e Cytha's speaking to Duncan, its
attempt to parley with him, contained a note of weakness.

The arrow had failed and the rockslide had failed and so had Sipar's
death. What next would the Cytha try? Had it anything to try?

Tomorrow he'd find out. Tomorrow he'd go on. He couldn't turn back
now.

He was too deeply involved. He'd always wonder, if he turned back now,
whether another hour or two might not have seen the end of it. There
were too many questions, too much mystery--there was now far more at
stake than ten rows of _vua_.

Another day might make some sense of it, might banish the dread walker
that trod upon his heels, might bring some peace of mind.

As it stood right at the moment, none of it made sense.

But even as he thought it, suddenly one of the bits of bloody flesh
and mangled fur made sense.

Beneath the punching and prodding of his fingers, it had assumed a
shape.

Breathlessly, Duncan bent above it, not believing, not even wanting to
believe, hoping frantically that it should prove completely wrong.

But there was nothing wrong with it. The shape was there and could not
be denied. It had somehow fitted back into its natural shape and it
was a baby screamer--well, maybe not a baby, but at least a tiny
screamer.

Duncan sat back on his heels and sweated. He wiped his bloody hands
upon the ground. He wondered what other shapes he'd find if he put
back into proper place the other hunks of limpness that lay beside the
fire.

He tried and failed. They were too smashed and torn.

He picked them up and tossed them in the fire. He took up his rifle
and walked around the fire, sat down with his back against a tree,
cradling the gun across his knees.

* * * * *

Those little scurrying feet, he wondered--like the scampering of a
thousand busy mice. He had heard them twice, that first night in the
thicket by the waterhole and again tonight.

And what could the Cytha be? Certainly not the simple, uncomplicated,
marauding animal he had thought to start with.

A hive-beast? A host animal? A thing masquerading in many different
forms?

Shotwell, trained in such deductions, might make a fairly accurate
guess, but Shotwell was not here. He was at the farm, fretting, more
than likely, over Duncan's failure to return.

Finally the first light of morning began to filter through the forest
and it was not the glaring, clean white light of the open plain and
bush, but a