"Eleven--" Ashe's finger tapped on the ornate buckle of his wide belt. "We have about ten days to stick it out," he added, "and it seems we may be able to use them to better advantage than just letting you learn how it feels to walk about some four thousand years before you were born. We have to find out--if we can--what happened here and why!" Ross gazed at the mess. "Dig?" he asked. "Some digging is indicated." So they dug. Finally, black with charcoal smudges and sick with the evidences of death they had chanced upon, they collapsed on the cleanest spot they could find. "They must have hit at night," Ashe said slowly. "Only at that time would they find everyone here. Men don't trust a night filled with ghosts, and our agents conform to local custom as usual. All of the post people could be erased with one bomb at night." All except two of them had been true Beaker traders, including women and children. No Beaker trading post was large, and this one was unusually small. The attacker had wiped out some twenty people, eighteen of them innocent victims. "How long ago?" Ross wanted to know. "Maybe two days. And this attack came without any warning, or Sandy would have sent a message. He had no suspicions at all; his last reports were all routine, which means that if they were on to him--and they must have been, judging by the results--he was not even aware of it." "What do we do now?" Ashe looked at him. "We wash--no--" he corrected himself--"we don't! We go to Nodren's village. We are frightened, grief-stricken. We have found our kinsmen dead under strange circumstances. We ask questions of one to whom I am known as an inhabitant of this post." So, covered with dirt, they walked along the trackway toward the neighboring village with a weariness they did not have to counterfeit. The dog sighted or perhaps scented them first. It was a rough-coated beast, showing its fangs with a wolflike ferocity. But it was smaller than a wolf, and it barked between its warning snarls. Ashe brought his bow from beneath the shelter of his cloak and held it ready. "Ho, one comes to speak with Nodren--Nodren of the Hill!" Only the dog snapped and snarled. Ashe rubbed his forearm across his face, the gesture of a weary and heartsick man, smearing the ash and grime into an awesome mask. "Who speaks to Nodren--?" There was a different twist to the pronunciation of some words, but Ross was able to understand. "One who has hunted with him and feasted with him. The one who gave into his hand the friendship gift of the ever-sharp knife. It is Assha of the traders----" "Go far from us, man of ill luck. You who are hunted by the evil spirits." The last was a shrill cry. Ashe remained where he was, facing into the bushes which hid the tribesman.