Damn the man, thought Duncan. Out here mucking around with those stupid natives, always asking questions, always under foot. Although, to be fair about it, that was Shotwell's job. That was what the Sociology people had sent him out to do. Duncan came up to the shack, pushed the door open and entered. Shotwell, stripped to the waist, was at the wash bench. Breakfast was cooking on the stove, with an elderly native acting as cook. Duncan strode across the room and took down the heavy rifle from its peg. He slapped the action open, slapped it shut again. Shotwell reached for a towel. "What's going on?" he asked. "Cytha got into the field." "Cytha?" "A kind of animal," said Duncan. "It ate ten rows of _vua_." "Big? Little? What are its characteristics?" The native began putting breakfast on the table. Duncan walked to the table, laid the rifle across one corner of it and sat down. He poured a brackish liquid out of a big stew pan into their cups. God, he thought, what I would give for a cup of coffee. * * * * * Shotwell pulled up his chair. "You didn't answer me. What is a Cytha like?" "I wouldn't know," said Duncan. "Don't know? But you're going after it, looks like, and how can you hunt it if you don't know--" "Track it. The thing tied to the other end of the trail is sure to be the Cytha. Well find out what it's like once we catch up to it." "We?" "The natives will send up someone to do the tracking for me. Some of them are better than a dog." "Look, Gavin. I've put you to a lot of trouble and you've been decent with me. If I can be any help, I would like to go." "Two make better time than three. And we have to catch this Cytha fast or it might settle down to an endurance contest." "All right, then. Tell me about the Cytha." Duncan poured porridge gruel into his bowl, handed the pan to Shotwell. "It's a sort of special thing. The natives are scared to death of it. You hear a lot of stories about it. Said to be unkillable. It's always capitalized, always a proper noun. It has been reported at different times from widely scattered places." "No one's ever bagged one?" "Not that I ever heard of." Duncan patted the rifle. "Let me get a bead on it." He started eating, spooning the porridge into his mouth, munching on the stale corn bread left from the night before. He drank some of the brackish beverage and shuddered. "Some day," he said, "I'm going to scrape together enough money to buy a pound of coffee. You'd think--" "It's the freight rates," Shotwell said. "I'll send you a pound when I go back." "Not at the price they'd charge to ship it out," said Duncan. "I wouldn't hear of it." They ate in silence for a time. Finally Shotwell said: "I'm getting nowhere, Gavin. The natives are willing to talk, but it all adds up to nothing." "I tried to tell you that. You could have saved your time."