seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the
danger of predicament. _Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first_,
he thought. _That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle._

Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards; more
seconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with the
effort. He had to get help. If he could switch on the audicom at his
belt and call Stryker....

He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and
failed.

His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. He
relaxed the effort with a groan, sweating again when he saw a fiery
half-disk of sun on the water, edges blurred and distorted by tiny
surface ripples.

On shore he could see the _Marco Four_ resting between thorn forest and
beach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open,
and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yet
returned with the scouter.

He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the
cold surface of the audicom unit at his hip--unfelt before--was pressing
against the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again toward
motion; this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaring
through him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud....

The tiny click of its engaging sent him faint with relief.

"Stryker!" he yelled. "Lee, roll out--_Stryker_!"

The audicom hummed gently, without answer.

He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill of
horror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before.
Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be
easily disturbed.

The flattened sun-disk on the water brightened and grew rounder. Above
its reflected glare he caught a flicker of movement, a restless
suggestion of flapping wings.

* * * * *

He tried again. "Stryker, help me! I'm on the islet!"

The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, but
Gibson's.

"Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?"

Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that--get
here fast, Gib! The flying-lizards--"

He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the
outcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbed
tentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard the
unmistakable fl