Kimball Trent smiled to himself. "I shall not move," he said evenly. "I know my limitations." * * * * * The canoe grated against sand, and the girl threw the cover back. Trent blinked in the sunlight, then came to his feet, watched amusedly as the girl gestured with her knife for him to lead the way. Catching up his rifle, he slung it over his shoulder, then stepped from the canoe, watched as she camouflaged it again as a log. "Through there," she ordered, pointed ahead. They did not speak, for the time of speaking lay in the future. Behind them, a soulless monster was searching the brush with a blind patience that had conquered a world; and for all they knew he might have signalled more of his kind to come and aid him in his search. He went ahead, not absolutely certain of where he was, climbing the sloping bank, going toward the edge of the trees ahead. He saw the rustle in the bushes, froze at half-step, hand going to the pistol at his hip. "_Brok!_" Lura said softly. "Go back toward the water--slowly, and maybe it will not attack." But Kimball Trent had his flame gun in his hand now and was going forward, placing each foot carefully, ready for instant action. And on the fourth step, he gasped, felt the blood freeze in his veins. It came through the bush with the gliding grace of a cat. And it was feline, too, in a way, with the gaping mouth and fangs of a saber-tooth tiger. But there the resemblance ended. Six clawed legs carried it forward, and scales glittered like the skin of a diamondback rattlesnake. Pupilless eyes, like polished red marbles stared unwinkingly, and the hissing sound from the beast's throat was like the escaping of steam. "Brok," Lura called again. "Do not move, Barb." But Kimball Trent's hand was already coming up, leveling the flame gun. And even as the gun swung into position, the brok came hurtling forward in a fluid drive of ruthless destruction. He came squarely into the raving cone of orange flame that gushed from the pistol, came smashing into it, and a scream of agony keened high at the bright blue sky. For nothing alive could withstand the awful violence of that ravening energy; only one creature, the Gharrian, had been able to live through its devouring power. It died in midleap, and Kimball Trent stepped aside so that its hurtling body would not touch him. He turned the flame on the smouldering corpse, destroyed it with the full power of the gun. Then, grey faced, he looked at Lura. "What manner of man are you?" she whispered. "You battle the Masters and their stalking broks; you use weapons the like of which I have never heard. Are you a God?" Trent smiled, shaken a bit by the sincere simplicity of the girl's question, then shook his head. "I am a man," he answered gently. "Now let us go and talk with the one you call 'the Elder.'"