"Now listen," Duncan told it sharply. "Before I came, you'd feast one day, then starve for days on end; but now you eat each day. And you like the doctoring. Before, when you got sick, you died. Now you get sick, I doctor you, and you live. You like staying in one place, instead of wandering all around." "Mister, we like all this," said Zikkara, "but we do not hunt the Cytha." "If we do not hunt the Cytha, we lose all this," Duncan pointed out. "If I don't make a crop, I'm licked. I'll have to go away. Then what happens to you?" "We will grow the corn ourselves." "That's a laugh," said Duncan, "and you know it is. If I didn't kick your backsides all day long, you wouldn't do a lick of work. If I leave, you go back to the bush. Now let's go and get that Cytha." "But it is such a little one, mister! It is such a young one! It is scarcely worth the trouble. It would be a shame to kill it." Probably just slightly smaller than a horse, thought Duncan, watching the native closely. It's scared, he told himself. It's scared dry and spitless. "Besides, it must have been most hungry. Surely, mister, even a Cytha has the right to eat." "Not from my crop," said Duncan savagely. "You know why we grow the _vua_, don't you? You know it is great medicine. The berries that it grows cures those who are sick inside their heads. My people need that medicine--need it very badly. And what is more, out there--" he swept his arm toward the sky--"out there they pay very much for it." "But, mister...." "I tell you this," said Duncan gently, "you either dig me up a bush-runner to do the tracking for me or you can all get out, the kit and caboodle of you. I can get other tribes to work the farm." "No, mister!" Zikkara screamed in desperation. "You have your choice," Duncan told it coldly. * * * * * He plodded back across the field toward the house. Not much of a house as yet. Not a great deal better than a native shack. But someday it would be, he told himself. Let him sell a crop or two and he'd build a house that would really be a house. It would have a bar and swimming pool and a garden filled with flowers, and at last, after years of wandering, he'd have a home and broad acres and everyone, not just one lousy tribe, would call him mister. Gavin Duncan, planter, he said to himself, and liked the sound of it. Planter on the planet Layard. But not if the Cytha came back night after night and ate the _vua_ plants. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Zikkara was racing for the native village. Called their bluff, Duncan informed himself with satisfaction. He came out of the field and walked across the yard, heading for the house. One of Shotwell's shirts was hanging on the clothes-line, limp in the breathless morning.