Ginger had a short-barreled light-kicking Mannlicher, Harry and I carried Springfields and Mr. Stevenson had a big Marlin Magnum .375. We had enough firepower to stop anything the Venusian swamps offered unless something--such as a Wompan--stopped us first. "Let's go out there," Mr. Stevenson said, loading a clip of ammo into the Marlin's magazine and ramming a single shell into the breech. I led the way, followed single file by Mr. Stevenson, Ginger and Harry in that order. We went less than a hundred yards and could no longer see the stockade behind us. Venusian swamp jungle was like that. It was strangely quiet, though. We noticed that at once--the usual small jungle noises were still, as if waiting, watching.... "The Wompan," I whispered. "He's here, sir." "How can you be sure?" "Listen...." "You mean the quiet?" "The animals know he's here. Instinctively, they fear him. They won't make a sound because if they do, he'll have them. He can mime the sound of any life form and when he does that, he has them." "He has them how?" Mr. Stevenson asked in a tight, anxious whisper. "By pretending to be one of them and killing them when they don't expect it." "I see. And we--" "Keep on the lookout," I said. "And don't separate. As long as we stay together, sir, all four of us, we're safe." We had come a couple of hundred yards from the stockade. Unless you knew the way back, though, it could have been a couple of hundred miles. Some of the bogs could be treacherous, too. * * * * * I went knee-deep in the muck and pulled my feet out. The mud made sucking sounds against the rubber of my boots. Something touched my shoulder and I whirled--but it was only Mr. Stevenson. "Where are they?" he said. Ginger and Harry were gone. I swore. I called Harry every name in the book, but it didn't help. Hell, he had had ample time to be alone with Ginger. Of all the fool stunts-- "You'd better find them, Roberts, and find them now," Mr. Stevenson said, his voice flat and cold. "That's my little girl he has out there." I nodded grimly and we went back along the trail a slow step at a time, trying to pierce the green twilight gloom on either side. The jungle was very quiet--deadly quiet. Wompan quiet. The animals told us soundlessly. The Wompan was nearby. "Harry?" I called. "Can you chance it?" Mr. Stevenson whispered. "I've got to." We went back slowly, at a crawl. We covered twenty yards. Thirty. There was nothing. "Harry," I called. "Harry?" Mr. Stevenson's hand gripped my shoulder. He pointed. "What's that out there?" I looked where he had pointed. Creepers and lianas and thick fern-brakes obscured my view. I couldn't see a thing. "Out there," he said again. I could see perhaps five yards, no more. It was utterly silent. It was also hot and humid as it always is in the Venusian swamps. My khakis clung to me with sweat.