enough to keep it a hundred or so feet behind the jeep,
and the motor-noise had covered the padding of its feet. In the few
moments between stopping the little car and getting out, the nighthound
had been able to close the distance and spring upon him.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

It was characteristic of First-Level mentality that Verkan Vall wasted
no moments on self-reproach or panic. While he was still rolling under
his jeep, his mind had been busy with plans to retrieve the situation.
Something touched the heel of one boot, and he froze his leg into
immobility, at the same time trying to get the big Smith & Wesson free.
The shoulder-holster, he found, was badly torn, though made of the
heaviest skirting-leather, and the spring which retained the weapon in
place had been wrenched and bent until he needed both hands to draw.
The eight-inch slashing-claw of the nighthound's right intermediary limb
had raked him; only the instinctive motion of throwing up his arm, and
the fact that he wore the revolver in a shoulder-holster, had saved
his life.

The nighthound was prowling around the jeep, whining frantically. It was
badly confused. It could see quite well, even in the close darkness of
the starless night; its eyes were of a nature capable of perceiving
infrared radiations as light. There were plenty of these; the jeep's
engine, lately running on four-wheel drive, was quite hot. Had he been
standing alone, especially on this raw, chilly night, Verkan Vall's
own body-heat would have lighted him up like a jack-o'-lantern. Now,
however, the hot engine above him masked his own radiations. Moreover,
the poison-roach scent on his coat was coming up through the floor board
and mingling with the scent on the seat, yet the nighthound couldn't
find the two-and-a-half foot insectlike thing that should have been
producing it. Verkan Vall lay motionless, wondering how long the next
move would be in coming. Then he heard a thud above him, followed by a
furious tearing as the nighthound ripped the blanket and began rending
at the seat cushion.

"Hope it gets a paw-full of seat-springs," Verkan Vall commented
mentally. He had already found a stone about the size of his two fists,
and another slightly smaller, and had put one in each of the side
pockets of the coat. Now he slipped his revolver into his waist-belt
and writhed out of the coat, shedding the ruined shoulder-holster at
the same time. Wri