hann watched that
movement carefully. And because he did not trust her too far, he
whistled.

Her head came up. She might be dumb, but plainly she was not deaf. And
she gazed down into the hollow as the wolverines answered his summons
with growls. Her profile reminded Shann of something for an instant; but
it should have been golden-yellow instead of silver with two jeweled
patterns ringing the snout. Yes, that small plaque he had seen in the
cabin of one of the ship's officers. A very old Terran legend--"Dragon,"
the officer had named the creature. Only that one had possessed a
serpent's body, a lizard's legs and wings.

Shann gave a sudden start, aware his thoughts had made him careless, or
had she in some way led him into that bypath of memory for her own
purposes? Because now she held some object in the curve of her curled
fingers, regarding him with those unblinking yellow eyes. Eyes ...
eyes.... Shann dimly heard the alarm cry of the wolverines. He tried to
snap draw his stunner, but it was too late.

There was a haze about him hiding the rocks, the island valley with its
radiant plants, the night sky, the bright beam of the torch. Now he
moved through that haze as one walks through a dream approaching
nightmare, striding with an effort as if wading through a deterring
flood. Sound, sight--one after another those senses were taken from him.
Desperately Shann held to one thing, his own sense of identity. He was
Shann Lantee, Terran breed, out of Tyr, of the Survey Service. Some part
of him repeated those facts with vast urgency against an almost
overwhelming force which strove to defeat that awareness of self, making
him nothing but a tool--or a weapon--for another's use.

The Terran fought, soundlessly but fiercely, on a battleground which was
within him, knowing in a detached way that his body obeyed another's
commands.

"I am Shann--" he cried without audible speech. "I am myself. I have two
hands, two legs.... I think for myself! I am a _man_----"

And to that came an answer of sorts, a blow of will striking at his
resistance, a will which struggled to drown him before ebbing, leaving
behind it a faint suggestion of bewilderment, of a dawn of concern.

"I am a _man_!" he hurled that assertion as he might have thrust deep
with one of the crude spears he had used against the Throgs. For against
what he faced now his weapons were as crude as spears fronting blasters.
"I am Shann Lantee, Terran, man...." Th