He stretched out on the sand, one hand on the little heap beneath which five pounds of smokeless powder was buried. Kennedy continued to drone out his power-series happily. Through the chinks in the palisade a man's profile showed against the twilight. "Shut up," he said. Kennedy shivering, rolled over and muttered to himself. The spearman laughed and went on. Charles hardly saw him. His whole mind was concentrated on the spark beneath the improvised chimney. He had left such a spark seven nights running. Only twice had it lived more than an hour. Tonight--tonight, it _had_ to last. Tonight was the last night of the witch-girl's monthly courses, and during them she lost--or thought she lost, which was the same thing--the power of the goddess. Primitive aborigines, he jeered silently at himself. A life time wasn't long enough to learn the intricacies of their culture--as occasional executions among them for violating magical law proved to the hilt. His first crude notion--blowing the palisade apart and running like hell--was replaced by a complex escape plan hammered out in detail between him and Martha. Martha assured him that the witch girl could track him through the dark by the power of the goddess except for four days a month--and he believed it. Martha herself laid a matter-of-fact claim to keener second sight than her sister because of her virginity. With Martha to guide him through the night and the witch-girl's power disabled, they'd get a day's head start. His hand strayed to a pebble under which jerked venison was hidden and ready. "But Martha. Are you sure you're not--not kidding yourself? Are you _sure_?" He felt her grin on the other side of the palisade. "You're sure wishing Uncle Frank was here so you could ask him about it, don't you, Charles?" He sure was. He wiped his brow, suddenly clammy. Kennedy couldn't come along. One, he wasn't responsible. Two, he might have to be Charles' cover-story. They weren't too dissimilar in build, age, or coloring. Charles had a beard by now that sufficiently obscured his features, and two years absence should have softened recollections of Kennedy. Interrogated, Charles could take refuge in an imitation of Kennedy's lunacy. "Charles, the one thing I don't get is this Lee dame. She got a spell on her? You don't want to mess with that." "Listen, Martha, we've _got_ to mess with her. It isn't a spell--exactly. Anyway I know how to take it off and then she'll be on our side." "Can I set off the explosion? If you let me set off the explosion, I'll quit my bitching." "We'll see," he said. She chuckled very faintly in the dark. "Okay," she told him. "If I can't, I can't." He thought of being married to a woman who could spot your smallest lie or reservation, and shuddered.