The open ground ended at water; here at last the olifants slowed to a halt, unlike the lesser desperate brutes, for Mister Johnson was still wise, considering the stream, aware of his leadership. Paul could shout to the others now, and they all answered. But his backward staring found only the stars, the white mass of Mister Smith, the disturbed darkness that must be meadow. "Elis! Mijok!" No answer could have reached him above the bleating and thunder of terrorized harmless things crossing the field and hurtling blindly into the river. Mister Johnson was wading in deliberately. There was splashing at first, then silence, as cool water came up around Paul's knees and Susie's motion changed to a smooth throbbing and heaving; he saw small foam where the curve of her lifted trunk cut the water. He whispered to Nisana, "We're safe, dear. Big river. Kaksmas won't cross it...." Mister Johnson was leading them in an upstream slant, bearing well to the right while the bobbing frantic heads of other creatures let the moderate current press them away to the left. This way--whether by Mister Johnson's wisdom or Abara's guidance--they might be able to come ashore clear of the dangerous passage of the stampede. "My people cannot go through the water. We never--" "Elis and Mijok can swim. They'll get them across somehow. Maybe the shield will float, Nisana." The madness behind them dwindled into the faraway. In growing quiet, Wright's voice came back, not loudly: "I am a murderer." Paul wondered what insight made him call out words not his own: "'What's the profit of any effort if the result is thrown away in a time of weakness?'" The even motion became a clumsiness of wading in mud. Then there was solid ground. Paul said, "Halt them here if you can, Abara." Mister Johnson must have shared the sense of safety; they all calmed, heads drooping, shaken breathing slowing to sighs. "Down, Susie...." All but Abara descended. This was still open grassland, but there was a black velvet curtain of jungle not far off. "Doc--still got your flashlight?" "Eh? No--lost somewhere." The old man spoke vacantly; he stumbled to the edge of the water, sat with his head on his knees. "Mijok-Mijok...." Tejron still had her Vestoian, but now the pygmy woman was panting, fully conscious in Tejron's arms and witless with fear. Tejron said, "She's trying to break away. Can't someone talk to her?" "Pakriaa!" Paul searched for the princess. "Here--please." Nisana whispered, "I will talk to the Vestoian--yes?" "Not yet. If Pakriaa--" Pakriaa said thickly, "I am here. What to say? She is nothing." "She is nothing to you, Pakriaa? Then Sears chose a poor student. Brodaa would have spoken to her. I ask you to tell her the war is over and she is among friends." "Friends? She is Vestoian." Pakriaa approached Wright, who did not look up. "Tocwright--I must speak to the Vestoian kaksma? I owe you my life--will obey you."