s that
might speak to him.

"Yes," he said.

He did not move. He simply sat there, with the rifle in his lap.

"You know who I am?"

"I suppose you are the Cytha."

"You have done well," the Cytha said. "You've made a splendid hunt.
There is no dishonor if you should decide to quit. Why don't you go
back? I promise you no harm."

It was over there, somewhere in front of him, somewhere in the brush
beyond the fire, almost straight across the fire from him, Duncan told
himself. If he could keep it talking, perhaps even lure it out--

"Why should I?" he asked. "The hunt is never done until one gets the
thing one is after."

"I can kill you," the Cytha told him. "But I do not want to kill. It
hurts to kill."

"That's right," said Duncan. "You are most perceptive."

For he had it pegged now. He knew exactly where it was. He could
afford a little mockery.

His thumb slid up the metal and nudged the fire control to automatic
and he flexed his legs beneath him so that he could rise and fire in
one single motion.

"Why did you hunt me?" the Cytha asked. "You are a stranger on my
world and you had no right to hunt me. Not that I mind, of course. In
fact, I found it stimulating. We must do it again. When I am ready to
be hunted, I shall come and tell you and we can spend a day or two at
it."

"Sure we can," said Duncan, rising. And as he rose into his crouch, he
held the trigger down and the gun danced in insane fury, the muzzle
flare a flicking tongue of hatred and the hail of death hissing
spitefully in the underbrush.

"Anytime you want to," yelled Duncan gleefully, "I'll come and hunt
you! You just say the word and I'll be on your tail. I might even kill
you. How do you like it, chump!"

And he held the trigger tight and kept his crouch so the slugs would
not fly high, but would cut their swath just above the ground, and he
moved the muzzle back and forth a lot so that he covered extra ground
to compensate for any miscalculations he might have made.

* * * * *

The magazine ran out and the gun clicked empty and the vicious chatter
stopped. Powder smoke drifted softly in the campfire light and the
smell of it was perfume in the nostrils and in the underbrush many
little feet were running, as if a thousand frightened mice were
scurrying from catastrophe.

Duncan unhooked the extra magazine from where it hung upon his belt
and replaced the empty one. Then he snatched a burn