He shivered, backed to the door, his eyes darting about the cabin, a sharp prodding prescience within him that every movement of his was being watched. He closed the door, stood speechlessly beside the girl for a moment. "What is it, Don; what did you find?" Jean's fingers tightened on his biceps. * * * * * Don Denton swallowed heavily, avoided the girl's eyes. "Let's take a look at the other sleeping hut," he said tonelessly, tried to keep the horror he felt from his expression. "There is something wrong; I know it!" Jean went rigid, her breath catching in her throat. "My father's in there!" Don Denton shook his head. "No," he said sharply, "he isn't in there; he's probably in the other hut." He caught the girl's arm. "Let's take a look, before something happens that's too big for me to handle." They walked swiftly, their guns ready for instant firing, strangely comforted by each other's presence. At the doorway of the second hut, Jean again stood guard while the trouble shooter entered. He stood for a moment within the doorway of the hut, his nerves crawling when he saw an almost exact duplicate of the first scene. The only difference lay in the number of men supine in their bunks: there were but six here. Don Denton winced, recognizing a corpse on a lower bunk as the grey-haired father of the girl outside. He felt a sick futility beating at his mind, when he remembered the reassuring words he had spoken to the girl but a few short hours before. He moved about the hut, seeking for the slightest clue as to the cause of the men's deaths, finally turning back to the door, his search unrewarded, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting theories and thoughts. "Jean?" he said quietly, closed the door behind him on the horrible scene within. Blood drained from his face, leaving it suddenly haggard and drawn. He whirled, with his back to the hut's wall, the ati-gun jutting nervelessly before him in complete command of the clearing. Not a thing moved; there was only the slightest of breezes. He felt the sweat trickling down the flat planes of his cheeks, and the metal of the hut felt incredibly warm against his back. "_Jean?_" he called again, desperately. There was only the muffled hollow vibration of the eternal waves pounding against the island. No voice answered his cry. Jean Palmer was gone as though she had never been. * * * * * Don Denton stood rigidly for a moment, a nameless fear tugging at his mind, his blue eyes suddenly black with fear for the safety of the girl. "Jean?" he called again, knowing that there would be no answer. He ran lithely across the end of the clearing, burst into the first living-hut, made a quick search, dashed back outside, a monstrous fear and hate intermingled in his mind.