oving over to the drifts of
storm wrack to gather more. Why should he stay here by a useless beacon?
But somehow he could not force himself to move on, as futile as his
vigil seemed.

Dragging the sun-dried, bleached limbs of long-dead trees to his half
shelter, he piled them up, working until he laughed at the barricade he
had built. "A siege!" For the first time in days he spoke aloud. "I
might be ready for a siege...." He pulled over another branch, added it
to his pile, and kneeled down once more by the flames.

There were fisherfolk to be found along this coast, and tomorrow when he
was rested he would strike south and try to find one of their primitive
villages. Traders would be coming into this territory now that the
Red-inspired raiders were gone. If he could contact them....

But that spark of interest in the future died almost as soon as it was
born. To be a Beaker trader as an agent for the project was one thing,
to live the role for the rest of his life was something else.

Ross stood by his fire, staring out to sea for a sign he knew he would
never see again as long as he lived. Then, as if a spear had struck
between his shoulder blades, he was attacked.

The blow was not physical, but came instead as a tearing, red pain in
his head, a pressure so terrible he could not move. He knew instantly
that behind him now lurked the ultimate danger.

CHAPTER 18

Ross fought to break that hold, to turn his head, to face the peril
which crept upon him now. Unlike anything he had ever met before in his
short lifetime, it could only have come from some alien source. This
strange encounter was a battle of will against will! The same rebellion
against authority which had ruled his boyhood, which had pushed him into
the orbit of the project, stiffened him to meet this attack.

He was going to turn his head; he was going to see who stood there. He
_was_! Inch by inch, Ross's head came around, though sweat stung his
seared and bitten flesh, and every breath was an effort. He caught a
half glimpse of the beach behind the rocks, and the stretch of sand was
empty. Overhead the birds were gone--as if they had never existed. Or,
as if they had been swept away by some impatient fighter, who wanted no
distractions from the purpose at hand.

Having successfully turned his head, Ross decided to turn his body. His
left hand went out, slowly, as if it moved some great weight. His palm
gritted painfully on the rock and