Even as he was telling himself it could not be the same one, his blunt fingers were recognizing its unforgettable smoothness, its oblate form, its queerly exaggerated inertia. His mind was remembering he had fancied it a single supergiant molecule, a key--if one knew how to use it--to the doors of unseen worlds. But there was only time to guess that the thing must be linked to his mind rather than to any of the bodies his mind had occupied, and to wonder how it had escaped the thorough search to which he had been subjected in the Black Star, when his attention was diverted by a faint eager yapping that burst out suddenly and was as suddenly choked off. He turned around. Up the boulder-studded slope he had just ascended, streaming out of the underbrush at its base, came a pack of wolves, or dogs--at least thirty of them. They took the same sloping course that he had taken. There was a strange suggestion of discipline about their silent running. He could not be sure--the light was very bad--but he fancied he saw smaller furry shapes clinging to the backs of one or two of them. He knew now why he had spent time admiring a fire. But the pack was between him and that fire, so he turned and ran across the plateau toward where he had glimpsed the rising wisp of smoke. As he ran he broke out and chewed the lone stimulol pellet, breathing thanks to that Thorn--he would call him Thorn III--who had hoarded the pellet for so many years, against some ultimate emergency. He ran well. His clumsily-booted feet avoided rocks and ruts, hit firmly on icy patches, with a sureness that made him wonder if they did not know the route. And when the stimulol hit his blood-stream, he was able to increase speed slightly. But risking a look back, he saw the pack pouring up over the crest. A steady baying began, eager and mournful. In the growing darkness ahead a low, ruddy, winking light showed. He studied its slow increase in size, intent on gauging the exact moment when he would dare to sprint. The way became rougher. It was a marvel how his feet carried him. The ruddy light became a patch, illumining a semicircular opening behind it. The baying drew near. He could hear the scuff of clawed feet. He started to sprint. And just in time. There was a great brown hound springing higher than his shoulder, snapping in at his neck, splashing it with slaver, as he jumped the fire, turned with his whipped-out knife, and took his stand beside the gnarled man with the spear, in front of the doorless doorway of the half-buried room, or large crate, of weathered plastoid. Then for a moment it was chaotic battle--gaunt-bellied forms rearing above the flames--red eyes and clashing yellow fangs--spear and cutter licking out--reek of singed hair--snarls, squeals, grunts, gasps--and, dominating it all, making it hellish, those three spitting, mewing cat-faces peering over the shoulders of three dogs that hung in the rear.