ivilization hesitates on the shore of that
vast sea of vegetation called the _mato_. Night had just fallen when
Dalton arrived. He found Thwaite alone in a lighted room of the single
drab hotel--alone and very busy.

The archeologist was shaggily unshaven. He looked up and said
something that might have been a greeting devoid of surprise. Dalton
grimaced apologetically, set down his suitcase and pried the wax plugs
out of his ears, explaining with a gesture that included the world
outside, where the tree frogs sang deafeningly in the hot stirring
darkness of the near forest.

"How do you stand it?" he asked.

Thwaite's lips drew back from his teeth. "I'm fighting it," he said
shortly, picking up his work again. On the bed where he sat were
scattered steel cartridge clips. He was going through them with a
small file, carefully cutting a deep cross in the soft nose of every
bullet. Nearby a heavy-caliber rifle leaned against a wardrobe. Other
things were in evidence--boots, canteens, knapsacks, the tough
clothing a man needs in the _mato_.

"You're looking for _it_."

Thwaite's eyes burned feverishly. "Yes. Do you think I'm crazy?"

* * * * *

Dalton pulled a rickety chair toward him and sat down straddling it.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "_It_ was very likely a creature of
the last interglacial period. The ice may have finished its kind."

"The ice never touched these equatorial forests." Thwaite smiled
unpleasantly. "And the Indians and old settlers down here have
stories--about a thing that calls in the _mato_, that can paralyze a
man with fear. _Currupira_ is their name for it.

"When I remembered those stories they fell into place alongside a lot
of others from different countries and times--the Sirens, for
instance, and the Lorelei. Those legends are ancient. But perhaps here
in the Amazon basin, in the forests that have never been cut and the
swamps that have never been drained, the _currupira_ is still real and
alive. I _hope_ so!"

"Why?"

"I want to meet it. I want to show it that men can destroy it with all
its unholy power." Thwaite bore down viciously on the file and the
bright flakes of lead glittered to the floor beside his feet.

Dalton watched him with eyes of compassion. He heard the frog music
swelling outside, a harrowing reminder of ultimate blasphemous insult,
and he felt the futility of argument.

"Remember, I heard it too," Dalton said. "And I sen