_I don't like it_.

_I know that. Have you a better idea?_

_No_.

They continued on for the better part of an hour, achieving higher ground and emerging from the storm into a warmer, somewhat clearer place, more level in character, though still rifted, still dotted with boulders. Dark shapes occasionally passed overhead, emitting high-pitched, trilling notes. The wind continued to blow steadily from out of the west.

Morwin removed his poncho, folded it, rolled it, hung it from his belt. He withdrew a handkerchief and began to wipe his face.

_There is someone up ahead_, Shind told him.

_Our man?_

_Quite possibly_.

He loosened his pistol in its holster.

_"Possibly"?_ he said. _You're the telepath. Read his mind_.

_It is not that simple. People do not generally walk about concentrating on their identities--and I have never met the man_.

_I was under the impression you could do better than just pick up surface thoughts_.

_You know that I can. You are also aware that many factors are involved. He is still a good distance away, and his mind is troubled_.

_What is bothering him?_

_He feels that he is being pursued_.

_If he is von Hymack, he is correct. I wonder how he knows it, though?_

_This not at all clear. He is in an abnormal state of mind. Extreme paranoia, I would say--and an obsession with death, disease_.

_Understandable, of course_.

_Not to me, not completely. He seems aware of what he is doing, and he seems to delight in it. There is a sense of divine mission about it. Finally, he seems somewhat dazed. Yes, this is our man_.

_With a string of defense mechanisms_.

_Possibly, possibly_ ...

_How far ahead is he?_

_About half a mile_.

Morwin moved forward, hurrying now, eyes straining against the gloom.

_I have just been in contact with the Commander. He thought his instruments had detected someone, but it was apparently only an animal. I lied to him about our own situation_.

_Good. What is H doing now?_

_He is singing. His mind is filled with it. A Pei'an thing_.

_Strange_.

__He_ is strange. I would have sworn that for a moment he was aware of my presence in his mind. Then this feeling vanished_.

Morwin increased his pace.

_I want to get this over with_, he said.

_Yes_.

They pressed ahead, almost running now.

Francis Sandow sighed. The _rnartlind_--out of sight, though still within reach of his mind--continued on at the sluggish pace that had carried it directly past Malacar and Jackara. As this occurred, he had retreated to a point near a powerpull, moving out of range of the other's detection gear. A quick mental probe showed him that Malacar had sighed also, accepting the beast's presence in place of himself.

Should have been more careful, he reflected. No excuse for a blunder like that. I get too cocky on my own worlds. And this calls for some small subtlety, not just force. Got to baffle that gear of his ... There!

Moving swiftly, he again regarded the thoughts of Malacar, and of Jackara ...

Bitter, so bitter he has become, he reflected. The girl hates too, but with her it is such a childlike thing. Would either of them really go through with it, I wonder, if they realized fully what the results would be? He cannot have lost his sense of process to that extent, so that he envisages only the deaths and not the dying. If he had come a greater distance on foot, had seen the results of von Hymack's passing--I wonder? Would he still feel as he does?, He has changed, though, even in that short while since I met him on Deiba--and he was not exactly soft and reasonable that day.

It was then that the prickling sensation began within Malacar's mind, and Sandow dropped his own toward inertia, realizing that he could not withdraw undetected. He did not even curse, for there must be no emotion, no telltale reverberation of feeling. It must be as if he did not exist. No reaction, no response, whatever transpired. Even then ...

Peculiar sensation. Two telepaths regarding the same subject at the same time. One hiding from the other . .

Sandow passively noted an exchange between Shind and Malacar, learning in an instant their aims, their progress, reacting not at all. When the exchange had terminated, his mind moved once more, withdrawing, assessing. He brushed lightly against Jackara's mind, then shied away, almost stung by Shind's presence there now.

He withdrew another cigar, lit it.

Complicated, damn it! he decided. Searchers to the left, still far off, but moving this way. Malacar to the right. Shind liable to pick me up at any time if I am not careful. And somewhere up ahead, probably, my man ...

He began to move, slowly, then, paralleling Malacar and Jackara, out of reach of the man-sniffer, brushing lightly against the fringes of their minds, alternately, at half-minute intervals, beginning with Malacar, walking westward.

Let them find him and then take him away from them? he wondered. But they might not... Then ... No--

And then his questions became unnecessary.

Moving at a rapid pace, Morwin stumbled when he attempted an abrupt halt. He had mounted a rocky ridge somewhat in advance of Shind, and through the half-lit, eddying haze he had seen the man, thin, dark, staff in hand, standing unmoving, looking back. There was no doubt in his mind as to his identity, and he felt himself taken by confusion at this sudden presence. Recovering, he found that Shind was once more in his mind.

_That is our man! I am certain! But something is wrong. He is aware! He_--

Then Morwin clutched at his head, dropped back to his knees.

He had never heard a mental scream before.

_Shind! Shind! What is happening?_

_I-- I-- She's got me! Here_--

His mind swirling like the mists, there came a sudden series of superimpositions of images and colors, rising and mixing with a clarity and vividness which destroyed his ability to distinguish between that which was externally objective and that which was not. A changing blueness came to overlay everything, and in its midst a myriad of blue women danced, wildly, kaleidoscopically; and as he realized--for no rational reason--that their plurality was but some symbolic illusion, they began to collapse, coalesce, merge, fall in upon themselves, growing more and more stately, compelling, potent. It was then that he felt himself the subject of scrutiny on the part of the swaying women. And they resolved themselves into two: one, tall and soft and lovely, a madonnalike tower of compassion; the other, like yet unlike her in appearance, possessed of an aspect he could only consider menacing. Then these two merged, the countenance and mien of the latter growing dominant. Amid blue lightnings she stared with unblinking, perhaps lidless, eyes that stripped him in an instant of his flesh, his mind, that terrified him with their primal, irrational intensity.

"Shind!" he cried, and he had the gun in his hand, firing.

A wave of something like laughter washed over him.

Then, _She is using me!_ Shind seemed to be saying. _I-- Help me!_

The empty weapon slipped from his fingers. He felt himself in the midst of a dream, a cosmic nightmare. Moving without motion, thinking without thought, his mind twisted reflexively then and, as in all his workings with the stuff of dream, he seized the image and exerted his will. Driven this time by a terror that flashed like fire through the rooms of his existence, he found himself wielding a force he had never before possessed, striking out with it against the mocking woman-thing.

Her expression altered, all traces of amusement vanishing. Her figure dwindled, grew distorted, faded and returned, faded and returned. With each dimming he glimpsed the man, lying now upon the ground.