lants in their stomach. It's as if the beasts were given some
deep-freeze treatment instantaneously. If in their excavations the Reds
came across the remains of a spaceship, remains well enough preserved
for them to realize what they had discovered, they might start questing
back in time to find a better one intact at an earlier date. That theory
fits everything we know now."

"But why would the aliens attack the Reds now?"

"No ship's officers ever thought gently of pirates." Ashe's eyes closed.

There were questions, a flood of them, that Ross wanted to ask. He
smoothed the fabric on his arm, that stuff which clung so tightly to his
skin yet kept him warm without any need for more covering. If Ashe were
right, on what world, what kind of world, had that material been woven,
and how far had it been brought that he could wear it now?

Suddenly McNeil slid into their shelter and dropped two hares at the
edge of the fire.

"How goes it?" he said, as Ross began to clean them.

"Reasonably well," Ashe, his eyes still closed, replied to that before
Ross could. "How far are we from the river? And do we have company?"

"About five miles--if we had wings." McNeil answered in a dry tone. "And
we have company all right, lots of it!"

That brought Ashe up, leaning forward on his good elbow. "What kind?"

"Not from the village." McNeil frowned at the fire which he fed with
economic handfuls of sticks. "Something's happening on this side of the
mountains. It looks as if there's a mass migration in progress. I
counted five family clans on their way west--all in just this one
morning."

"The village refugees' stories about devils might send them packing,"
Ashe mused.

"Maybe." But McNeil did not sound convinced. "The sooner we head
downstream, the better. And I hope the boys will have that sub waiting
where they promised. We do possess one thing in our favor--the spring
floods are subsiding."

"And the high water should have plenty of raft material." Ashe lay back
again. "We'll make those five miles tomorrow."

McNeil stirred uneasily and Ross, having cleaned and spitted the hares,
swung them over the flames to broil. "Five miles in this country," the
younger man observed, "is a pretty good day's march"--he did not add as
he wanted to--"for a well man."

"I will make it," Ashe promised, and both listeners knew that as long as
his body would obey him he meant to keep that promise. They also knew
the futility of argumen