And even the Gharrian seemed to sense Trent's presence now; for it turned with a ponderous deadly smoothness, one hand dipping for the square box dangling on a waist cord. Its single eye was as coldly emotionless as that of a cobra. Kimball Trent fired five times, bracing himself against the concussions, blowing away the center of the cliff that towered twenty feet above the Gharrian's head. And on the fifth shot, even as the monster from outer space began to move with sudden speed for safety, the embankment collapsed, burying him beneath tons of earth. [Illustration: _Trent fired three feet above the Gharrian's head._] "_Here!_" Trent called, but the girl was already running toward him, scrambling up the sloping bank at his side of the gully. He reached out to give her a hand, and she caught his in a grip that was remarkably strong. Below, noise filled the gully, and dirt blasted upward from the slide. The Gharrian was blowing himself free with his concussor box. "This way," the girl said, and began to run. She raced toward the river, scrambled down the bank, going directly toward a large log at the bank. Trent followed, sliding and slipping, beginning to breathe hard from the unaccustomed exertion. "Wait," he called. "He'll see us swimming." Then wonder came to his mind; for the girl had bent and swung back the top of the log, showing the interior of a crudely camouflaged canoe. She scrambled into it, beckoning for him to follow, and he stepped in, helped close the lid over their heads. "We're safe now," the girl breathed, touched a single lever at her head. A slight humming came from somewhere, and motion came to the canoe, and there was the slightest sensation of movement. * * * * * Kimball Trent bent his head to one side, peered through a line of tiny holes that pierced the side of the canoe. He grinned tightly, seeing the dirt-clotted figure of the Gharrian come slowly into sight on the river bank. The monster searched the water for a second, then turned and went toward the woods with an implacable slowness that was all the more terrifying because of the utter lack of speed. Trent looked ahead at the girl, barely making her out in the semi-gloom of the camouflaged canoe. Her eyes were on his features, and they did not waver at his stare. "Who are you, Barb, that you stand against the Masters, and what manner of weapons are those you carry?" she asked. Trent shook his head slightly, missing some of the words because of the queer manner she had in her syllabication and pronunciation. Then he grinned, remembering that this was not the past, and that language would have changed considerably during the five centuries of his enforced entombment. "I do not know what you mean by 'Barb,'" he said. "My name is Kimball Trent, and the weapons are--well, weapons." "You speak strangely," the girl said slowly. "Where are you from--Giland, or Connet, or where?"