pungent odor fill his nostrils.

He opened his eyes, stared up past a rim of broken rock toward the
cloudless, blue-green sky. A relay clicked into proper place deep in
his mind.

Of course! He had been trying to lure a strong-jaws out of its
traphole with hooked bait, then his foot had slipped. Rynch Brodie sat
up, flexed his bare thin arms, and moved his long legs experimentally.
No broken bones, anyway. But still he frowned. Odd--that dream which
jarred with the here and now.

Crawling to the side of the creek, he dipped head and shoulders into
the water, letting the chill of the stream flush away some of his
waking bewilderment. He shook himself, making the drops fly from his
uncovered torso and arms, and then discovered his hunting tackle.

He stood for a moment fingering each piece of his scanty clothing,
recalling every piece of labor or battle which had added pouch, belt,
strip of fabric to his equipment. Yet--there was still that odd sense
of strangeness, as if none of this was really his.

Rynch shook his head, wiped his wet face with his arm. It was all his,
that was sure, every bit of it. He'd been lucky, the survival manual
on the L-B had furnished him with general directions and this was a
world which was not unfriendly--not if one was prepared for trouble.

He climbed up and loosened the net, coiling its folds into one hand,
taking the good spear in his other. A bush stirred ahead, against the
pull of the light breeze. Rynch froze, then the haft of his spear slid
into a new hand grip, the coils of his net spun out. A snarl cut over
the purr of water.

The scarlet blot which sprang for his throat was met with the flail of
the net. Rynch stabbed twice at the creature he had so swept off
balance. A water-cat, this year's cub. Dying, its claws, over-long in
proportion to its paws, drew inch deep furrows in the earth and
gravel. Its eyes, almost the same shade as its long, burr-entangled
body fur, glared up at him in deathly enmity.

As Rynch watched, that feeling that he was studying something strange,
utterly alien, came to him once again. Yet he had hunted water-cats
for many seasons. Fortunately they were solitary, evil-tempered beasts
that marked out a roaming territory to defend it from others of their
kind, and not too many were to be encountered in cross-country travel.

He stooped to pull his net from the now still paws. Some definite
place he must reach. The compulsion to move on in that su