to enter his hut only to stop short.
Glawen said: “Come into the hut. Make no disturbance.'
The cook spoke in a strained reedy voice: “Who are you?' And then, more sharply: “What do you want?”
“Come inside and I will tell you.”
Step by unwilling step the cook came forward, to halt warily just within the open doorway, where the wan illumination of the stockade cast black shadows on his long face. He tried to speak in a firm voice: “Who are you?”
'My name would mean nothing to you, “said Glawen.” I have come for Scharde Clattuc. Where is he?”
The cook stood rigid a moment, then jerked his thumb toward the stockade. “Inside.”
“Why is he inside?'
“Hah!' — a bitter laugh. “When they want to punish someone, he is put down in a doghole.”
“What might that be?”
Lights and shadows shifted along the cooks face as he grimaced. “It is a pit eight feet deep and five feet square, with bars on top, open to both sun and rain. Clattuc has so far survived.'
For a moment Glawen was silent. Then he asked: “And who, then, are you?'
'I am not here by my own choice: I assure you!'
'That was not my question.”
'It makes no great difference; nothing is changed. I am a Naturalist from Stroma. My name is Kathcar. Every day it becomes more difficult to remember that other places exist.'
“Why are you here at Shattorak?”
Kathcar made a dreary guttural sound. “Why else? I ran afoul of the Oomphaw, and a cruel trick was played upon me. I was brought here and given a choice: working at the cook house or sweltering in a doghole.” Kathcar’s voice rang with bitterness. 'Is it not preposterous?”
'Yes, of course. The Oomphaw is preposterous. But for the moment, how best can we rescue Scharde Clattuc from the doghole?'
Kathcar started to blurt out a protest, then reconsidered and fell silent. After a moment he spoke, in a somewhat what different tone of voice and his head tilted to the side. 'You are planning, I gather, to free Scharde Clattuc and take him away?'
“That is correct.'
'How will you cross the jungle?”
“A flyer is waiting below.'
“Kathcar pulled at his beard. “It is a dangerous project: a true doghole affair.'
'I expect that it is. First, there will be killing, of anyone who hinders me or raises an alarm.'
Kathcar gave a wincing jerk of the head, and turned a nervous glance over his shoulder. He spoke in a cautious voice: “If I help you, you must take me out as well.'
“That is reasonable.”
“This is your guarantee?'
“You may count on it. Are the dogholes guarded?”
“Nothing and everything is guarded. The compound is small. Folk are irritable and on edge. I have seen some strange slights.”
“Then when is the best time to act?”
Kathcar considered a moment. “For the doghole, one time is as good as another. The glats come up from the jungle in an hour or two, and then no one dares stir from the trees, since glats merge with the shadows and one never knows they are near until it’s too late.”
'Then we had best go now for Scharde.”
Again Kathcar seemed to wince, and again he looked over his shoulder. 'There is no real reason to wait,' he said hollowly. He turned and stepped furtively out on the little porch. “We must not be seen by the others; they might raise an outcry out of pure anger.' He peered right and left along the strip, among the huts: there was nothing to see, neither movement nor flicker of light. Heavy overcast smothered the sky and every trace of starlight. Humid air reeked with the odors of jungle vegetation. Away from the dim glow of the stockade lamps the shadows were opaque and absolute. Kathcar, at last reassured, descended the ladder, with Glawen coming close behind.
“Be quick now,” said Kathcar. “The glats sometimes come early. Do you carry a gun?”
“Of course.'
“Hold it ready.“ At a crouching bent-kneed lope Kathcar ran to the gate. He reached through the port, worked the latch mechanism. The gate swung open, just far enough to allow a man to pass. Kathcar peered through the opening, then spoke in a husky whisper 'No one seems to be out. Come, to the rock yonder.' He sidled along beside the stockade, seeming to merge with the texture of the materials. Glawen followed, and joined Kathcar in the dense shadow behind a rock ledge. 'That was the risky part. We could have been seen from the high hut had anyone looked.”
“Where are the dogholes?”
“Just yonder, up and around that shoulder of rock. Now we had best go on hands and knees.” He set off crawling through the shadows. Glawen followed. Kathcar suddenly dropped flat. Glawen inched up beside him.
“What is the trouble?”
“Listen!”
Glawen listened, but heard nothing. Kathcar whispered: “I heard voices.'
Glawen listened, and thought to hear a mutter of conversation, which presently became still.
Kathcar moved off through the shadows, crouching low. He stopped, turned his face down, spoke softly: “Scharde Clattuc! Do you hear me? Scharde? Scharde Clattuc?”
A husky response arose from the doghole. Glawen crawled forward. He felt horizontal bars under his hands. 'Father? It is Glawen.'
'Glawen! I am alive, or so I believe.'
'I have come for you.' He looked to Kathcar. 'How do we lift the bars?”
'At each corner is a rock. Move it aside.”
Glawen groped along the bars and found a pair of heavy rocks, which he pushed aside, while Kathcar did the same on the opposite side. The two lifted the barred frame aside; Glawen reached down into the pit. “Give me your hands.'
A pair of hands reached up; Glawen grasped and pulled. Scharde Clattuc emerged from the doghole. He said: 'I knew that you would come. I only hoped that I would be alive at the time.'
Kathcar spoke fur a reedy whisper: 'Come; we must put the bars back in place, along with the rocks, so that no one will notice.”
The doghole was covered once again and the rocks put back in place. The three crawled away: first Kathcar, then Scharde and Glawen. In the shadow of the ledge they paused to rest and to assess the compound. A glimmer of light fell on Scharde's face; Glawen stared unbelieving into the haggard countenance. Scharde's eyes seem to have sunk into his head; the skin of his face stretched taut over bone and cartilage. He felt Glawen’s eyes upon him and grinned a ghastly grin. “No doubt I look a poor case.'
'A very poor case indeed. “Are you fit to walk?'
'I can walk. How did you know where to find me?'
“It is a long story. I only arrived home a week or so ago.” Floreste supplied the information. '
“Then I must thank Floreste.'
“Too late! He is dead.'
Kathcar said, “Now! To the gate, along beside the stockade, as before.'
Like flitting shadows the three arrived at the gate without challenge, and sidled out upon the strip, where wind blowing through the trees created a mournful sound. Kathcar searched the terrain, then gave a signal. “Quick then! To the tree!” On long strides he ran to the tree and started up the ladder. Scharde came next, at a hobbling trot, followed by Glawen. Kathcar gained the porch and looked over as Scharde climbed a painful step at a time. Kathcar reached through the opening and pulled Scharde up on the porch. He called urgently down to Glawen: 'Hurry; 'a rackleg is running this way!”
Glawen scrambled through the opening; Kathcar slammed down the trapdoor. From below came a rasping
