"Of course not your tribe. Yours wouldn't take a shot at us. Some
other tribe, perhaps?"
"Very poor arrow."
"I know that. But it could kill you just as dead as if it were a good
one. Do you recognize it?"
"No tribe made this arrow," Sipar declared.
"Child, maybe?"
"What would child do way out here?"
[Illustration]
"That's what I thought, too," said Duncan.
* * * * *
He took the arrow back, held it between his thumbs and forefingers and
twirled it slowly, with a terrifying thought nibbling at his brain. It
couldn't be. It was too fantastic. He wondered if the sun was finally
getting him that he had thought of it at all.
He squatted down and dug at the ground with the makeshift arrow point.
"Sipar, what do you actually know about the Cytha?"
"Nothing, mister. Scared of it is all."
"We aren't turning back. If there's something that you know--something
that would help us...."
It was as close as he could come to begging aid. It was further than
he had meant to go. He should not have asked at all, he thought
angrily.
"I do not know," the native said.
Duncan cast the arrow to one side and rose to his feet. He cradled the
rifle in his arm. "Let's go."
He watched Sipar trot ahead. Crafty little stinker, he told himself.
It knows more than it's telling.
They toiled into the afternoon. It was, if possible, hotter and drier
than the day before. There was a sense of tension in the air--no, that
was rot. And even if there were, a man must act as if it were not
there. If he let himself fall prey to every mood out in this empty
land, he only had himself to blame for whatever happened to him.
The tracking was harder now. The day before, the Cytha had only run
away, straight-line fleeing to keep ahead of them, to stay out of
their reach. Now it was becoming tricky. It backtracked often in an
attempt to throw them off. Twice in the afternoon, the trail blanked
out entirely and it was only after long searching that Sipar picked it
up again--in one instance, a mile away from where it had vanished in
thin air.
That vanishing bothered Duncan more than he would admit. Trails do not
disappear entirely, not when the terrain remains the same, not when
the weather is unchanged. Something was going on, something, perhaps,
that Sipar knew far more about than it was willing to divulge.
He watched the native closely and there seemed nothing suspicious. It
continued at its work. It was, for all to see, the good and faithful
hound.
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon, the plain on which they had been traveling
suddenly dropped away. They stood poised on the brink of a great
escarpment and looked far out to great tangled forests and a flowing
river.
It was like suddenly coming into another and beautiful room that one
had not expected.
This was new land, never seen before by any Earthman. For no one had
ever mentioned that somewhere to the west a forest lay beyond the
bush. Men coming in from space had seen it, probably, but only as a
different color-marking on the planet. To them, it made no difference.
But to the men who lived on Layard, to the planter and the trader, the
prospector and the hunter, it was important. And I, thought Duncan
with a sense of triumph, am the man who found it.
"Mister!"
"Now what?"
"Out there. _Skun!_"
"I don't--"
"Out there, mister. Across the river."
Duncan saw it then--a haze in the blueness of the rift--a puff of
copper moving very fast, and as he watched, he heard the far-off
keening of the storm, a shiver in the air rather than a sound.
He watched in fascination as it moved along the river and saw the
boiling fury it made out of the forest. It struck and crossed the
river, and the river for a moment seemed to stand on end, with a sheet
of silvery water splashed toward the sky.
Then it was gone as quickly as it had happened, but there was a
tumbled slash across the forest where the churning winds had traveled.
Back at the farm, Zikkara had warned him of the _skun_. This was the
season for them, it had said, and a man caught in one wouldn't have a
chance.
Duncan let his breath out slowly.
"Bad," said Sipar.
"Yes, very bad."
"Hit fast. No warning."
"What about the trail?" asked Duncan. "Did the Cytha--"
Sipar nodded downward.
"Can we make it before nightfall?"
"I think so," Sipar answered.
It was rougher than they had thought. Twice they went down blind
trails that pinched off, with sheer rock faces opening out into drops
of hundreds of feet, and were forced to climb again and find another
way.
They reached the bottom of the escarpment as the brief twilight closed
in and they hurried to gather firewood. There was no water, but a
little was still left in their canteens and they made do with that.
* * * * *
After their scant meal of rockahominy, Sipar rolled himself into a
ball and went to sleep immediately.
Duncan sat with his back against a boulder which one day, long ago,
had fallen from the slope above them, but was now half buried in the
soil that through the ages had kept sifting down.
Two days gone, he told himself.
Was there, after all, some truth in the whispered tales that made the
rounds back at the settlements--that no one should waste his time in
tracking down a Cytha, since a Cytha was unkillable?
Nonsense, he told himself. And yet the hunt had toughened, the trail
become more difficult, the Cytha a much more cunning and elusive
quarry. Where it had run from them the day before, now it fought to
shake them off. And if it did that the second day, why had it not
tried to throw them off the first? And what about the third
day--tomorrow?
He shook his head. It seemed incredible that an animal would become
more formidable as the hunt progressed. But that seemed to be exactly
what had happened. More spooked, perhaps, more frightened--only the
Cytha did not act like a frightened beast. It was acting like an
animal that was gaining savvy and determination, and that was somehow
frightening.
From far off to the west, toward the forest and the river, came the
laughter and the howling of a pack of screamers. Duncan leaned his
rifle against the boulder and got up to pile more wood on the fire. He
stared out into the western darkness, listening to the racket. He made
a wry face and pushed a hand absent-mindedly through his hair. He put
out a silent hope that the screamers would decide to keep their
distance. They were something a man could do without.
Behind him, a pebble came bumping down the slope. It thudded to a rest
just short of the fire.
Duncan spun around. Foolish thing to do, he thought, to camp so near
the slope. If something big should start to move, they'd be out of
luck.
He stood and listened. The night was quiet. Even the screamers had
shut up for the moment. Just one rolling rock and he had his hackles
up. He'd have to get himself in hand.
He went back to the boulder, and as he stooped to pick up the rifle,
he heard the faint beginning of a rumble. He straightened swiftly to
face the scarp that blotted out the star-strewn sky--and the rumble
grew!
* * * * *
In one leap, he was at Sipar's side. He reached down and grasped the
native by an arm, jerked it erect, held it on its feet. Sipar's eyes
snapped open, blinking in the firelight.
The rumble had grown to a roar and there were thumping noises, as of
heavy boulders bouncing, and beneath the roar the silky, ominous
rustle of sliding soil and rock.
Sipar jerked its arm free of Duncan's grip and plunged into the
darkness. Duncan whirled and followed.
They ran, stumbling in the dark, and behind them the roar of the
sliding, bouncing rock became a throaty roll of thunder that filled
the night from brim to brim. As he ran, Duncan could feel, in dread
anticipation, the gusty breath of hurtling debris blowing on his neck,
the crushing impact of a boulder smashing into him, the engulfing
flood of tumbling talus snatching at his legs.
A puff of billowing dust came out and caught them and they ran choking
as well as stumbling. Off to the left of them, a mighty chunk of rock
chugged along the ground in jerky, almost reluctant fashion.
Then the thunder stopped and all one could hear was the small
slitherings of the lesser debris as it trickled down the slope.
Duncan stopped running and slowly turned around. The campfire was
gone, buried, no doubt, beneath tons of overlay, and the stars had
paled because of the great cloud of dust which still billowed up into
the sky.
He heard Sipar moving near him and reached out a hand, searching for
the tracker, not knowing exactly where it was. He found the native,
grasped it by the shoulder and pulled it up beside him.
Sipar was shivering.
"It's all right," said Duncan.
And it _was_ all right, he reassured himself. He still had the rifle.
The extra drum of ammunition and the knife were on his belt, the bag
of rockahominy in his pocket. The canteens were all they had lost--the
canteens and the fire.
"We'll have to hole up somewhere for the night," Duncan said. "There
are screamers on the loose."
* * * * *
He didn't like what he was thinking, nor the sharp edge of fear that
was beginning to crowd in upon him. He tried to shrug it off, but it
still stayed with him, just out of reach.
Sipar plucked at his elbow.
"Thorn thicket, mister. Over there. We could crawl inside. We would be
safe from screamers."
It was torture, but they made it.
"Screamers and you are taboo," said Duncan, suddenly remembering. "How
come you are afraid of them?"
"Afraid for you, mister, mostly. Afraid for myself just a little.
Screamers could forget. They might not recognize me until too late.
Safer here."
"I agree with you," said Duncan.
The screamers came and padded all about the thicket. The beasts
sniffed and clawed at the thorns to reach them, but finally went away.
When morning came, Duncan and Sipar climbed the scarp, clambering over
the boulders and the tons of soil and rock that covered their camping
place. Following the gash cut by the slide, they clambered up the
slope and finally reached the point of the slide's beginning.
There they found the depression in which the poised slab of rock had
rested and where the supporting soil had been dug away so that it
could be started, with a push, down the slope above the campfire.
And all about were the deeply sunken pug marks of the Cytha!