It was squealing terrifiedly, and now Drawers knew his own power and illimitable strength. These Griffs, big and brutal, were hardly a match for him. Born to resist a gravity of more than twice that of his planet his bones were heavier, more compact. His muscles harder, his speed dazzling. Again and again he came to grips with the Griff. Once its bestial fangs closed upon his shoulders and he just about tore away, his skin ripped and bleeding. His own breath was coming in great choking gasps, and his legs seemed to sag from the effort, but around and around the Griff he danced, his fists smashing a crescendo pitch of hate and power and destruction. And at every blow he could feel something give. Could hear the wind go whistling out of the weakening Griff. Could sense its great, untamed strength dissipating ounce by ounce. Then he closed in for the kill. In a fever of fury he crashed his two big fists in bludgeoning hate to the Griff's head. It tottered to the ground--dazed. He leaped upon its back and grabbed for its head. Instinctively it eluded him and almost threw him from his perch. He grabbed a fistful of fur and retained his position. In a fit of inspiration, he began pounding sledge-hammer blows on the thing's back. His arms worked in a sort of savage rhythm, descending and rising in a blur of speed and power. And as he pounded away it seemed that this thing would never die; things were growing hazy ... he was tired, oh, so tired ... he was barely conscious of striking and from far, far in the distance his blows echoed back a tirade of destruction. "What are you beating at, friend?" came a distant voice. Drawers stopped suddenly. "There is nothing but a mass of bleeding pulp beneath you." Drawers started to get off the Griff's back. He staggered erratically. The world began to turn around and round, around and round. Someone was leading him. He followed blindly. The next he knew he was lying back amid a mass of billowy perfumed cushions. Someone was forcing a sweet, golden liquid between his lips. He drank greedily, some of the liquid spilling down his shirt. He wiped his lips with his hand and settled back, relaxed. Through half-closed eyelids he peered out at the small golden people. Then, in a tired, happy sort of a voice, rumbled, "I guess those two weren't hurt." Persum, good old Persum, was standing there. Two radiant beings stood beside him. "They are very grateful," stated Persum by proxy. "They wish to thank you personally." "Aw, 'twas nothing." "Nothing!" came an excited thought wave. "Nothing to kill single-handed and weaponless two of the most terrifying beasts this planet has ever known? Nothing to risk your life to save two alien people whom you did not even know? You are a hero! A great hero! And we are deeply grateful to you."