Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. The World That Couldn't Be By CLIFFORD D. SIMAK Illustrated by GAUGHAN _Like every farmer on every planet, Duncan had to hunt down anything that damaged his crops--even though he was aware this was--_ * * * * * The tracks went up one row and down another, and in those rows the _vua_ plants had been sheared off an inch or two above the ground. The raider had been methodical; it had not wandered about haphazardly, but had done an efficient job of harvesting the first ten rows on the west side of the field. Then, having eaten its fill, it had angled off into the bush--and that had not been long ago, for the soil still trickled down into the great pug marks, sunk deep into the finely cultivated loam. [Illustration] Somewhere a sawmill bird was whirring through a log, and down in one of the thorn-choked ravines, a choir of chatterers was clicking through a ghastly morning song. It was going to be a scorcher of a day. Already the smell of desiccated dust was rising from the ground and the glare of the newly risen sun was dancing off the bright leaves of the hula-trees, making it appear as if the bush were filled with a million flashing mirrors. Gavin Duncan hauled a red bandanna from his pocket and mopped his face. "No, mister," pleaded Zikkara, the native foreman of the farm. "You cannot do it, mister. You do not hunt a Cytha." "The hell I don't," said Duncan, but he spoke in English and not the native tongue. He stared out across the bush, a flat expanse of sun-cured grass interspersed with thickets of hula-scrub and thorn and occasional groves of trees, criss-crossed by treacherous ravines and spotted with infrequent waterholes. It would be murderous out there, he told himself, but it shouldn't take too long. The beast probably would lay up shortly after its pre-dawn feeding and he'd overhaul it in an hour or two. But if he failed to overhaul it, then he must keep on. "Dangerous," Zikkara pointed out. "No one hunts the Cytha." "I do," Duncan said, speaking now in the native language. "I hunt anything that damages my crop. A few nights more of this and there would be nothing left." * * * * * Jamming the bandanna back into his pocket, he tilted his hat lower across his eyes against the sun. "It might be a long chase, mister. It is the _skun_ season now. If you were caught out there...."