Gilbert ducked under the upswinging arm. He drove his shoulder into the beater's midsection and felt the hard wall of muscle hold for a split-second, then yield. The beater jackknifed over. Gilbert let himself drop, grasped the beater's ankles and heaved. The beater sailed, yelling, over his head. The beater landed face-first in the swamp and Gilbert dove after him. He found the machete-haft, twisted. The big-bladed weapon came free in his hand, but the beater lifted his head from the mud and cried: "Mulveen! Mulveen, sir! Mulveen!" Gilbert struck with the side of the machete blade, using it as a club. The beater subsided face-down in the mud. Gilbert looked down at him, then scowled and turned him face-up in the swamp so he wouldn't drown. Just then Mulveen's rifle cracked. The swamp-water swallowed the flat sound: there was no echo. Mulveen heard the cry--he was close. Perhaps close enough to see the white sheen of frothing water where the beater had fallen.... Quickly Gilbert slipped with his machete among the mangrove roots. He made his way through the thick tangle of gnarled roots and the slime of the swamp back in the direction from which the beater had come. Behind him he heard the clubs and machetes of the other beaters, returning now toward the rifle fire. Up ahead somewhere unseen in the swamp Mulveen was waiting with his atomic rifle. Behind Gilbert, the beaters were coming. Wenzi screamed, close by. With Mulveen? Gilbert crashed through the mangroves in that direction. Mulveen would hear him--but wouldn't see him. The mangroves were a thick tangle of twisted trunks and roots. Mulveen would have no chance for a clear shot until almost the last moment. Suddenly, Gilbert stopped dead in his tracks. Wenzi--was she part of it? She could have fled to him, pretending. She could have been in league with Arnaud and Mulveen. There was no reason to believe otherwise. The trackers and beaters knew no loyalties. They were hardly more than animals. But somehow, Wenzi seemed different. As Gilbert thought himself different. The thoughts raced through his mind. There were the continents of Earth, but the continents were game-reserves. The men were hardly more than game themselves. But there were the offshore islands, which had not been stocked with animals. It was rumored that another brand of men lived there, men who had fled from the continents, men determined to preserve their heritage and one day when they were strong enough return with it to the mainlands.... With his five thousand credits, Gilbert could buy a boat, sail to the islands.... Wenzi screamed again. Mulveen's rifle roared. He was closer now. Wood splintered from the mangrove roots, peppering Gilbert. Heedless, he plunged on, impelled by the shouts of the beaters behind him. Grimly he thought: I'm giving Mulveen his money's worth. But that wasn't quite true. Mulveen would not really get his money's worth until Gilbert was dead. * * * * *