d
toughened by the sun. The shoulders, bare like the chest, were massive,
yet somehow stretched-looking, as though endless exposure to wind and
rain and sun had turned the skin to brown leather.

[Illustration]

Kirk had his pistol pointing at the figure's stomach now, and the figure
blinked, while the breeze touched and ruffled the long bleached hair.

The figure raised a large hand, palm up, and curled the fingers.
"Hello?" he said softly. Kirk was surprised by the word and the polite
sound of it.

Kirk remained motionless, pistol pointing. "Who are you?" he said
through his teeth.

"Harry," said the figure, as though Kirk surely should know who he was.
"I'm Harry, of course."

"Yes?" said Kirk carefully. "Harry?"

The figure nodded. "Harry Loren, don't you know?"

"Oh, yes," Kirk said, his eyes watchful. "Harry Loren." There was
something about the man's eyes, Kirk decided. They were deep set and
very bright within their sockets. They didn't match the softness of the
speech. Harry Loren smiled and showed his yellow teeth. "Who are you?"
he asked politely.

"I'm William," Kirk said. It was as though he might be speaking to a
frightened child, he thought, who held a sharp knife in his hands.
"William Kirk, of course."

Harry Loren nodded apologetically. "Oh, yes. I can't remember everyone.
It's been so long. How are you, William?"

Kirk's eyes flickered. "I'm fine."

"That's nice," Harry Loren nodded. His wild hair brushed over his
shoulders and reflected its yellowness against the sun. The knife then,
the one that Kirk had thought about a moment ago, appeared in the
figure's hand. "_Bastard_," Harry Loren hissed, and he was leaping at
Kirk, the knife making a sweep toward Kirk's stomach.

Something kept Kirk from squeezing the trigger, and instead he swung his
pistol so that it struck the brown, weathered knuckles. The knife flew
into a thicket and Loren, screaming, was upon Kirk, reaching for Kirk's
neck. Kirk wrenched backward and at the same time swung the barrel of
the pistol toward the yellow flying hair. There was a cracking sound,
and Harry Loren, brown and wild-looking, crumpled silently before Kirk's
feet.

Kirk examined the man, then he reached down and picked up the knife from
the thicket. It was crudely hammered out from some kind of alloy, but
sharp nevertheless, and it could have been deadly in a hand like Harry
Loren's.

Kirk looked again at the yellow-haired man on the ground. He w