"Of course I have, ever since the first interview at the bureau," said Murra. "In the beginning I couldn't see what value it was, but you convinced me." She laid her hand gently over his eyes. "I hate to do this to you, dear, but I've got to have Dimanche." She had been smothering him with caresses. Now, deliberately, she began smothering him in actuality. Cassal had thought he was an athlete. For an Earthman, he was. Murra Foray, however, was a Huntner, which meant hunter--a descendant of incredibly strong carnivores. He didn't have a chance. He knew that when he couldn't budge her hands and he fell into the airless blackness of space. * * * * * Alone and naked, Cassal awakened. He wished he hadn't. He turned over and, though he tried hard not to, promptly woke up again. His body was willing to sleep, but his mind was panicked and disturbed. About what, he wasn't sure. He sat up shakily and held his roaring head in his hands. He ran aching fingers through his hair. He stopped. The lump behind his ear was gone. "Dimanche!" he called, and looked at his abdomen. There was a thin scar, healing visibly before his eyes. "Dimanche!" he cried again. "Dimanche!" There was no answer. Dimanche was no longer with him. He staggered to his feet and stared at the wall. She'd been kind enough to return him to his own rooms. At length he gathered enough strength to rummage through his belongings. Nothing was missing. Money, identification--all were there. He could go to the police. He grimaced as he thought of it. The neighborly Godolphian police were hardly a match for the Huntner; she'd fake them out of their skins. He couldn't prove she'd taken Dimanche. Nothing else normally considered valuable was missing. Besides, there might even be a local prohibition against Dimanche. Not by name, of course; but they could dig up an ancient ordinance--invasion of privacy or something like that. Anything would do if it gave them an opportunity to confiscate the device for intensive study. For the police to believe his story was the worst that could happen. They might locate Dimanche, but he'd never get it. He smiled bitterly and the effort hurt. "Dear," she had called him as she had strangled and beaten him into unconsciousness. Afterward singing, very likely, as she had sliced the little instrument out of him. He could picture her not very remote ancestors springing from cover and overtaking a fleeing herd-- No use pursuing that line of thought. Why did she want Dimanche? She had hinted that the agency wasn't always concerned with legality as such. He could believe her. If she wanted it for making identification tabs, she'd soon find that it was useless. Not that that was much comfort--she wasn't likely to return Dimanche after she'd made that discovery. * * * * *