Suddenly Jonnie swept the glasses back to the breathe-gas dump. Aside from a half-dozen trodden paths the place was surrounded by tall weeds and grass, and the undergrowth and ground cover stretched out to the horizon.

He brought the glasses back to the breathe-gas dump.

Suddenly, with a surge of hope, he knew he had his uranium detector.

Breathe-gas!

A small bottle of it would let out through its regulator the minute quantities required for masks.

If one let a little breathe-gas escape in the vicinity of radiation, it would make a small explosion.

A Geiger counter reacted when the radiation activated gas in a tube, or so the old books told him. Well, breathe-gas didn't just react: it exploded violently.

Dangerous sort of instrument perhaps. But with care it just might work.

Jonnie snaked back off the knoll.

Twenty minutes later, at the base, he was saying to the council: “A Chief mustn't go on a scout. Right?”

“Aye,” they all agreed, glad he had gotten the point at last.

“But he can go on a raid,” said Jonnie. They became stiffly alert.

“I may have solved the uranium detector problem,” said Jonnie. “Tomorrow night, we are going on a raid!”

Jonnie crept toward the plateau near the cage. The moon had set; the night was dark. The sounds of distant wolves mingled with the moan of the icy wind. He heard above it the click of equipment as the sentry moved.

Things had definitely not gone well tonight. The first plan had been aborted, making for last-minute changes. All afternoon a mixed herd of buffalo and wild cattle had been ideally located on the plain.

It was said that when a winter was going to be a very bad one, buffalo drifted down from the vastnesses of the north. Or perhaps it was a sort of migration to the south that would happen anyway. The wolves, long and gray, a different kind of wolf, came with them.

The wolves were still out there but the buffalo and cattle were not. The plan had been to stampede the mixed herd across the compound and create a diversion. It happened now and then and would not be suspicious. But just as the raid was about to be launched, the herd had taken it into their heads to trot eastward and were now too far away to be of any use. It was a bad omen. It meant hastily changed plans and a raid with no diversion. Dangerous.

Twenty Scots were scattered out there on the plain, among them Dunneldeen. They were caped and hooded– as was Jonnie-with the heat-deflecting fabric used in drilling. A mixture of powdered grass and glue made from hoofs had been painted over the costume: with this, infrared would read them like part of the surrounding grass; even visually they could be mistaken for the general terrain.

The Scots were under specific orders to converge upon the breathe-gas dump, separately pick up cases of small pressure cylinders, and get back to the base.

The trick was to raid an enemy who would never know he had been raided. They must not suspect at the compound that the “animals” were hostile. It was a raid that must look like no raid. The Scots must not take any weapons, must not collide with any sentries, must not leave any traces.

There was some protest that Jonnie was going to go to the cage. He explained, not really believing it, that this way he would be behind any sentries who might converge upon the dump if a disturbance was noted.

Jonnie gripped a kill-club and stole forward toward the plateau. And his next ill chance was awaiting him.

The horses were not there. Perhaps nervous because of the wolves or seeking better grazing, they had wandered off. Through the glasses, Jonnie had seen two of them last night.

He had planned to creep up the last distance by guiding a horse alongside of him. All his horses were trained to strike with their front hoofs on command, and if the sentry were alerted and had to be hit, it would look like the Psychlo had simply tangled with a horse.

No horses. Wait. A dim increase in blackness in the black at the bottom of the cliff ahead of him. Jonnie sighed with relief as the crunch of dry grass being munched came to him.

But when he arrived, it was only Blodgett, the horse with the crippled shoulder, probably not given to much wandering due to the lameness.

Oh, well. Better Blodgett than none at all. The horse nuzzled him in greeting but obeyed the order to be silent.

With a hand on Blodgett's jaw, causing the horse to stop a bit every few feet, walking back of the horse's shoulder and protected from any detector the sentry might be carrying, Jonnie quietly approached the cage. If he could get within striking distance of the sentry– and if Blodgett remembered the training-

and if the lame shoulder permitted, Jonnie intended to take out the sentry.

The Psychlo was looming up under the reflected glow of a dim, green light burning somewhere in the dome. There was no fire in the cage.

Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Ten feet...

Suddenly the sentry turned, alert. Ten feet! Way out of striking distance.

But just as Jonnie was about to launch the kill-club he saw that the sentry was listening back of himself. There was a tiny whisper of crackling sound. Jonnie knew what it was: a radio intercom plugged into the sentry's ear. Some other sentry had spoken to him over it.

The Psychlo hefted the six cumbersome feet of his blast rifle. He muttered something inside his own helmet dome, answering.

The other sentry must be down by the dump. Had a Scot been seen? Was the operation blown?

The cage sentry went lumbering off to the other side of the compound, in the direction of the dump.

Whatever was going on down there, Jonnie had his own mission. He moved quickly up to the wooden barrier.

"Chrissie!" he whispered as loudly as he dared into the darkness of the cage. Silence.

"Chrissie!" he hissed more urgently.

"Jonnie?" a whisper came back. But it was Pattie's voice.

“Yes. Where is Chrissie?”

“She's here...Jonnie!" There were tears in back of Pattie's whisper. “Jonnie, we don't have any water. The pipes froze.” She sounded very weak herself, possibly ill.

There was an odor in the air and in the green dimness Jonnie spotted a pile of dead rats outside the door. Dead rats that had not been taken in and were rotting.

“Do you have any food?”

“Very little. And we have had no firewood for a week.”

Jonnie felt a fury rising in himself. But he must be fast. They had no time. “And Chrissie?"

“Her head is hot. She just lies here. She doesn't answer me. Jonnie, please help us.”

“Hold on,” said Jonnie hoarsely. "In a day or two you'll get help, I promise. Tell Chrissie. Make her understand.”

He could do little right now. “Is there ice in the pool?”

“A little. Very dirty.”

“Use the heat of your body to melt it. Pattie, you must hold on for a day or two.”

"I’ll try.”

“Tell Chrissie I was here. Tell her-' What did girls want to hear, what could he say? “Tell her that I love her.” It was true enough.

There was a sharp sound down by the dump. Jonnie knew he couldn't stay. Something, somebody was in trouble down there.

Gripping Blodgett's mane to drag the horse along, Jonnie ran silently to the other side of the compound.

He stared down the hill toward the dump. He knew exactly where it was but there were no lights. Yes, there was a light!

A sentry flashlight flicked across the dump.

Two sentries were down there. The silhouettes against the dump showed they were a hundred feet this side of it.

Jonnie covered himself with the horse and went down the

A light flicked at him, dazzling. It passed on.

“Just one of those damned horses,” said a voice ahead of him. “I tell you there's something to the right of that dump.”