, Treb."
Neilson had moved again. His voice was lower but he was nearer.

"Stop around anytime, Harl." Treb moved a few feet deeper into a
thicket. "We'll show you what real Baryt hospitality is."

"That's a promise, Treb."

Killing. That's what war was. So you had to kill. Or you volunteered to
kill. But you didn't have to like it. All these little wars under UN
supervision were needless--arbitration would serve as well. But the
people, the leaders--someone--wanted blood. So ten or twelve or fifteen
citizens of one nation fought an equal number of the other state's sons.

Doubtless it was an improvement over the mass bombings of innocent city
dwellers, and the horror of atomic dusts and sprays. No overwhelming
army could sweep, unchecked, over a helpless neighbor. It was fairer,
too, for those involved. Equal numbers of men, guns, supplies. Wealth if
your side won, and a fair sum if you lost.

The United Nations saw to that. After all the avenues to peaceful
settlement had been explored and turned down they finally permitted
bloodshed. Much against their better judgement, perhaps.

So he could destroy likeable young Andilians like Neilson.

"Why don't you send up a rocket?" Neilson kidded, his voice coming from
a changed direction again. "So I can see you."

"Anything to oblige."

Neilson was circling out around, as though to drive him into a trap or
trick him. They were getting back to the primitive now. Soon it would be
knives, spears, and deadfalls.

"Come on over and I'll show you Jane's picture, Treb," invited Neilson.
He laughed hoarsely. "If we weren't where we are, I'd mean that."

"I know. I feel that way myself sometimes. We've been here alone too
long. Hate hasn't lasted."

"Why aren't you a wrongo, Treb?" The young voice was cracked and savage.
"Why'd you have to tell me about--Gram and Alse?"

Treb was backing away again, cautiously. He scented a trap. No doubt
Neilson's words were sincere, at the moment, but in a second's time he
could change into a cold-blooded executioner. He knew. He had seen the
gentlest of men suddenly turn killer....

And then his foot struck a yielding branch and his aroused suspicion
sent him lunging forward.

A heavy something fell with a sickening thud, brushing as it struck the
sole of his disintegrating shoe. A cleverly rigged deadfall of small
trees and rock, doubtless.

"You're slipping, Harl," he shouted.

But he could feel the sudden sweat damping his