Kimball Trent began to walk with great ground-eating strides. He could see where the supports of the great bridges were on either bank further south; but the spans had been blown away, and he knew that to cross the river would mean swimming or constructing some kind of raft on which to float and paddle. Instinctively, he unslung his rifle, held it in both hands, the prescience of danger a cold and clammy hand that squeezed his heart and tightened the nerves in his rangy body. He came to a cut-back, where water had washed a deep gully to the river. He had stepped from the bushes and poised on the edge. Then he saw the girl. She was trapped, huddling back against the base of the far wall, slender hands outspread at either side, wide terrified eyes watching the alien monstrosity stalk her with a dreadful calmness. She wore a belted skirt of soft leather, laced sandals and a tight halter of blue leather. Red-gold hair hung in a cloud of brilliance about her shoulders, swirled, as she turned. She made no outcry, all of her attention on the beast that stalked her with heavy mincing steps. Kimball Trent swore softly, lifted his gun, then let it sag in futility. Only too well did he know how invulnerable these Gharrians were to any weapon Earthmen had devised. Radi-needles could not penetrate their steel-hard hide, and high-explosives merely bounced them about, apparently doing no damage at all. They were squat, almost apelike in build, except that they had a double chest, ending in two pairs of arms. A single eye peered lidlessly from the head-like protuberance on the shoulders that made them weirdly humanlike in appearance. Pad feet without toes carried them on legs that had no knee joints. And their skin was the slaty bright blue of sea water thirty feet down. Kimball Trent saw the Gharrian before the girl, and horror was in his eyes. He lifted his rifle automatically again, and hell raved for a brief second as he shot a full clip at the beast. The Gharrian did not turn, apparently did not notice the attack. But not the girl. She lifted her head, violet eyes widening in features browned by the sun, and her hands make quick gestures. "Run!" she cried. The Gharrian plodded forward, multi-fingered hands outspread to take the girl. He gave no heed to the cry, for his race had no speech, and apparently no hearing. Kimball Trent, cocked the gun to explosives, wondering if he could blow the monster to bloody fragments, then shook his head, knowing that such was impossible. He was held in thrall by the sheer bravery of the golden girl, for there could be but one ending to the drama. "Run to your left," he ordered, swung the gun up again. The girl darted to one side like a flame-haired wraith, going unquestioningly toward the blank end of the gully, pressing against the rocky wall. Her eyes followed every movement of the man on the gully's edge.