"I don't think he's right about that," the Hunter remarked to Bob as they started out the causeway. "You're not going to be able to carry luggage, and that's going to have to be explained to your father, at least."

But at first it seemed that no immediate explanation would be necessary, and the Hunter began to hope. Arthur Kinnaird insisted on his son's staying in the jeep while he made two trips down to the float. If Bob had been paying close attention to what he brought up, the explanation might have been put off until the next day: he did not need the footlocker that remained on the float, and if they had driven straight home after hi3 father's first two trips, Bob would have had just enough strength to get inside the house. But his father made a third trip down to the float. He found, besides the footlocker, only the book crates which were obviously too large to attempt. He put his hand into one of the straps at the end, and gave an exclamation of pain. "Bob! Bring the flash-light down here, will you?"

The trip down the plank had to be made carefully, but Bob was still on his feet when they reached the bottom.

"What's the matter, Dad?" he asked. The elder Kinnaird removed his hand from his mouth long enough to answer.

"Cut myself on something under that locker handle. Take a look, will you?" He bent over to look himself as his son directed the flashlight beam to the indicated Spot. The source of the cut was obvious enough. "I didn't think we had anyone like that on the island,"

Arthur Kinnaird remarked. "Could it have happened anywhere else along the way?" The lid of the this metal box had been pried roughly outward, and the stretched part of it's edge had torn to form a jagged V-shaped notch, its two corners projecting Just above the loop of leather which formed the handle.

"I'm not a professional baggage thief, but that seems a silly way to go about it," replied his son. "You'd think anyone wanting to get at the contents would work on the latch or the hinges."

"What's in it?"

"Don't remember exactly, but nothing extra valuable. Mostly clothes, maybe some of the books for the library, though they're mostly in the big cases. I'd have to check to be sure. I accumulated a lot of junk while I was away, and I couldn't bear to throw much of it out, with PFI paying the freight home. Are you hurt much?”

"I'll live. Too bad you hadn't been working on carrying the footlocker. I suppose your friendly, lump of green jelly is still with you-sorry I didn't say hello to you, Hunter, but you aren't that obvious."

"Yes, he's here still. If your cut's bad enough, we can-"

"It's not that serious. We can leave this thing here, for now, since you don't think it has anything important. Let's try to get home before the ladies."

Bob hesitated; he was very near the limit.

"I'm not sure I can get myself up the gangway again," he admitted at last, knowing that now he could not put off explaining his weakness.

"Humph. Your sister said you looked bushed. Was the trip that bad?"

"Even Silly noticed it? We were hoping she wouldn't. No, it wasn't the trip. It's more complicated, and I'm sure we're going to have to get Doc Seever in on it."

"You've been hurt? Something the Hunter couldn't fix, or hasn't had time to fix?"

"Not hurt. There hasn't been any accident. It's been coming on for a long time. I'll tell you and Mom about it after Silly's in bed; it'd be too much trying to make her understand-or have you told her about the Hunter?"

"Decidedly not. Come on; let's get you back to the car. Do you mean you have some kind of disease that the Hunter can't handle?"

"On the contrary, you might say. Sorry to put it so bluntly, little friend, but-Dad, the Hunter has caused the trouble. What he or we or anyone can do is a wide-open question."

No more words were spoken the rest of the way up the plank.

In spite of what had happened at the dock, the jeep reached the Kinnaird home very shortly behind the bicycles. The few minutes rest as they drove restored Bob enough to let him get into the house without assistance, though the luggage stayed in the car for the moment.

The suitcase Daphne had carried was of course inside; her mother had yielded to the pressure, and carried it home on her own bicycle. The child promptly dragged it over to the couch on which her brother had thankfully collapsed.

She wanted it opened at once, of course, and the resulting activities filled the time until food was served. Every minute of rest that Bob could get was good, of course and it was fortunate that Daphne was content to let him stay on the couch and hand out presents- very much plural, to the little girl's delight-which made up most of the contents of the suitcase.

The Hunter was getting quite impatient by the time she was sent to bed. Mrs. Kinnaird was perfectly aware that something was wrong by this time, though her husband had spoken only a word or two to her after his arrival; she, too, wanted to hear the details. Eventually, protesting but not really resentful, Daphne was dismissed upstairs to what had formerly been her brother's room. Fortunately, since he could certainly not have handled stairs too many times a day, Bob was to sleep in a wing which his father had built at the back of the house during the past year-largely a matter of luck, since he certainly had not foreseen his son's troubles.

Eventually the child was quiet, and the rest of the family was able to get down to business. Bob had long ago planned what he should say. The Hunter knew that he wouldn't enjoy listening, since the words could not possibly make him look very good, but was mature enough to face the situation. It was the mother who opened the conversation, after a final trip upstairs to make sure the child was asleep.

"You're not just tired, are you, Bob? There's something more serious."

"I'm afraid so, Mom," was the answer. "I don't know just how serious-it might drag on for a long time, but it wouldn't be very smart to count on that.

This actually started before I was home two years ago. It wasn't very bad then, and it didn't seem a good idea to worry either you or Doc Seever with it, but it's been getting worse ever since, and something really has to be done now."

"Does the Hunter have a reliable prognosis? I mean, has he encountered this sort of thing before?" Bob's father cut in.

"Not personally, he says. He's heard about it historically; when his species meets a new type of host it wouldn't have happened now if he were a doctor instead of a detective. Let me give it to you. From the beginning." Both his parents nodded their approval.

"You both know what the Hunter and his people are like-about four pounds of something vaguely like human protoplasm, but made of molecule-sized units instead of the relatively huge, cells of our tissue. His people can live independently, at least on their own planet, but normally exist inside the body of a larger creature in a state of symbiosis. The Hunter has been doing that with me for years, sharing the food I eat, seeing through my eyes, hearing with my ears, and paying for his keep by destroying invading germs, stopping blood loss from cuts, and so on. Also, he's a personal friend, though not as close as we might be on his home world; we don't have the facilities here which would let him live a normal life, and we don't have very similar interests. He's a detective, and his partner at home was also a police official; he went through my chemical and other courses in college with me, but didn't enjoy them as much as I did. On his world, partners don't join up until they've known each other for a long time. Here, he didn't have much choice.

"His people have had contact, since they've developed space travel, with other more or less humanlike races, and have been able to carry on the same sort of life-sharing with these. It's not so routine, though. No two planets, as far as their experience goes, seem to produce fife with identical chemistry, and a lot has to be learned before the symbiosis really goes smoothly.