softened, diluted, fuzzy green light to match the
smothering vegetation.

The night noises died away and the noises of the day took up--the
sawings of unseen insects, the screechings of hidden birds and
something far away began to make a noise that sounded like an empty
barrel falling slowly down a stairway.

What little coolness the night had brought dissipated swiftly and the
heat clamped down, a breathless, relentless heat that quivered in the
air.

Circling, Duncan picked up the Cytha trail not more than a hundred
yards from camp.

The beast had been traveling fast. The pug marks were deeply sunk and
widely spaced. Duncan followed as rapidly as he dared. It was a
temptation to follow at a run, to match the Cytha's speed, for the
trail was plain and fresh and it fairly beckoned.

And that was wrong, Duncan told himself. It was too fresh, too
plain--almost as if the animal had gone to endless trouble so that the
human could not miss the trail.

He stopped his trailing and crouched beside a tree and studied the
tracks ahead. His hands were too tense upon the gun, his body keyed
too high and fine. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. He
had to calm himself. He had to loosen up.

He studied the tracks ahead--four bunched pug marks, then a long leap
interval, then four more bunched tracks, and between the sets of marks
the forest floor was innocent and smooth.

Too smooth, perhaps. Especially the third one from him. Too smooth and
somehow artificial, as if someone had patted it with gentle hands to
make it unsuspicious.

Duncan sucked his breath in slowly.

Trap?

Or was his imagination playing tricks on him?

And if it were a trap, he would have fallen into it if he had kept on
following as he had started out.

Now there was something else, a strange uneasiness, and he stirred
uncomfortably, casting frantically for some clue to what it was.

* * * * *

He rose and stepped out from the tree, with the gun at ready. What a
perfect place to set a trap, he thought. One would be looking at the
pug marks, never at the space between them, for the space between
would be neutral ground, safe to stride out upon.

Oh, clever Cytha, he said to himself. Oh, clever, clever Cytha!

And now he knew what the other trouble was--the great uneasiness. It
was the sense of being watched.

Somewhere up ahead, the Cytha was crouched, watching and
waiting--anxious or exultant, mayb