"Right with you," his partner replied. * * * * * But, with the approach of night, Brink's big black _ystan_ and his saddle-weary rider followed alone on the trail. Rea's partner had not overtaken Brink as he had promised. The trail was clearcut and easy to follow--Rea was letting her mount race at top speed southward along the dirt crusted ancient highway. And Brink's half-tamed black stallion was endowed with stamina and speed that Carby's dun mare could never match.... Now, darkness had blanked out the spoor. At a miniature park's brush-screened entrance, Brink urged the weary _ystan_ into the natural hedge of leafy growth. The big black snorted half-hearted protest and reared as branches clawed and stung him. When they were through they were in a broad grassy meadow, and in the fading light of a full moon jagged ruins stood etched against the darker trees. He did not attempt any exploration until he had eaten of fire-warmed, greasy meat and portions of bread sopped in the frying pan. Then he took a flaming branch, as thick through as his lower leg, and carried this rude torch into the ruins. What had once been a street lay before him. Jumbled walls of brick and stone marked widely separated buildings. In all, he counted no less than forty-five mounds, when he came across an isolated squared block of stone tilted at an awkward angle and half buried. And cut into the stone was a blurred inscription. The lettering was alien, yet somehow, achingly familiar. Brink dropped to his knees to clean away the concealing sod; but the spell of concentration was broken by a racing, swelling tattoo of hoofbeats. He sprang to his feet, remembering that he had left his rifle near the fire. The rider could be Bryt Carby--or it could be some, as yet undiscovered savage, native to the planet, or even Rea returning in panic. He found his rifle, stepped through the rim of bushes beside the ancient highway and waited in their shadow. The indistinct bulk of a _ystan_ grew larger in the pale light of Sulle II's lone satellite. At first Brink could see no rider; then he saw the huddled lump of darkness above the saddle. He stepped out into the road. "Rea?" he said. His rifle lifted above the horizontal, its butt at his hip. "Woa," the rider moaned faintly, and the trembling _ystan_ came to a drooping stand. Brink reached up to the rider to help her down. "No," Rea whispered. "Hide me--hide--horse. Savages...." Brink grunted under his breath and tugged at the steaming _ystan's_ bit to lead the beast off the highway. They pushed through the clawing branches, the _ystan's_ breathing stentorian and ragged. The exhausted mount was dying on its feet.