Jan slapped at the hand and pulled harder. The hand hung on grimly. Another hand appeared, gripping the slowly emerging arm. It fingered its way up the sleeve until it too gripped the stick. Jan let go and sprang back several feet. He hesitated, ready to flee. When he let go of the stick the hands dropped to the ground. The fat fingers dug into the sod and hung on. A bloated face came into sight and drew back into nothing once more. The face appeared again and stayed, flushed with exertion. Little by little the face was followed by a neck, shoulders, and a thick torso. The last to appear was two short legs. The figure stood up shakily. It was covered by a brown uniform. Although Jan did not know it, this was the uniform of a field marshal. The pig like eyes in the fat face blinked at him stupidly, then turned to survey the ruined city. Jan recognized the newcomer for a man, though he had never seen one with such a shape. Vaguely he wondered how such a man could catch wild animals,--and if he couldn't, how he could eat enough to have grown up. The man was even more of an enigma to Jan than the glistening square. And he might be dangerous. Jan had wandered far in his brief lifetime. Nowhere had he found more than a handful of other wandering nomads, all like him in build; long of limb, lithe and powerful of shoulder, able to run swiftly all day without tiring. This man, if man it was, came no higher than Jan's heart. He obviously wouldn't be able to run faster than the exceedingly rare, short-legged pig that became so fat when it grew up. The man turned his fat face back toward Jan. The look in the small eyes made Jan's hand steal toward his sheathed knife. The eyes saw that movement. They narrowed cruelly. A sneer appeared on the bloated lips. Suddenly a fat hand darted down to a lumpy object on the man's hip and drew out a squat blue object. It came up. Jan could see a dark hole in it. He stared curiously. Unconsciously he had drawn his knife as the man drew the strange object. His keen nostrils brought him the smell of sweat that has the odor of a tense body. His hunting instinct told him this creature was going to charge. * * * * * Jan felt something hot touch his left shoulder. With it came the sound of a sharp report. The strange thing in the man's hand buckled queerly. Jan looked at his shoulder. There was a gaping, angry wound in it. In some way this man had hurt him. He didn't stop to analyze how or why. The fact was there. He could either turn to run or advance to fight,--and he had never yet turned to run. He had learned the trick of weaving in and slashing, and withdrawing quickly. This stood him in good stead. The queer thing in the man's hand barked at him, but missed hurting him each time. Jan's knife reached in unerringly and slashed the wrist of the hand holding the spitting thing. The blood gushed out in a pulsating stream.