Rogers was belly-down in the grass at one side of the entrance before
Gordon finished talking. Stuart dashed after him, noticing absently
as he passed the pink grass that it was churning and enveloping the
carcass of the dead hawk. He reached the edge of the clearing and took
up a position across the brook from Rogers. He could see nothing but
dust through the grass and heavy scrub. The canteen gouged into his
flank, and his holster seemed caught in a root. He struggled to get
the blast-rifle unslung from his back, wishing for the twentieth time
that he had had at least a little experience at this sort of thing.
Just one hitch in the Patrol, for instance....
The radio broke in on his whispered swearing. "You might have to do
some shooting down there. These machine-guns may not stop all the
hell-cats dead in their tracks, but I don't want to use anything
bigger ... no use letting the neighborhood know what we've got."
A few seconds later the native came pounding desperately through the
alley into the clearing. "Hold him!" yelled the scout. Stuart sprang to
his feet with a leveled rifle and confronted the astounded humanoid,
who collided with a tree and stopped. Nestor came dodging out through
the nets to cover the prisoner with another gun. The brilliant red
manlike creature, obviously understanding the weapons, still tried to
edge away from the squalling roars of the hell-cats not far behind on
the prairie.
The twin sixty-millimeter guns in the nose burst out with a clatter.
The noise of the exploding projectiles was deafening. Clumps of dirt
and scrub flew high into the air. Then Nestor's blast-rifle roared
once, sharply.
[Illustration: _Nestor's blast-rifle roared once, sharply._]
Abruptly there was silence. The Azuran had obviously discovered the
ship behind the camouflage; he stared at it, blinked, and stared again,
as though in disbelief. Stuart began taking pictures of him. "No more
cats," came Gordon's voice. "They were bunched up and Nestor got 'em
all. Ah, I notice our new friend has seen through the camouflage net."
The native's reaction was sudden, unexpected. He shuddered and slumped
to the ground, a picture of dejection. His tentacles were limp. Nothing
would induce him to communicate. At length Stuart offered water; the
native suddenly arose, as if in a hopeless rage, knocked the canteen
aside, and kicked the linguist's injured leg. Then the red being sank
to the ground again.
"Damn!" growled Stuart through clenched teeth. He rubbed his leg. "I
suppose he thinks we're the Invaders, coming back to ravage his people
again. Either he never saw the Invaders himself, or we happen to
resemble them. Or maybe the terror of the invasion was so great that
a serious semantic confusion exists, labelling all strangers as Bad.
Well, at any rate, I'll have to go through some semantic analysis to
establish any rapport at all." Meditating on the problem, he sent
Nestor back to the ship for drawing materials, and bent over to
retrieve the canteen. The native immediately knocked him flat and fled
into the woods.
Rogers started after the Azuran, unslinging his gun, but Gordon spoke
up from the airlock, where he had been about to climb down to the
ground. "Dan! Get out of those woods, you half-wit! Let him go; you
can't possibly catch him. Anyway, we may be able to see where he goes,
if he breaks out into open country again. White, will you keep an eye
on the edge of the woods from up there? Be ready to man the 'scope.
I'll be right up."
Nestor sat down beside the linguist a few minutes later and held out a
cup of fragrant coffee. "Here, Mr. Stuart. I figured you guys could use
breakfast better than drawing materials right now. Feel okay?"