King was trembling as he finished his inspection for rats, and his legs beat a frantic tattoo down the stairs. The fear was as thick as it had been when the men came and took him and his brothers away from Doc, to jam them into planes with other dogs and dump them far away, where the rabbits were thick--and almost useless for food. Doc had fought then, even moving outside the safety of the laboratory, but the men had taken the dogs. Yet Doc had been alive. And now he was dead. The fear twisted in King, settling into something sick. He paced around the body, growling and whining. Once he stopped to lick the hand. It was colder now, and there was no moisture on it. The scent was growing more wrong as the body cooled. Life had not come back while he was gone. He licked Doc’s hand again, and an answering chill went through the dog. The feeling of death began to settle deeper--a feeling inside that grew and swallowed him, a hungry feeling. He shook it away, as he would have shaken the neck of the rat, but it came back stronger than before. There was real hunger mixed with it. Eating was never good on the trip south, and he had burned too much energy chasing about that morning. The fish had not been enough. The smell of stale food of some kind in the room tantalized him, though he could find none, and reminded him that there had been traces of the same odors along the path the rat had taken. The saliva was rising in his mouth at the thought. It drew him out, while the death inside pressed him away. He started off twice, to return each time for another inspection. He whimpered and tried tugging at the sleeve of the arm. The rags parted, but Doc gave no sign. The death smell was stronger. King paced about, fighting the hunger and misery until they were too much. There was the food smell, the rat--and when he came back to Doc.... A faint mist was being driven along by the wind as he reached the tower again, braving it this time without stopping. Until the rain washed it away, the spoor would be all the stronger for the moisture in the air, and he followed it easily, until it ended on the blasted area of the rocket field. King stopped at the sight of the bent and worn take-off cradles. From the distance, the first faint roll of thunder came, and he bolted stiff-legged, snarling with fear, as if one of the monster ships he had seen the men building so frantically were blasting up again. * * * * * The excitement of the frenzied construction had drawn him to it, even when it meant sneaking away from Doc--until he had been present after the infants were all aboard, and the rocket took off. The thunder-booming roar, the gout of eye-searing flame and the smell that paralyzed his nose for hours had sent him cringing back to shiver at Doc’s feet, and each new take-off had brought a fresh attack. He still wanted nothing to do with the rockets.