n, she should now have one
of the squeaking little degenerates in place of a brain. The fibers of
the small animals grew slowly along the neural arcs, replacing each
nerve cell, forming a junction at each synapse. There was reason to
believe that the parasite preserved the memories that had been stored
in the brain, but they became blended with all the other
individualities that comprised Oren, thereby losing the personality in
the mental ocean of the herd-mind. Was it possible that if one
invader were out of mental contact with the herd-mind, that the
individual host might retain its personality? But how could she be out
of contact?

"They're getting close to the door," she whispered.

Morgan gripped his hatchet and waited, not knowing who would be the
greater enemy--the girl or the prowlers.

"When the door opens, strike a match. So I can see to shoot."

Morgan crouched low. There came a light tapping at the torn screen,
then several seconds of silence. Someone pushed at the door. It swung
slowly open.

"Jerry?" called a faint voice. "Jerry--thet you in theah?"

Morgan breathed easily again. An Orenian would not have called out.
"Who is it?" he barked.

There was no answer. Morgan groped for the lamp, found it, and held
the match poised but not lighted.

"Come in here!" he ordered. "We've got a gun."

"Yes, suh!"

A shadow appeared in the door frame. Morgan struck the match. It was
an ancient Negro with a burlap sack in one hand and a bloodstained
pitchfork in the other. He stood blinking at Shera's shotgun and at
the lamp as Morgan lit it. His overalls were rainsoaked, his eyes
wild.

"Come in and sit down."

"Thankya suh, thankya." He shuffled inside and slumped into a rickety
chair.

"What're you doing wandering around like this?"

"Been a hunting. Yes, suh, been doing me a little hunting." He sighed
wearily and mopped the rain out of his tight coils of graying hair.

Morgan eyed the burlap sack suspiciously. It was wet, and it wriggled.
"What's that?"

"'Ass my night's work," said the man and jerked a corner of the sack.
It opened, and three Oren parasites spilled out with weak squeaks of
anguish.

The girl gasped angrily. "They're still in contact with Oren. Kill
them!"

"Yes'm, they're in contact--but without eyes, how're they gonna know
wheah they are?"

Morgan made a wry mouth at Shera. The old man was smart--and right.
But he felt another uneasy suspicion. The old man said "hunting