t of the time, I could get between things
without climbing over them. I was going between a broken-down press
from the lumber plant and a leaky 500-gallon pressure cooker from the
carniculture nutrient plant when I heard something moving behind me,
and I was suddenly very glad that I hadn't let myself be talked into
leaving my pistol behind.

It was a thing the size of a ten-gallon keg, with a thick tail and
flippers on which it crawled, and six tentacles like small elephants'
trunks around a circular mouth filled with jagged teeth halfway down
the throat. There are a dozen or so names for it, but mostly it is
called a meat-grinder.

The things are always hungry and try to eat anything that moves. The
mere fact that I would be as poisonous to it as any of the local flora
or fauna would be to me made no difference; this meat-grinder was no
biochemist. It was coming straight for me, all its tentacles writhing.

I had had my Sterberg out as soon as I'd heard the noise. I also
remembered that my radio was on, and that I was supposed to comment on
anything of interest that took place around me.

"Here's a meat-grinder, coming right for me," I commented in a voice
not altogether steady, and slammed three shots down its tooth-studded
gullet. Then I scored my target, at the same time keeping out of the
way of the tentacles. He began twitching a little. I fired again. The
meat-grinder jerked slightly, and that was all.

"Now I'm going out and take a look at that lorry." I was certain now
that the voice was shaky.

The lorry--and Al Devis and his companion--had come to an end against
one of the two-hundred-foot masonry and concrete foundations the
columns rest on. It had hit about halfway up and folded almost like an
accordion, sliding down to the floor. With one thing and another,
there is a lot of violent death around Port Sandor. I don't like to
look at the results. It's part of the job, however, and this time it
wasn't a pleasant job at all.

The two men who were guarding the wreck and contents were sitting on
a couple of boxes, smoking and watching the fire-fighting operation.

I took the partly empty clip out of my pistol and put in a full one on
the way back, and kept my flashlight moving its circle of light ahead
and on both sides of me. That was foolish, or at least unnecessary. If
there'd been one meat-grinder in that junk pile, it was a safe bet
there wasn't anything else. Meat-grinders aren't popular neighbor