Gilbert was weaponless. Five thousand credits, he thought. And my life. Wenzi--in Mulveen's possession. Or, in his possession when the traitor Arnaud brought her back to camp. I can forget about her. I don't know her. Until last night I thought she was a boy, he told himself. I can flee and find a weapon somewhere. Even while he told himself this, he was walking back along the trail. Wenzi had trusted him. Wenzi had fled to him at once. She had faith in him. A blind, almost childish faith, even if she hadn't put it in words. She had come, and that was enough. For the first time in his life, Gilbert felt anger. And a burning, consuming hate. He loped with ground-consuming strides along the trail. * * * * * An hour later, he heard the beaters. They were coming. They were coming for him. They could have waited. But Mulveen was trying everything. Throw the works if you could, that's what the guides always said. Mulveen had Wenzi. It was a kind of bait and Gilbert might or might not rise to it. So the beaters were coming through the swamp. Beaters. Yesterday, his men. Now, he was their quarry. He crouched. In a moment he became part of the jungle, a shadow barely seen in the dim swamp, insubstantial, soundless. The beaters came on. If he were hunting a man-sized and weaponless animal, Gilbert thought, he would send the beaters through with staves and machetes.... He watched them come. He could name them, they came so close. They beat the undergrowth and the hanging creepers, vines and lianas with their clubs. Here and there he caught the gleam of a machete blade. If they spotted him they would make a rush, cutting off his retreat, surrounding him on three sides and forcing him back along the trail toward where Mulveen was waiting, probably in a comfortable blind, with an atomic rifle. Unless, right now, Mulveen was too busy with Wenzi.... No, he told himself. It wouldn't be that way. Mulveen would want his triumph first. Wenzi would wait, a prisoner, for nightfall. But could he be sure? The beaters went by, advancing through the swamp. One came so close, Gilbert could have reached out and touched him. Gilbert stood up, stretching his stiff muscles. He waited an agonizing five more minutes, then set out along the trail. A laggard beater materialized abruptly in his path. The machete blurred overhead, blade gleaming. The man's face showed recognition, but neither pity nor regret. He wouldn't kill Gilbert, naturally. He wanted Gilbert to run--back toward Mulveen.