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of our lives. Itseemed like a good idea at the time. But only the thickest brick among you doesn t already
know that lesson. If there is magic in this  or any  book, it can only be conjured by wit and
intelligence. When you are a creature of raw emotion, behaving on the moment like a dead frog-leg with
a live wire in it, you must, I tell you honestly youmust inevitably become somebody s tool, somebody s
fool. Only by keeping alert  remember all Art has but one message: PAY ATTENTION  can you
hope to be the one dong the tracking, rather than winding up being the fool tool who has been tracked
and finally trapped. That s as close to genuine wisdom as I get, this late in the day.
Claybourne s headlamp picked out the imprint at once. It was faint in the beam, yet discernible, with the
telltale mark of the huge, three-toed foot. He was closer than ever.
He drew a deep breath, and the plastic air-sack on his breather mask collapsed inward. He expelled the
breath slowly, watching the diamond-shaped sack expand once more.
He wished wildly for a cigarette, but it was impossible. First because the atmosphere of the tiny planetoid
would not keep one going, and second because he d die in the thin air.
His back itched, but the loose folds of the protective suit prevented any lasting relief, for all his scratching.
The faint starlight of shadows crossing the ground made weird patterns. Claybourne raised his head and
looked out across the plain of blue saw-grass at the distant mountains.
They looked like so many needles thrust up through the crust of the planetoid. They were angry
mountains. No one had ever named them; which was not strange, for nothing but the planetoid itself had
been named. It had been named by the first expedition to the Antares Cluster. They had named it
Selangg  after the alien ecologist who had died on the way out.
They recorded the naming in their log, which was fortunate, because the rest of them died on the way
back. Space malady and an incomplete report on the planetoid Selangg, floating in a death ship around a
secondary sun of the Partias Group.
He stood up slowly, stretching slightly to ease the tension of his body. He picked up the molasses-gun
and hefted it absently. Off to his right he heard a scampering and swung the beam in its direction.
A tiny, bright-green animal scurried through the crewcut desert saw-grass.
Is that what thefetllives on? he wondered.
He actually knew very little about the beast he was tracking. The report given him by the Institute at the
time he was commissioned to bring thefetl back was, at best, sketchy, pieced together from that first
survey report.
The survey team had mapped many planetoids, and only a hurried analysis could be made before they
scuttled to the next world. All they had listed about thefetl was a bare physical description  and the
fact that it was telekinetic.
What evidence had forced this conclusion was not stated in the cramped micro-report, and the reason
died with them.
 We want this animal badly, Mr. Claybourne, the Director of the Institute had said.
 We want him badly because he justmay be what this report says. If he is, it will further our studies of
extra-sensory perception tremendously. We are willing to pay any reasonable sum you might demand.
We have heard you re the finest wild game hunter on the Periphery.
 We don t care how you do it, Mr. Claybourne, but we want thefetl brought back alive and unharmed.
Claybourne had accepted immediately. This job had paid a pretty sum  enough to complete his plans
to kill Carl Garden.
The prints paced away, clearly indicating the tracked beast was heading for refuge in the mountains. He
studied the totally flat surface of the grassy desert, and heaved a sigh.
He d been at it three weeks, and all he d found had been tracks. Clear, unmistakable tracks, and all
leading toward the mountains. The beast could not know it was being tracked, yet it continued moving
steadily.
The pace had worn at Claybourne. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]