eneral direction.

Thorvald fighting off an attack? The wolverines? Shann drew his legs
under him, ready to erupt into a counter-offensive. He hesitated
between drawing stunner or knife. In his brush with the injured Throg at
the wreck the stunner had had little impression on the enemy. And now he
wondered if his blade, though it was super-steel at its toughest, could
pierce any joint in the armored bodies of the aliens.

There was surely a fight in progress. The whole crazily weaving blot
collapsed and rolled down upon three bright light plants. Dull sheen of
Throg casing was revealed ... no sign of fur, or flesh, or clothing. Two
of the aliens battling? But why?

One of those figures got up stiffly, bent over the huddle still on the
ground, and pulled at something. The wooden shaft of Shann's spear was
wanly visible. And the form on the ground did not stir as that was
jerked loose. The Throg leader dead? Shann hoped so. He slid his knife
back into the sheath, tapped the hilt to make sure it was firmly in
place, and crawled on. The river, twisting here and there, was a
promising pool of dusky shadow ahead. The bank of willow-things was
coming to an end, and none too soon. For when he glanced back again he
saw another Throg run across the meadow, and he watched them lift their
fellow, carrying him back to camp.

The Throgs might seem indestructible, but he had put an end to one,
aided by luck and a very rough weapon. With that to bolster his
self-confidence to a higher notch, Shann dropped by cautious degrees
over the bank and down to the water's edge. When his boots splashed into
the oily flood he began to tramp downstream, feeling the pull of the
water, first ankle high and then about his calves. This early in the
season they did hot have to fear floods, and hereabouts the stream was
wide and shallow, save in mid-current at the center point.

Twice more he had to skirt patches of light plants, and once a young
tree stood bathed in radiance with a pinkish tinge instead of the usual
ghostly gray. Within the haze which tented the drooping branches,
flitted small glittering, flying things; and the scent of its half-open
buds was heavy on the air, neither pleasant nor unpleasant in Shann's
nostrils, merely different.

He dared to whistle, a soft call he hoped would carry along the cut
between the high banks. But, though he paused and listened until it
seemed that every cell in his thin body was occupied in that act,