He might go ahead, he knew, and ask why and how and where Sipar and the donovan had grown up together, but there was no point to it. This was exactly the kind of tangle that Shotwell was forever getting into. Half the time, he told himself, I'm convinced the little stinkers are doing no more than pulling our legs. What a fantastic bunch of jerks! Not men, not women, just things. And while there were never babies, there were children, although never less than eight or nine years old. And if there were no babies, where did the eight- and nine-year-olds come from? * * * * * "I suppose," he said, "that these other things that are your taboos, the stilt-birds and the screamers and the like, also grew up with you." "That is right, mister." "Some playground that must have been," said Duncan. He went on chewing, staring out into the darkness beyond the ring of firelight. "There's something in the thorn bush, mister." "I didn't hear a thing." "Little pattering. Something is running there." Duncan listened closely. What Sipar said was true. A lot of little things were running in the thicket. "More than likely mice," he said. He finished his rockahominy and took an extra swig of water, gagging on it slightly. "Get your rest," he told Sipar. "I'll wake you later so I can catch a wink or two." "Mister," Sipar said, "I will stay with you to the end." "Well," said Duncan, somewhat startled, "that is decent of you." "I will stay to the death," Sipar promised earnestly. "Don't strain yourself," said Duncan. He picked up the rifle and walked down to the waterhole. The night was quiet and the land continued to have that empty feeling. Empty except for the fire and the waterhole and the little micelike animals running in the thicket. And Sipar--Sipar lying by the fire, curled up and sound asleep already. Naked, with not a weapon to its hand--just the naked animal, the basic humanoid, and yet with underlying purpose that at times was baffling. Scared and shivering this morning at mere mention of the Cytha, yet never faltering on the trail; in pure funk back there on the knoll where they had lost the Cytha, but now ready to go on to the death. Duncan went back to the fire and prodded Sipar with his toe. The native came straight up out of sleep. "Whose death?" asked Duncan. "Whose death were you talking of?" "Why, ours, of course," said Sipar, and went back to sleep. III Duncan did not see the arrow coming. He heard the swishing whistle and felt the wind of it on the right side of his throat and then it thunked into a tree behind him. He leaped aside and dived for the cover of a tumbled mound of boulders and almost instinctively his thumb pushed the fire control of the rifle up to automatic.