"What are you doing here?" The girl's voice rang out through the jungle's stillness. "Hunting," replied Pritchard. "Hunting what?" "Anything." He smiled up at her. "Anything big and tough. What are you doing here?" He could just make out the corner of her mouth lifting in disdain. "What do you mean by 'anything big and tough?'" Pritchard liked to have his own questions answered, too. "Who are you, anyway?" he rapped out sternly. "How come you speak Terran English? Where's the rest of your party?" The girl only frowned down at him. "By what right do you come tramping in here killing all my people?" "All your _what_?" Pritchard blinked. "People, people, people. There are beings on this world who live and breathe and think just like you. But you seem to think it's all right to come in and kill them. For sport." Gazing up into those blazing emerald eyes and that delicious figure, Pritchard felt an unaccustomed tingling through his nerves. Any woman, however crippled, deformed or aged, could provoke some excitement after the prison of deep space. But this beauty-- He glanced sideways at McManus who had moved up alongside him. The redhead had a feral grin on his freckled mug. "Relax," muttered Pritchard from the corner of his mouth. "This one's for me." He said to the girl, "We haven't killed anything, certainly not any people." The vision of that carbonized carcass back on the burn flickered across his mind. "What do you think we are, murderers? You're the first person we've seen." She cut him off with an impatient gesture. "You're a pack of killers, all of you. I wouldn't expect you to understand." "Hey, Mr. Pritchard," called out Sturgis, "I'll bet she's from that Havilland group. Ask her." Pritchard cocked his head. "That's right! You are, aren't you? The Havilland Survey sent out by the Astrodetic Board. Unreported for four years. What happened? Where's your base?" The girl nodded briefly. "And you're Pritchard, the notorious big-game hunter. I've heard about you. Nothing good, of course, but I've heard." * * * * * Pritchard smiled his sweetest smile. "That's right. I'm well known for my slaughter of helpless animals. But, come on, now," he coaxed, "how about a report on your party? The Board will appreciate any little message you care to send it." The girl gripped a vine as if to steady herself. "Wiped out," she said tersely. "Oh." He nodded, lips pursed. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he said, "How?" "What does it matter?" The face above was momentarily tense, withdrawn. "With plenty of synthetabs--and the hydroponics laid out and producing--somebody still had to go out and kill. For fresh meat." Her voice trailed off. "And--?" Pritchard prompted. "Oh," she sighed wearily, "they came. They were the ones who got the fresh meat." She shuddered. "Who's 'they?'"