But there was nothing wrong with it. The shape was there and could not be denied. It had somehow fitted back into its natural shape and it was a baby screamer--well, maybe not a baby, but at least a tiny screamer. Duncan sat back on his heels and sweated. He wiped his bloody hands upon the ground. He wondered what other shapes he'd find if he put back into proper place the other hunks of limpness that lay beside the fire. He tried and failed. They were too smashed and torn. He picked them up and tossed them in the fire. He took up his rifle and walked around the fire, sat down with his back against a tree, cradling the gun across his knees. * * * * * Those little scurrying feet, he wondered--like the scampering of a thousand busy mice. He had heard them twice, that first night in the thicket by the waterhole and again tonight. And what could the Cytha be? Certainly not the simple, uncomplicated, marauding animal he had thought to start with. A hive-beast? A host animal? A thing masquerading in many different forms? Shotwell, trained in such deductions, might make a fairly accurate guess, but Shotwell was not here. He was at the farm, fretting, more than likely, over Duncan's failure to return. Finally the first light of morning began to filter through the forest and it was not the glaring, clean white light of the open plain and bush, but a softened, diluted, fuzzy green light to match the smothering vegetation. The night noises died away and the noises of the day took up--the sawings of unseen insects, the screechings of hidden birds and something far away began to make a noise that sounded like an empty barrel falling slowly down a stairway. What little coolness the night had brought dissipated swiftly and the heat clamped down, a breathless, relentless heat that quivered in the air. Circling, Duncan picked up the Cytha trail not more than a hundred yards from camp. The beast had been traveling fast. The pug marks were deeply sunk and widely spaced. Duncan followed as rapidly as he dared. It was a temptation to follow at a run, to match the Cytha's speed, for the trail was plain and fresh and it fairly beckoned. And that was wrong, Duncan told himself. It was too fresh, too plain--almost as if the animal had gone to endless trouble so that the human could not miss the trail. He stopped his trailing and crouched beside a tree and studied the tracks ahead. His hands were too tense upon the gun, his body keyed too high and fine. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. He had to calm himself. He had to loosen up. He studied the tracks ahead--four bunched pug marks, then a long leap interval, then four more bunched tracks, and between the sets of marks the forest floor was innocent and smooth. Too smooth, perhaps. Especially the third one from him. Too smooth and somehow artificial, as if someone had patted it with gentle hands to make it unsuspicious. Duncan sucked his breath in slowly.