"Not natural," said Dumarest. "They should have been alert. Guards would have given the alarm. Have you a raft in the vicinity?"

"Yes."

"I assume it has flares. They must remain aloft, drop flares, and see what they can. If the detachment appears to have been attacked, they must wait until daylight before landing. If not, let them land, take as many men aboard as they can, and throw a line directly north of the village-about ten miles north." In the glow of a light, Dumarest studied a map. "That is in a direct line to the hills."

"You hope to catch who did it?"

"If possible, yes."

"Should I send in more men? Withdraw detachments from the villages?"

"No. The damage has been done now. There's no point in leaving other villages undefended. Just send out a general red alert to all forces and have them keep a man on constant radio watch. I want a running commentary, and if anything should happen, let me know at once."

"I hope you get them," said Paran. "By God, I really hope that. Susal was born in Verital."

And perhaps his son would die there. Time alone would tell.

Lights marked the rendezvous, bright points drifting against the fading stars, rimming the outlines of the rafts which waited high in the sky. Below, it was totally dark, the massed lofios plants seeming to absorb all light, so that the ground was an infinity of distance, a trick of perspective which vanished as one of the rafts dropped a flare.

Dumarest watched it fall, to burst into eye-bright luminescence, leaves springing into life beneath the glare, betraying their presence if the riding lights hadn't done it already. Another followed it, a third, as excited men searched for anticipated prey. From one of the rafts a laser sent a ruby beam to impact on a plant, fire rising, edged with smoke, from the tip of a frond.

"Stop that!" Dumarest shouted above the rising babble from the rafts. "Cease all fire! No more flares. Fall into line and remain silent!"

"I saw one!" The voice was young, hysterical. "I saw one of the devils. There!"

Again the laser fired, fresh flame rising from another plant, this time far to the left.

"He's right!" Another voice, equally young, just as high. "There! See!"

He owned a rifle, and echoes rolled as he fired, amplified by the lofios, increased as others joined in. Within seconds the body of the raft was a mass of winking points and ruby beams as men leaned over the edge shooting at imagined shapes on the ground.

To Fran Paran Dumarest snapped, "Get the number of that raft. I want the name of every man in it. The officers too. The damned fools should be able to maintain order better than this."

"They're volunteers, sir," said the lieutenant. "A group from one of the villages."

"It makes no difference. Establish contact and order them to stay well clear. Have them patrol to the east- and don't forget to record those names." To the pilot Dumarest said, "Head for the village. Fast."

Already they had lost the element of surprise and given any waiting enemy the choice of retreat or setting up an ambush. If the enemy were still at the village, it had taken time to cover distance. As the raft swept forward, it dropped until it was almost brushing the plants beneath. They vanished, edging a clearing, a barely visible cluster of houses, limp figures lying in the streets. "Flares," ordered Dumarest.

He turned as they fell, looking at the scene clearly revealed, every detail painted in the stark, white glare. Beside him a man was suddenly sick, vomiting over the edge of the raft.

Another cursed with monotonous repetition. "God, look at it! God, look at it!"

Dumarest said, "Contact the other raft. Have them remain aloft and drop flares as needed. We shall land at the northern edge of the village. Two men to stay with the raft, four others to spread in line facing north. Fire at anything that comes toward you. Remember that, toward you. Lieutenant, you are in charge. The rest follow me. Open order, and no firing unless I give the order." He added grimly, "I'll kill any man who disobeys."

* * *

Once, on a distant world, he had seen an ancient painting in a dusty museum depicting, so the curator had said, an impression of hell. It had been a scene of torment, bodies lying, disfigured, faces contorted, blood and devastation all around. The artist could have taken Verital for his model.

Dumarest studied it from where he crouched behind the cover of a building. The wide main street was a shambles. The air reeked of blood. A man sprawled, stomach slashed open, intestines in a blue-red mass of coils, a rifle frozen in his hand. Close by, a woman, knife in hand, showed a hole between her eyes, the back of her head a soggy mass rimmed with lank hair. Two others lay in a carmine pool, hacked to bloody fragments. A child lacked limbs, another had been seared to crackling, a third, a baby, lay with a crushed skull beneath a red smear on the corner of a building. And there were others. Too many others.

From one side a man said sickly, "The bloody swine! Savages! Only animals could have done a thing like this!"

Another said, "Let's get them!"

He rose from where he had been crouching, rifle in hands, almost staggering as he moved down the street. Dumarest watched him go, willing to accept the proffered bait. If any enemy should still be in the village, the easy target might draw his fire.

The man was lucky; none came. Dumarest waited, then moved from behind his cover.

"Search," he ordered. "House to house. Be careful."

He kicked open the door of the building behind which he had crouched. The interior was dark. Cautiously he felt along the wall, found a switch, turned it. No light came, and he crept forward, tense, nostrils flaring with remembered smells. His foot hit something soft, and he jumped back, eyes narrowed, cursing the darkness. The window was shuttered, and he threw them wide, light from the flares illuminating the room.

A woman stared at him with wide, dead eyes. The ax in her hand was stained, her hand, the entire arm to the shoulder. The man beside her lay face-down, the back of his head crushed and oozing brains. Dumarest stooped over the woman. She was young, nubile, her body firm. The blood coating her was not her own, and as far as he could see, she was uninjured.

Uninjured, but dead, her flesh barely cool.

Upstairs a baby lay in a cot. Dumarest took one glance and turned away. A pet, a small animal, lay against the wall, fur matted with blood, fangs bared in a final defiance. The claws held strips of skin and particles of flesh. The rest of the house was empty.

Back in the street, he called for three men and went in search of the power supply. It was housed at the far end of the village, a compact atomic pile together with generators and rectifiers. In it someone had run berserk, chopping wires, hacking at cables, paying the price in released energy, which had seared him to a crisp. Motes of soot hung in the air, which stank of char.

One of the men said, "Hell, we'll never be able to fix this in a hurry."

"How long?"

"At least three hours, sir. It will be dawn by then."

Dumarest nodded, arriving at a decision. "Get back into the street. Find something to make a fire, several if you can. Get the doors and windows open. If there is anyone still alive, I want to be informed at once. Move!"

As they emerged into the street, a man came running toward him. He halted, saluted, said, "Report from the lieutenant, sir. The raft above is almost out of flares. Your orders?"

"I'll give them personally. You help these men." At the raft Dumarest snapped, "Tell them to ride high, drop what flares they have left, then land to take on those we are carrying. Where is the other raft, the one sent to the east?"

The lieutenant shrugged. "Still there, as far as I know, sir. I can't establish contact."