Sometimes Mike reflected on what things might be like if he'd been born, say, twenty years later. By that time almost everyone would be a product of Leff shots, and he'd be no exception. He might stay with people his own age in Kenyarobi without feeling self-conscious, clumsy, conspicuous. Pressed, he had to admit that was part of the reason he preferred to remain out here at Dad's old place now. He could tolerate the stares of the natives, but whenever he ventured into a city he felt awkward under the scrutiny of the young people. The way those teen-agers looked up at him made him feel a monster, rather. Better to endure the monotony, the emptiness out here. Yes, and wait for a chance to hunt. Even though, nine times out of ten, it turned out to be a wild goose-chase. During the past year or so Mike had hunted nothing but legends and rumors, spent his time stalking shadows. Then the villagers had come to him, three days ago, with their wild story. Even when he heard it, he realized it must be pure fable. And the more they insisted, the more they protested, the more he realized it simply couldn't be. Still, he'd come. Anything to experience some action, anything to create the illusion of purpose, of-- "_Tembo!_" shrieked the boy, excited beyond all pretense of caution. "Up ahead, in river. You come quick, you see!" No. It couldn't be. The government surveys were thorough. The last record of a specimen dated back over a half-dozen years ago. It was impossible that any survivors remained. And all during the safari these past days, not a sign or a print or a spoor. "_Tembo!_" shrilled the boy. "Come quick!" Mike cradled the gun and started forward. The other bearers shuffled behind him, unable to keep pace because of their short legs and--he suspected--unwilling to do so for fear of what might lie ahead. Halfway towards the river bank, Mike halted. Now he could hear the rumbling, the unmistakable rumbling. And now he could smell the rank mustiness borne on the hot breeze. Well, at least he was down-wind. The boy behind him trembled, eyes wide. He _had_ seen something, all right. Maybe just a crocodile, though. Still some crocs around. And he doubted if a young native would know the difference. Nevertheless, Mike felt a sudden surge of unfamiliar excitement, half expectancy and half fear. _Something_ wallowed in the river; something that rumbled and exuded the stench of life. Now they were approaching the trees bordering the bank. Mike checked his gun carefully. Then he advanced until his body was aligned with the trees. From here he could see and not be seen. He could peer down at the river--or the place where the river had been, during the rainy season long past. Now it was nothing but a mudwallow under the glaring sun; a huge mudwallow, pitted with deep, circular indentations and dotted with dung. But in the middle of it stood _tembo_.