y one. Then he stood waiting for orders.

Mihul considered him. "Guess he's in charge here," she said. She waved
a hand at the pup. "Go find 'em, old boy! We'll string along."

He loped off swiftly, a lean brown houndlike creature, a Grand Commerce
development of some aristocratic Terran breed and probably a
considerable improvement on the best of his progenitors. He curved
around a thick clump of shrubs like a low-flying hawk. Two plump
feather-shapes, emerald-green and crimson, whirred up out of the near
side of the shrubbery, saw the humans before them and rose steeply,
picking up speed.

A great many separate, clearly detailed things seemed to be going on
within the next four or five seconds. Mihul swore, scooping the Denton
out of its holster. Trigger already had the Yool out, but the gun was
unfamiliar; she hesitated. Fascinated, she glanced from the speeding,
soaring feather-balls to Mihul, watched the tall woman straighten for an
overhead shot, left hand grasping right wrist to steady the lightweight
Denton--and in that particular instant Trigger knew exactly what was
going to happen next.

The Denton flicked forth one bolt. Mihul stretched a little more for the
next shot. Trigger wheeled matter-of-factly, dropping the Yool, left
elbow close in to her side. Her left fist rammed solidly into Mihul's
bare brown midriff, just under the arch of the rib cage.

That punch, in those precise circumstances, would have paralyzed the
average person. It didn't quite paralyze Mihul. She dropped forward,
doubled up and struggling for breath, but already twisting around
toward Trigger. Trigger stepped across her, picked up the Denton,
shifted its setting, thumbed it to twelve-hour stunner max, and let
Mihul have it between the shoulder blades.

Mihul jerked forward and went limp.

Trigger stood there, shaking violently, looking down at Mihul and
fighting the irrational conviction that she had just committed
cold-blooded murder.

The gun-pup trotted up with the one downed bird. He placed it reverently
by Mihul's outflung hand. Then he sat back on his haunches and regarded
Trigger with something of the detached compassion of a good undertaker.

Apparently this wasn't his first experience with a hunting casualty.

The story Trigger babbled into the hopper's communicator a minute later
was that Drura Lod had succumbed to an attack of Dykart fever coma--and
that an ambulance and a fast flit to a hospital in the nearest c