I know my strength. On Earth it's the source of legends--the shadowy half-believed stories of werewolves and vampires. Fact and fancy mixed together to chill the minds and hearts of men. For myself, and others like me, it's a distinct advantage to have our existence doubted. A victim paralyzed with fear, too shocked and demoralized to cry out, is easier to subdue. But the strength I was so confident of is meaningless here. Crouched in the shadow of the boulder, the only shade on the arid plain, it suddenly dawned on me that the creatures who rule this planet knew about me from the beginning, when I thought I was hidden. It amused them, I think. I can't go back to the city and find the farmer. He's their meat. And I have limitations. I can't dematerialize myself off this planet. A few drops of fluid are left in the container with the Red Cross stamp on it, my last link with Earth. I was born knowing the facts of _my_ life. For a thousand years I've taken my food where, and how I could get it. But these creatures are different, not only in body chemistry. They are tougher than teflon skin and have hydrofluoric acid in their veins. I've always killed for food, but they--kill for pleasure. And their appearance exactly coincides with their character. I ought to know. But there's one escape they forgot about, and I will take it. When they come hunting, they won't find me. Self-destruction is preferable to meeting those horrors face to face again.