot have! Not one such as
you, my little beauty!" Dragur delivered another pat
to the top of the cylinder. And perhaps some of this
elation did register on the monstrosity inside, for the
thing gave such a determined lurch against one side
that Troy had to hold it steady with both hands.

"Careful! Careful! I say, young man! What are you
doing?" Dragur brought the flitter to a complete stop
and fronted Troy indignantly.

"I think it is excited, Citizen." Troy held the quivering
container with both hands. "It probably wants back in
an aquarium."

83

"Yes, of course." This time Dragur started the flitter
with a jerk, and his rate of speed increased appreciably.
"We shall soon be there, very soon now—"

Dragur had one of the small share-houses along the
merchant zone. He unsealed the palm lock of the door
with one hand, waved Troy in with the other. But the
atmosphere that met Horan upon entrance was any-
thing but enticing.

There were strange smells to be met in plenty at
Kyger's, but a clever system of ventilation and de-
odorization kept the air from anything but a suggestion
of the wares to be offered under that roof. Here the
marine reek of the fish room at the shop was multiplied
a thousand times.

What had been intended as the meeting room of the
share-house was now a miniature sea bottom. The light
itself was subdued, in a manner greenish, when
compared to the daylight entering through specially
tinted panels. And aquariums were set along the walls
in banks with what might be a naturally formed pool
in the center.

"Stand where you are, right where you are, young
man!" Dragur pushed ahead, skirted the floor pool,
and approached a table in the darkest corner of that
dim chamber. He pulled and pushed at an empty
aquarium there until he had it in line with its fellows
and then proceeded to lift, with every appearance of
exertion, a series of glass containers, pouring from
first one and then the other, now and then leaning
well over to sniff loudly and rather dramatically at
the mixture.

Troy shifted his feet. The weight of the container
was not light, and it kept jerking on the shoulder
84

strap as the hur-hur continued to resent transportation.
Horan was eager to be out of this cave of bad smells
and marine monsters, for some of the things that
bumped sides of bowls and aquariums to stare at him,
or seem to stare at him, were not far removed from the
hur-hur in general frightfulness.

At last the concoction appeared to satisfy Dragur.
He added, with the air of an artist supplying the last
touch to a masterpiece, a long string of what looked
like badly decayed root fibers and beckoned to Troy.

Did Dragur think that he was going to transfer the
hur-hur via the rod method Jingu had used? If so, this
customer was not going to be a satisfied one. Troy had
no intention of trying such action.

But apparently Dragur had no idea of leaving such
a delicate task to a novice. He waved Troy away again
as soon as the other had put down the container and
took off the lid. Playing the hur-hur into clinging once
more to the rod, the little man whipped the creature
with even more dexterity than Jingu had displayed

into its new home.

"Now!" Dragur gave the shop container back to Troy.
"We must let it alone, strictly alone, two days—maybe
three—only visiting it for feeding."

Troy wondered if the other imagined that he was
going to be in this smelly room for another few
moments, let alone two or three days!

"Is that all, Citizen?" He asked firmly.

Dragur again seemed to notice him as a person.
"What? Ha—yes, that will be all, young man. I have
not seen you before, have I? You did not come with me
last time for a delivery."

"No. I am new at Kyger's."

85

"Yes, it was Zul who came last time, I remember.
And who are you, young man?"
"Troy Horan."

"Horan? Horan—that is an off-world name, surely?"
"I am from Norden," Troy returned as he edged
toward the outer door with its promise of fresh air.

"Norden?" Dragur blinked as if trying to visualize
some solar chart on which he could place Norden with
dispatch and precision. "You are a former spacer then,
as is Merchant Kyger?"
"I am from the Dipple."

"Oh." Dragur displayed the conventional citizen's
reaction to that, embarrassment intermixed with
irritation. "Assure Merchant Kyger that I am pleased,
very pleased. I shall be in myself, of course, with my
supply list. And please remind him that this is a
one-of-a-species sale—that must be plain, very plain."
"I am sure the merchant understands, Citizen."
Dragur followed him to the door, pointed out the
nearest roll walk. He did not reenter the house until
Troy was several paces away. Probably, thought Horan
bitterly, he just wants to make sure a Dippleman i&
well off the premises.

But this was not the end of a day of minor irritations
and disappointments. The morning had begun so well
with the awakening in the lodge of the Wild. It was
ending in the evening in Tikil with his re-entering
the shop to discover Zul very much the master of the
cage room. Though the small yellow man walked with
a limp, he walked briskly, and he did not welcome
Troy back.

End of the seven-day contract—Troy was very
conscious of that. He could continue here to the limit
86

of that time and then Kyger was under no obligation
to renew. With Zul back he probably would not. When
Troy brought in water for the fox cage, the other
waved him off, attending to the Terran animals himself.
In fact he zealously preempted so many of the tasks
Troy had done that the latter was elbowed out of the
work almost entirely. And each time Horan saw Kyger
he expected to be told that his employment would be
over as soon as it was legally possible to dismiss him.

However, the merchant said nothing—until a few
moments immediately preceding the official closing of
the shop. Then Troy was summoned to where Kyger
and Zul stood by the door of the animal room. And he
could see that Zul was not pleased.

"You will take the night inspection tours as usual,"
Kyger ordered. His broad fingers rested on Zul's
shoulder, and now he pulled the smaller man with
him as easily as if Zul were powerless in his hold. The
yellow man favored Troy with a glare that made the
latter wish, not for the first time, that he had a right
to wear a belt knife.

With the shop closed and the animals settled, Troy
made his first round, starting with the now silent
customer's lounges, checking each room. What he was
hunting, or why he had this growing compulsion that
was almost a search, he could not have told.

The lounges contained nothing out of the ordinary;

the bird room was as always. He lingered before the
fussel. It was hard to remember this morning. The
bird permitted him to run a forefinger along its crest,
drew the bill that could stab and kill across his hand
in return.

Then he was in the animal room. And now he thought
87

he knew what had driven him to this restless seeking.
What had become of the kinkajou? No one had men-
tioned it since his return. The foxes had been settled
in its place as if they had been there for days. Had it
been returned to the Sattor Commander Di's heirs as
a valuable part of his estate?

Suddenly Troy knew that he would have to discover
what had become of the animal that had claimed his
aid and that he might have unknowingly left unpro-
tected, for he remembered all too well the strange
conversation in the night.

On impulse he turned and left the cage room, walked
straight to his bunk and stretched out on it. If he
could not find the kinkajou one way, there was a
chance—just a very faint chance—another and more
devious path might serve.

Eight

Troy's eyes were shut. He willed nerves and muscles
to relax, trying to hit by chance, since he had no
better guide, on the pattern that had aided him that
other night to tune in upon the exchange that was not
conversation. Through the corns all the usual noises
from the bird and animal rooms reached him, and he
tried not to listen.

"—here. Out—"

Not really words, rather impressions—a signal, a
88

plea. Troy's eyes opened; he sat up—and that whisper
of contact was gone. Angry at his own lack of control,
he settled himself once more on the bunk, tried again
to tap that band of communication.

"Out—out—danger—"

He lay, hardly breathing, trying to hold that line.

"Out—"

Yes, it was a plea; he was certain of that. But there
was no way of discovering from whom or from where
it came. He might have stumbled upon a small loop of
rope in the middle of a large room, to be told to find
the coil from which it had been cut.

"Where?" He tried to frame that word in his own
mind, force the inquiry into the band he could not
locate.

Then he received an impression of surprise—so strong
it was like an exclamation his ears could pick up.

"Who? Who?" The query was eager, demanding.

"Troy—" He thought his own name but was answered
by a sense of bafflement, disappointment. Maybe names
meant nothing in this eerie exchange. Troy tried to
build up a mental picture of his own face as he had
seen it in mirrors. He thought intensely of that face,
of each detail of his own features.

The sensation of bafflement faded, though he was
sure he had not lost contact.

"Who?" he asked silently in return, certain that he
was communicating with the kinkajou.

But instead an oddly shaped and distorted picture of
a triangular mask, sharp-pointed nose, glittering eyes,
pricked ears—the fox!

Troy slipped out of his bunk. He did not foresee any
trouble. If Kyger or Zul turned up, he could always
89

say he was investigating some unusual sound. Yet he
took the stunner from its wall niche before he left the
small room and went as noiselessly as he could down
the corridor to the animal room.

There was a cover over the front of the fox cage.
Troy raised that flap. Both animals sat there, watching
him. He glanced about the room. Even in the dim
night light he could see nothing amiss. This could not
be a case of an intruder as it had been when the
kinkajou's warning had saved his life.

"What is wrong?" At the moment there was nothing
strange in his standing there thinking that question
at a pair of Terran foxes.
"The big one—he threatens."

It was as if someone with a strictly curtailed number
of words was trying to convey a complex thought. The
big one—Kyger?
"Yes!" The assent was quick, eager.
"What is wrong?"
"He fears—thinks better dead—"
"Who is better dead?" Troy's grip on the stunner
tightened. He felt a cold stab between his shoulders
giving birth to a chill that had nothing to do with the
temperature of the room.
"Those who know—all those who know—"
"Me?" Troy countered quickly. Though of what Kyger
might suspect him or why he had no idea.

There was no answer. Either he had presented them
with a new puzzle, or, unable to give a definite reply,
they gave none at all.
"You?"

"Yes—" But there was an element of doubt in that yes.
"Others like you?" Troy pushed.
90

"Yes!" Now there was no mistaking the vehemence
of that.

He thought of the kinkajou. One of the foxes reared,
put front paws against the screening of the cage. "It
was here. Now it is there."

"Where?" Troy tried to follow.

His mind pictured for him a cage, hooded and
stored—but not in any room of the shop he had seen.

"In the yard pens?" he asked.

There was a long moment before the answer came
and then it was evasive.

"Cool air, many smells—maybe outside."

Was the fox only relaying for the kinkajou? Troy
thought that might be true.

"Cage covered—not to see—"

That fitted. The animal might well be in one of the
outside pens still in a carrying cage. But to find it
tonight would be a risky project, and what could he do
if he did locate it?

"Hide!"

They had picked that out of his thoughts, replied to
it. The standing fox was panting a little, its red tongue
lolling from its jaws.

Troy considered the problem. For some reason Kyger
had hidden the kinkajou, intending to get rid of it. To
meddle in this at all was simply asking for trouble.
Not only would the merchant break contract, but he
was entitled to black-list Troy with the C.L.C. so that
he could never hope for another day's labor on Korwar.
That had happened to Dipplemen in the past, and for
less cause. He had only to fasten down the cover of the
foxes' cage, leave the room, forget everything, and he
was safe.

91

How safe? He stared down at the fox. The kinkajou,
the foxes, even the cats, all knew that he was able to
communicate with them. Suppose they passed the
information on to Kyger? That interrupted conversation
the other night—if Kyger knew he had "heard"
that— Yes, a refusal to help might cut two ways now.

He jerked the flap of the cage cover into place,
making no further attempt to talk to the foxes. Then,
thrusting the stunner into the top of his rider's belt,
he padded to the rear door and let himself out cau-
tiously, ducking into a convenient pool of shadow.

Just as he patrolled the shop during the night, the
senior yardman made the rounds out here.And Troy's
presence near some of the larger animal pens could
arouse their inhabitants to noisy protest, betraying
him at once. .Nor did Horan have the least idea in
which of these enclosures the kinkajou was now housed,
if it was here at all.

He slipped along the wall, his left shoulder against
it, making a quick dart across an open space to the
shelter of a doorway. From that came the scent of hay,
seeds, dried vegetation. And those mingled odors took
him back to his twenty-four hours in the Wild. Perhaps
it was then that the first flick of an idea was born—not
concrete enough yet to be called a plan, just a hazy
half-dream suggesting a way of escape if Kyger did
dismiss him again to the Dipple.

Troy felt the door yield to his gentle push and he
went in. Under his hand the panel swung almost
closed once more, but through the crack he was able
to reconnoiter the rest of the courtyard. In which of
the pens and cages about its circumference could what
he sought be effectively hidden? And would Kyger
92

have undertaken that mission himself or left it to one
of the yardmen—or Zul?

Kyger—or Zul, the most likely. Zul had not wanted
Troy to be left in the shop tonight; he was certain of
that. He wished he knew where that small man was
right now.

There was a stir by the door that gave on the
passage leading to Kyger's private apartment. A figure
moved into the open and Troy saw Zul, by his present
actions a Zul who did .not want to be observed, for, as
Troy had done, the other took advantage of every
shadow to cover his journey along the row of pens.

Perhaps the creatures penned there were used to
his scent and such nighttime journeys, for none of
them roused. Then Zul disappeared, seemingly into a
patch of wall. Where his flitting had been soundless,
the tap of footsteps now sounded briskly down the
opposite side of the yard, and Troy held his breath as
they approached the supply room. He gently eased the
panel fully shut and waited tensely to see if the pa-
trolling guard would try it.

When the footfalls passed without pausing, Horan
again opened the door a crack. He could not see the
retreating yardman from this position, but he heard
the door at the other end of the court close. Then he
saw Zul detach himself from the wall and move on.
So—Zul was keeping this a secret from the regular
guard? That was most interesting.

Two, three more pens the other passed. Then he
stopped before the last in that row, a larger enclosure
where two small trasi from Longus were kept. They
were very tame and most affectionate creatures of a
subspecies of deer.

93

The pen door opened and Zul disappeared within,
the darkness there hiding him entirely.

"Obey!"

Troy's hand went to his head at the force of that
menacing thought-order, which struck like a blow.
But to it there was not the faintest trace of an answer,
either agreement or protest. Somehow Troy could
imagine Zul stooped above a shrouded cage, trying to
arouse a ball of fur that remained stubbornly imper-
vious to his commands.

"Listen!" Again that whip crack of order. "You will
obey!"

Again only complete silence. Will against will—
animal opposing man? Troy leaned his forehead against
the cool surface of the 4oor behind which he half
crouched, trying with every fiber of will and strength
to listen in on the duel that he was sure was being
waged across the courtyard.

Minutes dragged. Then Zul slid out of the pen, made
his way back along the wall, disappeared into the same
passage the spacers used when they visited the shop.
Troy counted slowly under his breath. When .he reached
fifty and there was no movement in the courtyard,
he came out of the storeroom, went to the trasi pen.

The animals stirred as he lifted the latch and let
himself in. Only a little of the limited light in the
yard reached here, and at first he thought that he
must have been mistaken; there was no cage in sight.
He stooped, brushed through the hay piled against the
far wall, to bark his knuckles painfully against solid
surface. Then he hunkered down, feeling over the
covered cage for the fastenings. They had been doubly
tied and he had difficulty in loosening them.
94

Though the kinkajou must have been aware of his
efforts, it made no move, neither a stir nor a mind
touch. The flap of the cover was up now, but Troy
could not see into the cage. He unfastened the catch of
the door.

Troy fell back as a half-seen thing flashed into the
loose hay, tossing up a small whirlwind of scattered
wisps, squeezed under the bottom of the pen door and
was gone—before the man half comprehended that
the captive had been poised ready for escape. There
was no use now trying to find it in the courtyard.
There were a hundred places that might have been
designed to conceal a fast-moving arboreal animal
such as the kinkajou—which left Troy where?

He snapped shut the cage, refastened the covering
the same way he had found it. Brushing hay from his
coveralls, he detached a last telltale length from his
belt. There was no use in looking for more trouble.
The kinkajou was loose, and he could not help believing
that the animal was far safer at this moment than it
had been in that cage. Let its empty prison provide a
morning mystery for Kyger or Zul.

Troy went back to his bunk. He was convinced now
that his employer had a part in a game more important
than smuggling, a game in which the animals were
involved. And as he dozed off, he wondered just how
many four-footed Terrans with strange mental powers
had been loosed on Korwar—and why.

If the kinkajou had been missed, there was no alarm
given the next day. The routine followed the same
pattern it had every morning that Troy had been
employed by Kyger's, with the exception that Zul now
took over a major portion of the indoor work and Troy
95

was relegated to sweeping and cleaning jobs, which
were the least desirable. But at noon he was summoned
to the bird room, for it appeared that competent as he
might be in other ways, Zul was not the handler
favored by the fussel.

Troy could hear the bird's angry screams while he
was still in the corridor. And Kyger, scowling, stood
waving him to hurry. Zul, chattering in some language
other than Galbasic, was fairly dancing in his own
heat of rage, a bleeding hand held now and again to
his wide-lipped mouth as he sucked a deep tear in the
flesh.

Troy spoke to the merchant. "We shall have to have
quiet."

Kyger nodded, reached out for Zul, and manhandled
the struggling man out. The fussel was beating its
wings, its beak stretched to the limit as it screamed. ,

Troy approached the bird slowly, crooning a monotone
of such small soothing sounds as, he had discovered
during his night rounds, combatted the suspicions and
alarms of any disturbed cage dweller. There was no
hurrying this. To arouse the fussel to the state of
fighting against the cage would be to damage the
bird, if not physically, then emotionally. Troy sum-
moned all his concentration of mind and body, uncon-
sciously trying to reach the bird's mind by the same
method he had used to communicate with the Terran
animals. He was aware of no response in return, but
the fussel did quiet, until, at last, Troy could take it
out on his wrist. He moved to the door, eager to walk
the bird in the open where it might lose its agitation.

Kyger stood aside for him. "The courtyard," he
suggested. "I will see you have it free for a space."
96

An hour later the great hawk was restored to good
humor and Troy returned it to the cage. He was pulling
off his glove when Kyger joined him.

"That was well done. We can use you on staff. Will
you take full contract?"

This was what he had hardly dared hope for—
a contract that would register him as a subcitizen! He
would be free of the Dipple forever, since you were not
demoted from a full contract except for a very serious
criminal cause; the laws of Korwar would operate in
his favor, not against him, from now on. Yet—there
were all those nagging little doubts, and the affair of
the kinkajou. Beneath that was something else as well,
the feeling that he did not want to be a loyal employee
of Kyger's, tied by custom and ethics to the purposes
of the shop. What he did want he had sensed only vague-
ly that morning on the plateau in the Wild—a freedom
not to be found in Tikil. But that was stupid. Troy
disciplined his wishes never to be realized and looked
to his employer with all the gratitude he could muster.

"Yes, Merchant, I accept."

"Another day for the old contract to run—then the
new. Meanwhile"—Kyger observed the fussel—"we
don't want any more trouble with this one. I will corn
the Hunter Headquarters in the city and if they will
accept delivery on Rerne's behalf, you can take the
bird there tonight."

But within the hour Zul brought a message from
Kyger, and Troy came to the office to find the merchant
striding up and down, his fingers picking at his scar.
He had never given the impression of an easily
disturbed man, but he was not the calm and confident

purveyor of luxuries to Tikil now.

97

"We close early," he told Troy. "Do not answer any
queries on the door corn. And make your rounds on
time. I will not be here—but if there is any trouble,
hit the alarms at once. Do not try to handle it yourself.
The patrollers will take over."

What did Kyger expect, an armed invasion? Troy
knew that this was not the time to ask anything. The
other had gathered up a hooded night cloak—usually
the garment for one venturing into the less reputable
portions of the town—and he was wearing his service
blaster. It was a certain blec.k look in his eyes, a set to
his jaw, that warned off questions.

To Troy's satisfaction Zul accompanied his master.
Now, with the shop closed and yet the hour early, he
would have a chance to look about the courtyard. He
did not believe that the kinkajou would remain in
hiding there unless the fact that it must have imported
food would tie it to the source of supply. But maybe he
could prove or disprove that theory tonight.

There were only two places that had not been open
to constant view during the day—the storeroom in
which he had taken refuge the night before and Kyger's
own quarters. The latter he had no hope of exploring.
They would be locked, to be opened only by the pressure
of the merchant's own hand—or a blaster.

But the storeroom, filled with boxes, bales, containers,
had a score of hiding places into which a frightened
animal could tuck itself. The foxes in the animal
room—the kinkajou free. Troy could not rid himself of
the thought that those three might be in contact.
Would he be able to reach and influence the fugitive
through the two still in the cage? And why were they
still in the shop? To Troy's knowledge there had been
98

no message sent to the Grand Leader One that her
pets had arrived.

Armed with a food box, he went to the animal room.
Again the foxes' prison was curtained. Troy loosened
the flap. One of the animals was sleeping, or seeming
to sleep. The other also sprawled, its eyes half closed.
And seeing them, Troy could almost doubt his belief
in their powers.

"Where is the other?" he thought, trying to get into
that demand a little of the force Zul had used in his
questioning of the kinkajou.

The waking fox yawned, then brought its jaws
together with a snap, its eyes still bemused—with no
outward interest in Troy at all. The man tried again,
throttling down his impatience, using the same gentle
approach he had brought to the soothing of the
fussel—with no result. If there was any contact between
the foxes and the fugitive, they would not employ it
for Troy. He would have to hunt on his own.

He was on his way back to the courtyard when the
corn shrilled, drawing him to the nearest viewplate.
The clouded image there settled into a rather fuzzy
focus of Kyger's features.

"Horan?"

Troy thumbed the answer lever. "Here, Merchant."

"You will turn guard duty over to Jingu and deliver
the fussel to the Hunter Headquarters in the Torrent
District. Understand?"

"Understood," Troy assented". There went his hopes
for exploring the storeroom. He went to tidy his clothes,
and then to select a traveling cage for the bird. Would
Rerne be there, back from his mysterious errand? He
found himself hoping so.

99

Nine

Tikil at night, or at least during the early hours of the
night, was more crowded than by day. Horan called
an accommodation flitter for his crosstown journey to
the Hunter Headquarters, but he decided to use the
roll walk on his return. He was going toward it when
Harse hailed him, just in front of the building.

"You seek Rerne?"

"I brought the fussel, by Merchant Kyger's orders."
Troy was put on the defensive by the other's attitude.
During their brief time together Reme had never made
him conscious of the Dipple. With the other rangers
Horan was ever aware of his knifeless belt and the
fact he was a planetless man.

"There is a message," Harse replied aloofly. "Reme
wishes to speak with you—"

"But I was just told he is not here."

"So he is elsewhere. Come!"

Troy was tempted to reply "no" to that curt order.
After all, he was not under contract to Rerne. Yet he
could not deny that he was interested to learn why
Harse had been sent to find him.

The other was as adept at threading a fast passage
through the crowds as he might have been in finding
a path through the forests. And he brought Troy not
to any office or lounge, but to one of those small
eating places that sprang up overnight by public favor
100

and disappeared as quickly when some newer attraction
drew the fickle pleasure seekers.

"Fourth booth," Harse said and left him.

Troy pushed his way in and discovered that his shop
livery did not make him conspicuous here. This cafe
definitely catered to subcitizens and the lower ranks
of shop employees. Two of the booths were curtained,
signifying private parties. But there were two men
without feminine company in the one to which he had
been directed.

Reme, wearing shop livery, sat with his back against
the wall. And with him was an older man in a dark
tunic lacking any emblems of rank, yet equipped with
that indefinable aura of authority that Troy recognized
as the inborn assurance of a man who has held respon-
sibility from his early years.

"Horan—" Rerne uttered his name in what might
be a greeting, but more likely was an introduction for
the stranger's benefit.

"Rogarkil." Now the stranger nodded to Troy.

"You have taken permanent contract with Kyger?"
Rerne shot that question at him bluntly, even as he
waved the younger man to a seat.

"I will—tomorrow—" A subtle tone in the other's
demand made him uneasy, put him on the defensive—
why, he could not have said.

"You are now under a short-term one?" That was
Rogarkil.

"That is so."

"And if you should be offered employment elsewhere?"

"I have given my word to Merchant Kyger. He would
have to agree to my going."

Rogarkil smiled wryly. "There are always such
101

disadvantages when one deals with honorable men.
And to deal with dishonorable ones is to lose before
one takes the first stride in a race. So at this hour you
are still Merchant Kyger's man?"
"I am."

What did they want of him? This talk of honor and
dishonor made Troy uncomfortable. But Rerne did not
give him time to speculate about the meanings that
might lie behind their fencing blades of words.

"There are questions you can answer, which will in
no way break contract. For example: Is it not true
that Merchant Kyger is now in the process of importing
a Terran animal known as a fox at the express order
of the Great Leader?"

"You yourself heard that order given, Gentle Homo."
"And he has imported other Terran animals?"
"As you say, Gentle Homo, he has imported other
Terran animals. This must be general knowledge, since
the display of such pets is the pleasure of those who
buy them."

"A pair of cats for the Gentle Fern San duk Var, a
kinkajou for Sattor Commander Di—"

"I am a cleaner of cages and do general labor for the
worthy merchant," Troy returned stiffly. "I do not make
sales, nor do I see many of the great ones who buy."

"But among those cages that you clean," cut in
Rogarkil, "are doubtless those of some of these exotics
You have seen some of them with your own eyes,
young man?"

Troy kept strictly to the record. "I was with Subcitizen
Zul when he went to the port to accept delivery of the
cats—"

"And you met with some trouble that morning—"
102

Troy looked slowly from one man to the other. "Gentle
Homos," he said softly, "if I speak now to patrollers
not in uniform, I have the right to know that fact.
There is still law to protect a man in Tikil—even one
from the Dipple."

Rogarkil grimaced. "Yes, you are entirely within
your rights, young man, to deliver such a counterthrust
as that. No, we are not patrollers—nor do we represent
the law of Tikil. This is a Clan matter. Do you
understand what that means?"

"Even in the Dipple, Gentle Homo, men have ears
and lips. Yes, I know that the Clans are older than
the city law, that they are rumored to have powers
even beyond those of the Council Governor-General.
But they are of the Clans and for the Clans. I am of
the Dipple and if I am to climb out of the Dipple, I
must do so under the laws of Tikil. Why you ask me
these questions I do not know, but I hold by contract
rights. This much I will say—and it is no more than
you can learn from the patroller records—I have seen
the cats. And I took the kinkajou from the villa of
Sattor Commander Di. It had been frightened by rough
handling there. I have seen the foxes, which are now in
the shop. Why should these facts be of any importance?"

"That is what we are striving to learn," Rogarkil
answered enigmatically. "You are right, Horan. Clan
law does not run in Tikil. But remember that it does
run elsewhere—"

"A threat—or a warning, Gentle Homo?"

"A warning. We have reason to believe that you
walk on the rim of a whirlpool, young man. Take good
care that you do not leap into its current."

"That is all you have to ask me?"

103

Rogarkil waved his hand in dismissal. But Rerne
arose as Troy did.

"I will see Merchant Kyger."

"Not tonight. The shop is closed."

Both men eyed him now as if he had made some
fateful announcement.

"Why?"

"Kyger had an errand—"

Rerne turned to his companion, spoke a sharply
accented sentence in a language that was not Gal-
basic. Rogarkil asked Troy another question: "Is not
this foreign to your regular routine?"

"Yes."

"So—well, maybe Merchant Kyger's personal affairs
are beginning to press him more acutely," he com-
mented. "One cannot carry a knife in two quarrels
and give equal attention to both. But the foxes are
still there?" He turned to Troy. "And where is the
kinkajou you took from Di's villa—also in the shop?"

Troy shrugged. "When I returned from the Wild, it
was gone from the cage room. Perhaps it was restored
to the Sattor Commander's heirs. It is a very valuable
asset of the estate."

"Kyger did not return it so," Rerne stated with
finality. He was watching Troy narrowly now, coldly.

"It was gone from its cage." Troy repeated the part-
truth stubbornly. He was not going to add to that when
he did not know the game they were playing—the
nature of this "whirlpool" in which he, too, could be
trapped.

"The boy is right, of course," Rogarkil said. "Employed
as casual labor, he would have no reason to know
more than he has noticed. And he is a man under
104

contract, apart from our problems. It is a pity this is
so now, Horan. Under other circumstances we might
have been of mutual assistance to one another. A
rider of Norden is not too far removed in aspirations
and desires from a Hunter of Korwar."

"There are no riders on Norden today," Troy pointed
out. He was watching Rerne, and again it seemed to
him that the Hunter was two-minded, about to speak
and then thinking better of it. Instead he nodded and
Troy took that gesture for one of dismissal. He lifted
his own hand in a small salute—one of equality though
he was not aware of that—and walked away from the
booth. Why was he gnawed by the feeling that he had
just slammed a door irrevocably, a door that might
have opened on a new world? There was an ache of
disappointment in him that was like the bite of an old
unappeasable hunger.

He pushed through the crowds, hardly noticing those
about him, made his way back to the shop and the
side entrance into the courtyard. Slapping his hand
against the signal plate, he waited for the night
yardman to activate the open beam for him. But
instead, at that touch from his open palm, the panel
swung inward and he was looking down the short
covered way, a way that was unnaturally dim as if the
usual night-radiance bars there had been set at least
two notches lower than was normal.

Troy's stunner was in the bunk room. He was
unarmed, and he had no intention of walking that
courtyard without some form of defense. The door had
no right to be open; the dimmed lights underlined
that silent warning. He could well be facing a trap.

Now he unfastened the polished silver buckles of his
105

belt. The strip of metal-encrusted leather was the only
thing on him that could serve as a weapon. With one
end grasped tightly in his fist, the length ready to use
as a lash, he edged along the wall of the passage,
listening to catch any sound from the courtyard beyond.

The mild complaints of the animals penned there
could cover an attack. But from whom and for what
purpose? Troy reached the end of the passage, flattened
his body against the wall just inside the entrance, and
surveyed the open. There was something wrong about
the south side—

Then he pinpointed that difference. The door that
led to Kyger's private quarters, which he had never
seen open, stood ajar now—painting an unfamiliar
shadow across a section of pavement. And in the center
of the yard stood a flitter. Whether it was the shop
flyer he could not tell.

The open door and that waiting flyer were not all.
There was an atmosphere of sharp expectancy about
the whole scene—as if the stage awaited actors. Maybe
the animals were sensitive to that also, for there were
only the most subdued sounds from the pens. Again Troy
smelled "trap" as if it were a tangible odor in the air.
But somehow he could not believe it was set for him.

Kyger then? That fitted better. He had had hints of
some personal difficulty—perhaps even a knife feud—
engulfing the merchant. And there was the Clan's
concern with the ex-spacer, too. Troy Horan was very
small fry indeed. This suggested an operation on a
much more important scale.

Prudence dictated his getting across that courtyard,
into his own bunk room, without any exploration—if
he could make it unobserved by what might hide out
106

there. And what about Zul? The little man had left
with Kyger—but what if he had returned separately?
The yardmen? From what he could see, there was no
indication that there was any human anywhere in the
store block.

A flicker of movement, not in the courtyard but on
the top of one of the blocks of pens, drew Troy's eyes.
There was a second such. Something small, dark, fluidly
supple, had crossed a patch of light, been followed by
another such. Far too small to be Zul—animals loose
from some cage? But why on the roof coming in? The
shadows into which both had slipped were far too deep
for his sight to penetrate, and the speed with which
they had disappeared suggested they might already
be far away from that point.

A gathering—why did he think of that? Troy mea-
sured the distance between him and the nearest cover.
Then, with as much speed as he could muster, he
made that leap, stood listening once more, his breath
coming raspingly.

Another surge of shadow, drawn toward that half-
open door of Kyger's. This moving, not with the slinking
glide of the patch on the roof, but in a quick, scuttling
dash, again too hurried for Troy to see clearly. But he
was sure it whipped about the edge of the door, went
into the merchant's private quarters.

Troy made his own advancing rush. Then he saw
round balls of green turned up toward him from close
to giound level, feral animal eyes. The belt swung in
his hand, his reaction to being so startled. They were
gone as another form went through the door.

His earlier alarm had been tinged with curiosity.
Now there was another emotion feeding it. Just as
107

those shadows had gone to the waiting door, so did he l
have to follow. He crossed the last few feet and entered,
somehow expecting an attack.

Here the sounds from the courtyard were muted.
But there was that which was not a sound, rather a ;

thrumming in the blood, a throb in the ears—less
than audible sound, or more. He knew of whistles,
animal and bird calls, that sounded notes beyond the
human range of hearing. Yet he could feel this that he i
could not hear, and it was an irritant, a disturbance '
that nourished fear. But he could not turn his back
upon it.

Troy groped his way forward, for there was no night
ray on. Then his foot touched a rising surface and he
explored a stairway with his hands. Step by step he
climbed, the thick substance of the footing soaking up •
any sound of his boots. The throb was beating more
heavily through his body as he went.

The stairway ended. He stood listening—and knew
that no longer was he alone, though no sound, not
even that of a hurried breath, betrayed whoever, or
whatever, shared that darkness with him.

Troy had no idea of the geography of the space in
which he now was, and there could not be any open
window slits, for the dark was complete. He kept stem
rein on his imagination, which tended to people this
place with shapes that crept and slunk toward the
target—which was himself. On impulse he squatted
on his heels, marked off a foot or so on the belt he
held, and swung it from left to right at floor level.
Sure of that much clear space, he inched on to try the
same maneuver again.

How long he might have taken to make the trip
108

across the hall Troy was never to know, for a sudden
shaft of light speared dazzlingly from right to left
some feet away. And as his eyes adjusted to that. Troy
saw it issued from a panel door not quite closed.

He was in a hallway from which three such doors
issued, all of them on his right. And it was the last
one that showed the light. No sound—but he could not
retreat now. Someone—or something—knew he was
there, was waiting. And he had to face it.

On his feet again, Troy moved lightly and swiftly to
that panel. His hand touched its surface—now he could
look in, though he was not sure the man in that room
could see him.

Kyger sat there, not in the enveloping embrace of
an eazi-rest, but upright on a queer, backless, armless
stool, his shoulders against the wall. And between his
hands was a cylinder perhaps a foot in diameter, one
end resting on the floor guarded by his firmly planted
boots, its top slightly below his chin.

No man could sit that quietly, not if he was conscious.
Yet Kyger's eyes were open, staring—not at Troy as
the other first supposed, but beyond and through him,
as if the younger man had no existence. And that
frozen stare moved Troy forward, made him push open
the panel and step within.

Kyger did not stir. Troy, tongue running across
suddenly dry lips, came on. It was an oddly bare room.
There was Kyger on his stool, gripping his cylinder.
There was a series of small polished cabinets, all closed
and with plainly visible thumb locks, and that was all.

Troy spoke and then wished he had not as his words
echoed hollowly. "Merchant Kyger—is there something
wrong?"

109

Kyger continued to stare and Troy at last knew the
truth—Kyger was a dead man. He whirled, seeking
behind him the one who had put on the light—to see
nothing save a wall on which there were patterned
lines of red, black, and white laid down in a map's
design. A map of Tikil, he realized as he surveyed it,
in which the open door panel had left a break in the
eastern section.

Purposefully Troy moved to the right of the seated
man. He could see no wound, no indication of any
violence. Yet Kyger had not died naturally—his
position, this room, argued that. And what of the
thing or things that he had seen precede him through
the downstairs door?

Leaving the panel open for light, Troy went back
into the hall, pushed open both other doors. One gave
on a bedchamber, the other on a small lounge-diner,
both empty.

He went back to Kyger's room. And now, fronting
him out of nowhere, were those shadows—the black
cat and its blue-gray mate, the kinkajou, no longer an
indifferent ball but very much alert, the two foxes he
could have sworn were safe in their cage in the other
building. It looked as if the full roll of Terran imports
to Korwar was before him now. And their lips were
drawn back from their teeth, the hair of the cats was
roughened on their arched backs, their united menace
could be felt as a blow.

"No!" Oddly enough he answered that unvoiced rage
and fear with word and gesture, dropping the belt,
holding his hands up and palm out to them as if he
faced another of his own species.

The black cat relaxed first, pacing forward a paw's
110

r

length or so, and Troy dropped on one knee. "No," he
repeated as firmly but in a lower tone. Then he held
out his hand as he had seen Kyger do on the morning
they had first uncrated the cats in the courtyard.

A delicate sniff or two, and then sharp teeth closed
on the back of his wrist, not to hurt, he knew, but as if
to seal some agreement. Troy did not have a chance to
learn more, for there was a sound from below. Someone
who had no reason to disguise his coming was climbing
the stairs.

Troy strode to the panel of the hall door. Then he
knew that his silhouette could be seen from below,
and he ducked to one side. It was the action of only a
few seconds, but when he glanced at the animals, they
were gone. Where they had vanished to he could not
guess, but that they had their suspicions concerning
the newcomer he could deduce from that disappearance.

There was no such escape for him. Troy stepped
back a little, picked up his belt, and, with it ready
in his hand, stood waiting.

Zul came into the path of the light. He gave Troy a
wide-eyed stare, looked beyond to the motionless Kyger.
Then, his lips pulled tight against his teeth, just as
the animals had snarled, he launched himself at Troy,
his knife out, a vicious streak of fire in his hand.

Ill

Ten

Troy dodged and licked out with his belt lash for the
wrist of Zul's knife hand. The buckle-loaded tip found
its mark, and the smaller man yelped and swung
around so that his outflung, balancing arm brushed
against the tube Kyger's dead fingers steadied. The
cylinder fell and the body of the merchant followed it,
wilting bonelessly to the floor. Zul screeched, a cry as
high and unhuman as any the animals or birds could
have uttered.

At the same time Troy felt a cessation of that
thrumming throb. The tube rolled toward him, and
Zul, seeming to forget his rage of only seconds earlier,
made a grab for it.

Troy kicked, sending the tube spinning. Then he
brought the edge of his hand down across Zul's neck,
dropping the little man to lie on the floor gasping.
Troy had leisure to collect both knife and cylinder
before Zul sat up, still breathing in hoarse rasps.

With the knife and tube laid on top of a cabinet,
Troy advanced on Zul. It was like trying to master by
force a frenzied animal, one that scratched and bit. In
spite of his repugnance, Troy was forced to knock the
smaller man out in order to fasten his hands behind
him with his own belt.

Troy was rebuckling his riders broad cincture when
112

he saw Zul's eyes open and take in the limp body of
Kyger. The small man's face twisted in a grimace
Troy could not read. Then he strained to raise his
head from the floor, looked about eagerly, as if he
wanted something more important for the moment
than Troy. His attention centered on the tube where it
lay with one end projecting over the edge of the cabinet,
and he actually began to wriggle his body across the
floor toward it.

Troy stepped between. Zul's grimace was now an
open snarl. He spat, struggled to lever himself from
the floor.

Troy picked up the tube and took it with him as he
moved to the red alarm button on the wall. The quicker
he summoned the authorities, the less trouble he would
have in telling his own tale.

"No!" For the first time Zul spoke intelligibly. "Not
the patrollers!"

"Why not? I have nothing to hide. Have you?"

Zul's frantic squirming across the room had brought
him to the row of cabinets. Now he wriggled his
shoulders up against that support so that he was sitting,
not lying.

"No patrollers!" he repeated, and his words now
held the tone of an order rather than a plea. "Not
yet—"

"Why?"

Zul's dark eyes were again focused on the tube
Troy held. He was plainly a man torn between the
need for secrecy and the necessity of having help.

Troy pressed. "Because of the animals—the Terran
animals?"

Zul froze, his small body suddenly rigid, his face the
113

personified mask of surprise—and perhaps some other
emotions Troy could not read.

"What do you know?" His words were harsh, rasping,
as if he had to fight for the breath to expel them.

"Enough." Troy hoped that ambiguity would force
some revelation out of his captive.

Zul's tongue tip wet his lips. He hitched his shoulders
along the cabinets as if to reach Troy.

"They must be killed—quickly—before the patrollers
are called."

Troy was startled. Death for those who had met him
in this room was the last thing he would have expected
from Zul. And certainly he had no intention of yielding
to that.
"Why?"

Zul's eyes changed, became sly and suspicious once
again. "If you do not know, Dippleman, then you know
nothing. They are a danger—to all of us under this roof
they are a great danger, now that their master is dead.
You will kill, or you will wish that you had died also."

Troy covered the space between them in one long-
legged stride. He stooped, caught Zul by the collar of
his tunic, and pulled him to his feet, holding him
pinned against a cabinet.

"You will tell me why these animals are a danger,"
he said softly, trying to put into that speech all the
force and menace he could muster.

"Because"—Zul's eyes were lifted to Troy's; appar-
ently he was making a last throw, which might or
might not contain the truth—"they are more than
animals. They think, they take orders, they report—"

"What orders do they take, and to whom do they
report?"
114

Zul swallowed visibly. There were small beads of
oily moisture forming on his forehead just below the
tight knots of his hair. Yet Troy sensed that he was
not afraid of his captor, but of something else. "They
take their orders from him who summons them." Zul's
eyes flicked to the tube and back again to Troy's face.
"And they report to him—"

"What?"

"Information."

Puzzle pieces clicked together in Troy's mind. Pets—
with the ability to understand their masters' or
mistresses' actions, to collect information—planted in
households where information worth a high price could
be gathered!

"And Kyger did this?" That was a statement as well
as a question.

"Yes. Now the animals must be summoned and killed
before the patrollers arrive. Give me the caller."

"I think not." So Zul did not know that the animals
had already arrived to answer the call of a dead or
dying man. And as Troy made a decision of his own,
he was answered by a thrust of emotion from the
seemingly empty spaces of the room—fear, such as
had moved the kinkajou to his arms in the garden, a
determination to fight, perhaps, too, a vague plea.
And he knew that he was again tuned in on the
hidden five. If the animals had been used by Kyger in
some scheme, certainly they had only been tools.

"Let the patrollers get them," Zul continued, "and
they will have them under probes to learn what they
can—and kill them afterwards. Is it not better to kill
them cleanly before that is done?"

Troy stiffened, felt his own reaction intensified as
115

the others picked it up. What Zul said made such good
sense it presented a new form of danger, and a very
big one. But his own thoughts were racing ahead.

So far only those in this room knew that Kyger was
dead, with the exception of his killer—which gave
Troy a small measure of time. He knew that he could
not let Zul kill the animals, and he would fight to
keep them from falling into the hands of those who
would wring secrets out of them via the probes.

Flight— But where? Memory painted for him a
picture of that plateau high in the clean wind. Not
perhaps there—but the Wild that stretched over half
of this continent. To shake one man and five small
animals out of that would be a long and arduous task,
and before it was done perhaps he could find a solution
to their problem in another way.

"You'll have to let me call them—and kill them
quickly!" Zul was losing control, his voice rasping
louder as he watched Troy with narrowed eyes.

"Be quiet!" Troy enforced that order by planting his
hand over the other's mouth. Holding Zul so in spite
of his renewed writhings, Horan tried to contact the
animals.

"Go together—away from here." He thought those
words with all the emphasis he could, not trying to
analyze why he must champion the five, only knowing
that it was very important to do so—not only for them
but for him.

If Zul understood what he was doing, he gave no
sign of it. As he fought to be free of Troy's hold, his
eyes were now wild above the temporary gag of the
other's palm.

There was again a flicker of movement, which Troy
116

r

caught only from the corners of his eyes. The black cat
materialized as if f"om the flooring, came stealthily,
with its belly fur brushing the carpet, skirting Kyger's
outflung arm. And Zul, sighting it over Troy's hand,
was still. Troy waited as the cat reached them, to
front Zul with a silent, menacing snarl, hatred ex-
pressed in every fluid line of its body.

"They do not need to be called, Zul," Troy said
softly, "for they are here. And from here they shall go
safely."

So they came—the other cat in a swift spring, the
foxes side by side, and last of all the kinkajou in a
rush that brought it to Troy, to climb up his body as if
it were a tree.

"We shall all go together for a little, Zul." Troy
swung the smaller man about, held him before him
with one hand as he transferred Zul's knife to his own
belt. He dropped the tube to the floor, and the black
cat went into instant action, setting it rolling with
small paw taps until the cylinder disappeared under
one of the cabinets. Now all the animals, save the
kinkajou which rode on Troy's shoulder, its tail loosely
coiled about the man's neck, slipped out the door.

Zul might have been shocked speechless by the
appearance of that furred company and their cooper-
ation with Troy. He obeyed the other's push like a
controlled robot, and all his struggles ceased as they
went down the stairs, heading toward the courtyard.

One part of Troy's mind considered the matter of
supplies—and the flitter. So much depended now on
chance and luck, and he would have to hope for help
from both.

Still holding Zul, he paused just within the passage
117

door and looked out into the courtyard. The flitter was
just where he had seen it last. From the pens and
cages came the usual night sounds. And there was no
sign of the yardman who should have been on duty.

Troy caught a stir at the side of the flitter, knew
that the animals had picked that much of his intention
from his mind. At this hour the air lanes would be
crowded with villa dwellers returning home from night
spots in Tikil. He would have that traffic for cover
from the patrollers.

Now that he had made his decision, Troy had to
throttle down the excitement bubbling in him. For the
first time in years he was going to sample freedom.
He had had a very small taste of that on the expedition
with Rerne, but this time the choice was his alone.

Zul remained the immediate problem. Troy continued
to propel the other before him until they reached the
storeroom. Since they had left the room in which Kyger
lay, the other had not struggled. It might have been
that he had no more desire than Troy to draw attention
to their activities.

Inside, Troy shoved his captive into a comer and
worked fast. He knew that Kyger had made a point of
supplying the Terran animals with special imported
food, and he tossed into a sack such containers of that
as he could find. Zul's knife was in his belt and in
addition the flitter would have a stunner in its arma
locker. He drew the cord of the sack tight, with Zul
watching him. The latter spoke and Troy knew he
meant every word he said.

"We shall hunt and we shall kill. And the patrollers
will hunt also. There is no place you can hide that one
118

or the other of us will not find. And for you also there
will be death now."

"Because I know too much?" Troy suggested.
"Because of that—and because of this. We cannot
allow knowledge of this thing."
"And you will set the patrollers on me—"
Zul grinned. "There will be no need to tell them of
the animals. They will come and find a dead man
where one of his hirelings has fled. That is a story
that needs no telling, even to the most stupid."

"Suppose they find that two have fled?" Troy asked.
He had no wish to take Zul along; that would be like
fitting a triggered egg bomb into the flitter. But the
disappearance of two ofKyger's employees at the same
time, and one of them an old associate of the ex-
spacer, might mudiy the trail as far as the law was

concerned.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he closed on Zul
again, herding him out of the storeroom in the direction
of the flitter. But that plan was to go awry. There was
a sudden shout from the passage leading to Kyger's
quarters. Zul relaxed, made himself a dead weight
that Troy could not hope to manhandle into the flyer
without a loss of precious time. He leaped over the
prone man and scrambled into the flitter, hoping the
animals were already on board.

"Here!" Out of nowhere came that reassurance as
Troy took the lift control and raised the machine out
of the well of the courtyard. Lights showed in the
forepart of Kyger's rooms. Perhaps one of the yardmen
had discovered the body. Troy must make the best use
of the small head start that he had.

119

The main stream of the late traffic went north, not
east, and he would have to weave into that, not making
the necessary turn until he was well over the villa
section. Also the flitter must keep within the lawful
speed of the passenger lanes.

Troy triggered the corn on the control panel and
listened intently for any hint that the alarm had been
raised behind him. Zul's words had not been an idle
threat. However, once in the Wild, he did not fear the
patrollers too much. •

What did concern him was the Clan rangers, orga-
nized to track down just such unauthorized invasions
as his own. They knew the wilderness intimately. This
realization made future prospects suddenly far more
bleak for Troy, and they grew grimmer the farther he
flew. Yet he had made his choice and there was no
turning back.

Reme! If cornered, dare he appeal to the Hunter?
Once more he experienced the odd duality he had
known that morning on the plateau. Part of him was
untrusting, wary, disillusioned, and another segment
pulled toward confidence in the ranger, a longing for
the freedom in which he and his kind walked under
an open sky.

A patroller cruised above his flitter, and Troy sat
stiff and tense, waiting for the order to land. Then the
official flyer darted away, and he drew a really deep
breath once more. The traffic about him was thinning.
Soon he would have to make his dash out of the
regular lanes into what he hoped would be the con-
cealment of the night. He saw the twinkle of villa
lights, two of them among the rising heights. Snapping
off his lawful lights, he banked to the right, coming
120

around to head eastward in a burst of speed that
should tear him well away from the city lanes before
he was noticed.

But it was several very long moments before he
could be sure of that escape. So far there had been no
warning broadcast on the corn. Certainly if the men in
the shop had been aroused, they would have called in
the patrollers and there would be a blanket alarm out
for the stolen flitter. Zul—was Zul still determined to
hold off the law as long as he could to serve his own
purposes?

And in the last warning the little man had said
"we"—not "I". Who were "we"? If Kyger was not the
master of the animals—and Zul was certainly a
subordinate—then who was? Someone in Tikil with
power enough to delay the official hunt so that a
private and deadly one could be put into motion? Zul
had warned Troy that he would be the quarry of two
chases. And in the Wild perhaps tailed by the Clans
as well.

Troy's lips shaped a mirthless smile. Too many
hunting parties might just foul each other. He would
not speculate on chances that might not exist. One
move at a time was all anyone could make.

The flitter sped on into the night, northeast. Before
daylight caught them and he would have to set down,
they should be well into the wilderness. And, remem-
bering the mountain chains Rerne had lifted them
above, he set the flyer to climbing, though the auto-
matic alarm system was on and the autopilot would
avoid any crash against an unseen peak.

He became conscious of warmth against his thigh
and side, the soft touch of a small paw on his nervously
121

rigid arm. The kinkajou was pressed against him, and
the rest of that odd crew had climbed into the other
half of the driver's seat. Troy began to talk, not knowing
how much of what he said reached their minds, but
driven by the impulse to put his nebulous plans into
words.

"There is the Wild ahead—and only the rangers and
the native animals in it. Such a place should hold
many hiding places for such as we—"

"And good hunting." From one of them had come
that quick reply. He sensed a rising excitement that
was born not of fear or the need for defense but of
anticipation—an emotion that all five of them shared;

"Good hunting." He confirmed that. "Trees, and
plains, mountains, rivers, rocks—"

"It is good to run free." Out of the general aura of
satisfaction those definite words arose.

"It is good to run free!" Troy echoed. Free of the
Dipple, of Tikil—of the ways of men, which he had
endured only because of his own stubborn determination
not to be broken.

Overhead the stars made a clear, cold pattern, and
the green round of the moon, rising above the moun-
tains, showed snow caps like clear jade. The fugitives
were across the first rim of the Larsh—into the
Wild—and still no hint that the chase was up behind.
Troy knew again the heady exultation of one who is
pulling off an odds-against mission. He had no map,
no points of reference, but he was certain that to
simply continue northeast would bring him out along
the fringe of the plains.

He set the controls on complete autopilot, stretched
his arms wide. His shoulders ached from the rigid
122

r

tension that had held him during the first hours of
flight.

"By dawn," he told his companions, "we shall be
down—in a big country where there are no trails."

The kinkajou had crowded into his lap, was curling
up against him. And now the black cat was at his
side, sitting upright, watching the night sky outside
the bubble of the flitter, as if it had now accepted Troy
as one of its own kind.

He must have drowsed, for the red snap of light on
the control panel brought him awake with the stupid
dullness of a too quickly aroused sleeper.

"Warn off! Warn off!"

Troy had heard just that same metallic voice before,
but he could not remember when or why.

His hands went to the controls. He thumbed the
autopilot release, but it did not give. As he hammered
at it with his fist, that blink of light became steady
and he remembered—Ruh—karv!

"Warn off"

Troy reached for the mike, to say the words that
would end their escape attempt. But that move came
too late. The red light was now a beam. Out of the
night blossomed a huge burst of eye-searing white.
The flitter lurched, lost speed, started down.

123

Eleven

Afterwards Troy could recall little of that crazy
falling-leaf descent that threw them from one side of
the pilot's seat to the other. They were not quite
helpless before the force that had shaken them off
course and out of the sky, for the accident-safety ray
had flashed on automatically, bringing them down to
ground level at a speed under that of a direct crash.
Troy fought the controls, beat at the lock with the full
force of his wrists and arms. Something gave and for
an instant or so the flitter was his again. He tried to
put the nose up and the flyer gave a giant hop.

If that action did not win them the sky again, it
did carry the flyer—with the effect of bursting through
a taut curtain—beyond the influence of the thing that
had grabbed them out of the air. Troy felt the flitter
wheels strike, bouncing them up. They flattened off in a
second crash, and it was dark—moon and stars blotted
out.

His chest hurt and his head ached. In his mouth
was the unforgettable flat sweet taste of blood. Before
him was darkness, but from behind came a measure of
light that he could sight as he tried to turn his head.

"Out—out—" That was a plea rising to a kind of
frenzy. Troy could feel movement beside him, back
and forth across his bruised body until he grunted
with pain.
124

Somehow he forced up his left arm, worked at the
catch of the cabin door, lunging against that stubborn
barrier with the strength of his shoulder. The panel
gave, tumbling him out, and smalF paws thudded on
him as their owners raced into the open.

Troy pulled himself up and tried to see where they
had come to earth. Under him the surface of the ground
seemed singularly smooth. His hand, questing over it,
scraped up the grit of sand that lay in a drifted skim
on stone or r^ck, very level stone or rock. As he twisted
fully arouna, he could see the shaft of moonlight better.
Behind—yes—the flitter had in some incredible way
fitted itself nose first into a crevice where an arch of
roof shut off the sky.

Troy worked his way around the wreckage to the
light. But it was after he had crawled those few feet
that he realized what had happened and how chance,
the protective device of the Clans, and his own last-
moment attempt to control the flitter had landed them
in an unusual hiding place. Those rounded domes and
crumbling walls, blind of any window or door opening
were set deep in the sand of a desert waste. He had
crashed straight into the heart of Ruhkarv itself!

"Where—?" He tried to summon the animals—and
since he had no names to call, he pictured them
mentally. The cats, black and gray-blue, the foxes,
russet and cream, the kinkajou, where were they?
Hurt? Still about?

"Come—come back!" He called softly aloud, heard
odd echoes reply from the ruins about. Outside now,
he could look around, see how the flyer had nosed into
a dome that had a crumbled opening in one side.

A shadow leaped from one of the broken arches,
125

pattered to him. The kinkajou had answered his call.
It leaped to his shoulder, coiling its flexible tail about
his upper arm in a grip tight enough to pinch. Troy
reached up his other hand, caressed the round head
butting against his cheek.

Then the foxes returned in a swift lope, stopping
before him, their pointed noses up, testing the wind,
their eyes agleam.

"Come," Troy coaxed the cats. When there was no
answer, he detached the kinkajou, started back into
the dome cave to explore the wreck. In the pocket of
the door he had wrenched open he found an atom
torch and thumbed its button. The cone of light made
clear the nose of the flyer embedded in the space of
the dome as a too thick thread might have been forced
into the eye of a needle.

Troy flashed the light into the machine and then
stood very still as he saw a swiall limp body. Blue eyes
wide with pain were raised 10 his. The gray-blue cat
lay flat, its mouth open, panting. Now and again it
licked a foreleg that was clamped tight between two
buckled pieces of metal. Above it crouched its black
mate, who, upon seeing Troy, uttered a series of sharp,
demanding cries.

Setting down the torch, Troy went to work to free
the delicate leg. Then he carried the cat into the open,
placing it on the ground until he could salvage the aid
kit of the flyer.

By the time the first thin streaks of false dawn were
in the sky, he had done what he could. The leg had
been set and treated. He had dragged out of the flitter
the food bag, the stunner, and some of the kit tools,
which he festooned from his own belt. As time had
126

passed and no one had invaded the forbidden area of
the ruins to gather them up prisoners. Troy began to
believe that they had been brought down by some
automatic guard device and that on foot they still had
a chance to escape capture. But whether the Clans
had set other guards about Ruhkarv, which might
now keep them inside, he did not know.

The foxes and the black cat melted into the shadows,
leaving Troy to his collection of equipment. Only the
kinkajou remained to watch and at last to come to his
aid, dragging small objects from the wrecked flyer to
pile by the dome. Troy sat back on his heels. He had
been so busy that he had not had time to consider the
future further than the next job to be done, for he had
been driven by a sense of working against time.

"Wall—wall that cannot be seen—" The black cat
stepped out from a neighboring dome and came directly
to the man.

"Wall around here?" Troy's hand swept in a gesture
to indicate the ruins.

"Yes. We have tried to cross many places."

One of Troy's fears had materialized. The Clans
must have set a barrier about Ruhkarv. Intended to
bar interlopers, it would make him and the animals
prisoners within. How he had managed to pierce it
with the flitter was a mystery.

"There are many dens—maybe hunting in them—"
One of the foxes drifted into the open. The cat had gone
to its injured mate, was licking its head caressingly.

"Danger underground here." Troy countered that
half suggestion from the prick-eared scout.

"Not now." The report was emphatic and Troy
wondered. Before Fauklow's expedition with the recaller
127

had turned the name of Ruhkarv into a synonym for
nightmare, the upper galleries of the strange city or
structure had been explored with impunity by a handful
of the curious. If it had been only the action of the
recaller that had damned the place—well, the rangers
had put an end to the machine's broadcasts, according
to Reme, and the undersurface passages might give
the fugitives shelter for a time. He would have to
have some rest, Troy knew, and perhaps here in the
heart of a forbidden territory they had found temporary
safety after all.

"We go then—to a safe den."

With the food bag over his shoulder, the injured cat
held as comfortably as he could manage against his
chest, and the stunner ready in his free hand, Troy
moved out. The kinkajou rode on his shoulder, making
small twittering noises and now and then patting its
two-legged steed with a forepaw as if to make Troy
continually aware of its presence. The foxes and the
black cat guided him to another dome, in which a
large segment of wall had been cut through in the
past, either by one of the early treasure seekers or by
the ill-fated Fauklow men.

All the fantastic tales that had been told of this
place were peopling the dusk Troy faced with a myriad
of nightmares, but the readiness of the animals to
explore was his insurance. Troy knew that their senses
were far keener and more to be relied upon than his
own, and that they would give warning of any trouble
ahead. He snapped on the atom torch he had slung
from his belt, watched the cone of light bob and wave
across flooring and walls as it swung to the rhythm of
his walk.
128

r

There was nothing to be seen but walls and a
pavement of blocks, fitted together with precision and
skill. At the far side of the dome was the dark mouth
of a ramp leading down into the real Ruhkarv. That
murk had a quality close to fog, Troy thought—as if
the dark itself swirled about with independent motion.
And even the atom light was sapped, weakened by it.
Yet the lead fox had already padded down into those
depths, and its mate and the cat were waiting for Troy
almost impatiently.

"This is a place where there has been great danger,"
Troy warned, combining words with the mental reach.

"Nothing here—" He was sure that impatient over-
tone came from the black cat.

"Nothing here," Troy repeated even as his boots
clicked on that sloping length of stone, "but perhaps
farther on—"

"There is water."

Troy was startled at that confident interruption.
They had the supplies from the flitter, but the problem
of water had nagged at him. If somewhere within this
maze the animals had located water, they were even
better provided for than he had dared to hope.

"Where?"

"We go—",

The ramp carried him down through three levels of
side corridors, all empty as far as the beams of the
atom light could disclose, all exactly alike, so that
Troy began to think a man might well become lost in
such a place without a guide. And he tried to set his
own entrance path in his head, memorizing each cor-
ridor by counting.

Somewhere there must be an unseen air system, for
129

the atmosphere, though dry and acrid, remained
breathable, and he was sure that now and then from
one of the offshoot corridors he scented a whiff of some
fresh import from the surface.

At the fourth level, though the ramp continued on
to Korwarian depths, Troy found the three scouts
waiting for him. And now, unless his sense of direc-
tion was completely bemused, they took a way that
headed directly east. For a moment he dared to wonder
if some one of these long hallways might not take
them outside the range of the blocking-wave wall so
that they could emerge free in the Wild.

Stark walls of red-gray stone, paved footing—nothing
else, save the fine sifting of centuries of dust, which
arose almost ankle-high and muffled the sounds of his
own footfalls. Twice only were those walls broken by
round openings, but when he swung the beam of the
torch in, he saw nothing save a bare, circular cell
hardly large enough for a man to crouch in, without
any other opening. The purpose of such rooms—if rooms
they could be called—remained another of the Ruhkarv

mysteries.

But their journey was not to continue so easily. The
eastern corridor ended in a huge well, and again a
descending ramp faced them, curving about the side of
that opening, narrow enough to make Troy thoughtful,
though the slope was not too steep as far as he could
sight with the torch's aid. Again the scouts moved
ahead, and there was nothing to do except follow.

As he went down, there was a change in the air—not
a freshness, but a rise of moisture. As the wall against
which he steadied himself from time to time began to
grow clammy under his fingers, he knew that the fox
130

had been right. Somewhere below was a source of
water—a large one, if he could judge by the present
evidence.

As the moisture content grew, he was aware of a
fetid under scent—not exactly the stagnant stench of
an undrained and unrenewed pond under the sun, but
the hint of something ill about that water. However,
there were trickles of damp on the walls and his thirst
grew.

Around and around—the coiled spring of the ramp
inside the well began to form a d^zying pattern. There
was no break here made by side corridors. Troy lost
track of time; his legs ached, and every bruise on his
body added to his punishment. He was sure now that
if he should try to reverse his path and reach the
surface—or even the last corridor from which this
drop had issued, he would not be able to summon up
strength enough to finish. There was only the need to
get to the bottom of the well, out on the level some-
where where he could drop down and rest.

And finally the torch did show him a pavement.
Troy reached it in a long stride and flashed the light
about the bottom of the well. There was water right
enough, but—as dry as his mouth now was, as much
as his body cried out for a drink—he could not bring
himself to approach closely that sullenly flowing runnel.

The water was a ribbon of oily black, looking as
thick and turgid as if the substance were more than
half slime, and it moved with sluggish ripples on its
surface from one side of the pit to the other, filling to
within a few inches of the pavement surface a stone
trough that had been constructed to carry it.

The inlet and outlet for that yard-wide flow were
131

large circular openings—the inlet situated under the
rise of the ramp from the floor. And except for those
there was no other way out—save the ramp down
which he had just come. But the black cat and the
foxes were at the mouth of the inflow tunnel, and
when Troy walked to that point, he saw that the
tunnel was larger than the stream at floor level, leav-
ing a narrow path to the right of the water.

"Out?" he asked, and that single word echoed hollowly
until the boom hurt his ears. The kinkajou chattered
angrily, and the cat in Troy's hold pressed the good
foreleg hard against his chest and added a protesting
wail. But the three animals before him glanced up
and then away again, into the tunnel, telling him as
plainly as with words or the mind touch that this was

indeed the proper exit.
The ripples on the water, as Troy passed along so

close to it, began to take on a rather ominous and
sinister significance, and he wondered just how deep
that trough really was, for some of the ripples went
against the current, suggesting action under the dark
surface of the flood—something or things moving
independently against the flow of the water. For an
anxious while one such V of ripples accompanied Troy
at his own pace. Time and time again he paused to
flash the torch directly on that disturbance—to sight

nothing in the inky liquid.

That slight fetid odor was growing stronger, yet
again he felt a puff of renewing air, though through
what channel in the walls he could not guess. But the
gleam of his torch began to pick up small answering
sparks of light along the walls. From pinpricks scattered
without apparent pattern they grew thicker, set in

132

clusters. And once, when he turned his head to watch
a particularly large and suspicious line of ripples,
Troy saw that those sparks of light behind him,
awakened by the torchlight, did not lose their gleam
but continued as small patches with a bluish glow. He
tried the experiment of snapping the torch off for a
moment and looked about him. Where the atom light
had touched, that blue glow remained. But ahead the
way was still dark. Whatever those flecks might be,
they needed the radiance from the light to set them
actually working.

The patches of such light grew larger, and now he
thought he could trace a kind of design—like a sharply
peaked zigzag—in their general setting, which argued
that they were not native to the rock blocks of which
these walls were fashioned but placed there with a
purpose by the unknown builders. At last he was
backed by an eerie glow walling in the stream along
which he walked.

His torch found an opening in the wall ahead. The
cat awaited him there, but the foxes were not to be
seen. Troy pushed on, eager to be out of the tunnel
and its attendant water channel.

When he came out, he was not in another corridor
or room—but he stepped into what might have once
been some vast underground cavern adapted by the
unknown builders of Ruhkarv to their own peculiar
uses. His torch beam was swallowed up by the vastness
of the open expanse and he halted, a little daunted by
what faced him. Here was a city in miniature, open
ways running between walls of separate, roofless en-
closures. And yet the substance of those walls—! It
was from here that the fetid odor had come. He could
133

not be sure, yet somehow he shrank from putting his
guess to the test of actually laying his hand upon one
of those slimily moist surfaces—but it looked at first,
and even after a more careful examination, as if those
walls grew out of the ground, that they were giant
slabs of an unknown fungus.

There was an open space of white-gray soil, neither
sand nor gravel but possessing a granular appearance,
between the mouth of the water tunnel and the be-
ginning of the first of those structures, and Troy was
in no hurry to cross it.

"A road around—"

One or all of his guides had picked his feelings of
repugnance out of his mind, and he knew then that
they shared it in a measure.

"Come!" The last was urgent and Troy broke into a
clumsy trot, not sure now just how long he coutd keep
moving at all. He rounded an outthrust suburb of the
fungus town and saw something else—a shaft of
brightness that was so clean, so much of the world
that he knew, that he threw himself toward it, his trot
lengthening into a run.

There was an island of sanity in the midst of what
was not of his world, nor, he suspected, of any human
world. From some break in the arch overhead, through
what unknown trick of nature—or of the architects of
this place—he would never know, a shaft of sun struck
here. And there was water, a small pool of it fed by a
runnel through the sand. Clear water with none of the
turgid rolling of the stream that had led them here.
Troy put down the injured cat where it could lap
beside its mate, scooped up a palmful to wet lips and
chin as he sucked avidly.
134

Two, three tiny plants, frail as lace, grew on the
bank of that pool. Troy drank again blissfully and
then opened the supply bag, sharing its contents among
his band, taking himself the concentrates that would
give him days of energy.

Was there any other way out of this dead, fungoid
world? At the moment he was too tired to care. With
his head pillowed on the food bag, Troy curled up,
weak with exhaustion, aware that the animals were
gathering in about him, as if they, too, distrusted
what lay beyond the circle of sunlight.

Did anything live here? The ripples in the water
had been suggestive. And there might be other crea-
tures to whom the fungus-walled streets were home.
But Troy could no longer summon the strength to
stand guard. He felt the warmth of small furred bod-
ies pressed against his, and that was the last he
remembered.

Twelve

He might have been asleep only for a moment, Troy
thought when he roused. The sun patch still lit the
pool. There had been no change in his surroundings,
save that the animals, except for the injured cat, were
gone. The cat raised its head from licking the splinted
leg and made an inquiring noise deep in its throat as
Horan sat up, rubbing his arm across his eyes. He
135

shook his head, still a little bemused, wondering vaguely
if he had slept the clock around.

Then out of the murk of the fungus growth trotted
the black cat, its head held high as it dragged the body
of a limp thing across the coarse earth. Paying no
attention to Troy, it brought the weird underground
dweller to its mate.

The dead creature was in its way as hideous as the
hur-hur, a nightmare combination of many legs, stalked
eyes, segmented, plated body. But apparently to both
felines it was a very acceptable form of food and they
dined amiably together.

If the Terran animals were able to forage for them-
selves even in this hole in the ground, Troy had proof
of another ofKyger's secrets. They had not needed the
special food that had been so ceremoniously delivered
at a suitably high price to the quondam owners in

Tikil.

"Good hunting?" he asked the black casually.

The cat was engaged in a meticulous toilet with
tongue and paw.

"Good hunting," it agreed.

"The others also have good hunting?" Troy wondered
where in that unwholesome fungoid growth the missing
three hunted and what they pursued.

"They eat," the cat answered with finality.

Troy stood up, stretched the cramps out of his sore
body. He had no intention of remaining in this cavern,
or underground city, or whatever it might be.

"There is a way out?" he asked the cat, and received
the odd mental equivalent of what might have been a
shrug. It was plain that hunting had been of more
136

importance than exploration for another passage as
far as that independent animal was concerned.

Troy sat down again to study both cats. The injured
one was still eating, with neatness, but hungrily. He
was sure that it was not unaware of the exchange
between its mate and himself.

Horan had no control over the five Terran animals,
and he knew it. By some freak of chance he was able
to communicate with them after a disjointed fashion.
But he was very sure that their communication with
Kyger had been much clearer and fuller—perhaps
through the aid of that odd summoning device he had
seen in the dead man's hands.

They had accompanied him in the flight from Tikil
because that had suited their purpose also, just as
they had guided him to this particular hole. Yet he
knew well that if they wished they would leave him as
readily, unless he could establish some closer tie with
them. The position was changed—in Tikil he had been
in command because that was man's place. Here the
animals had found their own; they no longer needed him.

It was disquieting to face the fact that his somewhat
rosy dreams of cooperation between man and animal
might be just that—dreams. He could fly the fussel to
his will and that bird would know the pleasure of the
hunt and still return on call. But these hunters had
wills and minds of their own, and if they gave com-
panionship, it would be by free will. The age-old bal-
ance of man and animal had tipped. There would be a
cool examination from the other side, no surrender
but perhaps an alliance.

And such thoughts could lead Troy now to understand
137

Zul's demand that the animals be killed. Few men
were going to accept readily a copartnership with crea-
tures they had always considered property. There would
lurk a threat to the supremacy man believed in.

Yet Troy knew that he could not have left any of
the animals in Tikil, nor yielded to Zul's demands.
Why? Why did he feel that way about them? He was
uneasy now, almost urhappy, as he realized that he
was not dealing with pets, that he must put aside his
conception of these five as playthings to be owned and
ordered about. Neither were they humans whose
thinking processes and reactions he could in a manner

anticipate.

The black cat ceased its toilet, sat upright, the tip of
its tail folded neatly over its paws, its blue eyes
regarding Troy. And the man stirred uneasily under
that unwinking stare.

"You wish a way out?"

"Yes." Troy answered that simply. With this new
humbleness he was willing to accept what the other

would give.

"This place—not man's—not ours—"
Troy nodded. "Before man—something like man but

different."

"There is danger—old danger here." There was a

new touch of thought like a new voice. The gray-blue
cat had finished its meal and was looking over the
good paw, raised to its mouth for a tonguing, at Troy.
"There was a bad thing happened here to men—

some years ago."

Both cats appeared to consider; that. Perhaps their
minds linked in a thread of communication he could
not reach.
138

r

"You are not of those we know." That was the black
cat. Troy discovered that he could now distinguish
one's thought touch from another's. The animals had
come to be definite and separate personalities to him
and closer in companionship because of that very fact.
Sometimes he was so certain of a comrade at hand
that it was a shock to realize that the mind he could
touch was outwardly clothed in fur and was borne by
four feet, not two.

"No."

"Few men know our speech—and those must use
the caller. Yet from the first you could contact us
without that. You are a different kind of man." That
was the gray-blue cat.

"I do not know. You mean that you cannot 'talk' to
everyone?"

"True. To the big man we talked—because that was
set upon us—just as we had to obey the caller when he
used it. But it was not set upon us to talk to you—yet
you heard. And you are not one-who-is-to-be-obeyed."

Set upon them—did they mean that they had been
conditioned to obey orders and "talk" with certain hu-
mans?

"No," Troy agreed. "I do not know why I hear your
'talk,' but I do."

"Now that the big man is gone, we are hunted."

"That is so."

"It is as was told us. We should be hunted if we
tried to be free."

"We are free," the black cat interrupted. "We might
leave you, man, and you could not find us here unless
we willed it so."

"That is true."

139

Again the pause, those unblinking stares. The black
cat moved. It came to him, its tail erect. Then it sat
upon its hind legs. Horan put out his hand diffidently,
felt the quick rasp of a rough tongue for an instant on

his thumb.

"There will be a way out."

The cat's head turned toward the fungus town. It
stared as intently in that direction as it had toward
Troy a moment earlier. And the man was not surprised
when out of that unwholesome maze trotted the fox
pair, followed by the kinkajou. They came to stand
before Troy, the black cat a little to one side, and the
man caught little flickers of their unheard speech.

"Not one-to-be-obeyed—hunts in our paths—will let

us walk free—"

It was the black cat who continued as spokesman.
"We shall hunt your way for you now, man. But we

are free to go."

"You are free to go. I share my path; I do not order
you to walk upon it also." He searched for phrases to
express his acceptance of the bargain they offered and
his willingness to be bound by their conditions.

"A way out—" The cat turned to the others. The
foxes lapped at the pool and then loped away. The
kinkajou dabbled its front paws in the water. Troy
offered it a pressed-food biscuit and it ate with noisy
crunchings. Then it turned to the cavern wall at their
back and frisked away along its foot.

"We shall go this way." The cat nodded to the right
of the pool, along that clean strip of ground between
the fungoid growth and the cavern wall.

Troy emptied two of the containers of dry food, rinsed
them, and filled them with water as a reserve supply.
140

Both cats drank slowly. Then Troy picked up the in-
jured one, who settled comfortably in the crook of his
arm. The black darted away.

Horan walked at a reasonable pace, studying his
surroundings as he went. To the glance there was no
alteration in either the fungus walls or the rock bar-
rier to his right. But as he drew farther away from the
splotch of sunlight, he switched on his atom torch.

The cat stirred in his hold, its head—with ears
sharply pointed—swung to face the fungus.

"There is .something there—alive?" Troy's hand went
to the stunner in a belt loop.

"Old thing—not alive," the thought answer came
readily. "Sargon finds—"

"Sargon?"

The wavering picture of the male fox crossed his
mind. "You are named?" he asked eagerly. Somehow
names made them seem less aloof and untouchable,
closer to his own kind.

"Man's names!" There was disdain in that, hinting
that there were other forms of identification more
subtle and intelligent, beyond the reach of a mere
human. And Troy, reading that into the cat's reply,
smiled.

"But I am a man. May I not use man's names?"

The logic of that appealed to the dafnty lady he
carried. "Sargon and Sheba." Fleeing fox faces flashed
into his mind. "Shang"—that was the kinkajou. "Simba,
Sahiba," her mate and herself.

'Troy Horan," he answered gravely aloud, to complete
the round of introduction. Then he came back to her
report. "This old thing—it was made—or did it once
live?"

141

"It once lived." Sahiba relayed the fox's report
promptly. "It was not man—not we—different."

Troy's curiosity was aroused, not enough, however,
to draw him into the paths threading the forbidding
fungoid town. But as they passed that point he
wondered if the remains of one of the original inhab-
itants of Ruhkarv could lie there.

"An opening—" Sahiba relayed a new message.
"Shang has discovered an opening—up—" She pointed
with her good paw to the cavern wall.

Troy altered course, came up a slight slope, and
found the kinkajou chattering excitedly and clinging
head down to a knob that overhung a crevice in the
wall. Troy flashed the torch into that dark pocket.
There was no rear barrier; it was a narrow passage.
Yet it did not have any facing of worked stone as had
the other corridor entrances, and it might not lead far.

The foxes and Simba came from different directions
and stood sniffing the air in the rocky slit. Troy was
conscious of that too—a faint, fresh current, stirring
the fetid breath of the fungus, hinting of another and
cleaner place. This must be a way out.

Yet the waiting animals did not seem in any hurry
to take that path.

"Danger?" asked Troy, willing to accept their hesi-
tation as a warning.

Simba advanced to the overhang of the opening, his
head held high, his whiskers quivering a little, as he
investigated by scent.

"Something waiting—for a long time waiting—"

"Man? Animal?"

But Simba appeared baffled. "A long time waiting,"
he repeated. "Maybe no longer alive—but still waiting."
142

Troy tried to sift some coherent meaning out of
that. The kinkajou made him start as it leaped from
the rock perch to his shoulder.

"It is quiet." Shang broke in over Simba's caution.
"We go outside—this way outside—"

But Troy asked Simba for the final verdict. "Do we
go?"

The cat glanced up at him, and there was a flash of
something warm upon the meeting of their eyes, as if
Troy in his deference to the other's judgment had
advanced another step on the narrow road of under-
standing between them.

"We go—taking care. This thing I do not understand."

The foxes were apparently content to follow Simba's
lead. And the three trotted into the crevice, while
Troy came behind, the atom torch showing that this
way was indeed a slit in the rock wall and no worked
passage.

Though the break was higher than his head by
several feet, it was none too wide, and Troy hoped
that it would not narrow past his using. Now that he
was well inside and away from the cavern, the freshness
of the air current blowing softly against his face was
all-the more noticeable. He was sure that in that
breeze was the scent of natural growing things and
not just the mustiness of the Ruhkarv paths.

They had not gone far before the pathway began to
slope upward, confirming his belief that it connected
somehow with the outside world. At first, that slope
was easy, and then it became steeper, until at last
Troy was forced to transfer Sahiba to the ration bag
on his back and use both hands to climb some sections.
His less sensitive nose registered more than just fresh
143

air now. There was an unusual fragrance, which was
certainly not normal in this slit of rock, more appro-
priate to a garden under a sun hot enough to draw
perfume from aromatic plants and flowers. Yet be-
neath that almost cloying scent lay a hint of another
odor, a far less pleasant one—the flowers of his imag-
ining might be rooted in a slime of decay.

The torch showed him another climb. Luckily the
surface was rough and furnished handholds. Shang
and Simba went up it fluidly, the foxes in a more
scrambling fashion. Then Troy reached the top and
was greeted by a glow of daylight. He snapped off the

torch and advanced eagerly.

"No!" That warning came emphatically from more
than one of the animals. Troy stiffened, studied the
path ahead, saw now that between him and the open
was a grating or mesh of netting.

He stood still. The cat and the foxes were outlined
clearly against that mesh.

"Gone—"
A flicker of thought, which was permission for him

to come on. There was a meshwork over the way into
the open. And through it he could see vegetation and
a brightness that could only be daylight. The mesh
itself was of a sickly white color and was formed in
concentric rings with a thick blob like a knob in the

center.
Troy approached it gingerly, noting that the cat and

the foxes did not get within touching distance. Now he
noticed something else—that along the rings of the
netting were the remains of numerous insects, ragged
tatters of wings, scraps of carcasses, all clinging to the

144

surface of those thick cords. He drew the knife from
his belt and sliced down with a quick slash, only to
have the cord give very slightly beneath his blow.
Then the blade rebounded as if he had struck at some
indestructible elastic substance.

The cord stuck to the blade so that it was carried
upward on the rebound, and he had to give a hard jerk
to free it. A second such experiment nearly pulled the
knife out of his grasp. Not only was the stuff elastic
and incredibly tough, but it was coated with something
like glue, and he did not think it was any product of
man—or of man's remote star-born cousins.

There was clearly no cutting through it. But there
was another weapon he could use. Troy set down the
bag in which Sahiba rode and investigated the loot he
had brought with him from the wrecked flitter. There
was a small tube, meant originally for a distress flare,
but with another possible use.

Troy examined the webbing as well as he could
without touching it. The strands were coated with
thick beads of dust. It had been in place there for a
long time. Unscrewing the head of the flare and hold-
ing the other end of the tube, he aimed it at the center
of the web.

Violent red flame thrust like a spear at the net.
There was an answering flower of fire running from
the point of impact along the cords to their fastening
points on the rock about the opening, -a stench that set
Troy to coughing. Then—there was nothing at all
fronting them but the open path and some trails of
smoke wreathing from the stone.

They waited for those to clear before Simba took
145

a running leap to cross the fire-blackened space,
the foxed following him eagerly. Troy, again carry-
ing Sahiba and Shang, brought up the rear.

He was well away from the cliff before he realized
that they might have made their escape from the
cavern of the fungus town, but they were not yet on
the open surface of Korwar. There was vegetation
here, growing rankly in an approximation of sunlight,
a light that filtered down from a vast expanse of roof
crossed and crisscrossed with bars or beams set in
zigzag patterns like those formed by the light sparks
in the water tunnel. Between that patching of bars
was a cream-white surface, which, seen from ground
level, could have been sand held up by some invisible

means.

As Troy studied that, he saw a puff of golden vapor
exhaled from a section of crosshatched bars. The tiny
cloud floated softly down until it was midway between
the roof and earth, and then it discharged its bulk in a
small shower, spattering big drops of liquid on the
leaves of the plants immediately below.

And now Troy could see radical differences between
those plants and the ordinary vegetation of the surface.
Not far away a huge four-petaled flower—the petals a
vivid cream, its heart a striking orange-red—hung
without any stem Troy could detect, in a rounded
opening among shaggy bushes.

The heavy, almost oppressive fragrance he had first
noted in the passage came from that. Simba, nose
extended, stalked toward the blossom. Then the cat
arched its back and spat, its ears flattened to its skull.
Troy, coming in answer to the wave of disgust and
warning from the animal, found his boots crunching
146

the husks of small bodies, charnel house debris. His
sickened reaction made him slice at the horrible
flower—to discover it was not a flower but a cunning
weave of sticky threads. And, as his knife blade tore
through them, the orange-red heart came to life, leap-
ing from the trap, darting straight at him.

Troy had a confused impression of many-legged thing
with a gaping mouth, a thomed tail ready to sting.
But Simba struck with a heavy clawed paw, throwing
the creature up into the air. As it smashed to the
ground, Sargon pounded it into the earth in a flattened
smear. The fox sniffed and then drew back, his head
down, his paws rubbing frantically at his nose.

Simba, tail moving in angry sweeps from side to side,
sat half crouched as if awaiting a second attack.

"This is a bad place," Sahiba stated flatly. And Troy
was ready to agree with her.

Oddly enough it was Shang, the kinkajou, who took
the lead. He leaped from Troy's shoulder to the top of
the nearest tall bush, and in a moment was only to be
marked by a thrasing of branches as he headed into
the miniature wilds. Troy dodged another made-to-
order rain cloud and sat down to share out supplies
with his oddly assorted company. They would need
food and water before they tried to solve this latest
riddle.

147

Thirteen

The same wild waving of leafed branches that had
marked Shang's departure heralded his return. He
made a flying leap from a nearby bush top to the
ground, raising small spurts of dust as he raced toward
Troy.

"Man thing!" There was excitement in that report,
enough to make Troy set down a water container
hastily, not quite sure whether Shang meant an ani-
mate or inanimate find.

"Where?" Troy asked, and then added quickly,
"What?"

Shang raised a front paw and gestured to the mini-
ature wilderness. He seemed unable to define the
"what" at all. Troy looked to the cats; he had come to
accept their superior judgment in such matters.

Simba faced the screen of vegetation, and Horan,
alert now to the slight changes he might not have
noted hours earlier, marked that twitch of'whiskered
muzzle. Sahiba, limping clumsily, left his side, joined
her mate, and sat in the same listening attitude.

"Call thing—" It was Simba who reported.

Troy experienced a flicker of uneasiness. There had
been a "call thing" associated with Ruhkarv, and he
did not want to have any close connection with that,
certainly not with what rumor and legend suggested
that it had called.
148

"Old?" He did not know how Simba could pick the
answer to that out of the air, or out of Shang and the
messages the air brought feline senses.

"Not old."

"A man with it?"

Simba's blue eyes, with their unreadable depths,
lifted from the foliage wall to Troy's. He caught the
cat's puzzlement, as if Simba was able to pluck a
confused series of impressions from channels closed to
the man, but as if important sequences in that series
were lacking.

"Man thing—" Shang was fairly dancing up and
down with eagerness, running a few steps toward the
wilderness, retreating to peer at Troy, plainly urging
that his find be examined by Horan. But the man
continued to wait for the cats' verdict.

"Dangerous?"

To that again neither Sahiba nor Simba made a
direct answer. But the urge to caution was intensified.
Then Sargon and Sheba went purposefully off into the
brush as if obeying some order. Troy repacked the
supplies, picked up Sahiba. He studied the matted
growth before him, looking for a path, or at least a
thinner patch through which he might force his way.

The light from the odd roofing overhead, which had
been day-bright when he had found his way into this
place, was fading, and Troy did not much relish
plunging into the tangle. But, sighting a space be-
tween two bushes, he pushed in resolutely.

Within seconds he was completely lost. It was im-
possible to keep any sort of straight course, and he
had to use his knife to get free of vines and sprawling
branches. The whole growth might have been intel-
149

ligently planted to form a giant trap or barrier. It was
Sahiba who relayed the suggestions of the scouts and
Shang who roamed from bush to bush, coming back to
coax him on.

Then Troy half fell through a mass of foliage, as a
tough vine gave way, and was once more in the open—
facing a nightmare scene.

There was an opening in the wall here, with a
well-cleared, paved space before it. And in the center
of that, facing, the opening, was a small machine, a
machine akin to his own time and culture. A cone of
meta-plast was pointed with its large end toward the
wall opening, and, as Troy stepped onto the pavement,
he was immediately conscious of the fact that a faint
vibration came from that machine. It was not only in
working order—it was running!

Cat, foxes, kinkajou—the animals were lined up
well to the left of the machine, facing the opening—
waiting—

Troy's cry was half choked in his throat as he looked
beyond the machine, along the line of that pointed
cone. It must—surely it must have once been human,
that thing trembling a little, spread-eagled on just'
such a webbing as had choked the passage from the
fungus cavern. Yet this was a dried rag-fashioned
creature from which not only life but much of the bulk
of body had vanished. The head, which still showed a
thatch of dust-stiffened hair, lolled forward on the
rack of bones that was the chest, and Troy was glad
he could not see the features.

He surveyed the webbing, seeing not only that it
covered the opening and held its long-dead prisoner
upright, frail as that structure of skin and bones was,
150

but that the cords also ran along the walls to form a
pattern of stripes, some as fine as thread, others as
thick as one of his fingers. And the thing that had
woven the web could not have been one of the orange-
red lily hearts. It must have been larger than the
Terran animals.

Had been—must have been? What was there to
prove that the weaver was now gone? The captive was
dead. Troy thought he could guess how long he had
been there—just as he knew what machine stood before
them, its powers dampened out, mercifully, but still in
operation. This was part of the horror that had put
Ruhkarv out of bounds for his kind. The recaller had
been set here, a point Fauklow had selected because
his knowledge of nonhuman remains had indicated
there might be a response. And there had been a
response—too concrete a one.

Elsewhere the recaller had summoned only the pal-
lid tatters of ghostly memories. Here some freak of
time, space, or unknown nature had given body to a
ghost and the power to use it! Out of a far and devious
past and the corridors of Ruhkarv had come a crea-
ture, intelligent or not, ruler of those ways once, or a
prowler in them, as great an enemy to the builders as
it was to the Fauklow men, which had had the energy
to revive and attack its arousers.

And perhaps the maker of that web had been only
one of a number of monsters that had crawled out of
the caverns of Ruhkarv. Most of the bodies of the
explorers had been found aboveground with indica-
tions that they had, toward the end of their suffering,
battled insanely against each other. Horrors driving
them in a mad flight to the surface.

151

To the surface! That registered in Troy's mind now
as he strove desperately to keep his imagination under
control, to observe without trying to reconstruct what
had happened here. Fauklow's men had set up the
recaller, and they had fled from this point. So there
was an exit to the surface somewhere from this cham-
ber—did it lead through that opening before him?

He thought not. There would be no reason to aim
the recaller on the back trail of the passage that had
brought explorers here. No, that opening had had
some significance for the dead archaeologist, but not
as a door of escape. The old story of the treasure of
Ruhkarv—had Fauklow found some clue that had led
him to believe he could summon a whisper from the
past to reveal the hiding place of the treasure?

Troy only knew that nothing would have led him to
explore that dark tunnel mouth behind the spread
and wasted body of a man who might have tried just
that. He glanced at the animals. They were intent
upon the scene, but not hostile.

"Dead only?" he asked.

Sahiba,pushed back against his shoulder, her good
foreleg rigid on his arm.

"Dead here—" But there remained an odd note of
puzzlement in that reply.

"Here?" he echoed.

"It is here—yet it is not here." She shook her head.

Troy could not be sure of what she was trying to tell
him. "The man is dead."

"Yes."

"And that which made the net?"

"It is"—the gray-blue head moved, soft fur rubbing
his shoulder—"dead here—but waiting."
152

"The recaller!" Troy thought he knew now. Blanketed
by the quencher beam from the rangers' installation,
the machine could no longer materialize the uncanny
thing from the past. But under that blanket the recaller
still ran. Let anything again lift the quencher and the
weaver of those webs would return!

Troy stared at the array of dials and buttons on the
small control board set into the back of the machine.
There was no way of his knowing which of those
would close down the dangerous ray, and he had no
intention of experimenting.

Simba crept slowly toward the web and the captive
there. He might have been a hunter stalking prey.
One black foreleg stretched, a paw with claws extended
patted the drift of dust that lay at the foot of the
webbing. Something bright spun from that dust and
Simba followed it, keeping it rolling away from the
opening, back, until it struck against Troy's boot.

The man stooped to pick it up. By the slick, cold feel
he knew he held a ring of metal, a deep crimson-red.
But as his fingers closed on it, there was a change in
that plain blood-colored band. Sparks flashed on it,
single and in pinpointed clusters, just as they had
appeared on the walls of the water tunnel. And Troy
believed that on his palm now rested no memento
from the body of the unknown dead captive, but
something that was native to these chambers and
halls from the beginning, perhaps the only piece of
the lost treasure of Ruhkarv that men of his own
time would ever see. Had that, too, been summoned
out of the past, given substance by some chance of
the recaller? Or had it been found in the tunnel
by the web captive, who had fled carrying it—only
153

to be taken just as he was within sight of freedom?

On the band the sparks winked faster. Also—Troy
frowned, completely puzzled. He had picked up a ring
only a size too large for any of his fingers; now he was
holding a much larger loop. Sahiba sniffed, then put
out a paw, touched the hoop. It spanned his palm.
Troy pushed his fingers together, inserted them. The
band moved down, closed about his wrist, tightened
there.

Startled, he jerked and tugged at it, only to find the.
bracelet now immovable, noi, tight enough to pinch
the flesh, but resting as if it had been fashioned ex-
actly to the measure of his arm. Yet under his explor-
ing fingers the metal was solid surface, with no
discernible joints or stretching bands to account for
the alteration in size.

Sahiba patted it, apparently attracted by the winks
of light still flickering on and off around it. Was it
only a piece of personal ornamentation—or some out-
landish weapon defensive or offensive?

"Good or bad?" he asked aloud, wondering if the
acute senses of the anirr-als could give him a reply to
that.

"Old thing." Sahiba yawned.

"A way out?" Troy returned to the main problem.
Perhaps some kind of trail would be marked in the
earth of the garden away from this point. He walked
along the edge of the pavement on which the recaller
had been set, searching for any trace of the route
taken coming or going by those who had brought the
machine here and then must have fled or been driven
back to the surface.

Simba and the foxes accompanied him, then darted
154

ahead, while Shang swung into the bushes again.
They reached the end of that rectangle of pavement,
and there Troy had eyes keen enough to pick out old
scars of lopped branches, once again woven with a
cloak of thick growth but still to be seen. He swung
his knife, cutting a new way by those guides.

The light from overhead had dimmed into what was
more night than dusk when he came out facing the
foot of one of those ramps such as had led them down
into this strange territory hours—or was it days?—
earlier. He had lost all sense of time.

They made camp in a pocket of bare earth with the
slope of the ramp at their backs. Troy eyed the now
dark jungle distrustfully. So far only the lily hearts
had been sighted as living things. But that did not
mean that there were no other, just-as-vicious un-
knowns. And perhaps, as on the upper surface of
Korwar, nocturnal hunters were more to be feared
than those who stalked by day. Now more than ever
he was dependent upon the senses of his companions.
And that balance had shifted again—here man might
be a liability to the Terrans.

He shared out supplies, noting that the animals made
no move to hunt their own food.

"Hunting bad?"

Simba regarded the now gray-black mass of veg-
etation.

"There is hunting—for others—"

"Others—" That word might not echo in the air, but
it did repeat itself in Troy's mind. He tried not to
think of the captive in the web. Yes, there had been
cruel hunting for others here.

"That which caught the man?" Against his will al-
155

most, Troy pressed the point. Did darkness activate
what the recaller had summoned out of the past? With
that thrust of apprehension, to be fed by his species'
age-old distrust of the dark, Troy put out a hand to
gather up the supply bag. Tired as he was, he had the
atom torch, and he could keep going on the ramp until
he dropped rather than face that weaver of webs. The
residue of terror here bit at him now.

"No." Simba seemed assured of that. "Other things—
this their place—"

As though on cue there came a cry out of the minia-
ture jungle, a long, wavering screech that was made
up of pain, terror, and the approach of death. Yet it
was no cry that could have come from any animal he
had ever known. And those he did know retreated,
edging in around him, their heads turned to the jun-
gle, their eyes alert, their lips lifted in snarls of
warning.

"Out of here!" Troy's torch snapped on. "Up—"

He did not have to urge. The foxes sprang from the
camp site to the ramp; the kinkajou was already racing
after them. As Troy, carrying Sahiba and the bag,
started that same climb, Simba fell in behind, looking
back over his shoulder now and again, a low growl
coming from his throat to warn off would-be trailers.

They went on climbing, the torch showing only the
rise before them. Soon they were above the surface of
the garden cavern, now in a sloping tunnel enclosed
by rock walls.

They came to a level with corridors starring out at
five different points, bare corridors in which his torch
showed the dust disturbed, perhaps by the feet of the
men who had planted the recaller and died for it.
156

Another length of walled-in climbing, then again
corridors—four this time.

Troy's ribs ached; his breath came in heaving gasps.
More and more often he had to pause to rest. But he
was driven now by the need to gain the open air and
the world he knew. How long that climb continued he
could not have told, for at last he moved through a
daze of fatigue, weaving and staggering from wall to
wall on the ramp, no longer aware of any communica-
tion with the animals, or even if they were still with
him. It seemed that the residue of terror that had sent
him out of that cavern grew stronger instead of weaker
as he went, until it blanketed out his normal reactions
and whipped him on and on—

Then there was gray light—and cool air, fresh
air—air that bore with it the burden of fine rain, but
which cleansed him and fought the shadows in his
mind. Troy reeled, caught at a block of masonry, dimly
conscious that he was out in the open now and that he
was done. With that crumbling wall as a prop to keep
him from crashing on his face, he slid down and lay on
his back, the soft steady rain pouring over his face
and body, plastering his clothing to him.

"Danger!" That word rang in his head as a shout
might have torn at his eardrums. Troy raised his head
groggily. The rain was over. There was a patch of
sunlight on the ground just beyond his hand. He shook
his head, trying to wake up fully.

Then he heard more than that mental warning. He
heard the sound made by a flitter hovering over a
'landing site in a cramped space. A flitter!

More by instinct than by any conscious move, Troy
drew back against the wall that had given him partial
157

shelter, trying to locate the machine, which, by the
sound, must be very close. Around him were the domes
and walls of surface Ruhkarv. There could be only one
reason why anyone had invaded this forbidden territory -
—they must have traced him here. And who were
"they"? The patrollers, Zul—or the rangers on their
usual duty of keeping the unauthorized out of this
danger zone?

For the first time he looked about for the animals.
And they were nowhere to be seen. Even the injured
Sahiba had disappeared. Yet they had warned him
mentally—or had they? Perhaps he was only still tuned
in on some wave length of their intercommunication.

The sound of the flitter grew louder, and Troy tried
to squeeze his bulk smaller in the shadow of the wall.
He saw the flyer as it crossed between two domes. It
was that of a ranger.

Troy crept backward, angling toward the mouth of
the ramp. He discovered that the fact he might be the
object of an air search removed a great deal of the
nebulous distaste he had known in the depths. Then,
to his astonishment, for he had felt very naked and
plainly in sight, he watched the flitter keep straight
on course and vanish behind the rise of another dome,
the sound of its passing dying away in the distance.
With a sigh of relief he sat up.

"Simba, Sahiba—" He pictured the cats in his mind,
aimed his mental call.

"One comes."

Troy was not sure of the direction of that ambigu-
ous answer.

"The flitter has gone." He tried to reassure the
furred company, to summon one of them into sight.
158

"One comes." It was repeated. "One comes from the
big man."

From the big man—Kyger! Zul?

"Where?" Troy pushed that effort at communication
to the top pitch he could hold. For a long moment he
feared they had cut their contact, refusing to answer.
Then Shang frisked around the sv^ell of the dome
behind which the flitter had disappeared, showed him-
self to Troy, and was gone again.

With far less speed and agility the man followed
that lead, crossing the space between wall and dome
with care as to his path but as quickly as he could.
Then, one hand braced against the side of the structure,
the other gripping his stunner, he began a slow and,
he hoped, a noiseless journey. He could hear the buzz
of a few insects. But there were no birds here, no sign
of life in this desolation that was the upper cover of
Ruhkarv. And he caught no sign of the animals save
that momentary glimpse of Shang.

Fourteen

Perhaps it was because his body was pressed so tightly
to the masonry of the dome that Troy caught the first
vibration, a faint tingle through blood and bone that
was familiar, bringing with it a vague memory of
darkness and suspense.

That throb grew faster, and it pulled, pulled against
159

his intelligence, against the need for caution, making
Troy want to run toward its source.

He battled that impulse, holding to cover, but mov-
ing on with that hardly heard beat for his goal, that
thrumming which registered on his nerves and mus-
cles before it did on his eardrums. And along with his
involuntary answer to that call, there came now an-
other emotion—not his, but the animals'! A desper-
ation—the hopeless fear of bound and helpless pris-
oners.

Tasting their fear, Troy guessed the truth. Some-
where ahead Zul was using the cylinder that had
rested in Kyger's lifeless hands. And the animals,
conditioned to answer its summons, were being drawn
to their own end without any chance to fight for their
freedom. Just as that cord within him, which was able
to serve as a communicating link from their brains to
his, was also responding—

Only he had not been conditioned—he could fight
back! And Zul would lead him straight to where he
wanted to go.

Troy ceased to resist, allowed his hidden compass to
guide him. But, though he followed the line of that
infernal piping, he still kept to cover.

Between two more domes, then into a space of open
land with straight towers of rock outcrops. As soon as
Troy was sure of his goal, he swung to the right,
pulling out of the direct line of the piping, circling to
bring up to the rear of the suspected ambush. Was Zul
alone? So much depended upon that.

Troy reached the first of the rock outcrops, went in
a half stoop to round it and thread a path of his own.
The piping still continued, which meant that Zul had
160

not yet pulled the animals out of hiding. But, as Troy
came to the tallest pillar in that broken land, it stopped
abruptly, and then he knew that he must trade cau-
tion for speed.

His stunner ready, he whipped around the base of
that tower to find the scene he had expected. Zul was
there, and between his knees was the tube from Kyger's
chambers. He had one hand still cupping its length.
The other, with wrist steadied on the head of the
cylinder, grasped a blaster. While facing him, crouching,
snarling, betraying in their tense bodies their hatred
and their fear—and helplessness—were the animals.

Troy snapped the stunner, aiming for the difficult
point of that bony yellow wrist. A head target would
have been best—but even as he blacked out under the
bolt, Zul could still have triggered his blaster. Now
the numbing beam struck the curled fingers with bet-
ter success than Troy had dared to hope for. Zul cried
out with the shock and surprise, his voice thinned by
rocky echoes. The blaster spun from his deadened
fingers. Grabbing for it with his other hand, he lost
his hold on the tube.

When Troy thumbed for a second stunner shot, the
release light did not spark. Charge exhausted! He
sprang into the open, running for the blaster. Zul was
down on his knees, his numbed hand folded up against
his chest, the other within fingertip reach of the blaster
grip. Troy swung a boot toe forward, kicked the blaster
away from Zul but out of his own path also.

Zul was well-versed in rough-and-tumble. The hand
that had been straining for the blaster grip struck out
at Troy's ankle, fingers raked across his boot, sending
him enough off balance to stagger a step or two beyond
161

the smaller man. Horan brought up against one of the
rock pillars with force enough to awaken the pain in
his old bruises, and clawed about breathlessly just in
time to face death.

Erupting from his half crouch, the blade of a knife
glinting in the sun, Zul came at him. Troy knew his
attack would end in the vicious up-cut that would
finish the fight and him in one skilled stroke if he could
not counter it. He was no knife fighter and Zul was.

But Zul's right hand was numbed and perhaps he
was awkward with the left. There was only that one
small chance. Troy swerved and struck for Zul's head
with the barrel of the stunner. The jar of that blow
getting home was followed by a thud against his own
ribs, so sharp and painful as to bring a yelp of agony
out of him.

Zul staggered against the rock, recoiled, and slumped
to the ground. Troy, hands pressed to his side, needed
the support of the pillar or he would have joined him.
He looked down, expecting to see the hilt of the blade
projecting from his flesh. But on the ground at his feet
lay the knife snapped in two pieces, and there was a
line of welling red on his arm above and below the
strange wristlet he had brought out ofRuhkarv. Dazed,
he watched the blood gather and drip, realizing tardily
that a super-steel blade meeting that red band had
been broken like a stick of dead wood and that, thanks
to the bracelet, he was still alive.

Holding his arm pressed tightly to his side to slow
the flow of blood, Troy stooped over Zul. The yellow man
lay limply on the ground but he was still breathing.

"Behind you—"

Troy tried to turn, tripped on Zul's outflung arm,

162

and went to his knees, so saving his life, for he towered
just beyond the searing edge of a blaster beam. He
coughed in the ozone stench of the discharge. Then,
obeying the instinct of self-preservation, he rolled
across the ground, sick with the torment of his side
and arm, gaining cover behind another rock pillar. So
Zul had at least one companion. And disarmed and
wounded, Troy would now be hunted down, with all
the advantages on the side of the hunter.

In his desire to hide, Troy knew of only one place—the
depths of Ruhkarv. Its evil reputation might slow up
pursuit, give him a breathing space. If he could only
have reached the blaster he had stunned out of Zul's
hand! But there was no chance to hunt for that
now—not with a sniper ready to fry him if he ventured
into the open.

"The depths," he thought fuzzily, trying to contact
the animals, sure that they had scattered into hiding
when he had broken Zul's spell-binding with the tube.

The tube! With that in Zula's or another's hands the
fugitives had no chance at all. Troy looked about him
a little widlly. There it lay—one end projecting beyond
a stone. To leave that intact meant disaster. Horan
hunted for a weapon—any kind of weapon.

He chose a stone block detached from a nearby
dome, of a size to fit his hand. And he hurled it—to
strike hard and true. Under its impact the tube cracked,
the end shattered, past any repair, he trusted. Their
luck had held—this far.

Then, his throbbing arm tight against his chest,
Troy scuttled away, expecting every moment to see
the flash of another blaster beam or feel his flesh crisp
under the beam he did not see.

163

Somehow he made it, falling rather than running
into the open mouth of the ramp up which they had
come hours before with such hope. And that beam he
had been anticipating struck as he fell and rolled
down the inside slope. He saw the brilliant, eye-
searing flash and heard the crackle as it lapped stone.
Then he was beyond its reach, only aware that somehow
he was still alive, if badly battered.

Would his tracker come boldly on? Troy tried to
listen. He could not see well; his eyes were still daz-
zled by the last shot. What he did hear was the return
of the flitter, or else another flyer. And that might
have provided a signal of sorts, for dark shapes flowed
over the edge of the ramp above, visible only for a
second or two against the circle of the daylight. The
animals were on their way to join him.

Together they retired to the first level of corridors
and there paused. There was no sound from above.
Had the rangers' scout seen the activity in the ruins
and landed to investigate? Troy knew that he had left
Zul partially stunned but still able to join the chase. If
he only had the blaster that the other had dropped in .
their first encounter—

"It is here."

Sahiba! Troy dared for an instant to snap on the
atom torch. The gray-blue cat, her splinted leg held at
an awkward angle, was half lying, half sitting, close
to him, and next to her was her mate. And in front of
Simba rested the weapon Troy had longed for. He
caught it up, feeling the dampness of the cat's mouth-
carry on the slender barrel, checking the charge. That
was less than a third expended. Now he could defend
them.
164

"They come." That was Sargon.

"How many?" Troy demanded.

"One—there are others—still above—"

One. Zul, or the unseen with the blaster? Troy eyed
the corridors issuing from the ramp, then flashed off
his torch. To venture blindly along any of those might
be to lose oneself entirely. Better the dangers he knew
than a new host, especially with the hunt behind, for
Troy was certain that Zul was not going to give up.
And he tried to plan ahead. Perhaps in that tangled
jungle below he could find the means of turning tables
on the other.

There was the problem of water and food. His bag of
supplies had been abandoned in the open. But there
was water below, and perhaps food, if he was not
dainty. He knew that the animals had found edible
prey in the fungoid cavern.

"Down!" He picked up Sahiba, unsealing the front
of his tunic and settling the cat into an improvised
carrying bag, which left his good arm free. The cuts
on his left forearm had stopped bleeding, but he feared
to use it freely lest they begin to -ooze again.

Though no sounds save his own breathing, the faint
scurrying that marked the going of the animals, and
the thin click of his boots reached his ears, Troy's
scouts assured him that the pursuit was still in progress
aa they retreated to the level of the next set of corri-
dors and on back to the haunted wilderness cavern.
He went without the torch, feeling his way, and now
the pallid seep of light below marked their goal.

When he dropped from the foot of the ramp, Troy
discovered the weird daylight was again in effect.
Perhaps it was true sunlight beamed through some
165

unknown process of Ruhkarv's builders into this hol-
low. There was a line of clouds discharging their burden
of rain, and Troy dodged to a dry space beyond. He
came against the rock wall where a filament of gray-
white stuff clung, and his shoulder brushed against
it—to adhere so that he had to jerk to free himself.

That was one of the web cords—strung all the way
from the opening—which had made a fatal trap for
Fauklow's man.

With the glimmering of an idea, Troy examined the
length carefully. He discovered that it was not plastered
to the stone surface along its entire side, as he had
first feared, but attached at intervals by thicker
portions. Thrusting his blaster into his belt, he pried
between two of those buttons and, either because the
cord was old or because it had never been meant to
grip too tightly except at those points, he freed a loop.

Troy worked fast. There were other cords, some
thinner, one or two as thick, and he moved them with
caution, picking the suckers away from the wall. The
outer sides were adhesive in the extreme. Sometimes
the ends he loosened flopped and became irretrievably
glued together before he could prevent their touching.

But even laboring one-handed he had a net of sorts,
though very crude and far from the perfect mesh he
had seen set over two of the cavern entrances. With
infinite care he spread his trap at the foot of the ramp
before the chopped-out trail that marked their former
trip through the jungle. Why he had been allowed
time enough to finish the job he did not know. But the
animals posted on the ramp had not given the alarm.

At Troy's signal they leaped free of the tangle now  j
lightly covered with dust and trampled leaves. To the
166

man's eye the net was well hidden, and he hoped his
pursuers would be as blind. Then they took cover, the
animals—except Sahiba—under the fringe of vegetation,
Troy and Sahiba in the pocket between wall and ramp.

They had set the trap. But was a trap any good
without bait? There had been no sight or sound of the
enemy for more than an hour. Had the other—or
others—stopped to explore the level corridors?

Man had only a scant portion of the patience of the
four-footed hunters, as Troy was to discover. His skin
itched; his side and arm throbbed. Hunger and thirst
clawed at his insides. A hundred minor irritations of
which he would not have ordinarily been conscious
arose to the point of torment. The sinister vegetation
that had repelled him earlier now beckoned with a
promise of food and water—somewhere—somehow—

And under that physical discomfort lay the malaise
of spirit that had troubled him before when night had
caught him in this place—the suggestion that there
were unseen terrors here worse than any danger he
could face body to body, weapon to weapon.

Troy battled discomfort, vague fears, held himself
taut, hoping his forlorn hope would work. But how
long he could keep this watch he did not know. A
trap—but a trap needed bait.

A bush trembled. Shang sprang from its crown onto
the ramp. He stood so for a moment, his prehensile
tail curled up in a question mark, hindquarters up
slope, his round head atilt as he looked down at Troy.

"No." The man protested. The kinkajou could move
fast, Troy would bear witness to that, ,but not fast
enough to escape a blaster bolt.

But the animal did not heed him. Out of reach, the
167

kinkajou was now out of sight as well, up the ramp.
The bait had been provided.

Sahiba shifted her weight inside his tunic, making
Troy catch his breath as one of her hind paws scraped
his tender ribs.

"One comes?" he asked hopefully.

His less able sense of contact caught again the fringe
of their joint concentration, the filament that must
unite them to Shang up there in the danger of the
higher levels. And Troy, impatient, knew that he could
not badger them with questions now.

Time crept. Once more dusk was growing in the
jungle, patch of shadow united with patch of shadow,
and did not retreat but became solid.

"One comes!" Sahiba dug the claws of her good
forepaw into Troy's flesh, jerking him out of a nod. He
drew the blaster, took the cat out of his tunic, and set
her in safety behind him.

A scurry on the ramp. Shang flew through the air
from the stone to the bushes. And now—louder—the
click of shod feet—human feet.

Above, a flicker of light—gone almost as instantly
as Troy had sighted it. An atom torch snapped on and
off again? He was sure that the newcomer must have
seen the thin light of the cavern and would now proceed
guided by that alone.

"Zul?" He beamed that at Shang.

"No."

If not Zul, then it must be that unknown who had
sniped with the blaster. Troy readied his own weapon.
Whether he could burn down another human being,
even when fighting for his life, he was not sure. The
struggles in the Dipple had always been man to man,
168

fist and foot. And a knife was an accepted combat arm
anywhere on Korwar, in fact across the stellar lanes.
But this thing in his hand—he did not know, though
he was very sure no such scruples would check the
other.

The click of boots was still. Had the other halted—or
turned back?

"No!" A reply concentrated in force from the animals.

Then it was stealth. Troy crouched, steadied his
blaster hand against the wall. Yet for all his long
period of waiting he was not quite prepared for the
sudden spring from the head of the ramp.

His own slight movement might have spiked that
attack and almost spoiled his plan. But Troy had
planted the net well. The man fell short and his land-
ing was not clean. He went to his hands and knees, to
be enmeshed in the sticky ropes, which, as he rolled
and fought, only tied the more tightly about his body.

Troy stood away from the wall. He would not be
forced to fire after all. The other was doing a good job
, of making himself a prisoner.

"Another—"

The warning startled Troy out of his absorption in
the struggle. Simba advanced into the open, avoiding
the flopping captive, to stand at the foot of the ramp
looking up.

Then a blaster bolt crackled—striking not for Troy,
as he had expected, but at the writhing figure on the
ground, close enough to singe some of the cords so
that they flaked away from smoldering clothing. The
bound man gave a mighty heave and rolled, as a
second bolt burned the soil where he had lain and cut
a blackened slash into the jungle.

169

And by that flash Troy saw the hide tunic the other
wore. The trapped man was not Zul but one of the
rangers. Horan snapped an answering bolt recklessly
up the ramp. There was a cry and a figure staggered
into view, slipped, rolled to the cavern floor. When it
did not stir again, Troy went to the ranger.

"I thought I might find you here, Horan."

He was looking down at Reme. And his first im-
pulse to free the other died. Once he had almost turned
to this man for help. Now all the instincts of the
hunted brought back his long-seated suspicions. He
might well have as good a reason to fear Reme as he
did Zul. Not that the ranger would blast him without
warning, but the Clans had their own laws and those
laws were obeyed in the Wild. Troy did not sheathe
the blaster, but over its barrel he regarded the Hunter
narrowly.

"Do not be a fool." Rerne had stopped struggling,
but he was trying to raise his head and shoulders
from the ground. "You are being hunted."

"I know," Troy interrupted. "You are here—"

Reme frowned. "You have more after you than Clan
rangers, boy. Including some who want you dead, not
alive. Ha—"

His gaze swept from Troy to a point nearer ground
level. Troy follow the path of his eyes. Shang, Simba,
Sargon, and Sheba had materialized in their usual
noiseless fashion, were seated at their ease inspecting
Rerne with that measuring stare Troy could still find
disconcerting when it was turned in his direction.
Sahiba came limping from the place where he had left
her for safety.
170

"So—" Reme returned the steady-eyed regard of the
animals, his expression eager. 'These are the present
most-wanted criminals of Korwar."

Fifteen

"Most wanted, maybe,"—Troy's voice was soft, cold,
one he had never used before to any man outside the
Dipple—"but not criminals, Rerne." No more subservient
"Hunter" or "Gentle Homo." This was not Tikil but a
place into which the men of Tikil feared to go, and he
was no longer a weaponless city laborer but one of a
company who were ready to fight for what the Dipple
had never held—freedom.

"You know how they served Kyger?" Rerne asked
almost casually.

"I know."

"But you could not have been a part of that—or
could you?" That last portion of the question might be
one Rerne was asking himself—had been asking
himself—for some time. He was studying Troy with a
stare almost as unblinking as that Simba could turn
upon one.

"No, I was not a part of Kyger's schemes, whatever
those were. And I did not kill him—if you have any
doubts about that. But neither are we criminals."

"We?"

171

Troy took a step backward to join the half circle of
animals. They stood together now, presenting a united
front to the ranger. Rerne nodded.

"I see, it is indeed 'we'."

"And what do you propose to do about it?" Troy
challenged.

"It is not what I propose to do, Horan. We shall all
probably die unless we can work together to find a
safe way out of here." But he sounded calm enough.
"You are being hunted by more than just Clan rangers
—in fact, the rangers could be the least of your worries.
And 'it seems that the order is out to blast before
asking questions—blast on sight."

"Your orders?" Troy brought up his own weapon.

"Hardly. And when they hear about it, the Clan
shall take steps. That I promise you." There was ice in
that, and Troy, noting the narrowing of the other's
eyes, the slight twist of his lips, estimated the quality
of the anger this man held under rigid control. "It is
easy to eliminate a fugitive and afterwards swear that
his death was all an unfortunate mistake—the game
our friend over there was trying to play." He jerked
his head toward the body at the foot of the ramp. "You
have one chance in a thousand of escaping one or
another of the packs after you now or—" He was
summarily interrupted.

"One comes." Simba padded to the foot of the ramp
again.

Troy hesitated. He could leave Rerne where he was,
neatly packaged, for either the ranger's own men or
someone else to discover—and melt back into the jun-
gle, eventually seeking the yet lower level of the
fungoid cavern, retracing their whole journey through
172

Ruhkarv. Or he could make a stand here and fight.

Rome's eyes traveled from cat to man and back
again. "We are about to entertain another visitor?"

"We?" This time it was Troy who accented the
pronoun.

"It could not be my men coming now."

And Troy believed him. That meant it was truly the
enemy.

"You have a choice," Rerne pointed out. "Take to
the bush over there and they will have a difficult time
beating you out of it—"

"And you?"

"Since you can name me one of your pursuers, should
that matter?" There was a grim lightness in that.

"The other one tried to burn you."

"As I said, they are working on the principle that
accidents will happen and a dead man one has to
explain is better than a live witness who can explain
for himself."

Troy made the only possible choice. Hooking his
fingers in the nearest loop of the cords about the
ranger, he jerked the man under the overhang of the
ramp. There was no time now to try to free Rerne,
even if he were yet sure he wanted to. But he knew he
could not leave the other helpless to take a blasting
from Zul or one of Zul's crowd.

"Zul?" he asked Simba.

"Zul," the cat replied with sure authority.

There was no time either in which to rig another
trap, and Troy^was sure the other came armed. Nor
could he count on another shot as lucky as the one
that had brought down the earlier assailant. Now he
squatted beside Reme, hoping for a workable ambush.
173

"Get me loose!" The ranger's shoulders heaved as he
worked his muscles against the cords of the webbing.

"Nothing will cut those except heat," Troy told him
absently, most of his attention on what might be
happening up ramp.

"What is this stuff?" Rerne demanded, his voice a
whisper.

"Part of a web—taken from the wall over there."
Troy nodded to the stretch of rock where strips of cord
and thread still hung in tatters. Rerne gave a small
gasp and was silent.

The light was fading steadily into a dark that had
none of the quality of the upper-surface night. Troy
remembered his first stay in this place, his belief that
the jungle had its own brand of very dangerous life.
There was one place free of that growth—the section
of pavement where the recaller stood. And as long as
that machine was deadened—

If Zul did not come soon, should they try to reach
that? Troy seesawed between one plan and the other.
Wait here for Zul and try to shoot as soon as he
appeared on the ramp, when he could not be too sure
of his aim in the failing light? Or free Rerne's legs
and bundle the ranger along to that haunted spot
beside the recaller with the warning of that shriveled,
long-dead thing set up to stare at them through the
night hours?

"Zul?" Again he asked that of those who were quicker
than he to know whether danger ran or crept toward
them now.

Simba again answered, but this time with a puzzled
shading to his mind speech. "Zul begins to fear—"

"Us?" Troy could hardly believe that. He knew well
1,74

that Zul had had no fear when they had fought above,
that Zul looked upon the animals as creatures he
could control, could entice helpless to their deaths.
What and why did he fear now? Or was it the presence
of Reme that was a restraining factor? Could Troy
somehow use the Hunter to bargain with?

"Zul fears what he cannot see," Simba reported, still
that puzzlement coloring his reply.

For a moment Simba's report fed Troy's own latent
uneasiness. With the dusk closing in about them and
the only too clearly remembered picture of the captive
in the web at the back of his mind, he thought he
knew what could plague a man, eating at his nerves
until he had to get out of this hidden pocket within
Ruhkarv. But Zul had not been here; he could not
know of the web, or the recaller, or guess at what
might have been summoned and now, according to the
animals, still hovered just beyond the bonds of living
consciousness. Why did Zul fear?

"He does not see," Sahiba cut in, "not with his
eyes—only with his far thoughts. But he is a kind who
feels trouble before him."

"He is able to speak to you then?"

"No." That was Sargon. "Not without the aid of the
thing-which-calls. But Zul sees many shadows now
and each holds an enemy." The fox trotted out of
hiding, made a detour about the body of the dead
man, and advanced a foot or so up the ramp, surveying
the gloom above. "He wishes to come, yet his fears
hold him back."

And did Zul have a right to fear? Troy watched the
now night-disguised splotch of the jungle. And he knew
that he could no longer plan to pass through even a
175

fringe of it, much less intrude upon that open space
about the recaller. It was as if that thing, which
lurked—not alive, yet not wholly in the dead past
either—sucked vitality from the dark, made itself
substance that could not be seen with the eyes, but
which could be sensed by that other thing inside one',
the thing that allowed him to communicate with the

animals.

"What is it?" Reme, too, his shoulders braced against
the rock wall, was staring into that mass of vegetation.
"What walks there?"

"Nothing alive—I hope." Troy went down on one
knee, sparked his blaster on low power, and touched
lightly the coils of webbing still encircling the other's
legs. The strands shriveled and were gone.

"Nothing alive?" Rerne repeated questioningly.

"The recaller Fauklow brought is out there. Your
machine muted it, but the power is still on—blanketed.
They tell me that what it summoned is still partly in
this dimension."

"What! And I take it that our friend above is
reluctant to descend into what may prove to be a
dragon's jaws?"

Troy sat back on his heels. Had Rerne been able to
tune in on that conversation between Troy and the
animals? But he was certain that the animals would
have known of such eavesdropping and would have
warned him.

"You communicate with the animals somehow,"
Rerne continued. "And now you suspect that I can
also."

Troy nodded.

"Mental contact." That was a stated fact, not a
176

question. "No, I have been guessing only. And this I
do know, Zul is of unusual stock. Most of us now are
a mingling of many races, the result of centuries of
stellar colonization. He is a primitive out of Terra—
pure Bushman—a race of hunters and desert dwellers
with an inborn instinct for the Wild such as few oth-
ers have today. And such primitives keep senses we
have lost. If he sniffs your demon, then I do not think
that mere duty will drive him down. Rather he will
comfort his conscience with the belief that the demon
will account for us—if he sits over the exit and so
locks us in. And at that, I can almost find myself
agreeing with such reasoning."

Rerne moved his shoulders again, straining at the
remaining cords. "This is not a place in which I would
choose to spend the night," he confessed, and there
was no light touch to those words.

"You were here when Fauklow was found?"

"Not here. We did not know this particular beauty
spot existed. After what we saw aloft there was no
nonsense about exploring below ground. We thought
we had accounted for the recaller, though. That must,
be seen to. That is, if I ever get out of here to report
it."

"He can wait up there a long time—pick us off
easily if we try to pass." Troy wondered if now was the
time to reveal the alternate route to the surface.
Without food and water—no, he was not sure they
could make it back the longer way around.

"Yes, any one of those level corridors would make
him a good cover for ambush. But if we cannot get up,
we can bring help from the surface to take him in the
rear." Again Reme tried to flex his upper arms. "If
177

you will just loose me the rest of the way, Horan, I can
bring in reinforcements."

"No." Troy's dissent was flat and quick.

"Why?" Reme did not sound angry, merely inter-
ested.

"We are criminals—remember?"

"Where there is a common enemy there can be a
truce. In the Wild I do have some small authority."

Troy considered that. Trust was a rare commodity
in the Dipple. If he gave his now to this man, as he
was so greatly tempted to do, he would be putting a
weapon in Rerne's hands just as surely as if he were
to hand over the blaster. And again his suspicion
warred with his desire to believe in the other.

"A truce, until we are out of here," Rerne suggested.
"I am willing to swear knife oath if you wish."

Troy shook his head. "Your word, no oaths—if I
accept." He paid that much tribute openly to the ranger.
"Trrce and a head start for me, with them."

"The chase wili oe up again," Rerne warned. "You
have no chance with the Clans out to quarter the
field. Better surrender and let the law decide."

"The law?" Troy laughed harshly. "Which law,
Hunter—Clan right, patrollers' code, or Zul's exter-
mination policy? I know we are fair game. No, give
me your promise that we can have a start of at least
half a day."

"That is freely yours, for what you can make of it,
which I am afraid will be very little."

"We shall take our chances." Troy applied heat to
the other's remaining bonds.

"Always we. Why, Horan?" Rerne rubbed his wrists.

"Men have used animals as tools," Troy said slowly,
178

trying to fit into words something he did not wholly
understand himself. "Now some men, somewhere, have
made better tools, tools so good they can turn and cut
the maker. But that is not the fault of the tools—that
they are no longer tools but—"

"Perhaps companions?" Reme ended for him, his
fingers still stroking his ridged flesh, but his eyes
very intent on Troy.

"How did you know?" the younger man was startled
into demanding.

"Let us say that I am also a workman who can
admire fine tools, even when they have ceased, as you
point out, to be any longer tools."

Troy grasped at that hint of sympathy. "You under-
stand—"

"Only too well. Most of our breed want tools, not
companions. And the age-old fear of man, that he will
lose his supremacy, will bring all the hawks and hunt-
ers of the galaxy down on your trail, Horan. Do not
expect any aid from your own species when it is
threatened by powers it cannot and does not want to
understand. But you will have your truce—and your
head start—and what you do with them is up to you.
Now, let us see what we can do about getting a clear
road out of here before what prowls over there takes a
fancy to come out." Rerne waved a hand toward the
jungle.

He slipped a small object from a loop on his belt. On
its surface was a tiny dial he set with care, holding it
into the beam of an atom torch. Then he smiled at
Troy.

"Broadcaster. It is beamed for a ranger aid call, and
I have alternated that with a warning code, so they
179

will not head blindly into any ambush of Zul's. He
may have another man with him, possibly two. We
know that he went to the Guild in Tikil before he
coasted in here. I think he hired blaster men."

"Then he must have robbed Kyger's. He would not
have credits enough on his own to pay blaster man
prices to the Thieves' Guild."

"Did you ever think that perhaps Kyger was not the
top man of his organization on Korwar?" returned
Rerne. "If he was not, then it is up to that head to
close down the whole enterprise as quickly and with
as little fuss as possible. You have already been posted
in Tikil as a murderer who has stolen valuable ani-
mals. Someone issued that complaint."

"I thought that would happen." Troy governed his
dismay speedily. Posted as a murderer! Which meant
that even the city patrollers could shoot first and ask
troublesome questions after. Only this was the Wild,
not Tikil, and he thought he had an advantage over
that set of trackers here.

"You say that you did not kill him?"

"I found him dead." Swiftly Troy outlined the events
before his escape from the shop and from Tikil that
night.

"That account I can readily believe. Kyger had some
odd acquaintances and had stepped hard on the wrong
toes," Rerne commented obscurely, "apart from these
other activities. And do you realize that I can supply
you with an alibi? At the time Kyger died you were
with Rogarkil and me."

"Did you say that to the patrollers?" Troy's throat
felt tight. If that was the truth, why had Rerne not
cleared him?
180

"Not so far—"

"You wanted a bargaining point to use with me?"
Troy demanded. That seesaw of belief, then suspicion,
within him swung once more to the chilling side.

"Perhaps."

"I am not interested. I will take what I have." Troy
was cooling rapidly. He was sure Rerne would keep
his word to the strict letter of his promise. But why
the ranger had revealed this other matter—that he
could clear Troy with the law of the city but had not
done so—remained a mystery. It smelled of the desire
to push Horan into some pattern of Clan devising, just
as he and the other had obliquely suggested at that
cafe meeting. And having tasted freedom, Troy was
not minded to walk again another's road.

"As you wish." Rerne neither urged nor explained.
He raised the miniature corn unit to his ear, listened
for a moment, and then nodded.

"They are coming, have laid down a haze ahead—as
far as the levels. Should not be long before that reaches
Zul."

So the rangers were using that most up-to-date
subduing weapon—and one Zul, Troy was certain, was
not armored against.

"Will they arrest Zul?"

Rerne glanced at him. "Is that what you wish?"

"Why not?"

"There is no reason to believe that Zul is top man.
He was wholly Kyger's subordinate, not the other way
around. Zul, left free, could lead someone to his em-
ployer."

"If that trailer had time—and the inclination,"
snapped Troy. "Just a present I have more important
181

things—" He paused. Rerne was right in a way. To
trace Zul's contacts to their sources. If it were not for
the animals, he would like to do just that. But he
must make the best use of his truce, and he could not
waste time on Zul. "Your move, if you wish," he

suggested.

Rerne was holding the broadcaster to his ear again.
"Our move is up." He gestured to the ramp.

"Zul?"

"No sign of him. But there is a Guildsman sleeping
sweetly at the second level. They have collected him
for the patrollers. Let Zul believe that he has made a
safe escape in his hiding place. He will sleep off the
haze and he can be watched later."

So Rerne was going to investigate Zul? Though what
he would make of more exact knowledge, except to use
it as a lever for some Clan dispute with the authori-
ties in Tikil, Troy did not see. He gathered up Sahiba,
motioned Rerne to precede them.

"I have a blaster. You have granted me a truce. May-
be some of the rest up there will not be so generous."

Rerene smiled. "It pays to be cautious. But I think
you will find I speak for the rangers. Up it is."

To Troy the climb was as long and exhausting as
had been the descent of the winding way in the well.
There was no one waiting at the first level of corri-
dors. On and up, Simba and Sargon forging a little
ahead, a twin pair of scouts Troy was sure no human
being could equal. Shang was on his shoulder, Sheba
beside him. None of the animals paid any attention to
Rerne outwardly, but Troy knew they kept an expert

watch on the ranger.
They passed the second level. Ahead lay the open.

182

Troy pushed his weary brain to plan action beyond
that point. He could not hope that he would have any
chance at mechanical transport; his bargain did not
reach that far. But the barrier about Ruhkarv must
have been lowered to let the searchers in, so they
could leave this scar on foot. Tired as he was, without
supplies, he did not see how they would be able to
cover much ground. But even if they could reach the
fringe of forest lands, the animals could escape. Then
he would take his chances with the men.

"Men waiting," Simba warned.

Well, that was to be expected—Reme's men.

"Not enemies," Troy replied.

"We have you covered! Drop your blaster!"

Troy spun halfway around as he caught a glimpse of
a uniformed shoulder, a hand holding a blaster. His
arm, still stiff from the cut, went up and his fingers
gripped Rerne, pulling the other to him as a shield.
He heard a gasp from the ranger and an exclamation
of anger.

"So this is the worth of a Clansman's word!" Troy
spat. "Would your knife oath have held any better?"
Then he raised his voice to reach the others. "We got
out—this Hunter lord with us. Any attempted burn-
down and he roasts too!"

Rerne offered no resistance as Troy propelled him
ahead into the open. There was a muttering behind
but no bolt to shatter the gloom.

183

Sixteen

Rerne was oddly silent; he had made no reply to Troy's
accusation. That bothered the younger man; he wanted
an explanation, to know that the other had not
purposely led him into a trap. Now that he had a
moment to think, he believed that scrap of uniform so
briefly glimpsed had not been ranger dress.

"Men here—" Again that alert from the animals.

Troy, holding the unresisting Rerne to him, stood—
back to the dome wall—surveying the scene. He could
see those others waiting—and they were unmistakably
rangers, the hunting dress blending into the earth
color of the ruins. A little beyond was what he had not
dared to hope for—a flitter!

"Tell your men," he said harshly to his prisoner, "to
stand away from the flitter—now!"

"Leave the flitter," Rerne repeated obediently, his
voice as toneless as that of a corn robot. His features
were set and hard, and Troy sensed his rage.

The rangers moved. When they were well away
from the flyer, Troy began a crablike journey in its
direction, keeping Rerne between him and the Clan
men, knowing the animals were well ahead of him.
Then he was at his goal, his hand on the cabin door.

His anger and fear driving him, Troy swung the
blaster, laid the barrel against Rome's head. The Hunter
184

gasped, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the
ground. Troy scrambled into the flyer, knocked down
the rise lever. They climbed in a jump, which shook
him across the control board and made Sahiba yowl in
protest as she was scraped against that obstruction.
But they were safe for the moment; he was sure the
zoom had lifted them out of range of blaster fire. Free
and in a flitter.

He twirled the journey dial to the east, knowing
that the flyer, without any tending from him, would
keep straight for the heart of the Wild. They would be
after him surely. But unless they had another flitter
at Ruhkarv, there would be precious time lost until
they could summon one, and time was all he dared
hope to gain now.

Troy's eyes were fixed unseeingly on the night sky
that held them. Food—water—shelter—His mind felt
as sapped of energy as his body. He could not think
properly. Of only one thing was he sure: a stubborn
determination to set down the flyer somewhere in the
Wild where the animals could take to the country for
their own concealment.

"It is well." That was Simba. "Good hunting here.
Men cannot shake us out of these lands."

"There is still Zul," Troy warned sluggishly.

"There is still Zul," Simba agreed. "But let Zul
follow us before we lay a trap for his feet."

Troy must have slept. He aroused with light in his
eyes, sat up groggily, for a moment unable to remember
"where he was. Then the golden sky of morning,
patterned with the clouds of fair weather, recalled the
immediate past. Under him the flitter rode steadily on
the course he had set—eastward.

185

He looked down through the bubble, expecting to
see the rolling plains he had hoped to find. They
spread beneath him right enough, only ahead was a
distant smudge of darker vegetation, the sign of a
forest or more broken ground. They must have passed
over a large section of the open territory during the
night and were leagues deep into the reserve, farther
than the Tikil hunting parties ever went. Troy rubbed
his eyes, began to think again.

The only way they could be traced now was by the
flitter. Suppose he were to land by the edge of that
distant wood and then send the flyer off on remote
control—back to the west? One way of confusing the
pursuit.

But, as he reached for the controls, to take the flyer
back under manual pilotage again, his time had run
out. The flitter plunged crazily, caught in the side
sweep of a traction beam. Troy gave one startled look
to the rear, saw another flyer boring down his track.

Perhaps a more skilled pilot could have done better.
His evasive swings only kept him out of the direct
core of the beam the other had trained upon his craft.
He set the air speed to the top notch, striving to reach
the wood before the other pinned him squarely.

At last Troy set down, felt the wheels of the flitter
catch and tear through the long grass. But that grass
could cover his passengers' escape. He slewed the flyer
about, broadside to the first tongue of woods cover.
Opening the door of the cabin before they bumped to a
complete halt, he gave his last command to the ani-
mals: "Out and hide!"

Sahiba he set down himself, saw her limp into a
tangle of grass with her mate, the foxes and the
186

kinkajou already gone. Then Troy sent the flyer on,
scuttling -along the ground as far and as fast from the
point where he had dropped his live cargo as he could
get.

The flitter rocked, half lifted from the ground. Now
he was pinned to his seat, helpless, unable to raise as
much as a finger from the controls. They had a pinner
beam on him, and he was a captive forced to wait for
the arrival of his pursuer.

• Unable to as much as turn his head, Troy sat
sweating out the minutes of that, wait. At least they
wanted to take him prisoner, not just blast him out of
the air as they might have done. Whether this was
good or bad he had yet to leam. And whether his
captors were rangers, patrollers, or^ Zul's ambiguous
force he would know shortly.

The cabin door was pulled open. Though he could
not turn his head, Troy rolled his eyes to the right far
enough to see that the man who had thrust head and
shoulders into that confined space was not wearing
the hide forest dress of the Clans, not the uniform of a
patroller. Zul's party—?

Paying little or no attention to the helpless prisoner
before the controls, the other searched the floor,
squeezed behind the seat to survey the storage space.
Undoubtedly he was looking for the animals. And,
guessing that, Troy's spirits rose a small fraction.
They had either not noted his brief pause by the
tongue of woodland, or they had not understood the
reason for it. They had expected to find not one but six
helpless in the flitter.

The man backed out of the door. "Not here." Troy
heard his call.

187

Though he knew he could not fight the tension
bands of a pinner, Troy strove to move just his hand.
The blaster butt was a painful knob against his chest,
held upright by his belt. If he could only close his
fingers about that, the man by the door and the one
he reported to—he could turn tables on both of them.
But, though blood throbbed in his temples from his
efforts, he was held motionless and unable to resist
any attack the others chose to make.

His eyes began to ache with the strain of trying to -
keep watch on the door of the cabin. But he did not
have too long to wait. Zul, his yellow face a mask of
pure and unshielded malignancy, took the place of his
hireling there. As the other had done, he searched the
floor of the machine, apparently unwilling or unable
to accept that first report. Then he looked directly at
Troy.

"They are gone!" He said that flatly.

At least vocal cords and throat muscles were not
governed by the pinner. Troy was able to answer.
"Where you will not find them."

Zul did not reply to that. Withdrawing from the
cabin, he gave a low-voiced order. After a moment the
door beside Troy was opened, and his disobedient mus-
cles could not save him from falling through it, drop-
ping to the ground on his face.

But the fall had removed him from the direct line of
the pinner, and now he was free to move as the others,
protected by countercharge buttons, had moved within
the machine. He tried to get to his knees but he was
not quick enough. A sharp pain burst at the nape of
his neck, and he sprawled forward again, into the
trampled grass of the plains.
188

Troy roused to utter darkness, a black that was
frightening with its suggestion of blindness. And as
he tried to raise his hand to his eyes, he made the
discovery that he was bound, this time by no pinner
but by very real cords, which chafed his wrists, drew
hard loops about his ankles. A moment's experimen-
tation informed him that it was no easier to loosen
those than it had been to fight the beam. And he also
learned that the dark came from an efficient and
bewildering blindfold.

Whatever the intentions of his captors, they wanted
to keep him alive for the present—and in reasonably
good shape. Having made sure of his status as a
wrapped package, Troy tried to figure out where he
now was. The vibration, the small rough jolts of a
swift air flight, were transmitted to his body through
the surface of which he lay. His legs were curled
behind him in a manner to stiffen muscles with cramp
if he did not change position, and he could not. So
Troy guessed that he now lay in the storage compart-
ment of a flitter, in either the one in which he had
made the dash from Ruhkarv, or the one in which Zul
had tracked him.

And with Zul in command of that party, Troy thought
that they must now be headed back toward Tikil—
Tikil and perhaps the man who gave the orders now
that Kyger was dead. The animals— They had expected
to find them in the flitter. After they had stunned him
had they discovered the animals? With nothing to
bring them out of the woodland as Zul had drawn
them with the summoner. Troy doubted that any of
those who held him prisoner could have picked up the
four-footed fugitives.

189

He tested his hope by trying to reach one of the
animals with the mind touch. There was no response;

he apparently had no fellow captives. Nor could he
hear anything except the normal noises of a competently
piloted flitter going at top legal speed—which meant
they were flying high.

He had no way of telling how long he had been
unconscious. But his middle was a hollow ache of
hunger, and the thirst drying his throat was an addi-
tional pain; it was hard to remember now just when
he had eaten last, harder yet to think back to a full
drink of water. And these torments, added to the dis-
comfort of his present position, spoiled his efforts to
plan clearly, to try to speculate concerning what lay
ahead of him at the end of this journey.

Troy wriggled, trying to work his legs straighter,
then became aware of a change in the tempo of their
flight. The pilot was cutting air speed, with a jerk
that shook the flyer every time they dropped a notch
—which argued the need for saving time. They must
be ready to drop into a lower lane—could they be
approaching Tikil?

Lying in his cramped curl, Troy tried to sort out the
few impressions he could gather through the vibration
of the flyer, the difference in small sounds. Yes, they
were definitely dropping to a lower lane. Then he
caught the whistle of a patroller flitter.

Troy tensed. Was this flyer being overhauled by the
law?

But if the pilot had been questioned, he had been
able to give the right signal answer, for there was no
change in the beat of the engine—they had not been
ordered to set down. However, the speed decreased
190

another notch. They were now traveling at the placid
rate required for a low city lane, one used preparatory
to landing.

Landing where? Troy's whole body ached now with
the strain of trying to evaluate what he heard and
felt. The swoop of the flitter he had been expecting.
Then came the slight bound of a too-quick wheel touch,
and the engine was snapped off.

Play dead, Troy thought. Let them haul him about
as if he were still unconscious until he learned what
he could. He forced his muscles to relax as well as he
was able.

Air blew through the flitter. He heard the scrape of
boots. Then another panel was opened only a few
inches beyond his head. Hands, hooked in his armpits,
jerked him roughly backward so that his legs hit the
pavement. Gruntin'g, the man who had unloaded him
continued to drag Troy along.

But the air was providing the blindfolded prisoner
with a clue to his whereabouts. Only one place had
ever held that particular combination of strong odors
—the courtyard of Kyger's shop. He was back to where
he had started from days before.

He thudded to the ground, dropped by his guard,
then heard the faint squeak of a panel door. Once
more hands hooked under him and he was manhandled
along. Again his nose supplied a destination. This was
the storeroom off the courtyard. Troy was allowed to
fall unceremoniously, his head and shoulders against
a bag of grain, so that he was half sitting. He made
his head loll forward m what he hoped was a convinc-
ing display of unconsciousness.

But if this convinced his captors, they were no longer
191

willing to let him remain unaware of his plight. Out
of nowhere the flat of a palm smacked one cheek,
snapping his head back against the ba-g. And a second
stinging slap shook him equally as much.

"What—?" He did not need to counterfeit that dazed
query.

"Wake up, Dippleman!" That was Zul. Yet Troy was
sure the small man did not have the strength to drag
him here. There must be at least two of them beside
him in the storeroom.

"What—?" Troy began again.

"Use your mouth for this."

A hard metal edge was thrust against his lips with
force enough to pinch flesh painfully against his teeth,
and then he almost choked as a substance that was
neither liquid nor solid but more nearly a thick soup
filled his mouth and he had to swallow, a portion
trickling out greasily over his chin. It had a bitter
taste, but he could not struggle against their force-
feeding methods, and about a cupful of it burned down
his throat into his stomach.

"Will that hold?" someone, he thought it was Zul,
asked.

"Never failed yet," returned a stranger briskly. "He'll
be as frisky as one of those Dandle pups of yours
about five hours from now. That's what you want, is it
not? Up until then you can leave him here with all
the doors wide open and he will not get lost. We know
our job. Citizen."

Troy's head flopped forward on his chest once more
as the other released his grip. There was no need to
sham helplessness. Spreading outward from that
warmth in his stomach was a numbness that attacked
192

muscles and nerves; he was completely unable to move.
One of the notorious drugs used by the Guild. But,
Troy thought dimly, that made this a highly expen-
sive job—to include scientific drugging would put the
price in the upper credit brackets. And where had Zul
managed to lay his hands on that kind of funds—and
the proper connections?

The numbness that had first affected his body now
reached his mind. There was a dreamy lassitude in
which nothing mattered. He lay quietly, drifting along
on a softly swaying cloud that spiraled up lazily higher
than any flitter could climb—

Cold—very cold— The cold centered in his head—no,
in his mouth. Troy swallowed convulsively and the
cold was in his throat—his middle—

"Thought you said he would be ready—" Words, the
very sound of which jarred in his head.

"Does not usually work this way—unless he had an
empty stomach to begin with." More words—protesting
—hurting his head.

The cold spread outward, up through his shoulders,
down his thighs, into his arms, hands, fingers, legs,
and toes—a cold that bit, though he was unable to
shiver.

"Get some sub-four into him now!" The order was
rapped out in a louder tone.

More liquid splashed into his mouth, to dribble out
again because he had no control over slack lips. Then
his mouth was refilled, a palm held with brutal force
over his lips, and he swallowed. The taste this time
was sweet, cloying. But it drove out the ice as it went
down him, bringing a glow, a feeling of returning
energy and fitness, which was like a raw life force
193

being pumped into his veins to supply new vigor for
his body.

"That does it." The hand that had been over his lips
slipped down to rest on the pulse in his throat, then
farther, inside his tunic, to touch directly over his
heart. "He is coming around all right. He will be ripe
and ready when you want him."

The fatigne, the hunger, the thirst of which Troy
had been so conscious were gone. He was fully alert,
not only physically but mentally, with an added fillip
of rising self-confidence—though he mistrusted the
latter, for that emotion might be born of the succession
of drugs they had forced into him. A haffer addict, for
example, simply did not believe that failure of any of
his projects was possible. Had they pumped him full of
something that would make him as amenable to their
will or wills as the animals had been to Kyger's
summoning tube?

However, for the moment they left him. His nose
told Troy he was still in the storeroom of the shop, the
bag of grain propping his shoulders. Beyond that there
was little that hearing, touch, or smell could add.
Time had long ceased to have any meaning at all in
his blindfolded world—this might be tomorrow, or
several tomorrows, after that hour when he had dumped
the animals in the Wild.

The animals! Once more he put his newly alerted
mind to trying to establish contact with them. If they
had been located and captured, he could not tell, for to
all his soundless calls there came no replies.

Click of boot soles, the scrape of the door panel, boot
soles again much louder. Then the smell of clothes
worn about animals too long—the odor of a human
194

body. Troy found a snatch of time in which to marvel
at his heightened sense of smell.

There was a tug at the bindings about his ankles,
those bonds pulled off. Then a hand dug fingers into
his shoulder.

"Up and walk, Dippleman! You go on your own two
feet this time."

He staggered a step or two, brought up painfully
against the sharp edge of a box. The hand came again
to steer him with a shove that made him waver. So
propelled, he emerged into the courtyard, heard the
purr of a waiting flitter ready to take off.

His guard steered him to the flyer, and he was
loaded by two men, not into the driver's seat but once
more into that storage space in which he had ridden
back to Tikil. He was sure of only two things: that Zul
was in charge of his transportation—he had heard the
small man's grunt of assent from the pilot's seat before
they lilted—and that the Thieves' Guild, Blasterman's
Section (highest paid of all the illegal services on
Korwar), was in command of the prisoner's keeping,
which was enough to dampen thoroughly all hopes of
escape, or even of a try at defense.

Seventeen

But their lift into space was a very short one—perhaps
it only cleared the division between courtyard and
street. They descended gently, the wheels touched
195

pavement, and the flitter proceeded as a ground car.
Which meant that their destination was somewhere
within the business sector of the city and not one of
the outlying villas. A warehouse—an office? It would
have to be where the entrance of a blindfolded, bound
man, accompanied by at least one guard, would not
attract attention. If this was night, a goal in the
business district or among the warehouses would meet

those requirements.

Troy tried to remember the geography of Tikil in
relation to Kyger's but found that a hopeless task.
Unless he was on his feet in the open, his eyes
unbandaged, he could not even effectively retrace his

way to the Dipple.

They turned once, twice, their speed a decourous
one well within the limit. And undoubtedly they were
taking every precaution against any irregularity of
action or appearance that could awaken suspicion in a
patroller's mind. The Guild were skilled workmen and
this was a Guild protection project, which meant that
Troy might well be on his way to some hidden head-
quarters of that power. Only he did not believe so. It
was more likely he was being taken to face, or at least
be inspected by, Zul's new employer.

Another turn. Neither man in the driver's seat spoke.
Troy deduced by the volume of street noise that the
hour must be one of late evening. They had joined
homeward-bound traffic, which meant they were not
heading toward the warehouses.

The flitter came to a stop. Troy, with his heightened
sense of smell and hearing, knew that one of the men
had leaned across the partition and was hanging head
and shoulders above him.
196

"Listen, you." The words were bitten off dryly, and
Troy knew that the speaker meant them. "You are
going to get out and walk, Dippleman. And you are
going to do it nice and easy without any noise or
confusion. I'll have a nerve-block grip on you all the
way. Make any trouble and you will still walk—but
not nice and easy. You will sweat blood with every
step. Understand?"

Troy nodded his head violently, hoping that the
other could see that gesture. He had not the slightest
desire to suffer the promised correction for the fault of
causing his captor any trouble.

The other assisted him out of the flitter and kept a
tight fingerhold on him. They walked, as his guard had
promised, "nice and easy" across a strip of pavement.

Troy sniffed vegetation. They must be in a dwelling-
house district. There was a slight pause, probably
waiting for the householder to release a door-panel
lock. Then their slow march started once again, the click
of boot heels deadened by foam-set floor covering.

Troy's head jerked suddenly. Just as he had known
they had returned him to Kyger's storeroom, so did he
now guess where he stood. There could not be two
such establishments in Tikil! But knowledge brought
with it complete bewilderment—almost shock.

What did the clerk Dragur, living in the midst of a
collection of marine horrors, have to do with Kyger's
secret employment?

On the other hand—Troy's thoughts readjusted
quickly—the colorless man's chosen hobby was an ex-
cellent cover for a connection between him and the
shop, a connection above suspicion, since Dragur's en-
thusiasm concerning his pet monsters in their globes
197

and aquariums had not been feigned; Troy would swear
to that. His only objection to this new revelation was
the character of the man himself. He simply could not
visualize Dragur as the mastermind behind anything
but fussy details of Korwarian bureaucracy.

Troy's ears caught the faint plop-plop of water
slapping in a bowl as some inhabitant of the marine
zoo moved, and he tried to remember how the room
had been laid out at the time of his first visit there.

"Here is your man, Citizen, safe and in one piece."
That was his guard reporting.

"Most commendable," Dragur's slightly high-pitched
voice replied. "But I understand that the shipment is
not complete. We were to have a complete shipment,
Guildsman, complete."

"You shall have to ask this one what he did with
the others, Citizen. The Big Man will settle with you
on the deal. Give me the delivery release."

"Your Big Man shall also make an adjustment on
the fee," Dragur snapped. "I bargained for a complete
shipment. No release until that matter is settled."

"The Big Man will not feel kindly about that, Citi-
zen." This was no threat, just a statement of fact, a
fact to be accepted when the Guild made it clear.

"Oh, he will not? Well, I share his disappointment!"
Dragur actually giggled. "You may tell him that as
soon as you wish."

"No release, no delivery." The grip on Troy tightened.

"And you think you may march out of here, taking
him with you?"

There was a long moment of silence. Troy tried to
imagine what might be happening that he could not
see.
198

"Where did you get that?" his guard asked slowly.

"I do not ask questions about the source of your
equipment, do I?" countered Dragur. "Now you will
remove your hands from my shipment and you will
withdraw to your flitter. You have my permission,
however, to communicate with your Big Man if you
wish. I do not know whether he suffers bungling with
patience or not. His reaction to your report you are
better able to gauge than I. But you may mention to
him, as a mitigating point, that a profitable relationship
between ourselves may not be at an end, providing, of
course, that we come to an equitable agreement now. I
will also indicate that I have contracted for a time
guardianship with your organization and that still
has several hours to run. I am not in any way breaking
contract."

The hand fell away from Troy. With the grunt of a
baffled man who had been outmaneuvered, the guard
moved from his side, and a moment later a door panel
opened and closed. Troy heard Dragur laugh again.

"He will beam in his Big Man as soon as he thinks
matters over. Better get a rating now than a burn
later for not reporting."

"The Guildsmen like their credits." Zul spoke for
the first time.

"But of course, do not all of us? On the other hand
their continuing in business—at least the continuance
of this particular branch of their business—depends
also on a certain integrity. If they promise a shipment
in full and deliver only part, then they have broken
contract and must take the consequences. But that is
a matter to be taken under advisement later. Now,
Zul, let us make our visitor more comfortable."

199

Fingers pulled at the cords about Troy's wrists. His
arms fell to his sides and then he rubbed his hands
together. Another tug and the blindfold was a loop
about his throat. He was blinking, dazzled by the
light, subdued as it was, in the room.

"A most energetic young man—"

Troy centered his attention on the speaker. Dragur
sat there in a most unusual chair. A tall glass slab
formed the back, and in it swam with oily ease one of
the miniature nightmare monsters, coming to the fore
now and then as if peering over its master's shoulder,
or to whisper through the transparent pane into his
ear. Similar aquariums on either side, one holding
carnivorous dorch crabs and the other a tramjan reef
snake, served as armrests. The lid of the crab con-
tainer was up, and from time to time Dragur tossed in
small wriggling creatures to satisfy his pets' hunger.
As an arrangement designed to make the onlooker
both queasy and disinclined to argue with its owner,
it was extremely successful.

But across Dragur's sharp-boned knees there also
rested a nerve needier. And, seeing that, Troy could
well understand the quick and almost fearful with-
drawal of the Guildsman.

"You must be tired," Dragur continued in his high,
fussy voice. "So much traveling and most of it under
what might be termed uncomfortable conditions. Zul,
provide Horan with a seat. There is no need for you to
be uncomfortable here. No—I believe in comfort. Ehh—
that is it, my pretty! Jump!" He was dangling a tidbit
over the crab cage. "Did you note that, my boy? Such
energy, such spirit! One could not believe that a crab
could actually leap, now, could one? I have discovered
200

that many things will cause a crab, or an animal, or a
man, to exert himself far past the powers one believes
that nature endows him with at birth. Many things—"

"Such as a needier?"

Zul had brought a chair, not one furnished with
attendant monster cages, Troy was pleased to note,
and he sat down.

"A most crude stimulant to endeavor, only to be
used in special cases and under special conditions. No,
the action obtained under threat of punishment or
death cannot be depended upon for any length of time.
Just as torture is an expedient to be tried only by the
unimaginative. A man will admit anything to save
himself from pain when his breaking point has been
found. Needlers have their places. I prefer more
attractive methods."

"Such as?" Troy tried not to watch a second exhibi-
tion of profitable greed in the crab cage.

"Such as—" But whatever Dragur was about to say
was silenced by a low buzz.

Zul, blaster in hand, sped across the room and
vanished through an inner door. Dragur raised the
needier so that the spray barrel sighted on Troy.

"Perhaps I am wrong," he said in a voice that was
this time neither high nor fussy. "This may be an
occasion for the cruder settlement after all. Sit where
you are, Horan. The slightest move will compel me to
press the trigger on this, and I think you know the
results of such an action. I will also be compelled to do
the same at any vocal warning from your direction. If
we do have an unfriendly visitor on the way, he will
encounter some surprises." With his other hand Dragur
snapped down the lid of the crab cage, and in the
201

quiet only the noises of the aquarium dwellers could
be heard.

Then there was the sound of a scuffle, followed by a
thud. Dragur, Troy noted, did not turn his head in
that direction; his full attention was still fixed on his
prisoner.

"An intruder indeed." The agent's voice was now
hardly more than a whisper. "And I believe that he
has fallen into one of our amusing little traps. We
shall soon know."

They did. Zul led the small procession. Behind him
stumbled a man who wove about on rubbery legs, the
normal gait of one who has taken a half jolt from a
stunner in the motor nerves. And holding him erect
and on course was the same Guildsman who had ex-
plored the flitter when Troy had been a captive to the
pinner beam in the Wild. But it was the identity of
the prisoner that startled Troy. Rerne!

Just as he had not expected to find the ranger in his
trap in the cavern of the Ruhkarv, so he had not
foreseen his arrival not only in Tikil but in this par-
ticular house.

Dragur surveyed the new captive.

"Greetings to the noble Hunter." He used the exag-
gerated phrase demanded by formal society with a
sardonic inflection. "Not that I quite understand why
one of the Clans should be moved to enter my modest
home by the rear entrance and that without invita-
tion from me. Zul, a chair for our new guest, please.
We are becoming quite crowded here, are we not? So
you—" He watched the Guildsman slide Rerne onto
the seat of the chair Zul drew forward. "You might as
well retire, guard. Be sure I shall inform your Big
202

Man of your alert and most appreciated services. I
trust, Hunter Rerne," he said to the new captive,
"your head is sufficiently clear for you to note and be
duly apprehensive of this importation of mine." The
needier lifted a fraction of an inch and then went back
into a new position, one that would share its deadly
and agonizing spray between his prisoners.

'These interruptions quite put one off." Dragur shook
his head. "We were in the midst of a most serious
conversation, Hunter."

"Then I ask pardon for the disturbance." Again the
formal words. Save for his loss of control over his
muscles, it would appear that Rerne had not been
stun-beamed to the point where he suffered too
much.

"Most gracious of you, noble Hunter. Time presses
or we could resume our conference later and in more
privacy, Horan. But you have no ties with the Clans.
Or have you? This sudden and unheralded arrival of
the noble Hunter is provocative."

His head slightly atilt, Dragur looked speculatively
from Troy to Rerne and back again.

The ranger turned a countenance of blank courtesy
to his captor as he replied, "Your men left a trail that
was easy enough to follow, Citizen. When a trace of that
sort leads from the Wild to Tikil, we are interested."

"Interested!" Dragur repeated that word as if he
would wring more than one fine shade of meaning
from it. His attention returned to Troy, and the latter
had his own reply ready. He did not know why Rerne
had followed him here, but he was not going to be
drawn into any business of the Clans.

"I have no ties with the Wild." And the emphasis
203

he put on the statement made it sound unduly harsh
in that crowded room.

"And I shall accept that assurance, Horan. It is easy
to believe that you do not have much sympathy for
any authority on Korwar."

"And I am not a Guildsman."

"Have I suggested such a thing?" Dragur demanded.
"I merely comment upon certain unpleasant facts of
life. You surely cannot nurse any fondness for the
Dipple, nor accordingly for the laws that have con-
fined you there. On the other hand"—his fingers moved
to one of the seam pockets of his tunic, came out to
display a white card—"this is your permission to leave
this world."

"Going where?"

"Norden."

The answer was so unexpected that Troy was as
shocked as if he had met a needier face on. Then
caution, learned painfully through the years, took cool
control of his brain again. He hoped he had given no
outward sign of his shock and surprise, knowing that
Dragur was perhaps the most dangerous man he had
ever faced—not because of the outlawed off-world
weapon he now held across his knees, but because he
did not really have to use it. The agent was right;

there were other ways to bend a man to his will, and
he had just produced an effective one to level Troy

Horan.

"Why?" Troy came out with the question flatly.

"Let us say that I have—"

"A tidbit for a crab to jump for?" Troy countered. He
was afraid, afraid with a different sort of chill than
204

that which had seeped along his backbone when he
had faced the needier.

"A tidbit, just so. Norden is now under the jurisdic-
tion of the Confederation. The Horan holding there
was, I believe, the Valley of the Forest Range—
a good-sized range—a very fruitful one. There was
the stockade of the Home Place, and five out-towers,
a fruit setting, and an excellent stand of skin-wood
in the heights. Quite a pleasant little kingdom of
your own, Range Master Horan, was it not? Your
family and their riders must have been practically
self-sufficient. Such a pity—less than a century to
grow and all swept away by the arbitrary orders
of one man with his mind on a war that did not
even come near that planet. Commander Di was
impulsive, a little too firm a believer in his own
edicts.

"I fear you will have to do some reorganizing and
start from the beginning along some lines. The tupan
have run wild. But a roundup should bring them under
brand control again. And you will be permitted to
recruit your own riders, as well as be given all possible
assitance from Confederation officers."

"Promising quite a lot, are you not. Citizen?" Troy
kept as tight a control over his emotions as he could.
Every one of Dragur's words had been a whip laid on
sensitive skin. He dared not believe that there was a
fraction of truth in the offer, dared not for the sake of
his own equilibrium of heart and mind.

"I am promising nothing that I cannot deliver, Range
Master Horan." And in that moment Troy was forced
to believe him.

205

"Korwar is a Council planet." Troy hedged, tried to
test his assurance from another angle.

"Which again means nothing—to me." And once
more his tone and the will behind it carried convic-
tion.

"And in return for Norden what do you ask?"

"A small task successfully performed—by you, Range
Master. It seems by some quirk of fate you alone now
on this world are able to communicate with some
runaway servants of mine. I want them back, and you
can get them for me."

That was it: produce the animals—and get Norden.
Norden and everything his father had held ten years
ago! Simple and deadly as that.

"They must be very special, these servants of yours,"
Rerne cut in.

"Indeed, noble Hunter, as you already know. Their
breeding is the result of many years of research and
experimentation. They are the only ones of their

species—"

"On Korwar." Rerne's words were not a question,
but a statement that carried both force and meaning.
Troy caught the inference. Yes, the five he had left in
the Wild might be the only ones of their species on
Korwar. And yet in other places, other solar systems,
similar tools were being employed by Confederation
agents.

Dragur shifted slightly in the weird chair. "What
happens on other planets is none of my concern, noble
Hunter, nor the Clans'. In fact I willassure you that
once my servants are returned to me, there shall be
no cause to fear any more activity of this type on
206

Korwar. The experiment, due to the human element
here, has been a failure. We shall admit defeat and
withdraw."

And that, too, Troy believed.

"And the animals themselves?"

"Are now expendable. I do not think that you will
hesitate for a moment to weigh the lives of five ani-
mals against your return to Norden, will you, Range
Master?"

Troy's tongue tip wet his dry lips. He had to use all
his will power to fight shivers running along arms
and legs.

"You cannot be sure I can bring them in."

"No, but you are the only contact with them. And I
think my crab will jump with all his energy for this
tidbit, do you not agree?"

"Yes!" Troy's answer came in a harsh explosion of
breath. "Yes, I do!" He saw, from the corner of his eye,
Rerne's head turn in his direction, a flash of surprise
deepen to bleak distaste on the ranger's face. But
Rerne's opinion of him could not matter now. He must
keep thinking of the future. Dragur was so right; this
crab was willing to jump—very high!

'^So!" The agent spoke to Rerne now. "You see how
simply matters can be arranged. There is no need for
Clan interference—or their hope to have a hand in
this. I take it, Range Master, that the animals still
are in the Wild?"

"They left the flitter for the woods just before your
men slapped that pinner on me."

"How easy to understand once one knows the facts.
Very well, we need have no worries now. You, noble
207

Hunter, shall be our passport to the Wild. A happy
chance brought you here in time. One might almost
begin to believe in the ancient superstitions regarding
a personified form of Fate that could favor or strike
adversely at a man. We shall be a hunting party, just
Zul and I, you, noble Hunter, Range Master Horan,
and my Guildsman. And if all goes well, we shall have
this matter decided before nightfall tomorrow. I am
sure we are all sensible men here and there will be no
trouble." He raised the needier.

Troy was not sure Rerne noted that warning ges-
ture. When the ranger replied, his voice was remote.
"There is no argument, Citizen. I am at your service."
"But, of course, noble Hunter, did I not say you
would be? And now we shall go."

Eighteen

Troy had no idea how far into the Wild they had
penetrated. As Dragur had foreseen, Rerne talked them
safely through the Clan patrols. Dawn came and
mellowed into day, the day sped west as they bore
east. Troy put his head back against the cabin walls,
closed his eyes, but not to sleep.

His right hand braceleted his left wrist, moving
around and around on the smooth, cool surface of the
band he had involuntarily worn out of Ruhkarv, until
208

that movement fell into rhythm with his reaching
thoughts.

The flitter moved at top speed, but surely thought
could thrust farther and faster than any machine. He
tried to call up a sharp picture of that tongue of
woodland into which the animals had fled—was it
hours, or days ago? Simba, if he could contact Simba!
If he could persuade the cat, and through him the
others, to come back to th'at meeting point, be waiting
there—

Norden— No, he must not think of Norden now, of
how it would be to ride free once more down the
valley. With a wrench of thought that was close to
physical pain, Troy crushed down memory and dreams
bom of that memory. He must concentrate with every
part of him, mental and physical, on the job at hand.

There was only Dragur's word that none of them
here could communicate with the animals. But if that
was not true, why did they want his help so badly?

His whole body was taut with effort. He was not
aware that his face grew gaunt with strain or that
dark finger-shaped bruises appeared under his eyes.
He did not know that Rerne was watching him again
with an intentness that approached his own concen-
tration.

Slip, slip, right, left, his fingers on the bracelet—his
silent call fanning out ahead of the ship. Troy aroused
to chew a concentrate block passed to him, hardly
conscious of the others in that cabin, so tired only his
will flogged him into that fruitless searching.

And to undermine his labors there was a growing
dismay. Perhaps the animals, having witnessed his
209

capture, had pressed on past any hope of their being
located now. Only Sahiba's injury could curtail such a
flight.

Nightfall found the flitter well into the plains. Dragur
heeded the protests of the Guildsman who alternated
with Zul ap pilot and agreed to camp for the night.

"Which," the agent remarked with courtesy exag-
gerated enough to approach a taunt, "provides us with
a problem, noble Hunter. You, in this, your home
territory, will have to be bodily restrained. I trust you
will forgive the practical solution. Our young friend
here needs no such limits on his freedom."

Rerne, hands and feet bound, made no protest as he
was bedded down between Zul and the Guildsman.
Troy, oblivious to his company and surroundings, fell
asleep almost at once, his weariness like a vast weight
grinding him into darkness. Yet in that dark there
was no rest. He twisted, turned, raced breathlessly to
finish some fantastic task under the spur of time. And
he awoke gasping, sweat damp upon his body.

Stars were paling overhead. This was the dawn of
the day in which they would come to the wood. For a
fraction of one fast escaping moment he knew again
that sensation of freedom and fresh life that had first
come to him on the plateau, which would always signify
for him the Wild. Then that was gone under the lash
of memory. Troy did not stir, save that his hand
unconsciously once more sought the band on his wrist,
and from the touch of that strange metal a quickening
of spirit reached into body and mind. His thoughts
quested feverishly, picturing the fringe of saplings
and trees as he had seen it last. Simba crouched be-
neath a bush—waiting—
210

"Found!"

Troy flung up his arm, the cool band of Ruhkarv
pressed tight to his forehead above his closed eyes.
And under that touch his mental picture leaped into
instant sharp detail.

"You come?"

"I come," Troy affirmed silently. "Be ready—when I
come." He tried to marshal the necessary arguments
and promises that would draw them to the place where
Dragur would land.

"So—you have made contact at last, Range Master?"

Troy's arm fell away from his forehead. He frowned
up at the Confederation agent. But there was no reason
to deny the truth. What he had had to do he had done,
to the best of his ability.

"Yes. They will be waiting."

"Excellent. I must compliment you, Horan, on your
commendable speed in seeking to fulfill your part of
the bargain. We shall eat and then get on to the
netting."

Troy ate slowly. So much depended now on Simba's
response to his appeal, on the cat's dominance over his
fellow mutants. If the slight bond between man and
animals was not stout enough to lead them to trust
him now—then he had failed completely.

Back in the flitter he made no further attempt to
keep in touch with the fugitives. He had done all he
could during that early morning contact. Either they
would be waiting—or they would not. The future must
be governed by one or the other of those facts—which
one he would not know until the flyer landed.

In midmorning, bright and clear, the flitter touched
with an expert's jarless landing at the edge of the
211

wood. Dragur ordered them out, the barrel of his needier
as much on Troy as on Rerne.

"And now"—the agent faced the woodland—"where
are they, Horan?"

"In there." Troy nodded to the cover. Yes, they were
all there, waiting in hiding. Whether they would show
themselves was again another matter.

The Guildsman drew his blaster, thumbed the butt
dial to spray beam. Troy gathered himself for a quick
leap if the other touched the button. But the agent
spoke first. "No beaming," he snapped. "We have to be
sure we get them all and in one attack." Then he
turned to Troy. "Bring them out."

"I have no summoner, and they will not obey me to
that point. I cannot bring them against their wills. I
can only hold them where they are."

For a second or two he was afraid that Dragur
would refuse to enter the shadow of the trees. Then
Troy's statement apparently made sense to the agent.

"March!" Dragur's tone sheared away the urbanity
of earlier hours. Troy obeyed, the agent close behind
him, needier ready.

Horan rounded a bush, stooped under a hanging
branch. "Here! Here! Here!"

Simba, Sargon, Sheba—

Troy threw himself face down into the leaf mold,
rolled—Dragur shrieked. Troy came to his knees again
and faced the man now plunging empty-handed toward
him.

Simba clung with three taloned feet to the agent's
shoulder, as with a fourth he clawed viciously at the
man's face and eyes, while both foxes made a concen-
212

trated attack with sharp fangs upon the agent's
ankles.

Troy caught up the needier the other had dropped
when Simba had sprung to his present perch from a
low-hanging tree limb. Horan was still on one knee,
but he had the weapon up to cover Zul as the small
man burst through the bushes to them.

"Stand—and drop that!"

Zul's eyes widened. Reluctantly his fingers loosened
their hold upon the blaster. The weapon thudded to
the ground.

"You, too!"

The Guildsman who had prodded Rerne on into this
pocket clearing obeyed Troy's order. A furred shadow
with a long tail crooked above its back flitted out
of cover, mouthed Zul's blaster and brought it to
Troy, then went back for the guard's weapon. Dragur
staggered around, his arms flailing about his head
where the blood dripped from ripped flesh on his
face and neck. Simba no longer rode his shoulders,
but was now assisting the foxes to drive the man,
with sudden rushes and slashes at his feet and
legs.

Blinded, crying in pain, completely demoralized by
the surprise and the unexpected nature of that attack,
the agent tripped and fell, sprawling at Rome's feet,
while Simba snarled and made a last claw swipe at
his face. The ranger stared in complete amazement
from the team of animal warriors to Troy.

"You planned this?" he asked in a voice loud enough
to carry over Dragur's moaning.

"We planned this," Troy corrected. He thrust'the
213

two blasters into his belt, but he kept the needier
aimed at the others.

"Now"—he motioned to the Guildsman—"you gather
up Citizen Dragur and we will go back to the flitter."

There was no argument against the needier. Half
carrying the moaning agent, the Guildsman tramped
sullenly back to the flyer, Zul and Rerne in his wake,
Troy bringing up the rear. He knew the animals were
active as flanking scouts though he no longer saw
them.

"You"—Troy nodded to Rerne—"unload water, the
emergency supplies."

"You are staying here then?" The ranger showed no
surprise.

"We are staying," Troy corrected once again, watching
as the other dumped from the flitter the things he
might need for survival in the Wild. Then the Guilds-
man, under Horan's orders, gave Dragur rough first
aid, tied him up and stowed him away, afterwards
doing the same for Zul, before he, himself, submitted
to binding at Rerne's hands.

"And how do you pr^'ose to deal with me?" the
ranger asked as he boosted the last of the invaders
from Tikil into the flitter.

"You can go—with them." Troy hesitated for a mo-
ment and then, almost against his will, he added
roughly, "I ask your pardon for that tap on the head
at Ruhkarv."

Rerne gazed at him levelly. The mask he had worn
in the city was back, to make his features unreadable,
though there was a spark of some emotion deep in his
eyes.

"You were within your rights—an oath breaker de-
214

serves little consideration." But behind those flat words
was something Troy thought he could read a different
meaning into.

"Those waiting were not your men but patrollers?"
He demanded confirmation of what he had come to
suspect.

Simba appeared out of the grass, by his presence
urging an end to this time-wasting talk.

"So you saw that much." The flicker in Rerne's eyes
glowed stronger.

"I saw, and I have had time to think." It was an
apology, one Troy longed for the other to accept, though
that acceptance could lead to nothing between them
now save a level balancing of the old scales.

"I will come back—you understand that?" Rerne
stated a fact.

Troy smiled. The headiness of his victory bubbled
in him. Release from the strain of the past hours, or
past days, was an intoxicant he found hard to combat.

"If you wish, Rerne. I may not be your equal in the
lore of the Wild, but together we shall give you a good
run—"

"We?" Rerne's head swung. If he was looking for the
other animals, he would not see them. But they were
all there, even to Sahiba crouched under the low
branches of a bush.

"Still we."

"And Norden?"

Troy's smile faded. That was a wicked backstroke
he had not expected from Rerne. His braceleted hand
went to the belt where the studs were no longer
burnished bright.

"The crab did not jump," he replied evenly.

215

"Perhaps it was not offered the right bait." Rerne
shook his head. "This is the Wild and you are no
trained ranger. By our laws I cannot help you unless
you ask for it, and that would mean surrender." He
waited a long moment, as if he actually hoped for
some affirmative sign from Troy.

The other nodded. "I know. From now on it will be
you and yours against us. Only do not be too sure of
the ending, Rerne."

He watched the flitter rise in the vertical climb of a
master pilot. Then the carrying strap of the needier
across his shoulder, he made a compact bundle of the
supplies.

Sunset, sunrise, another nightfall—morning again—
though here the sun made a pale greenish shimmer in
the forest depths. Troy only knew that they were still
pointed east. At least under such cover he could not be
tracked by air patrols. Those hunting him would have
to go afoot and so be subject to discovery by the keener
senses of the animals. Shang took to the treetops, Simba
and the foxes ranged wide on the ground, able to scout
about Troy as he marched, carrying Sahiba.

Once Simba had been stalked in turn by a forest
creature, and Troy had blasted it into a charred mass
as it leaped for the cat. But otherwise they saw few
living things as they pushed forward.

To Troy the Wild did not threaten. About him it
closed like a vast envelope of content. And the mem-
ory of Norden was a whisper of mist torn away by the
wind rustling through the boughs over his head. With
the animals he had moved into a new world, and Tikil
too was a forgotten dream—a nightmare—small, far-
off, cramped and dusty, well lost. The only thing to
216

trouble him was a vague longing now and then for one
of his own kind to share the jubilation of some discov-
ery, the exultation when he awoke here feeling a
measure of his birthright returned to him.

On the fifth day the ground began to rise, and once or
twice through a break in the trees Troy located peaks in
the sky ahead. Perhaps in those heights he could find
a cave to shelter them—something they would need
soon if the now threatening clouds meant a storm.

"Men!"

Troy froze. The sobering shock made him recoil
against a tree. He had half forgotten the chase behind.
Now he heard Simba squall in fear and rage, the fear
thrusting into Troy's brain in turn as a spearhead. A
pinner! The same force that had gripped him at the
time of Zul's pursuit glued them all to the earth once
again. Yet there was no flitter in sight, no sign of a
tracker.

"How far away?" he appealed to the scouts.

"Up slope—they are coming closer now." From three
sides he had his replies as noses caught scents he
could not detect. "They have set a trap."

Troy tried to subdue the rising panic of the animals.
Yes, a good trap. But how had they known that Troy
and his companions would emerge from the wood at
that point? Or had they laid down a long barrier of
pinner beams just in case?

There was no chance for him to use the needier; he
could not raise his hand to the blasters at his belt. All
of them would remain where they were to await the
leisure of the unseen enemy. And the bitterness of
that soured in his mouth, cramped his now useless
muscles.

217

Sahiba whimpered in his hold. The others were quiet
now, understanding his trap explanation. He knew
that each small mind was busy with the problem—one
that they could not solve. Not singly—but together?

Why had he thought that? Swiftly Troy touched
each mind in turn—Simba, Sargon, Sheba, Shang,
Sahiba. Simba must be their choice for the experi-
ment. The black cat whose whole battle technique
depended upon quiet stalking, instant, lightning-swift
attack. If they could free Simba—!

This was a last fantastic attempt, but the only one
left to them. Troy focused the full force of his mind on
a picture of Simba free, Simba moving one padded
paw skillfully before the other as he crept up the slope
before them to locate the pinner broadcaster. The oth-
ers took up that picture, fed into it their combined
will and mind force. The thread became a beam, a beam
of such strength as to amaze one part of Troy's brain,
even as he labored to build it deeper, wider, tougher.

A trickle of moisture zigzagged down his cheek. It
was crazy to hope that mind could triumph over a
body pinned. Perhaps only because of the freedom of
the past few days could their desperate need nourish
such a hope. Troy was weak, drained. Yet, as he had
fought to reach the animals from the flitter, so now he
labored to unleash Simba. And in that moment he
knew that it could be done!

Troy did not see that small streak of black bounding
up the hillside. And the man operating the pinner
could not have seen it coming. There was a howl of
pain from above, and Troy was free. He leaped out of
the brush and went to one knee, the needier ready to
sweep the whole territory ahead.
218

Rerne arose from behind a rock well up the slope,
his hands up and empty. Out of the grass sped Sargon,
Sheba, Shang, and, descending in a series of bounds,
Simba. Once more Troy was one in their half circle of
defense and offense.

"You broke pinner power!" Rerne came down at an
even pace, his eyes never leaving Troy's face.

"And you found us." In spite of his overwhelming
victory against the machine, Troy tasted the ultimate
defeat. The Wild no longer remained their coveted
escape.

"We found you." Rerne jerked one hand in a signal.
Two more men started to move along the hillside,
their hands conspicuously up and empty. One was
Rogarkil; the other wore the uniform of a Council
attache.

Rerne spoke to them over his shoulder. "So—now
have you seen for yourselves?"

"You underestimated the danger!" The Council
attache's voice was harsh and rough, he was breath-
ing fast through his nose, and it was plain he did not
find his present position one that he relished.

"Danger," Rerne observed, "is relative. Belt knives
have been shifted from the sheath of one wearer to
that of another without losing their cutting edge. You
might consider the facts in this case before you com-
mit those you represent to any hasty course of action."

Clansman spoke to Council as an equal, and, though
the attache did not like it, here in the Wild he must
accept that. His mouth was now a tight slit of disap-
proval. In another place and company those lips would
be shaping orders to make men jump.

"I protest your arguments, Hunter!"

219

Rogarkil answered in a mild tone. "Your privilege,
Gentle Homo. Rerne does not ask that you agree; he
merely requires that you report, and that the matter
be taken under sober consideration. I will say also
that one does not throw away a new thing merely
because it is strange—until one explores its usefulness.
This is the Wild."

"And you rule here? The Council shall remember
that also!"

Rogarkil shrugged. "That is also your privilege."

With a last glare at Troy and the animals, the
officer strode back up the hill, joined, when he was at
the crest, by an escort of patrollers who gathered in
from the rocks. Then he was gone, as the wind brought
the first gust of the storm down upon them all.

"Truce?" asked Rerne, his shoulders hunched against
the elements. Then he smiled a little.

Troy hesitated only for a moment before his own
hand went up in answer and he slung the needier. He
ran toward the shelter the ranger had indicated, a
space between two leaning rocks. The area so sheltered
was small, and they were still two companies, Troy and
the animals on one side, the Clansmen on the other.

"That one will do some straighter thinking on the
way back to Tikil," Rerne remarked.

Rogarkil nodded. "Time to think is often enough.
When and if they do move, we shall be ready."

"Why are you doing this?" Troy demanded, guessing
from the crosscurrents of their speech that, incredibly,
the Clans seemed to be choosing his side.

"Because," Rerne replied, "we do believe what I said
just now to Hawthol—a knife changing sheaths remains
a knife. And it can be used even to counter a blow
220

from its first owner. Kyger died because of a personal
feud. But for that chance this attack against the Coun-
cil, and against Korwar, would have succeeded. And
because this espionage conspiracy was in a manner
aimed against Korwar, it concerns us. Our guests
here, the Great Ones of the galaxy, must be protected.
As we told you that night in Tikil, the continuance of
our way of life here depends in turn upon their
comfort and safety. Anything that undermines that is
a threat to the Clans.

"Now if the Confederation tries this weapon on an-
other planet, well, that is the Council's affair. But
such an attack is finished here. And I do not believe
that Kyger, or Dragur, or any of those behind them
ever realized or cared abouUhe other potentials of the
tools they developed to further their plan. It could be
very illuminating to see what might happen when two
or three species long associated in one fashion move
into equality with each other, to work as companions,
not as servants and masters—"

"And who is better fitted to make such a study than
the Clans?" asked Rogarkil.

Troy stiffened. They were taking too much for
granted. Both men and animals must have some voice
in their future.

"Will the crab jump to his bait, Horan?" Rerne
leaned forward a little, raising his voice above the
gathering fury of the storm. "Rangers' rights in the
Wild for you and your company here—granting us in
return the right to know them better? This may not
rank with being a Range Master on Norden—"

He paused nearly in mid-word at Troy's involuntary
wince. But that hurt was fading fast. Troy's thought
221

touched circle with the other five. He did not urge,
tried in no way to influence them. This was their
decision more than his. And if they did not wish to
accept—well, he still had the needier.

The answer came. Troy raised his chin, looked to the
rangers with a cool measurement such as he could not
have used a week earlier, but which was now part of him.

"If you make that a trial agreement—"

Rerne smiled. "Caution is good in a man—and his
friends. Very well, rangers, this shall be a trial run as
long as you wish it so. I will admit that I am eager to
have a catseye view of life—if you will allow me into
this hitherto closed company of yours."

Troy's eyes met Rerne's and the younger man drew
an uneven breath. Norden's plains were gone now.
Instead he had a flash of another memory. A rock-
walled room on a cliff above a lake and Rerne's voice
talking of this world and its fascinating concerns.

"Why?" He did not stop to think that perhaps his
question, which seemed so clear to him, might not be
as intelligible to the other. But—as if Rerne's thought
could touch his like the animals'—the other answered
him: "We are of one kind, plains rider." Then Rerne
looked beyone the man to the animals. "So shall we
all be in the end."

"So be it." Troy agreed, knowing now he spoke the
truth.