"Quit stalling," Martha complained. "I'm hungry." Finally Gunnar smashed the thing open with a chunk of rock and hacked off a couple of pieces with his trench knife. The meat resembled an outstandingly low grade of Spam, interspersed with bits of gristle that made tough chewing, and it had a strong gamey taste. "Not American," Gunnar remarked. "Some kind of _ersatz_, probably Jap," Martha commented between bites. They were too hungry to be choosey. A sound from the cave's mouth interrupted their meal. Gunnar gripped his trench knife and pistol as he moved stealthily forward. Then he laughed. "What is it?" Martha inquired, her gun ready, too. The half-breed husky growled again, sniffed hungrily and entered the cave snarling. Old scars and new gashes in his flea-bitten hide showed his familiarity with the ways of Jap soldiery. "One of the dogs the Aleuts left behind when the Japs drove them out," Gunnar said. He threw a small chunk of gristle. The dog cowered at the motion but darted forward as the piece fell and wolfed it down without chewing. "Here you are, pooch," Gunnar called. "Why, he's starved," Martha observed. Gunnar held more meat in his hand and backed into the cave. The dog followed, wagging his stumpy tail, all growling and menace forgotten as he found the humans friendly. "We can't let him live," he said reluctantly as the dog accepted the food from his hand. "He'd run in and out and lead the Japs here." "I guess you're right," the nurse agreed, "But--" Gunnar picked up his knife, but the dog chose that moment to lick his wrist with a rough, wet tongue, place one paw on his knee and look up inquiringly. Gunnar extended it toward Martha. "Here, you do it. I can't." She made no move to take the weapon. "I can't, either. He trusts us." She yawned. A few seconds later he did likewise. Then the dog yawned, too. Gunnar fought another yawn. "Something--aangh--wrong--aangh--with that meat!" he cried, sudden alarm struggling with drowsiness. "I feel doped!" * * * * * Drowsiness won. He leaned back against the straw in the darkness and closed his eyes. Martha's eyelids were heavy but she was still a nurse. She shook him violently. "Sleep in those wet clothes and you'll wake up with pneumonia. Get them off!" she ordered. Dizzily they undressed in the blackness, wringing out their sopping clothing and hanging it on projecting points of rock in the cave. Before they finished the dog was snoring loudly in the straw. Martha felt silly and lightheaded. "Gunnar," she said. "Let's call him Frankie. He sings." She giggled. Then she yawned once more, burrowed into the straw and was sound asleep. Gunnar had just time to place the two guns and his knife nearby before he too lost consciousness.... ... Heat. Cold. Heat again. Violent motion. A ripping shock. The sensations would have been excruciatingly painful to any Martian still possessed of anything so atavistic as a pain sense.