The rifle roared again and Gilbert thought he saw the muzzle-flash up ahead in the dark swamp. He ran splashing through the water and felt the spray as the rifle spoke once more. The minute atomic explosion went off in the water not ten yards from Gilbert. The concussion staggered him and he fell forward on his face, his head striking a mangrove root jarringly. His senses swam. He heard a splashing, floundering sound. Mulveen. Mulveen was coming for him. He ducked behind a mangrove, waiting. Miraculously he still held the machete. He felt blood on his shoulder and chest, realized that he had probably fallen sideways across the blade. Wenzi and Mulveen came through the swamp. Wenzi was in front. They were so close that Gilbert could see how the girl's hands were secured behind her back, how Mulveen held a trailing rope, how the trailing rope was wrapped around Mulveen's thick waist so he could drop it when he had to and lift his rifle in both hands.... Gilbert came charging at them with his machete. With one swift stroke he parted the rope and shouted: "Run, Wenzi! Run!" The rifle-muzzle came up. Gilbert dove face-down as the weapon roared. He felt the fierce blast of it, then was clawing through the mud at Mulveen's legs. Mulveen brought the rifle-butt crashing down. It jarred against Gilbert's shoulder, pushing him down into the water. He felt the machete drop from his fingers and from what seemed a long way off he heard Wenzi's scream although he was aware that the girl had not moved, was standing there awaiting the outcome. The rifle pointed down at him. He reached up, tugging at the muzzle, pulling himself upright. Mulveen stumbled, cursing. Gilbert pulled the rifle-barrel into the mud and Mulveen came down with it on top of him. The beaters had reached them now, but the beaters were indifferent. Mulveen was the hunter: Mulveen had given his orders. But Gilbert was their chief guide and now it was a question of who was hunter and who hunted. Their loyalty would belong to the victor.... Mulveen's great weight came down on top of him. Mulveen had discarded the water-filled rifle. His hands closed on Gilbert's throat. His weight held Gilbert pinned.... In seconds--certainly no more than minutes--Gilbert would lose consciousness, the last air used up and self-poisoned and burning in his lungs, Mulveen's triumphant shouts ringing in his ears. But it wasn't merely for himself. And it wasn't merely for Wenzi. It was for Gilbert of Lewsanna--Earthman. And for a dream of the islands, and of Earthmen claiming their heritage again, if not in Gilbert's generation then in the one which followed.... He scooped a handful of mud and brought his hand, ooze and all, against Mulveen's face. He found the eyes and clawed at them. He heard Mulveen bellowing for the beaters. But the beaters were impartial.