s,
warm-blooded, and suckled their young, but gray feathers covered their
hides. The round, hook-beaked heads, with huge amber eyes and tufted
feather ears, showed the origin of the name "owlie." They wore only
pouched belts and carried sheath knives; even the liberals of Earth
weren't ready to allow the natives modern tools and weapons. There
were too many old grudges.

"The Martians always were good fighters," said Riordan. "They wiped
out quite a few Earth settlements in the old days."

"The wild ones," agreed Wisby. "But not these. They're just stupid
laborers, as dependent on our civilization as we are. You want a real
old timer, and I know where one's to be found."

He spread a map on the desk. "See, here in the Hraefnian Hills, about
a hundred miles from here. These Martians live a long time, maybe two
centuries, and this fellow Kreega has been around since the first
Earthmen came. He led a lot of Martian raids in the early days, but
since the general amnesty and peace he's lived all alone up there, in
one of the old ruined towers. A real old-time warrior who hates
Earthmen's guts. He comes here once in a while with furs and minerals
to trade, so I know a little about him." Wisby's eyes gleamed
savagely. "You'll be doing us all a favor by shooting the arrogant
bastard. He struts around here as if the place belonged to him. And
he'll give you a run for your money."

Riordan's massive dark head nodded in satisfaction.

* * * * *

The man had a bird and a rockhound. That was bad. Without them, Kreega
could lose himself in the labyrinth of caves and canyons and scrubby
thickets--but the hound could follow his scent and the bird could spot
him from above.

To make matters worse, the man had landed near Kreega's tower. The
weapons were all there--now he was cut off, unarmed and alone save for
what feeble help the desert life could give. Unless he could double
back to the place somehow--but meanwhile he had to survive.

He sat in a cave, looking down past a tortured wilderness of sand and
bush and wind-carved rock, miles in the thin clear air to the glitter
of metal where the rocket lay. The man was a tiny speck in the huge
barren landscape, a lonely insect crawling under the deep-blue sky.
Even by day, the stars glistened in the tenuous atmosphere. Weak
pallid sunlight spilled over rocks tawny and ocherous and rust-red,
over the low dusty thorn-bushes and the gnarled little tree