o
make a man a fast draw, a matter of survival for the fastest and most
accurate marksman. And now one of Shann's hands swept down with a speed
which, learned early, was never really to be forgotten.

He had the rod out and was spraying on tight beam straight at the
Throg's head before the first stone struck his shoulder and his weapon
fell from a numbed hand. But a second stone tumbled out of the Throg's
claw. The alien tried to reach for it, his movements slow, uncertain.

Shann, his arm dangling, went in fast, bracing his good shoulder against
the boulder which pinned the Throg. The alien aimed a blow at the
Terran's head, but again so slowly Shann had no difficulty in evading
it. The boulder gave, rolled, and Shann cleared out of range, back to
the opening of the cleft, pausing only to scoop up his stunner.

For a long moment the Throg made no move; his dazed wits must have been
working at very slow speed. Then the alien heaved up his body to stand
erect, favoring the leg which had been trapped. Shann tensed, waiting
for a rush. What now? Would the Throg refuse to move? If so, what could
he do about it?

With the impact of a blow, the message Shann had hoped for struck into
his mind. But his initial joy at that contact was wiped out with the
same speed.

"Throg ship ... overhead."

The Throg stood away from the wall, limped out, heading for Shann, or
perhaps only the cleft in which he stood. Swinging the stunner awkwardly
in his left hand, the Terran retreated, mentally trying to contact
Thorvald once more. There was no answer. He was well up into the cleft,
moving crabwise, unwilling to turn his back on the Throg. The alien was
coming as steadily as his injured limb would allow, trying for the exit
to the outer world.

A Throg ship overhead.... Had the castaway somehow managed to call his
own kind? And what if he, Shann Lantee, were to be trapped between the
alien and a landing party from the flyer? He did not expect any
assistance from the Wyverns, and what could Thorvald possibly do? From
behind him, at the entrance of the nose slit, he heard a sound--a sound
which was neither the scolding of a clak-clak nor the eternal growl of
the sea.

17. THROG JUSTICE

The musty stench was so strong that Shann could no longer fight the
demands of his outraged stomach. He rolled on his side, retching
violently until the sour smell of his illness battled the foul odor of
the ship. His memories of how he had