A child, who had been rescued from one of the dogs, crawled among the legs of the adults and lunged for Morgan's feet. He was forced to kick it back with a hard heel. Suddenly their ranks broke. There were only four of them left standing. They backed away and stopped--three men and a middle-aged woman. "_Oren will return._" They turned and marched toward the truck. "We need the truck," panted Morgan. Hanson flung his pitchfork and caught the last one in the center of the back. The others moved on unheeding. Morgan sadly lifted the shotgun. When it was over, they went to look at the two child-things. One was unconscious, but not badly wounded. The other had a broken arm. It shot out its fang and circled. With a sick heart, Morgan lashed out and caught it by the hair, before it could sting him. "See if there's pliers in the truck," he muttered. * * * * * Hanson returned with them after a moment's rummaging. They jerked out its fang and let it go. It walked calmly to the north, purpose defeated. They did the same to the other. "It's crazy," he was gasping. "Stark crazy. They spend over a dozen Orenians just to get two of us. And they didn't want to kill us at that." "Lo'dy, suh! Who _is_ Oren? You know?" Morgan shook his head. "He's the collectivum, Han." "But suh--he had to come from some place. People weren't like this--" "Yeah. I guess he came from space, like they say." "Just them little pink brain-gobblers?" "Uh-uh! Scientists figure they came in some alien host. The hosts couldn't take Earth conditions. They stung a few humans and died." "Anybody ever see 'em?" "Not that I know of. Nor found their ships." "O Lo'dy, I'm sick, suh." "Let's go back to the shanty, Han." "Yes, suh. Look on the back o' my neck, will you suh?" Morgan looked, then turned slowly away. "Is it, suh?" Morgan took a deep breath. "I--I--guess--" "I stumbled once. I guess he got me then." Morgan laid a hand on the old man's arm. There was nothing to say. "Mistuh Morgan--would you do me a favo'?" Morgan knew what he wanted. "I can't shoot you, Han. I'll leave you the gun, though." "No, suh, that ain't it. I was wondering--could you help me catch a painter tonight--before I go?" "A panther?" Morgan squeezed his arm and blinked hard. He grinned. "Sure, Han." "Guess it'll be two, three days afore it starts happening to me." "Yeah. Will you want the gun?" "No, suh, don't think much of suicide. I'll just go out and wrestle me a 'gator in the swamp." They went back to the house. Shera was sitting on the step. "I've made up my mind," she said dully. "About what?" "I'll do it." She got up and walked away. When Morgan tried to follow, she turned and flicked out the barb at him, then laughed coldly. Shivering, he turned away.