"And you," he said, "may call me Elmer--a name I permit no one to use--" he bent forward "--but you, now." Their lips brushed and clung. "Fine time for love-making," muttered Kemp. Below them, a flamer squealed suddenly. Sturgis, unknown to them, had lingered behind. Now, a hundred feet down the ridge, he fired a burst at the worm--a warning burst, for the dread feelers hung high above his head on a long, curving tendon of red wetness. The flamer had an effective range of only thirty feet, but the slimy scarlet rope curved away, dropping off to one side and extending out into the air. The feelers contracted to mere knobs and the end thickened into a club. A haymaker, drawing back, poised and cocked. Pritchard saw it and howled, "Sturgis! Duck!" But there was to be no ducking that swing. Sturgis hugged the thin spine of crag and threw up a blossom of fire. But the rope came flailing about, slashing through the flame, and neatly flicked him off. They watched the body arcing out over the meadow, the spare flamer of Pritchard twisting after it, and saw it sink on down, to stop suddenly against the turf. Kemp began to curse. Pritchard pulled the emergency chute pack from his leg-pocket and began snapping the light harness about his long frame. "Cut that out," he said coldly. "Just hang on, Kemp, and watch. If I've got this baby figured out right, It's going to lose interest in you two in about as many seconds." "Good-bye, Elmer," came Cornelia's voice forlornly. The worm's first half was recovering from the follow-through of that swing, draping itself back along the ridge yard by relentless yard. Pritchard turned, holding the chute cord in his fist. He forced a grin that he was afraid looked more like a grimace. "So long, kiddies," he said, and jumped. At this point the leaning peak overhung the ground and he flung himself as far out as possible, trying for distance. The smooth, almost polished wall slanted away from him and the meadow swung upward. He pulled the cord at the last minute. As the filmy neosilk billowed above him, and the harness seemed to jerk him back up from the onrushing ground, he managed to twist a glance back up at the ridge. The One was motionless. That was good. It had seen him. Then he drew up his knees. The ground slammed into him and he lay there, stunned, letting the filmy folds flutter down over him. Then he was up, bruised but whole, on his knees and scrabbling out from under the light gray stuff. By crawling under every line he avoided entanglement and in a minute was clear and running, unsnapping the harness as he went. Not until he was well away from the mountain did he dare a glance over his shoulder. Then he almost stumbled, at the chill terror gusting through him, freezing every muscle. The worm was a red festoon, drooping from the ridge. Even as he looked, Its whole length came off, to fall writhing out of sight momentarily at the base of the mountain.