Bukal hung close. "You see? They are surrounded." His voice was bitter. It was true. Everywhere, grey patches hemmed in the djevoda. While Craig watched, they linked and joined, eddying together ... grew larger, larger, till they lay on the range like a sodden, ever-spreading blanket. The djevodas stomped and pawed. Rage echoed in their roaring bellows ... rage, and something more, something close akin to panic. The grey took on new thickness. As if feeding on the very air itself, it piled in glistening layers. * * * * * Then, rippling in Boh's green glow, a tendril crept from the mass, slithering through the grass towards the djevodas. Slowly ... slowly.... It touched a great foot ... curled about the ankle. Still unaware, the djevoda started to turn. The slime swirled about the foot--clinging, holding. The djevoda's bellow went shrill with terror. Aware of the danger now, it lunged savagely. The foot tore free. But now panic was upon the giant sextuped. Roaring, it charged across the clear space, straight into the mass of circling grey. Its fellows followed. Like a hideous grey wave, the slime swept in upon them--miring them, surging high onto their lumbering bodies. The djevodas screamed and slashed and struggled. But it was as if they were wallowing in quicksand. Each lunge, each tusk-slash, only brought the grey tide rolling higher. Splattering, each grey patch grew as it touched its quarry. In bare seconds the wave-thing engulfed the struggling giants. The last scream died, swallowed up in the grey death of the ourobos. Folds of slime rippled over final, paroxysmal spasms. Shuddering, Craig whipped his disc into a tight, climbing spiral. The breeze was suddenly chill upon him, and he retched till his quivering stomach emptied. Grim-faced, Bukal hovered beside him. "A pretty picture, is it not?" Craig couldn't answer. "So it goes everywhere across the grasslands. Like a tide, the ourobos sweep over the south, pausing and gathering only long enough to kill, then spreading out once more in ever-greater numbers...." His voice trailed off. "But--is there nothing--?" "--Nothing that will stop them? No." Bukal's jaw jutted, hard and angry. "No, Craig. Nothing. Our people learned that long ago, on Xumar, the ourobos' home planet. Tanagree oil injections will render man distasteful to them; otherwise even the barons' military stations there would have had to be abandoned." "Then--the oil--" "They do not like it; that is all. It doesn't harm them." "Oh." "Already, our villages are emptying. By tomorrow the whole of the free Baemae will be crowded close along the border. The day after--who knows?" Craig frowned. "Tumek thought he had an answer." Bukal's face didn't change. "Tumek lies in his grave, and Vydys holds his crystal." His bitterness ate like acid. Craig had no words. Silently, he stared away, off across the rolling southern grasslands.