He stopped himself. There was no profit in rage. When you were in a jam, you did the best you could. You figured out the problem and you picked the course that seemed best and you didn't panic at the odds. He laid the rifle in his lap and started to hook up the sling and it was not till then that he saw the barrel was packed with sand and dirt. He sat numbly for a moment, thinking back to how close he had been to firing at the Cytha, and if that barrel was packed hard enough or deep enough, he might have had an exploding weapon in his hands. He had used the rifle as a crowbar, which was no way to use a gun. That was one way, he told himself, that was guaranteed to ruin it. * * * * * Duncan hunted around and found a twig and dug at the clogged muzzle, but the dirt was jammed too firmly in it and he made little progress. He dropped the twig and was hunting for another stronger one when he caught the motion in a nearby clump of brush. He watched closely for a moment and there was nothing, so he resumed the hunt for a stronger twig. He found one and started poking at the muzzle and there was another flash of motion. He twisted around. Not more than twenty feet away, a screamer sat easily on its haunches. Its tongue was lolling out and it had what looked like a grin upon its face. And there was another, just at the edge of the clump of brush where he had caught the motion first. There were others as well, he knew. He could hear them sliding through the tangle of fallen trees, could sense the soft padding of their feet. The executioners, he thought. The Cytha certainly had not wasted any time. He raised the rifle and rapped the barrel smartly on the fallen tree, trying to dislodge the obstruction in the bore. But it didn't budge; the barrel still was packed with sand. But no matter--he'd have to fire anyhow and take whatever chance there was. He shoved the control to automatic, and tilted up the muzzle. There were six of them now, sitting in a ragged row, grinning at him, not in any hurry. They were sure of him and there was no hurry. He'd still be there when they decided to move in. And there were others--on all sides of him. Once it started, he wouldn't have a chance. "It'll be expensive, gents," he told them. And he was astonished at how calm, how coldly objective he could be, now that the chips were down. But that was the way it was, he realized. He'd thought, a while ago, how a man might suddenly find himself face to face with an aroused and cooperating planet. Maybe this was it in miniature. The Cytha had obviously passed the word along: _Man back there needs killing. Go and get him._ Just like that, for a Cytha would be the power here. A life force, the giver of life, the decider of life, the repository of all animal life on the entire planet.