Three days ago he'd dozed off while Kennedy broiled the meat over the hearth. When he woke, Kennedy had gobbled it all and was whimpering with apprehension. But he'd done nothing and said nothing; the man wasn't responsible. He'd said nothing, and yet somehow the child knew about it. His days were numbered; soon enough the jeep would be out of gas and the guns would be out of ammo or an unreplaceable part lost or broken. Then, according to the serene logic that ruled the witch girl, he'd be surplus. But there was a key to it somehow. He got up and slapped Kennedy's hand away from the venison. "Naughty," he said, and divided it equally with a broad spearblade. "Naughty," Kennedy said morosely. "The naught-class, the null-class. I'm the null-class. I plus the universe equal one, the universe-class. If you could transpose--but you can't transpose." Silently they toasted their venison over the fire. * * * * * It was a moonless night with one great planet, Jupiter he supposed, reigning over the star-powdered sky. Kennedy slept muttering feebly in a corner. The hearthfire was out. It had to be out by dark. The spearmen took no chance of their trying to burn down the place. The village had long since gone to sleep, campfires doused, skin flaps pulled to across the door holes. From the corral one of the spavined, tick-ridden cows mooed uneasily and then fell silent. * * * * * Charles then began the hardest job of his life. He tried to think, straight and uninterrupted, of Martha, the little girl. Some of the things that interrupted him were: The remembered smell of fried onions; they didn't have onions here; Salt; I wonder how the old 101st Precinct's getting along; That fellow who wanted to get married on a hundred dollars; Lee Falcaro, damn her! This, is damn foolishness; it can't possibly work; Poor old Kennedy; I'll starve before I eat another mouthful of that greasy deer-meat; The Van Dellen kid, I wonder if I could have saved him; Reiner's right; we've got to clean up the Government and then try to civilize these people; There must be something wrong with my head, I can't seem to concentrate; That terrific third-chukker play in the Finals, my picture all over town; Would Uncle Frank laugh at this? It was hopeless. He sat bolt upright, his eyes squeezed tensely together, trying to visualize the child and call her and it couldn't be done. Skittering images of her zipped through his mind, only to be shoved aside. It was damn foolishness, anyway....