How easy, now, to pass judgments on his prior conduct . . .

  Hex perched on the highest point of the rock, his foot splaying out to grip it clumsily. It was a sitting and pushing type of foot, rather than a grasping member, and the posture had to be uncomfortable—but Hex appeared to be staying until the end. There was no use in Veg himself trying to climb that point; it was too small and steep for anything but a perpetual balancing act, and this would only postpone the finish, not change it.

  Where was Cal now? The manta Circe had said the tyrant lizard was after him, alone. That was sure death for the little man. But Cal was funny about that sort of thing. He might have found a way to—

  Impossible. What could a man, any man, do against Tyrann? Cal was digested by now.

  No, he couldn’t be. Not his friend!

  Veg realized that he had only to ask Hex. The manta would surely know. A snap of the tail would tell him Cal lived; two snaps—

  He choked on the question. It would not come out. He was afraid of the answer.

  The water was at his knees. Already a small shark was circling the rock, waiting.

  Should he die without knowing?

  Maybe this was his punishment for despoiling Aquilon.

  Veg looked across the water, at the savage valley, the snowtopped mountains, the islands reaching into the sea, the level horizon showing beyond the channel between the large harbor islands, Silly and Cherub-dis. He looked, expecting nothing.

  And saw a ship.

  Chapter 19: Cal

  TYRANN’S BULK almost blocked the opening. The carnosaur was sleeping, his body spread out along the stream bed to capture every vestige of warmth therein. The hot water from the cavern puddled at his nose and coursed along his neck—the only thing, in this snowline dawn-chill, that was keeping him reasonably functional. The flesh was discolored where the hottest water touched, but evidently the reptile had elected some heat-discomfort in spots instead of the lethargy of cold all over. Probably it inhaled warmth this way. This was courage of a kind.

  Cal stood just within the cave mouth, where a refreshingly cool circulation occurred, and surveyed the situation. It was possible that Tyrann was playing possum, waiting for the prey to come out—but Cal doubted that the reptile was capable of such subtlety. It was not an art large predators usually needed for survival. Tyrann would normally sleep until the heat of the day raised his body temperature to a suitable level. In the valley this would be a simple matter—but the chill of this upper region was apt to make it a long sleep indeed. It had been a mistake for Tyrann to settle down here, for without continuous muscular exertion to maintain his body heat, he could not survive.

  Probably Cal could climb right over the ugly jaws and be on his way with impunity. Victor in their contest, he could make his way along the shore to the Paleocene camp. It might take him several months to make it, and there would be other hazards—but if he made it to that radio, his course was justified. To the victor belonged the spoils—the spoils of a world.

  Yet he hesitated, looking down at the great prone reptile. He was not afraid of Tyrann—indeed, had never been—for he understood the creature’s needs and motives. They were the same as his own: survival. Tyrann accomplished his purpose by size, power and determination. Cal used his intelligence—and determination. The fact that he had won did not mean that his cause was morally superior. It meant simply that he had demonstrated a greater capability for survival, in this instance.

  If he summoned the forces of Earth (for casuistry aside, that was surely the gist of his report), he would be pitting an advanced world against a primitive one. That would not be a fair contest. Very soon the dinosaurs would be extinct again, and Paleo would be just like Earth: crowded with neurotic humans, its natural resources depleted . . .

  Veg and Aquilon were right. His alternate-universe framework was theoretical. Each world was a separate case, and the means did not justify the end. Particularly when it meant the destruction of a known world for the sake of unknown ones . . . that might in time be ravaged anyway. Man did not have the esthetic authority to do such a thing to any world, and Cal had to judge by the case before him. He could not throw Paleo to the omnivore.

  Studying Tyrann, Cal knew himself to be a hypocrite. The truth was that he had expected to lose, and thus preserve this world a moment longer. He couldn’t accept victory, and had never intended to. He had argued the ugly cause merely to put both sides on record. That would be important, in the Earth-sponsored court-martial that would follow the abrogation of their assigned mission. That could protect the trio to some extent, and the mantas. Selfish motive!

  Tyrann was too noble a brute to be arbitrarily extinguished at man’s convenience. Let Paleo remain unspoiled a moment, geologically speaking, longer. Let the dinosaur find his own destiny. Let the king of the reptiles rule today, even if extinction was inevitable tomorrow.

  But Tyrann would die today, in effect, if he remained before the cave. He had cooled off during the night, since the tremendous muscular dynamo of his body had cut down into torpidity. A lot of heat would be required to revive him, and it might never get warm enough long enough here in these mountain reaches to do the job. Tyrann could sleep himself into starvation.

  The hot water, at least, would have slowed the process, and in any event it would take some time for ten tons of flesh to cool completely. If Tyrann were brought to consciousness before any further heat loss occurred, and while his considerable bodily energy resources remained . . .

  Cal stepped out of the cave, feeling the chill immediately. He kicked the yard-long snout where the water made it tender. “Wake up, lazybones!” he yelled.

  An eye flicked open, but Tyrann did not stir. That insidious cold remaining in his flesh immobilized him, though the sun was now hot upon his flank and the water softened his belly. The mighty reptile had a mighty chill; he could not leap to full awareness and performance the way a mammal or bird could.

  Cal put a foot on Tyrann’s nearest tooth, slung his knee against the nose, mounted to the top of the head and tromped about. “Get on the ball, sleepy! I don’t have all day!”

  A hiss of annoyance issued from the tremendous, flaccid throat. The muscles of the bulging neck tensed and Cal slid off, caution not entirely forgotten. The skin was hardly sleek, this close; it hung in elephantine folds, mottled and blistered, and infested with insectlike parasites. Tyrann, he thought, probably itched hugely in his off moments.

  Cal scrambled around the looming shoulder, avoiding the clenching, almost-human extremity below it, and trotted to the side of the gully. “Can’t catch me!” he shouted. He pried a fragment of rock out of the rubble and lobbed it toward the head. It missed, but the second had better aim.

  Tyrann bestirred himself. Water gushed down the channel as the ponderous body elevated. Stones splashed into it, dislodged by the hulking, careering shoulders. Clumsily, laboriously, Tyrann stood up and turned about.

  Cal danced along the gully, skirting the hips and tail barely in time. He paused only long enough to be certain the reptile was on his trail again. Then he plunged downhill, following the warm channel. He wasn’t worried—yet!—about being caught. It should be at least an hour before Tyrann was really alert. By then—

  By then, perhaps, they would be well into the warm valley and he could slip away, leaving the monster frustrated but alive. Cal had won his victory; all he wanted now was to return Tyrann to his habitat. After that—well, he no longer had need of the journey upcoast, since he was not going to make the report. He’d just have to hope he had misjudged the intent of the Earth authorities.

  Progress was faster than that. In ten minutes they were out of the snow region. In twenty, the air was appreciably warmer, almost comfortable. In thirty, away from the opening gully—

  “Veg!” he cried. But it wasn’t Veg.

  The man nodded briefly, hands on his steam rifle. “Dr. Potter, I presume.”

  The exchange had taken five seconds. It was enough of a pause to bring Tyrann into sight. Still clumsy but recovering nicely, the dinosaur bellowed and charged down at them.

  Almost casually the stranger aimed his weapon and fired. A hiss as the steam boosted away the shell and dissipated; a clap of noise as the projectile exploded. As Cal turned, Tyrann began to fall. His head was a red mass.

  “Just about in time for you,” the man remarked. “Where are your companions?”

  Tyrann was dead. The great body still twitched and quivered, and would continue to cast about for some time, but the head had been blown apart by the explosion. The shell must have scored directly inside the mouth: an expert shot. It was a cruel demise for the carnosaur, and an unnecessary one; at this stage as harsh as the murder of a friend.

  Cal studied the man while his body recovered from the strain of the chase and his mind encompassed the tragically altered situation. He recognized the stranger now: an Earth-government agent, similar to the one he had known as “Subble.” There were many of them, all basically similar to each other, differing only in superficial respects. This was deliberate. They were, in a manner of speaking, made that way. This one was dark-haired and heavy-featured—but the body was that of a superman, and the mind, Cal knew, was abridged but very sharp. This man would be able to quote all the Bible and much of Shakespeare, but would not have studied either creatively. He would have no truly individual personality. His past was a prepared memory, his present a specific mission, and his future irrelevant.

  The question was, why was he here? Here on Paleo, the world of the paleontological past. Here in the reptile enclave. There should be no human beings here, apart from the trio.

  The only sensible answer was the trio had been followed. That suggested that Cal’s worst fears had been realized. Their debate about the nature of his report on Paleo had after all been academic.

  “Come with me,” the man said gently.

  Cal offered no resistance. He knew the agent could kill him or severely incapacitate him in a single second or an hour, whichever combination he chose. And would, if the occasion warranted. Obviously this encounter had been no accident.

  “I am Taler,” the agent said as they walked south.

  So he was of the generation after Subble: the T’s. Agents tended to go by three-letter codes, modified for pronunciation. Each generation (speaking mechanically, not biologically) was uniform. A given individual would react to a given situation in a manner so similar to that of his pseudobrothers that the coordinating computer could accept his report without modification for individual bias. This was said to facilitate law enforcement immensely, in its various and often obscure ramifications on violent Earth.

  But why had an agent been dispatched at all? This was supposed to have been a civilian mission.

  He was pestering his own mind with rhetorical questions. The answers were all there, if he cared to bring them forth. Why an agent? Because the civilians were no longer needed. Earth had already made its decision with regard to the disposition of Paleo.

  Cal had not made any specific reports, but had been aware that the radios maintained a carrier-signal, pinpointing their geographic whereabouts at all times. The one in the Paleocene camp was probably still broadcasting. The other must have stopped when the raft had been upset by Brachiosaurus, drowning the equipment. This could have looked very much like sabotage.

  All he had promised had been an eventual technical report: itemization of flora and fauna, climate and geography. He had planned to deliver his conjectures on the nature of the planet itself—the alternate-world framework. That would have been food for thought, for it suggested that there was not merely one world available, but an infinite number, if only connections to them could be established. Paleo, instead of representing merely a regressed Earth, implied a new universe, some of whose worlds could be very close in nature to the modern Earth.

  But the short-thinking authorities had not waited. They had evidently concluded that if a party of three could survive this long on Paleo, it was habitable and safe, and therefore wide open for exploitation. No doubt many corporations were eager to make their investments and begin profiting. So a more substantial investigation had been organized—in fact, it had probably been in the making before the trio was ever assigned. No wonder they had been boosted through so precipitously, back at the orbiting station! If the guinea-pigs were to be used at all, it had to be immediately, lest the larger mission be delayed. Report? No more than a pretext, to conceal from the trio their true insignificance.

  So Cal’s notion that Earth would patiently wait for his delayed report had been wishfully naive. That was not the nature of the omnivore.

  Cal repressed his further thoughts, aware chat the agent could ferret them out quickly if suspicious.

  They arrived at Taler’s camp. A glossyfabric tent had been pitched in the forest, stark contrast to the ancient Ginkgos surrounding it. Inside the tent sat another agent, operating a radio. Yes—they were in touch.

  “Taner,” Taler said, introducing his comrade.

  Taner spoke into the mike. “Calvin Potter secured. Fungoids loose.”

  Secured? Another line of conjecture opened up. An ugly one. He had not been even nominally rescued—he had been taken prisoner. And they were searching for the mantas.

  Why? Why indeed! Here was a world for the taking—provided the mantas didn’t take it first. Any two of them could sporulate by committing suicide, and cover the planet with the very population the Earth-government abhorred: advanced fungoid entities. That would ruin it for colonization, by certain definitions, and reduce the spoils to ashes.

  Perhaps it would be better that way. The manta, at least, was an honorable creature.

  Taler turned to him. “I see you comprehend our purpose, Dr. Potter.”

  Oh-oh. He had forgotten, for the moment, the uncanny abilities of these men. By studying his reactions to stimuli—and words themselves were stimuli—they could virtually read his mind.

  “Precisely,” Taler said. “Now it will be easier for us all if you choose to cooperate. Where are the other members of your party?”

  They would run Veg and Aquilon down soon enough anyway—perhaps already had. Presuming the two had survived the quakes. A speedy pickup—yes, Taler was testing him in much the manner old-time police had verified the performance of their drugs or lie-detectors, by asking preliminary questions to which they knew the answers. “I left them on a small island in the eastern bay, together.”

  “And the fungoids?”

  That was another matter. “I told them to get lost.”

  “You are a clever man, Dr. Potter.”

  Cal smiled grimly. “Common sense suggested that where there were two such highly trained agents as yourselves, others could also be present. Since I actually asked the mantas to observe my encounter with the carnosaur but not to interfere, I am reasonably certain that I have been under observation by them. Since it does not appear to be to their advantage to have these creatures captured by you, it was natural that I express my sentiment.”

  “However obliquely, and with insufficient precursive tension to alert me in time. Two fungoids were in the vicinity,” Taler admitted. “They departed when you amended your prior instructions by suggesting that they ‘get lost.’ Our personnel were not quite quick enough.”

  “It would have been messy,” Cal said, “had I suggested instead that they attack.”

  “Correct.” Taler pulled aside a flap of the tent and revealed beneath it several heavy cables. These divided and subdivided and fed eventually into the material of the tent itself.

  Suddenly Cal was very glad he had warned the mantas clear. The tent was a network of filament! The moment sufficient power was applied, he was sure, the entire surface would flash like a nova, blinding every sighted creature nearby. The agents would have some kind of protection—polarized contact lenses, perhaps—but the mantas would have been destroyed. Alive but dead, for the sensitive eye was virtually their sole sensory apparatus.

  That showed how well Earth understood the manta metabolism, now. For in death the bodies of the mantas would dissolve into spores, and in country like this it would not be possible to be assured of destroying every drifting bit of life. Living mantas were no such danger, and a blind manta would be innocuous—unable to strike either in life or death.

  “Now we shall have to run them down the hard way,” Taler said, showing no malice. “That may mean considerable damage to the area.”

  Cal knew the agent meant it. But the matter was out of his hands now. “What about the others?”

  “We picked Vachel Smith off a rock in the ocean, and one fungoid accompanied him voluntarily. They are confined aboard ship in good condition. Taner is about to go after the girl and her companion. I see you did not know your associates had separated.”

  “I hadn’t known any mantas had rejoined them, either. Well, at least I’ll have company in the brig.”

  Chapter 20: Orn

  THE ISLAND was still dark as Orn roused the sleeping quilon with a careful nudge of his beak. Something was wrong. There was an alien presence he could not fathom—the same horror he had experienced the first time he had encountered the giant mams and supposed, erroneously, to be an aspect of their own strangeness.

  She woke nervously, brushing her forelimbs, against his underfeathers, touching the warm egg for reassurance. He knew that gesture. It meant that she feared for the egg, that some danger threatened it. And that was why he had alerted her, for he did not like this odd visitation. Would she sense it too?

  “Circe!” she exclaimed. “You came back!”

  She saw it! And—she was not frightened. Her reaction, her sounds, were of relief and welcome, not apprehension.

  “Veg—Cal—are they safe? Where are they?”