weeks he would have ceased to be
strictly human, becoming a dangerous threat to his fellows. And if the
girl had been unable to escape from him before that time, she would
have been subject to the same plight. Morgan decided that he would
have done the same thing if given time to weigh the situation
beforehand.

"How far are we going?" she asked.

"We're turning off on the next side-road," he grunted.

"You know the country?"

"I used to." He waved his arm to the south. "Road winds through a
swamp, then climbs to high ground. Ends in a spruce forest."

"Got any food?"

"Will have, tomorrow. Ditches are full of warmouth perch. Plenty of
swamp cabbage, wild oranges, bull frogs, papaya."

"I'm hungry now."

"That's tough."

She whimpered a little but soon fell silent. He saw she was limping,
and he slowed his pace. Pity was a lost emotion in an age of chaos;
but she was strong, healthy, and appeared capable of doing a day's
work. He decided to humor her, lest she decide to trudge alone.

* * * * *

When they reached the swamp, branches closed over the narrow trail
road, screening off the sky and hiding the thin slice of moon. The
girl hung close to his elbow. A screech owl hooted in the trees, and a
thousand frogs clamored in the blackness. Once the scream of a panther
split the night, and the girl sobbed as if echoing the cry. They
hurried ahead through the overgrown weeds.

"Drop flat!" he hissed suddenly.

She obeyed without a sound. They crouched together at the edge of the
road, listening. A distant rustling came from the roadway to the
south.

"Orenians?" she whispered.

"Orenians."

"How many?"

"Can't tell. They always march in step. Keep quiet."

Morgan gripped the hatchet and set himself for a quick spring. As they
drew nearer, he decided that there were two of them. Their movements
were perfectly coordinated, since they were of one mind, one
consciousness--that of Oren. The girl tapped his arm with the blade
of a knife.

"I'll take one," she breathed.

When the footsteps were almost upon them, Oren halted. There was no
outcry; the Orenians had no need for vocal communication; their
thought-exchange was bio-electromagnetic.

"Now!" howled Morgan, and launched himself at the enemy.

His hatchet cleft the face of the nearest foe, and he turned instantly
to help the girl. A pair of bodies thrashed about on the ground. Then
she stood up, and he heard her