weaponless, without even aplace to retire for a last stand. And the hunter would not give up.Even without his animals, he would follow, more slowly but asrelentlessly as before.
Kreega collapsed on a shelf of rock. Dry sobbing racked his thin body,and the sunset wind cried with him.
Presently he looked up, across a red and yellow immensity to the lowsun. Long shadows were creeping over the land, peace and stillness fora brief moment before the iron cold of night closed down. Somewherethe soft trill of a sandrunner echoed between low wind-worn cliffs,and the brush began to speak, whispering back and forth in its ancientwordless tongue.
The desert, the planet and its wind and sand under the high coldstars, the clean open land of silence and loneliness and a destinywhich was not man's, spoke to him. The enormous oneness of life onMars, drawn together against the cruel environment, stirred in hisblood. As the sun went down and the stars blossomed forth in awesomefrosty glory, Kreega began to think again.
He did not hate his persecutor, but the grimness of Mars was in him.He fought the war of all which was old and primitive and lost in itsown dreams against the alien and the desecrator. It was as ancient andpitiless as life, that war, and each battle won or lost meantsomething even if no one ever heard of it.
_You do not fight alone_, whispered the desert. _You fight for allMars, and we are with you._
Something moved in the darkness, a tiny warm form running across hishand, a little feathered mouse-like thing that burrowed under the sandand lived its small fugitive life and was glad in its own way ofliving. But it was a part of a world, and Mars has no pity in itsvoice.
Still, a tenderness was within Kreega's heart, and he whispered gentlyin the language that was not a language, _You will do this for us? Youwill do it, little brother?_
* * * * *
Riordan was too tired to sleep well. He had lain awake for a longtime, thinking, and that is not good for a man alone in the Martianhills.
So now the rockhound was dead too. It didn't matter, the owliewouldn't escape. But somehow the incident brought home to him theimmensity and the age and the loneliness of the desert.
It whispered to him. The brush rustled and something wailed indarkness and the wind blew with a wild mournful sound over faintlystarlit cliffs, and it was as if they all somehow had voice, as if thewhole world muttered and threatened him in the night. Dimly, hewondered if man would ever subdue Mars, if the human race had notfinally run across something bigger than itself.
But that was nonsense. Mars was old and worn-out and barren, dreamingitself into slow death. The tramp of human feet, shouts of men androar of sky-storming rockets, were waking it, but to a new destiny, toman's. When Ares lifted its hard spires above the hills of Syrtis,where then were the ancient gods of Mars?
It was cold, and the cold deepened as the night wore on. The starswere fire and ice, glittering diamonds in the deep crystal dark. Nowand then he could hear a faint snapping borne through the earth asrock or tree split open. The wind laid itself to rest, sound froze todeath, there was only the hard clear starlight falling through spaceto shatter on the ground.
Once something stirred. He woke from a restless sleep and saw a smallthing skittering toward him. He groped for the rifle beside hissleeping bag, then laughed harshly. It was only a sandmouse. But itproved that the Martian had no chance of sneaking up on him while herested.
He didn't laugh again. The sound had echoed too hollowly in hishelmet.
With the clear bitter dawn he was up. He wanted to get the hunt overwith. He was dirty and unshaven inside the unit, sick of iron rationspushed through the airlock, stiff and sore with exertion. Lacking thehound, which he'd had to shoot, tracking would be slow, but he didn'twant to go back to Port Armstrong for another. No, hell take thatMartian, he'd have the devil's skin soon!
Breakfast and a little moving made him feel better. He looked with apracticed eye for the Martian's trail. There was sand and brush overeverything, even the rocks had a thin coating of their own erosion.The owlie couldn't cover his tracks perfectly--if he tried, it wouldslow him too much. Riordan fell into a steady jog.
Noon found him on higher ground, rough hills with gaunt needles ofrock reaching yards into the sky. He kept going, confident of his ownability to wear down the quarry. He'd run deer to earth back home, dayafter day until the animal's heart broke and it waited quivering forhim to come.
The trail looked clear and fresh now. He tensed with the knowledgethat the Martian couldn't be far away.
Too clear! Could this be bait for another trap? He hefted the rifleand proceeded more warily. But no, there wouldn't have been time--
He mounted a high ridge and looked over the grim, fantastic landscape.Near the horizon he saw a blackened strip, the border of hisradioactive barrier. The Martian couldn't go further, and if hedoubled back Riordan would have an excellent chance of spotting him.
He tuned up his speaker and let his voice roar into the stillness:"Come out, owlie! I'm going to get you, you might as well come out nowand be done with it!"
The echoes took it up, flying back and forth between the naked crags,trembling and shivering under the brassy arch of sky. _Come out, comeout, come out--_
The Martian seemed to appear from thin air, a gray ghost rising out ofthe jumbled stones and standing poised not twenty feet away. For aninstant, the shock of it was too much; Riordan gaped in disbelief.Kreega waited, quivering ever so faintly as if he were a mirage.
Then the man shouted and lifted his rifle. Still the Martian stoodthere as if carved in gray stone, and with a shock of disappointmentRiordan thought that he had, after all, decided to give himself to aninevitable death.
Well, it had been a good hunt. "So long," whispered Riordan, andsqueezed the trigger.
Since the sandmouse had crawled into the barrel, the gun exploded.
* * * * *
Riordan heard the roar and saw the barrel peel open like a rottenbanana. He wasn't hurt, but as he staggered back from the shock Kreegalunged at him.
The Martian was four feet tall, and skinny and weaponless, but he hitthe Earthling like a small tornado. His legs wrapped around the man'swaist and his hands got to work on the airhose.
Riordan went down under the impact. He snarled, tigerishly, andfastened his hands on the Martian's narrow throat. Kreega snappedfutilely at him with his beak. They rolled over in a cloud of dust.The brush began to chatter excitedly.
Riordan tried to break Kreega's neck--the Martian twisted away, boredin again.
With a shock of horror, the man heard the hiss of escaping air asKreega's beak and fingers finally worried the airhose loose. Anautomatic valve clamped shut, but there was no connection with thepump now--
Riordan cursed, and got his hands about the Martian's throat again.Then he simply lay there, squeezing, and not all Kreega's writhing andtwistings could break that grip.
Riordan smiled sleepily and held his hands in place. After fiveminutes or so Kreega was still. Riordan kept right on throttling himfor another five minutes, just to make sure. Then he let go andfumbled at his back, trying to reach the pump.
The air in his suit was hot and foul. He couldn't quite reach aroundto connect the hose to the pump--
_Poor design_, he thought vaguely. _But then, these airsuits weren'tmeant for battle armor._
He looked at the slight, silent form of the Martian. A faint breezeruffled the gray feathers. What a fighter the little guy had been!He'd be the pride of the trophy room, back on Earth.
Let's see now--He unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it carefullyout. He'd never make it to the rocket with what air he had, so it wasnecessary to let the suspensine into his suit. But he'd have to getinside the bag, lest the nights freeze his blood solid.
He crawled in, fastening the flaps carefully, and opened the valve onthe suspensine tank. Lucky he had it--but then, a good hunter thinksof everything. He'd get awfully bored, lying here till Wisby caughtthe signal in ten days
or so and came to find him, but he'd last. Itwould be an experience to remember. In this dry air, the Martian'sskin would keep perfectly well.
He felt the paralysis creep up on him, the waning of heartbeat andlung action. His senses and mind were still alive, and he grew awarethat complete relaxation has its unpleasant aspects. Oh, well--he'dwon. He'd killed the wiliest game with his own hands.
Presently Kreega sat up. He felt himself gingerly. There seemed to bea rib broken--well, that could be fixed. He was still alive. He'd beenchoked for a good ten minutes, but a Martian can last fifteen withoutair.
He opened the sleeping bag and got Riordan's keys. Then he limpedslowly back to the rocket. A day or two of experimentation taught himhow to fly it. He'd go to his kinsmen near Syrtis. Now that they hadan Earthly machine, and Earthly weapons to copy--
But there was other business first. He didn't hate Riordan, but Marsis a hard world. He went back and