The captain's "Good hunting" ended with a click. Pritchard turned calmly and started walking off the hard gloss the _Apollo's_ hell-breathing stern tubes had made of this once-grassy spot, into the blackened wisps and dust. The men followed him in a loose, straggling group, ten men in all, swaggering for the benefit of the envious eyes of those remaining in the ship. McManus strode rapidly until he had caught up with the tall hunter. The red-haired boy's idolatry was plain in his wide blue eyes. "Why the jungle?" he said. "Why are you tackling the jungle, Mr. Pritchard?" "Just for a sample. Also as a check. The whole planet's like this. Can't land anywhere without being near the jungles that seem to fill up every valley. I don't like cover like that so close to the ship. I want to see what's in it." "Think we'll knock over anything?" "Not trying for it," said Pritchard shortly. He punched the younger man on the biceps. "And unkink that trigger-finger of yours, hero boy." McManus grinned shamefacedly. "Ah, change your tapes, will you? I only need one mistake to learn." Pritchard snorted. "On that Deneb asteroid, you promised. You seemed to understand. Then you thought you'd like one of those big clamshells for a souvenir. Remember what came out of those shells after you fired?" The boy moved his shoulders. "Remember! I dream about them regularly every tenth night." "I'm also thinking about a man named Munson." Pritchard's tone had become soft and musing. "That name mean anything to you?" McManus shrugged. "There must be a million Munsons. None of 'em ever meant anything to me." "Every hunter remembers Munson," said Pritchard flatly. "And everybody on Terra remem--" Something squeaked under his foot. Pritchard flung himself sideways into the blackened stubble, rolled, and came up in a crouch, snapper at ready, while McManus stood blinking at him. Pritchard came back slowly, narrowed gaze riveted on the spot where he had stepped. McManus backed away, raising his own snapper. The rest of the men came running up. Pritchard knelt and picked up something. It was stiff and charred and smelt acridly, but the men clustering around could see it had six legs. There was a click and a whirr as Kemp started the cam-rec. Then McManus said, "I'll be damned" and picked up something else. It squealed and squirmed in his hand, and it also had six legs. "What is it?" queried Majinski over his shoulder. "Rabbit?" "Or squirrel," put in Greene, a rangy blond boy. "Some kind of rodent, anyway," said Pritchard. He ran a finger the wrong way through baby fur and the little sharp muzzle flicked around to snap at him. He stood up. "The mother shielded it from our stern jetwash. She died that Junior might live." He wiped his hands on his cordron breeches. "Bring it along, Tom. We'll drop it in the tall grass."