Now his muzzle lifted into the air as he sank to his haunches. He seemed to brace himself, and his lungs expanded slowly. He could feel it, and the need of it. The instinct behind it was too old for remembrance, but the ritual came finally by itself, with no conscious control. His mouth opened, and the dirge keened on the air, lifting and driving upwards toward the empty sky above. There was only the single requiem. Then King swung back toward the distant shore, picking his way along the worn bridge. He slipped down the crumbled bank to the thin edge of sand near the stream and turned southward, trotting on steadily with the cold wind at his back. Somewhere, there would be a place to fish for his breakfast. Transcriber’s note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, January 1956 (Vol. 4, No. 6). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this version, while spelling and hyphenation have been kept as is. The following word has been changed in this version: out to off, in the following sentence: With an unhappy growl, he dropped from the hulk of the rocket and took *off* after it.