"Come—" The mind voice was a frail shadow of itself. He could feel the waver in it, believe that the one who called was failing with the plea.

There came a silence which made Farree shiver in spite of his fight for control. Such a silence could perhaps fall when death came. Was the prisoner dead? His hands curled about branches in a grip which broke twigs, sent their sharp ends digging into his flesh.

The guards who had been on duty below separated and two of those by the flitter joined them. They fanned out—two going west, weapons at hand, and the next two coming toward his hiding place on the east.

That mass of brush behind which he had taken refuge was separated from any other chance at cover. And he was without any concrete form of defense. To take to the air should make him fully visible, and Farree was well aware that the off-worlders might well have very sophisticated tracking devices. He could already be within a trap, but he had not fallen into their hands as yet.

One thing to do was to blank out all mind send. Once before he had come up against enemies who were well protected by artificial thought dampeners which protected them, yet also left them well aware that there was someone near at hand to be reckoned with.

Farree began a slow crawl to the right. The hunters were coming at a very deliberate pace. Now and then both men halted for a moment or two near some thick growth of vegetation. Then both would bring left wrists in at waist level to stare down at something they wore. He wondered if perhaps they were even seeking underground for the source of the alarm. Underground—were those who had seized him also busy hereabouts, either building traps or spying?

He was at the inner edge of the bushes now, crawling on a parallel path which he hoped would eventually slope upward so he might reach the foot of the cliffs. The high stand of the vegetation would, he hoped, provide him with a screen.

He was trying, so far vainly, to plan what must be his next move after he did gain the bare earth beneath the cliff. Then, without warning, darkness snapped about him. That beacon of sky-pointing light was abruptly cut. There was a long moment or two and Farree desperately took advantage of that.

He leaped into the air with a wild beat of wings, climbing up and up. Not a moment too soon, for a smaller shaft of light now shot from the nose of the downed ship, not vertically this time but rather horizontally, flicking through a rapid circling of the camp site.

He rose above it until the camp below was small enough to be covered with the palm of one hand. This was his chance—to get back to the cliffs, out of a trap which apparently had its limits after all. Yet even as he turned west, there came the knowledge that the force which had brought him here might have relaxed, but it was not totally gone. Below him the light was now not only making a circle but reached skyward in fast jumps. He was barely able to avoid one. It was plain that even as the guards had appeared to fear something under the earth's surface, they also watched for what might come from above, out of the air.

Farree threw himself toward the cliff crest, but it was as if he tried to fly with wings beating through a viscous flood; it was difficult to keep airborne at all. He fought both for altitude and then more speed. So far he had been very lucky that he had not been caught by the wandering beam, though it seemed to be focused lower than he sought to fly. Farree was nearly to the cliff edge when there were other movements in the air. Birds—? The dragonlike creature which had once herded him back to the ship?

The light stopped suddenly, then flashed, and caught in its glare the edge of what could only be a wing as large as those he wore—only it was black, and it was gone in an instant.

Farree tried to soar higher, sure that the light would be back. Yes, the sweep was already returning! Now it was one of his own wings that was revealed, and by more than just its tip. As he climbed out of that edge of beam, the light flashed up to transfix him.

A downward drag seized him, which he could not break. He was coming down too fast, having no control any longer.

Farree could only hope that he would not smash against the wall of rock which the cliff offered. A last beat of wings, a mighty effort on his part, and he reached the cliff, managing to make a forceful landing on a spur of the rock, scraping his body painfully against that ungivmg substance as he struck. But he had a hold, in spite of the pain in his hands, and he scrambled up a little, coining onto a fraction of ledge where he just managed to turn, pushing his wings back and apart to give him the most room possible.

He had freedom only until those men he could hear now shouting one to another, reached him. The light was centered on him, to keep him where he was, while the brilliance of it made him blind.

There was a sudden flicker of the light: something had swung between him and its source. Wings again—dark wings—invisible in the night—then something else flew through the air. At first he thought something had been cast at him, but it was jammed into a crack beyond his reach. He saw a rod which quivered from the force of its strike.

Farree crept along the ledge. The beacon no longer pinned him so tightly, for it was swinging back and forth again, striving, he was sure, to pick up that other winged one. As far as those below could see it might be that they thought him safely at their mercy, and they were now endeavoring to bring down a second captive.

Farree reached out, swinging his arm and hand as far as he dared extend his body. Those groping fingers closed to meet around the rod, which still moved a little. Exerting what strength he could, Farree deliberately added to that quiver, fighting to pull the shaft free from the crevice. At first he thought he had no chance, then it yielded so suddenly that he was nearly tumbled off his perch.

What he held was a hollow rod almost the length of his body. For all its size it was light of weight. The beacon had not caught his move to free it—instead it had risen yet higher, sweeping along the edge of the cliff, once more catching part of a wing which was as quickly gone.

Farree ran the rod through his hands. It was smooth for most of its length, but at one end there were protrusions like buttons—four of them. He had a strong guess that this might be a weapon of sorts but it was totally strange to him. Huddling as far back on his foothold as he could, Farree shifted the rod from one hand to another. There was no cutting blade which he could discover, nor was it either a stunner or a tangler. A simple staff of defense, he believed, one which would be less than nothing when used against such weapons as those the hunters below carried.

The light was swinging back and forth at a high rate of speed. Then a flash of brilliant red cut the air. Though he had not seen any trace of wings again, some one of the men must have fired a laser. However, that single burst of lethal flame, for Farree was sure by the depth of color it had been on kill strength, was not followed by another.

All at once he uttered a small yelp. The light had not turned but, out of nowhere, there had sprung a force which beat upon him, shoving him hard against the rock, making him entirely unable to move. That held for only a few breaths—breaths which his lungs labored to draw in and exhale. Then it was gone. Farree guessed that whatever it might have been must be being used methodically against the cliff, striving to catch and hold the unseen flyer.

He fought to see. There were small lights below now. These spread out along the cliff side. Like the beacon they swept back and forth, also up and down. Twice they flicked over him but did not linger. He was judged, he thought, a core of anger starting to glow within him, to be safely pinned—they were intent now on locating possible other quarry.