For perhaps two breaths they stood so, man facing alien. Then Hume turned, walked back, his face set. Rynch offered him the ray tube.
“Fight our way out?”
“Too late. Look!”
Moving lines of blue-green coming down to the river. Not five or six now—a dozen—twenty. There was a small trickle of moisture down the side of the Hunter’s brown face.
“We’re penned—except straight ahead.”
“But we’re going to fight!” Rynch protested.
“No. Move on!”
VII
It was some time before Hume found what he wanted, an islet in midstream lacking any growth and rising to a rough pinnacle. The sides were seamed with crevices and caves which promised protection for one’s back in any desperate struggle. And they had discovered it none too soon, for the late afternoon shadows were lengthening.
There had been no attack, just the trailing to herd the men to the northeast. And Rynch had lost the first tight pinch of panic, though he knew the folly of underestimating the unknown.
They climbed with unspoken consent, going clear to the top, where they huddled together on a four-foot tableland. Hume unhooked his distance lenses, but it was toward the rises of the mountains that he aimed them, not along the back trail.
Rynch wriggled about, studied the river and its banks. The beasts there were quiet, blue-green lumps, standing down on the river bank or squatting in the grass.
“Nothing.” Hume lowered the lenses, held them before his broad chest as he still watched the peaks.
“What did you expect?” Rynch snapped. He was hungry, but not hungry enough to abandon the islet.
Hume laughed shortly. “I don’t know. Only I’m sure they are heading us in that direction.”
“Look here,” Rynch rounded on him. “You know this planet, you’ve been here before.”
“I was one of the survey team that approved it for the Guild.”
“Then you must have combed it pretty thoroughly. How is it that you didn’t know about them?” He gestured to their pursuers.
“That is what I would like to ask a few assorted experts right about now,” Hume returned. “The verifiers registered no intelligent native life here.”
“No native life.” Rynch chewed that over, came up with the obvious explanation. “All right—so then maybe our blue-backed friends are imported. Suppose someone’s running a private business of his own here and wants to get rid of visitors?”
Hume looked thoughtful. “No.” He did not enlarge upon his negative. Sitting down he pulled a cylinder container from a belt loop and shook out four tablets, handing two to Rynch, mouthing the others.
“Vita-blocks—good for twenty-four hours sustenance.”
The iron rations depended upon by all exploring services did not have the satisfying taste of real food. However Rynch swallowed them dutifully before he descended with Hume to river level. The Hunter splashed water from the stream into a depression in the rock and dropped a pinch of clarifying powder into it.
“With the dark,” he announced, “we might be able to get through their lines.”
“You believe that?”
Hume laughed. “No—but one doesn’t overlook the factor of sheer luck. Also, I don’t care to finish up at the place they may have chosen for us.” He tilted his chin to study the sky. “We’ll take watches and rest in turn. No use trying anything until it is dark—unless they start to move in. You take the first one?”
As Rynch nodded, Hume edged back into a crevice as a shelled creature withdrawing to natural protection, going to sleep as easily as if he could control that state by will. Rynch, watching him curiously for a second or two before climbing up to a position from which he judged he could see all sides of their refuge, determined not to be surprised.
The watchers were crouched down, waiting with that patience which had impressed him from his first sight of the camp sentries back in the forest. There was no movement, no sound. They were simply there—on guard. And Rynch did not believe that the darkness of night would bring any relaxation of that vigilance.
He leaned back, feeling the grit of the rocky surface against his bare back and shoulders. Under his hand was the most efficient and formidable weapon known to the frontier worlds, from this post he could keep the enemy under surveillance and think.
Hume had had him planted here, in the first place, provided with the memory of Rynch Brodie—the reward for him was to be a billion credits. Too much staff work had gone into his conditioning for just a small stake.
So Rynch Brodie was on Jumala, and Hume had come with witnesses to find him. Another part of his mind stood aloof now, applauding the clearness of his reasoning. Rynch Brodie was to be discovered a castaway on Jumala. Only, matters had not worked out according to Hume’s plan. In the first place he was certain he had not been intended to know that he was not Rynch Brodie. For a fleeting second he wondered why that conditioning had not completely worked, then went back to the problem of his relationship with Hume.
No, the Out-Hunter had expected a castaway who would be just what he ordered. Then this affair of the watchers—creatures the Guild men had not found here a few months ago—Rynch felt a small cold chill along his spine. Hume’s game was one thing, something he could understand, but the silent beasts were another and somehow far more disturbing threat.
Rynch edged forward, watching the mist on the water, his brain striving to solve this other puzzle as neatly as he thought he had discovered the reason for his scrambled memories and his being on Jumala.
The mist was an added danger. Thick enough and those watchers could move in under its curtain. A needler was efficient, yes, but it could wipe out only an enemy at which it was aimed. Blind
