THE SUN CLIMBED higher and higher. In the high hollow where they lay, a little cold sun penetrated their retreat, and finally Kennard stirred. He took off his cloak and spread it in the sun to dry, then stripped to the skin and gestured to Larry to do likewise. When Larry, shivering, hesitated, Kennard said harshly, "Wet clothes will freeze you faster than cold skin. And take off your boots and dry your stockings."

Larry obeyed, shivering, crouching in the lee of a sunwarmed rock. While their clothes dried in the bitter wind of the heights, they took stock.

In addition to his medical kit—which contained only a few of the most ordinary remedies, and measured only four or five inches square—Larry had his knife with the broken blade, corkscrew, and tiny magnetized blade. Kennard looked at it with raised eyebrows and a rueful grin, and shrugged. He also had another piece of the coarse bread, a notebook, handkerchief and a coin or two.

Kennard, who had come provided for a long journey, was better armed with his razor-sharp dagger, a tinderbox and flints, and in the leather pouch at his waist he had some bread and dried meat. "Not much," he said. "I had more cached near where I left my horse; I'd hoped we could dare take that road. And there is food in the forests, though I'm not so sure here as I am in the woodlands nearer home. No, we won't starve, but there's worse than that."

At Larry's questioning look, he said reluctantly, "We're lost, Larry. I lost my bearings when we were getting away from the banshees last night. All I know is that we're west of Cyrillon's hold—and no lowlander or Comyn has ever come so far into these mountains. Never. At least, if they have they haven't lived to tell about it. We can't go back eastward toward home—we'd have to cross Cyrillon's country—or make a wide circle northward and get into the Dry Towns." His face, though he tried to keep it impassive, trembled. "That's all desert land—sand, no water, no food, and we might as well go back and ask Cyrillon for a night's lodging. Southward there's the range of the Hellers—and not even professional guides or mountaineers will go into them without climbing equipment, and mountain gear. I've done a little rockclimbing, but I'm about as fit to climb through the Hellers as you are to navigate a Terran spaceship."

That left only one possibility. "Westward?"

"Unless we want to try to get through Cyrillon's country again, banshees and all. As far as I know, it's simply forest. It's unexplored, but if we follow the setting sun, we should come out somewhere near to the lands where Lorill Hastur has his holdings. We'll be passing to the north of the Hellers—" He drew a crude sketch-map on the ground. "We're here. And we want to get to here. But the gods alone know what's in between, or how long it will take us." He looked at Larry, steadily. "I wouldn't enjoy a trip like that, even with my father and a dozen of his huskiest soldiers. But, bredu, if you'll back me up, we'll try it."

He met Larry's eyes, and for an instant Larry was reminded of that moment of deep rapport between them, across the blue crystal of psychic power. The word, bredu, had startled him. It meant, literally, friend—but the ordinary word for friend was simply com'ii. Bredu could mean one close, as in a family relationship—cousin, or brother—or it could mean beloved brother. It was a word which showed him the trust that this Darkovan boy, who had saved his life, placed in him. Kennard had undertaken, alone, a desperate journey on his behalf—and was about to undertake another, with Larry's help.

It was the most solemn moment of Larry's life. He was almost paralyzed with his fear, and he could feel Kennard's fear as if it were his own; deeper, because Kennard knew more of the dangers. And yet—

Larry said quietly, "I'm ready to try it if you are—bredu."

And in that moment he knew that he would, if necessary, give his life for Kennard—as Kennard had risked his for him.

The moment lasted only a fraction of a second. Then Kennard broke the remaining piece of Cyrillon's bread, and said, "Let's finish this. We need the strength. Then I have this—" Briefly, from his pocket, he showed the silk-wrapped thing that held the blue crystal. "It helped me find you, because when you looked into it, your mind was keyed to it. So that when I was lost, all I had to do was to look in it and think of you—and it showed me the right direction."

Larry averted his eyes from the stone. It made him think of that moment in Cyrillon's power. "Cyrillon made me look into one of the things."

The result on Kennard was electrifying. His whole face changed and turned white. "Cyrillon—has one of these?"

Briefly, Larry told him about it, and Kennard wet dry lips with his tongue. "Avarra guard and guide us! He may not know how to use it, but if he should ever learn, or if he should whelp a telepath by one of his women, the Gods themselves couldn't save Darkover from their evil powers! Not to mention," he added grimly, "that he might track us with it—as I tracked you."

"He's afraid of it," Larry said, and told Kennard how he knew, but Kennard shook his head. "He might still risk it; he'd evidently risk a lot to have you. Oh, Zandru, what shall I do, what shall I do!" He covered his face with his hands and sat motionless, the blue stone clutched in his hand. Finally he looked up and his face was gray and drawn with terror.

"We—must destroy Cyrillon's stone," he said at last. "I know what I must do, but I'm afraid, Larry, I'm afraid!" It was a cry of terror. "But I must!"

"Why?"

Kennard looked grim. He rolled back his sleeve and showed Larry a curious mark, like a tattoo. "Because I am sworn," he said, grimly, "that I will die rather than let any of our Comyn weapons fall into the hands of such people."

Larry felt a cold wrench of terror twisting his insides. To go back, deliberately, into Cyrillon's power and destroy the stone . . .

"What do we do?" he asked, deliberately light and sarcastic, "walk up to his front door and ask him politely to let us have it?"

Kennard shook his head. "Worse than that," he said, his voice barely audible, "and I can't do it alone. I'll have to have your help. Aldones guard us! If I could only reach father with this—but I can't—"

"What is it? What do you have to do?"

"You wouldn't understand—" Kennard began hotly; then with an effort, said, "Sorry. You're in this, too, and you'll have to help me. I have to take this"—he motioned toward the blue crystal in his hand—"and destroy Cyrillon's—with it. And we have to do it now."

"But how can I?" Larry was frightened and bewildered. "I am not a telepath."

"You must be," said Kennard urgently, "you fought Cyrillon to a standstill with the thing! I don't understand it either. I never heard of a Terran telepath. But evidently you and I are in rapport. Maybe you got it from me, I'm not sure. But we'll try."

He unwrapped the crystal and Larry averted his eyes. The thought of looking into the thing again made him literally sick to his stomach. The memory of Cyrillon's forcing made his abused shoulder ache in sympathy.

But Kennard had to do it—Kennard, who had risked death to save him. Larry said steadily, "What do I have to do?"

Kennard sat cross-legged, gazing into the stone, and Larry was inescapably reminded of the three Adepts who had brought the rain to the forest fire. Uncommanded, he took his place across from Kennard. Kennard said, silently, "Just go into link with me—and hold hard. Don't let go, whatever happens."

The twisting blueness of the crystal engulfed all space. Larry felt Kennard like a spot of fire and tensed, throwing all his energies, all his will toward supporting him—

He felt a blue blaze, slumbering, blaze up and waken. It flared out, flaming electric blue, and Larry felt himself struggling, drowning. His body ached, his whole head tingled, earth spun away, he reeled alone in blue space as blue flame met blue flame and he felt Kennard tremble, spin out and vanish in unfathomable distance. The fire was drowning him . . . .

Then from somewhere a huge surge of strength seemed to roar through him, the same strength that had flung Cyrillon howling across the room. He poured it against the alien blue. The flames met, merged, sank—

The forest was green and bright around them and Larry gulped in air like a drowning man. Kennard lay white and drained on the leaves, his hand limply clutching the crystal. But there was no blue fire in its heart now. It was colorless stone, which as Larry looked glimmered once or twice and evaporated in a tiny puff of blue vapor. Kennard's hand was empty.

Kennard sat up, his chest heaving. He said, "It's gone. I destroyed it—even though I had to destroy this one too. And it might have guided us to Lorill Hastur's lands." His frown was bitter. "But better than having a starstone in Cyrillon's possession. Now all we have to face are ordinary dangers. Well"—He shrugged, and struggled to his feet. "We've got a lot of country to cover, and all we have to do is to follow the sun's path westward. Let's get started."

Forcing back his multitude of question and curiosity, Larry reached out for his now-drying clothes and began to draw them on. He knew Kennard well enough, by now, to know that he had had all the explanation the other lad would ever give him. Silently, he pocketed his little knife, his medical kit, thrust his feet into his boots. Still silently, he followed Kennard as the Darkovan started down the western slope of the mountain, down into the trackless wasteland that lay between Cyrillon's castle and the lands of Lorill Hastur.

All that day and all the next they spent forcing their way down through the pathless underbrush, following the westward sun-route, sleeping at night in hollows of dead leaves, eating sparingly the remaining bread and meat of Kennard's provision. On the night of the second day it came to an end, and they went supperless to bed, munching a few dried berries like rose-hips, which were sour and flavorless, but which eased hunger a little.

The next day was dreadful, forcing their way through the thinning underbrush, but they halted early, and Kennard, turning to Larry, said, "Give me your handkerchief."

Obediently, Larry handed it over. It was crumpled and filthy, and he couldn't imagine what Kennard wanted it for but he sat and watched Kennard rip it into tiny strips and knot them until he had a fairly long strip of twisted cloth. He searched, on silent feet, till he found a hole in the ground; then, bending a branch low rigged a noose and snare. He motioned to Larry to lie flat and still, following suit himself. It seemed hours that they lay there silent, Larry's body growing cramped and stiff, and Kennard turning angry eyes on him when he ventured to ease a sore muscle by moving it ever so slightly.

A long time later, some small animal poked an inquisitive snout from the hole; instantly, Kennard jerked the noose tight and the small creature kicked, writhing in the air.

Larry winced then reflected that, after all, he had been eating meat all his life and this was no time to get squeamish. He watched, feeling vaguely useless and superfluous, as Kennard wrung the creature's neck, skinned and gutted it, and gathered dead twigs for a fire.

"It would be safer not to," he said, with a wry smile, "but I haven't any taste for raw meat—and if they're still on our trail after this long, we're out of luck anyhow."

The small furred thing was not much bigger than a rabbit; they finished every scrap of the meat and gnawed the bones. Kennard insisted on himself covering the fire and scraping leaves over the place where it had been, so that no sign of their camp remained.

When they slept that night, Larry lay long awake, feeling somehow ill at ease; half envying Kennard's woodcraft—he was lost and helpless in these woods without the other boy's knowledge—yet possessed by a nagging disquiet that had nothing to do with that. The woods were filled with strange noises, the far-away cries of night birds and the padding of strange beasts, and Larry tried to tell himself that he was simply uneasy about the strangeness of it all. The next morning when they prepared to go on, he kept glancing around until Kennard noticed and asked him, rather irritably, what was the matter.

"I keep hearing—and not quite seeing—things," Larry said reluctantly.

"Imagination," Kennard said, shrugging it off, but Larry's disquiet persisted.

That day was much like the former. They struggled down exhausting slopes, forcing their way through brushwood; they scrambled through country that looked like smooth forest but was matted with dead trees and deep ravines.

At night Kennard snared a bird and was about to light a fire to cook it when he noticed Larry's disquiet.

"Whatever is the matter with you?"

Larry could only shake his head, silently. He knew—without knowing how he knew—that Kennard must not light that fire, and it seemed so senseless that he was ready to cry with the tension of it. Kennard regarded him with a look halfway between impatience and pity.

"You're worn out, that's what's the matter," he said, "and for all I know you're still half-poisoned by the drug they gave you. Why don't you lie down and have a sleep? Rest and food will help you more than anything else." He took out his tinderbox and began to strike the fire—

Larry cried out, an inarticulate sound, and leaped to grab his wrist, spilling tinder. Kennard in a rage, dropped the box and struck Larry, hard, across the face.

"Damn you, look what you've made me do!"

"I—" Larry's voice failed. He could not even resent the blow. "I don't know why I did that."

Kennard stood over him, fury slowly giving way to puzzlement and pity. "You're out of your head. Pick up that tinder—" When Larry had obeyed, he stood back, warily. "Am I going to have trouble with you, damn it, or do we have to eat raw meat?"

Larry dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands. The reluctant spark caught the tinder; Kennard knelt, coaxing the tiny spark into flame, feeding it with twigs. Larry sat motionless, even the smell of the roasting meat unable to penetrate through the thick, growing fog of distress. He did not see Kennard looking at him with a frown of growing dismay. When Kennard took the roasted bird from the fire and broke it in half, Larry only shook his head. He was famished, the smell of the meat made his mouth water and his eyes sting, but the fear, like a thick miasma around him, fogged away everything else. He hardly heard Kennard speak. He took the meat the Darkovan boy put into his hands, and put it into his mouth, but he could neither chew nor swallow. At last he heard Kennard say, gently, "All right. Later, maybe, you'll want it." But the words sounded very far away through the thing that was thickening, growing in him. He could feel Kennard's thoughts, like seeing the glow of sparks through half-dead ash; Kennard thought that he, Larry, was losing his grip on reality. Larry didn't blame him. He thought so too. But the knowledge could not break through the numbing fear that grew and grew—

It broke, suddenly, a great cresting wave. He heard himself cry out, in alarm, and spring upright, but it was too late.

Suddenly the clearing was alive with darkly clustering swarms of crouching figures; Kennard yelled and leaped to his feet, but they were already struggling in the meshes of a great net of twisted vines that had jerked them closely together.

The fogged thickness of apprehension was gone, and Larry was clear headed, alert, aware of this new captivity. The net had drawn them close but not off their feet; they could see the forms around them clearly in the firelight and the color of phosphorescent torches of some sort. And the new attackers were not human.

They were formed like men, though smaller; furred, naked save for bands of leaves or some woven matting around their waists; with great pinkish eyes and long prehensile fingers and toes. They clustered around the net, twittering in high, birdlike speech. Larry glanced curiously at Kennard, and the other lad said tersely, "Trailmen. Nonhumans. They live in the trees. I didn't know they'd ever come this far to the south. The fire probably drew them. If I'd known—" He glanced ruefully at their dying fire. The trailmen were circling round it, shrilling, poking at it gingerly with long sticks, throwing dirt at it, and finally they managed to cover it entirely. Then they stamped on it with what looked like glee, dancing a sort of victory dance, and finally one of the creatures came to the net and delivered a long speech in their shrill language; neither of the boys, of course, could understand a word, but it sounded enraged and triumphant.

Kennard said, "They're terrified of fire, and they hate humans. Because we use it. They're afraid of forest fire, of course. To them, fire means death."

"What are they going to do to us?"

"I don't know." Kennard looked at Larry curiously, but all he said, at last, was, "Next time I'll trust your hunches. Evidently you have some precognition too, as well as telepathy."

To Larry, the trailmen looked like big monkeys—or like the kyrri, only smaller and without the immense dignity of those other creatures. He hoped they did not also have the kyrri trick of giving off electric sparks!

Evidently they did not. They drew the net tight around the boys' feet, forcing them to walk by tugging at the vine ropes, but offered no further violence. A few hundred feet of this and they came upon a widened path; Kennard whistled, softly, at sight of it.

"We've been in trailmen country, evidently, most of the day. Probably they've been watching us all day, but they might not have bothered us if I hadn't lit that fire. I ought to have known."

It was easier to walk on the cleared path. Larry had lost track of time, but was stumbling with weariness when, much later, they came to a broad clearing, lighted by phosphorescence which, he now saw, came from fungus growing on broad trees. After a discussion in their twittering speech, the trailmen looped the net-ropes around the nearest tree and began to swarm up the trunk of the next.

"I wonder if they're just going to leave us here?" Kennard muttered.

A hard jerk on the rope disabused them. Slowly, the net began to rise, jerking them off their feet, so that they hung up, swaying, in the great bag. Kennard shouted in protest, and Larry yelled, but evidently the trailmen were taking no chances. Once the slow motion rise stopped, and Larry wondered if they were going to be hung up here in a sack like a pair of big sausages; but after a heart-stopping interval, they began to rise again.

Kennard swore, in a smothered voice. "I should have cut our way out the minute they left us!" He drew his dagger and began feverishly to saw at one of the great vines enclosing them. Larry caught his arm.

"No Kennard. We'd only fall." He pointed downward into the dizzying distance. "And if they see that, they'll only take the knife from you. Hide it! Hide it!"

Kennard, realizing the truth of what Larry said, thrust the knife into his shirt. The lads clung together as the great vine net ascended higher and higher toward the treetops; far from wishing, now, to cut their way out, they feared it would break. The light brightened as they neared the lower branches of the immense trees, and at last, with a bump that flung them against one another, the net was hauled up over a branch and on to the floor of the trailmen's encampment in the trees.

Larry said urgently, "One of us should be a match for any two of those little creatures! Perhaps we can fight our way free."

But the swarms of trailmen surrounding them put a stop to Larry's optimism. There must have been forty or fifty, men, women and a few small pale-fuzzed babies. At least a dozen of the men rushed at the net, bearing Larry and Kennard along with them. When, however, they ceased struggling, and made signs that they would walk peacefully, one of the trailmen—he had a lean furred monkeyface and green, intelligent eyes—came forward and began to unfasten the complicated knots of the snare with his prehensile competent fingers. The trailmen, however, were taking no chances on a sudden rush; they surrounded the two boys closely, ringing them round and giving them no chance to escape. Seeing for the moment that escape was impossible, Larry looked round, studying the strange world of the trail-city around him.

Between the tops of a circle of great trees, a floor had been constructed of huge hewn logs, covered over with what looked like woven rush-matting. It swayed, slightly and disconcertingly, with every movement and step; but Larry, seeing that it supported this huge shifting crowd of trailmen, realized that it must have been constructed in such a way as to support immense weights. How could so simple a people have figured out such a feat of engineering? Well, he supposed that if beavers could make dams that challenged the ingenuity of human engineers, these nonhumans could do just about the equivalent in the treetops.

A pale greenish light filtered in from the leaves overhead; by this dim light he saw a circle of huts constructed at the edges of the , flooring. A thatch of green growing leaves had been trained over their roofs, and vines covered their edges, hung with clusters of grapes so succulent and delicious that Larry realized that he was parched.

They were thrust into one of the huts; a tough grating slammed down behind them, and they were prisoners.

Prisoners of the trailmen!

Larry slumped on the floor, wearily. "Out of the frying pan into the fire," he remarked, and at Kennard's puzzled look repeated the remark in rough-hewn Darkovan. Kennard smiled wryly. "We have a similar saying: 'The game that walks from the trap to the cookpot.' "

Kennard hauled out his knife and began, tentatively to saw at the material of the vines comprising their prison. No use—the vines were green and tough, thickly knotted and twined, and resisted the knife as if they had been iron bars. After a long grimace, he put the knife away and sat staring gloomily at the moss-implanted floor of the hut.

Hours dragged by. They heard the distant shrill and twittering voices of the trailmen, birdsongs in the treetops, the strident sound of cricketlike insects. In the moss that grew on the but floor there were numerous small insects that chirped and thrust inquisitive heads up, without fear, like house pets, at the two boys.

Gradually the green-filtered light dimmed; it grew colder and darker, and finally wholly dark; the noises quieted, and around them the trail-city slept. They sat in darkness, Larry thinking with an almost anguished nostalgia of the clean quiet world of the Terran Trade City. Why had he ever wanted to leave it?

There, there would be lights and sounds, food and company, people speaking his own tongue . . .

In the darkness Kennard stirred, mumbled something unintelligible and slept again exhausted. Larry felt suddenly ashamed of his thoughts. His quest for adventure had led him here, against all warnings—and Kennard seemed likely to share whatever obscure fate was in store for them at the hands of the trailmen. By Darkovan standards he, Larry, was a man. He could at least behave like one. He found the warmest corner of the hut, hauled off his boots and his jacket, and, on an impulse, spread his jacket over the sleeping Kennard; then, curled himself up on the moss, he slept.

He slept heavily and long; when he woke, Kennard was tugging at his sleeve and the wicker-woven door was opening. It opened, however, only a little way; a wooden tray was shoved inside and the door closed again quickly. From outside they heard the bar drop into place.

It was light, and warmer. With one impulse the two boys fell on the tray. It was piled high with food; the luscious grapes they had seen growing, nuts with soft shells which Larry managed to open with the broken blade of his small knife, some soft, spongy, earthy things which smelled like excellent honey. They made a substantial meal, then put the tray down and looked at one another, neither wanting to be the first to speak of the apparent hopelessness of their position.

Larry spoke first, examining the intricate carving of the tray: "They have tools?"

"Oh, yes. Very fine flint knives—I've seen them in a museum of nonhuman artifacts in Arilinn," Kennard returned, "and some of the mountain people trade with them—give them knives and tools in return for certain things they grow: dye-stuffs, mostly, certain herbs for medicines. Nuts and fruits. That sort of thing."

"They seem to have a fairly complex culture of their own, then."

"They do. But they fear and hate men, probably because we use fire."

Larry, thinking of the forest fire—only a few days ago—could not really blame the trailmen for their fears. He examined the cup which had contained the honey. It was made of unfired clay, sun-baked and rough. What else could a culture do without fire?

There were still some fruits and nuts remaining on the tray, so abundant had been the meal. He said, "I hope they're not fattening us up for their Sunday dinner."

Kennard laughed faintly. "No. They don't even eat animals. They're completely vegetarian as far as I ever heard."

Larry exploded, "Then what the mischief do they want with us?"

Kennard shrugged. "I don't know—and I'm damned if I know how to ask them!"

Larry was silent, thinking that over. Then: "Aren't you a telepath?"

"Not a good one. Anyway, telepathy transmits worded thoughts, as a rule—and emotions. Two telepaths who don't speak the same language have such different concepts that it's almost impossible to read one another's minds. And trying to read the mind of a non-human—well, a highly skilled Hastur-lord, or a leronis (a sorceress like the one you saw at the fire) might be able to manage it. I couldn't even try it."

So that, it seemed, was that.

The day dragged by. No one came near them. At evening, another tray piled high with fruit, nuts and mushrooms was slid into their prison, and the old one deftly extracted. Still a third day came and went, with neither of the boys able to imagine a way to get out of their predicament. Their jailer entered their hut, now to give them food and take away their empty dishes. He was a large and powerful creature—for a trailman—but walked with a limp. He seemed friendly but wary. Kennard and Larry discussed the possibility of overpowering the creature and making their escape, but that would only land them in the trailmen's city—with, perhaps, hundreds of miles of trailmen's forest country to be traversed. So they contented themselves with discussing plan after futile plan. None of them seemed even remotely feasible.

It seemed, by the growing light, to be noon of the fourth day when the door of their prison opened and three trailmen entered, escorting a fourth who seemed, from their air of deference, to be a person of some importance among them. Like the others, he was naked save for the belt of leaves about his waist, but he wore a string of clay beads mingled with crimson berries, and had an air of indefinable dignity which made Larry, for some reason, think of Lorill Hastur.

He bowed slightly and remarked in perfectly understandable, though somewhat shrill Darkovan dialect: "Good morning. I trust you are comfortable and that you have not been harmed?"

Both boys leaped to their feet as if electrified. He spoke an understandable tongue! The guards surrounding the trailman personage put their hands to their flint knives, but seeing that neither boy made a move toward the man, stood back.

Kennard shouted, "Comfortable be damned! What the mischief do you mean by keeping us here anyhow!"

The trailmen murmured, twittering, in shock and dismay, and the Personage spun on his heel in obvious offense; Kennard instantly changed his tactics. He bowed deeply.

"Forgive me. I"—he looked wildly at Larry—"I spoke in haste. We—"

Larry said, speaking the same dialect, "We have been well fed and kept out of the rain, if that is what you mean, sir." The word he used would also have been translated "Your honor." "But would your very high honor condescend to explain to us why we are being taken from our road and put in this exceptionally damp and confining place at all?"

The trailman's face was stern. He said, "Your people burn down the woods with the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods. Animals die. Trees perish. You were being watched and when you built the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods, we seized you."

"Then will you let us go again?" Kennard asked.

The trailman slowly made a negative gesture. "We have one protection, and only one, against the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods. Whenever your people come into the country of the People of the Sky, they never leave it again. So that your people will fear coming into our world, and there will be no fear of the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods destroying more of our cities."

Kennard, with a furious gesture, rolled back his sleeves. There were still crimson burn scars on them. "Listen, you—" he began; and with an effort, amended, "Hear me, your—your High Muchness. Just a few days ago, I and my family and my friends spent many, many days putting out a fire. It is not my kind of people who burn down woods. We are—we are running away from the evil kind of people who set fires to burn down woods."

"Then why were you building a—you call it fire?"

"To cook our food."

The trailman's face was severe. "And your kind of—of man"—the word was one of inexpressible contempt on his lips—"eats of our brothers-that-have-life!"

"Ways differ and customs differ," said Kennard doggedly, "but we will not burn down your woods. We will even promise not to build a fire while we are in your woods, if You will let us go."

"You are of the fire-making kind. We will not let you go. I have spoken."

He turned on his heel and walked out. Behind him, his guards stalked out, and the bolt fell into place.

"And that," said Kennard, "is very much that."

He sat down, chin in hands, and stared grimly into space.

Larry was also feeling despair. Obviously the trailmen would not harm them. Equally obviously, however, they seemed likely to be sitting here in this prison—well fed, well housed, but caged like alien horrid animals—until hell froze over, as far as the Personage was concerned.

He found himself thinking in terms of the trailmen's way of life. If you depended on the woods for very life, fire was your worst fear—and evidently, to them, fire was a wild thing that could never be controlled. He remembered their triumphant dance of joy when they had managed to put out Kennard's little cookfire.

He said thoughtfully, "You still have your flint and tinder, don't you?"

Kennard caught him up instantly. "Right! We can burn our way out with torches, and no one will dare to come near us."

Suddenly his face fell. "No. There is a danger that their city might catch fire. We would be wiping out a whole village of perfectly harmless creatures."

And Larry followed his thought. Better to sit here in prison indefinitely—after all, they were being well fed and kindly treated—than risk exterminating a whole village of these absolutely harmless little people. People who would not even kill a rabbit for food. Sooner or later they would find a way out. Until then, they would not risk harming the trailmen, who had not harmed them.

They were interrupted by the entry of their guard limping heavily, carrying a tray of their food—the nuts, the honey, and what looked like birds' eggs. Larry made a face—raw eggs? Well, he supposed they were a treat to the trailmen, and they were at least giving their prisoner-guests of their best. But a boiled egg would be a pleasant enough meal.

Kennard was asking the trailman, by signs, how he had hurt his leg. The trailman sprang into a crouch, his head laid into a feral gesture; he actually looked like the great carnivore he was imitating. He made a brutal clawing gesture; he fell to the mossy floor of the hut, doubled up, imitating great pain; then displayed the cruelly festering wound. Larry turned sick at the sight of it; the thigh was swollen to nearly twice its size, and greenish pus was oozing from the wound. The trailman made a stoical shrug, pointed to his flint knife, gestured, struggled like a man being held down, hopped like a man with one leg, folded his hands, closed his eyes, held his breath like a man dead.

He picked up the tray and hobbled out.

Kennard, his face twisting, shook his head. "I suppose you got all that? He means they'll have to cut his leg off soon or he will die."

"And it's so damned unnecessary!" Larry said violently. "All it needs is lancing and antibiotics, and a little sterile care—" Suddenly, he started.

"Kennard! That pot they brought the honey in, do you still have it?"

"Yes."

"I'm no good at making a fire with flint and tinder. But can you make one? A very small one in the pot? Enough, say, to sterilize a knife? To heat water very hot?"

"What do you—"

"I have an idea," Larry said between his teeth, "and it just might work." He pulled his medical kit from his pocket. "I have some antiseptic powder, and antibiotics. Not much. But probably enough, considering that the fellow must have the constitution of—of one of these trees, to live through a clawing like that and still be walking around at all."

"Larry, if we kindle a fire they will probably kill us."

"So we keep it in the pot, covered. The old fellow looks intelligent—the one who spoke Darkovan. If we show him that it can't possibly get out of a clay pot—"

Kennard caught his thought. "Zandru's hells, it just might work, Larry! But, Gods above, are you then apprenticed to be a curer-of-wounds among your people, like my Cousin Dyan Ardais?"

"No. This knowledge is as common with the boys of my people as—" he sought wildly for a simile, and Kennard, following his thought as usual supplied one: "As the knowledge of sword-play among mine?"

Larry nodded. He took over then, giving instructions: "If the chap yells, we'll be swamped, and never have a chance to finish. So you and I will jump him and keep him from getting one squeak out. Then you sit on him while I fix up his leg. We'll get just one chance to keep him from yelling—so don't muff it!"

By evening their preparations were made. The light was poor, and Larry fretted; though the light from the fire-pot helped a little. They waited, breathless. Had their jailer been changed, had he died of his terrible wound? No, after a time they heard his characteristic halting step. The door opened.

He saw the pot and the fire. He opened his mouth to scream.

But the scream never got out. Kennard's arm was across his throat, and a crude, improvised gag of a strip torn from Larry's shirt-tail was stuffed into his mouth. Larry felt slightly sick. He knew what must be done, but had never done anything even remotely like it before. He held the knife in the fire until it glowed red-hot, then let it cool somewhat, and, setting his teeth, made a long gash in the swollen, festering leg.

There was an immediate gush of greenish stinking matter from the wound. Larry sponged it away. It seemed there was no end to the stuff that oozed from the wound, and it was a sickening business, but finally the stuff was tinged with blood and he could see clean flesh below.

He sponged it repeatedly with the hot water heated in the second pot; when it was as clean as he could make it, he sprinkled the antibiotic powder into the wound, covered it with the cleanest piece of cloth he had—a fragment of bandage remaining in the medical kit—and took the gag from the man's mouth.

The man had long since ceased to struggle. He lay blinking in stuporous surprise, looking down at his leg, which now had only a clean gash. Suddenly he rose bowed half a dozen times profoundly to the boys, and backed out of the room.

Larry slumped on the floor, exhausted. He wondered suddenly if what he had done had really endangered their lives. The trailmen's customs were so different from theirs, there was really no way of telling; they might consider this just as evil as killing a rabbit.

After a while, at Kennard's urging, he sat up and ate some supper. He needed it—even if he had the feeling that he might be eating his last meal. They fed the small fire with fragments of vine from the dead leaves, and toasted their mushrooms over it. For a while they felt almost festive. Much later, they heard steps, and looked at one another, with no need for words.

This is it. Life or death?

Kennard said nothing, but reached silently for Larry's hand; he clasped it and the clasp slid up Larry's elbow until their arms were enlaced as well as their hands. Unfamiliar as the gesture was, Larry knew it was a sign not alone of friendship but of affection and tenderness. He felt faintly embarrassed, but he said, in a low voice, "If it's bad news—I'm sorry as hell I got you into this—but it's been damn nice knowing you."

An instant before the door opened, Larry saw it, a clear flash of awareness; the sight of the trailman chief, and his face was grave, but he was alone, and unweaponed. It was not, at any rate, instant death.

The trailman said, "I have seen what you did for Rhhomi. I cannot believe that you are evil men. Yet you are of the kind who make fire." With a sort of grave dignity, he seated himself. "None is so young he cannot teach, or so old he cannot learn. Am I to learn from you, strange men?"

Kennard said swiftly, "We have told you already that we have no will to harm even the least of your people or creatures, Honorable One."

"Yes." But it was at Larry that the trailman chief looked. He said, irrelevantly, it seemed, "Among my folk, my title is Old One, and what is age if not wisdom? Have you wisdom for me, son of a strange land?"

Larry reached behind him for the honey pot, containing still a few glowing embers of fire. The Old One shrank, but controlled himself with an effort. Larry tried to speak his simplest Darkovan; after all, the language was strange to both himself and this alien creature.

"It is harmless here," he said, searching for words. "See, the walls of your clay pot keep it harmless so that it cannot burn. If you feed it with—with dead twigs and little bits of dead, dry wood, it will serve you and not hurt you."

The Old One reached out, evidently conquering an ingrained shrinking, and touched the pot. He said, "Then it can be servant and not master? And a knife made clean in this fire will heal?"

"Yes," said Larry, bypassing the whole of germ theory, "or a wound washed with water made very hot will heal better than a dirty wound."

The Old One rose, bearing the firepot in his hands. He said, gravely, "For this gift, then, of healing, my people thank you. And as a sign of this, be under our protection within our woods. Wear this"—and he extended two garlands of yellow flowers—"and none of our people will harm you. But build no red-flames-to-eat-our-woods within the limits of these branches."

Larry, sensing that the Old One spoke to him, said gravely, "You have my pledge."

The Old One threw open the door of the hut.

"Be free to go."

Awkwardly they settled the crowns of yellow flowers over their heads. The trailmen surged backward as the Old One came forth, bearing in his hands the pot of fire. He said ceremoniously, handing it to a woman, "I place this thing in your hands. You and your daughters and the daughters of your daughters are to feed it and bear responsibility that it does not escape."

The scene had a grave solemnity that made Larry, for some reason—perhaps only relief—want to giggle. But he kept his gravity while they were escorted to the edge of the trailmen's village, shown a long ladder down which they could climb, and finally, with infinite relief, set foot again on the green and solid ground.