What stirred in the brain crypts of
Borckman's heredity, stirred in the brain-crypts of Jerry's heredity.
Time had gone backward for both. All the endeavour and achievement of
the ten thousand generations was not, and, as wolf-dog and wild-man, the
combat was between Jerry and the mate. Neither saw Van Horn, who was
inside the companionway hatch, his eyes level with the combing.

To Jerry, Borckman was now no more a god than was he himself a mere,
smooth-coated Irish terrier. Both had forgotten the million years
stamped into their heredity more feebly, less eraseably, than what had
been stamped in prior to the million years. Jerry did not know
drunkenness, but he did know unfairness; and it was with raging
indignation that he knew it. Borckman fumbled his next counter to
Jerry's attack, missed, and had both hands slashed in quick succession
ere he managed to send the puppy sliding.

And still Jerry came back. As any screaming creature of the jungle, he
hysterically squalled his indignation. But he made no whimper. Nor did
he wince or cringe to the blows. He bored straight in, striving, without
avoiding a blow, to beat and meet the blow with his teeth. So hard was
he flung down the last time that his side smashed painfully against the
rail, and Van Horn cried out:

"Cut that out, Borckman! Leave the puppy alone!"

The mate turned in the startle of surprise at being observed. The sharp,
authoritative words of Van Horn were a call across the million years.
Borckman's anger-convulsed face ludicrously attempted a sheepish,
deprecating grin, and he was just mumbling, "We was only playing," when
Jerry arrived back, leaped in the air, and sank his teeth into the
offending hand.

Borckman immediately and insanely went back across the million years. An
attempted kick got his ankle scored for his pains. He gibbered his own
rage and hurt, and, stooping, dealt Jerry a tremendous blow alongside the
head and neck. Being in mid-leap when he received the blow Jerry was
twistingly somersaulted sidewise before he struck the deck on his back.
As swiftly as he could scramble to footing and charge, he returned to the
attack, but was checked by Skipper's:

"Jerry! Stop it! Come here!"

He obeyed, but only by prodigious effort, his neck bristling and his lips
writhing clear of his teeth as he passed the mate. For the first time
there was a whimper in his throat; but it was not the whimper of fear,
nor of pain, but of