he village
under Varina Pemberton numbered only eight men--Parr and Ling could
avoid that many easily on a world with nearly nine hundred square miles
of brush, rock and gully.

In a grove among grape-vines they built a shelter, and there dwelt for
many weeks. Ling wore well as a sole friend and partner. Looking at the
big, devoted fellow, Parr did not feel so revolted as at their first
glimpse of each other. Ling had seemed so hairy, so misshapen, like a
troll out of Gothic legends. But now ... he was only big and burly, and
not so hairy as Parr had once supposed. As for his face, all tusk and
jaw and no brow, where had Parr gotten such an idea of it? Homely it
was, brutal it wasn't....

"I get it," mused Parr. "I'm beginning to degenerate. I'm falling into
the beast-man class, closer to Ling's type. Like can't disgust like. Oh,
well, why bother about what I can't help?"

He felt resigned to his fate. But then he thought of another--Varina
Pemberton, the girl who might have been a pleasant companion in happier,
easier circumstances. She had banished him, threatened him, wheedled him
out of victory. She, too, would be slipping back to the beast. Her body
would warp, her skin grow hairy, her teeth lengthen and sharpen--Ugh!
That, at least, revolted him.

"Look, boss," said Ling, rising from where he lounged with a cluster of
grapes in his big hand. "People coming--two of 'em."

"Get your club," commanded Parr, and caught up his own rugged length of
tough torn-wood. "They're men, not beast-men--they must be looking for
trouble."

"Couldn't come to a better place to find it," rejoined Ling, spitting
between his palm and the half of his cudgel to tighten his grip. The two
of them walked boldly into view.

"I see you, Sadau!" shouted Parr clearly, for there was no mistaking the
gaunt, freckled figure in the lead. "Who's that with you?"

The other man must be a new arrival. He was youngish and merry-faced as
he drew closer, with black curly hair and a pointed beard. There was a
mental-motive look to him, as if he were a high grade engineer or
machinist. He wore a breech-clint of woven grasses, and looked
expectantly at Parr.

"They aren't armed," pointed out Ling, and it was true. The pair carried
sticks, but only as staffs, not clubs.

"Parr!" Sadau was shouting back. "Thank heaven I've found you--we need
you badly." He came close, and Parr hefted his club.

"No funny business," he challenged, but Sadau gesture