SURVIVAL FACTOR

                         By CHARLES V. DE VET

                         Illustrated by ORBAN

                   _They were trapped on a viciously
                  primitive planet, by an electronic
             bloodhound that was viciously unpredictable!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Infinity September 1957.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The survey team was seven parsecs beyond the Rim when the bloodhound
picked up their trail.

Three years earlier the inevitable had happened. The humans of the Ten
Thousand Worlds had met another race with the faster-than-light space
drive--and an expanding population. The contacts had been brief--and
violent. Each race had set up defenses against the other, and
maneuvered for position and control of the habitable worlds separating
them. The aliens' bloodhounds formed the outer circle of their defense
perimeter.

The s-tracer continued its bleak chirping as Wallace read the figures
on its dial and made a swift calculation. "We have time for one dip
into spacebridge," he informed Saxton, the other member of the team.
"If we don't find a planet fast when we come out, we've had it."

Saxton nodded. "We'd better backtrack. Set the bridge for that star
group we recorded yesterday. Hurry. We haven't any time to spare."

Four minutes later Wallace brought the two handles of the bridge
control together--and the ship winked into hyperspace. Wallace's body
jerked upright, and he sat stiff and straight, fighting the impulse to
retch that rode his stomach muscles. The room around him took on the
visual consistency of thin milk. The low hum of the ship's instruments
increased in intensity through the hands that he pressed tightly to
his head. Mingled with the sound of the small motors was Saxton's
high-strained muttering: "I can't take any more of it! I can't take any
more of it!"

Then all was normal again. They were out of hyperspace.

Wallace reached for a knob on the board in front of him and began
turning it slowly. Both men watched the vision panel on the front wall.
After a minute a blue globe floated in from one side. "We'll have to
try that one," Wallace said. "It at least has atmosphere."

"We don't have any choice," Saxton answered. With his head he
indicated the s-tracer. Its stark chirping had begun again.

"The hound's closer than I thought," Wallace complained. "We'll have to
risk a faster passage to the surface than would ordinarily be safe."
Drops of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead joined together
and ran down the side of his nose. He shook his head to clear them away.

By the time they entered the blue planet's atmosphere the intervals
between the chirps of the s-tracer had shortened until now they were
almost continuous. Gradually, as they plunged toward the planet's
surface, the room's temperature rose. They stripped to their shorts and
kept the pace steady. When it seemed that they could stand the heat no
longer the ship paused, and settled slowly to the ground.

Quickly Wallace shut off the drive motors. The only sound within the
ship was the purring of the cooling apparatus.

"Any chance that it can detect our cooling motor?" Saxton asked.

"I don't believe it can follow anything smaller than our main drive,"
Wallace answered. He pointed to the s-tracer. "It's already lost us. Of
course we know it won't go away. It'll circle the planet until we come
out and try again."

During the next hour, as the temperature within the ship returned
slowly to normal, Wallace and Saxton kept busy checking the gauges that
measured and recorded the elements in the planet's atmosphere.

At last Saxton sighed heavily. "Livable," he said.

"Closer to Earth norm than we could have hoped," Wallace agreed.

"What do we do now?"

"We could stay here for two years--until the bloodhound runs out of
fuel. That's the estimated time it's supplied for."

"That doesn't sound like a very encouraging prospect." Saxton's dark
tan features were lined with worry. "We don't have food enough, for one
thing. Maybe the aliens will get discouraged and go away."

"Hardly. You've forgotten that the bloodhounds are fully automatic, and
unmanned. A machine doesn't discourage very easily."

"We sure as heck ought to be able to outwit a machine," Saxton said. He
thought for a moment. "If we waited until it was across the planet from
us, we might have time to get out, and take another jump toward home.
One more and we'd be far enough in so our own cruisers could take care
of the bloodhound."

Wallace shook his head. "Its speed is too great. Our best chance
is that it doesn't hold to a straight path around the planet. The
aliens--not knowing the size of any body we might land on--wouldn't set
it for a dead-line trajectory. I hope."

There was nothing for them to do until the s-tracer had followed the
movements of their stalker long enough to make an adequate graph. They
decided to go outside while they waited.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wallace and Saxton took only a few steps--and stopped in amazement.
They had a visitor!

The native rose from his kneeling position on the ground and stood
erect. Wallace studied the face of the naked, stick-thin savage, trying
to penetrate beneath the dirt and grime, beneath the mask of impassive
features, to find the quality that held him in questioning immobility.
For a moment he succeeded.

It was not high intelligence that he found, but rather an innate
conviction of power. A conviction and self-assurance so deep that it
needed no demonstration for expression.

Wallace glanced at Saxton where he leaned against the spaceship's ramp,
the whites of his eyes contrasting sharply with the black of his clean
negroid skin. It was clear that he too sensed the odd quality in the
other. And that he was equally unable to decide whether the savage that
so incuriously regarded first one then the other of them was to be
feared, or accepted as amicable. But both already realized that this
was no ordinary meeting between humans and an outworld native. They
were on the verge of an unusual experience.

The savage had been kneeling with his forehead touching the ground when
they stepped out of the ship. However, now that he stood before them,
there was nothing abject in his demeanor. For a long minute he did not
speak or make any motion other than to regard them. Casually then he
raised his right hand and touched his chest. "Al-fin," he said.

The meaning of the gesture was apparent: Wallace readily understood
that the savage was giving his name. He touched his own chest. "Ivan,"
he murmured.

The native turned his gaze to Saxton.

"Gus," Saxton said, shifting his feet uncomfortably.

The native nodded. "Come!" he commanded. He turned his back and walked
away.

There was no question in Wallace's mind about obeying. It was only his
subconscious that moved his hand, to make certain that his gun was in
its holster, and to glance at Saxton to see that he too was armed. He
had walked several yards before the incongruity struck him: the savage
had spoken Earthian!

       *       *       *       *       *

They followed the native for several miles over a faint game trail that
wound leisurely through brush and skimpy, small-leaved trees, before
either of the men recovered his composure enough to speak.

"He said 'Come'," Saxton mused. "Yet we're the first humans this far
over the Rim. Where did he learn our language?"

Wallace shrugged. "I've been wondering too," he answered.

"Should we try to talk to him?" Saxton asked, glancing ahead at their
companion.

The native, apparently, had no interest in their conversation. "Better
wait," Wallace suggested.

"I don't understand it." Saxton's tone was querulous. "No one's allowed
over the Rim ahead of us. A section has to be surveyed, and worlds
declared fit for habitation, before colonists can move in. Yet we land
here and find a native speaking our language."

"Perhaps he isn't a native," Wallace said.

"What do you mean?"

"When Earth first discovered spacebridge there were no laws regulating
its use. Limits were put on colonizing areas only after some of the
earlier expeditions failed to report back. One of them might have been
marooned here."

"Then this fellow's human?"

"He could be."

"If he is, would he be naked?" Saxton asked.

"Some of those lost expeditions disappeared as long as two thousand
years ago," Wallace answered. "A colony could have slipped back a long
ways in that time."

"But not this far," Saxton demurred. "They'd still have some traces of
their original culture left."

"A one-ship colony would have very limited mechanical resources,"
Wallace said. "And they'd be isolated here. As soon as the tools and
machines they brought with them wore out they'd be almost impossible to
replace. The odds are they'd slip back fast."

"I don't know." Clearly Saxton wasn't satisfied--but he let the subject
hang. "When we saw him kneeling on the ground, I thought that he was
worshipping us. But since then he's been acting as if he thought he was
the god instead of us."

They were halfway across a small clearing now and before Wallace could
answer the native ahead stopped abruptly. He stood motionless, with
his head tilted to one side, as though listening. After a moment he
motioned them to move to the left.

As Wallace and Saxton obeyed, Al-fin pointed urgently toward their
guns. They drew, and the native turned to stare at the bushes at the
far side of the clearing.

"What does he want?" Saxton asked.

"I don't--" Wallace's answer was cut off as a huge "cat," with long
stilt-like legs spread wide, sprang out of the bushes--directly at them.

Wallace and Saxton sprayed the beams of their guns across the cat's
chest, burning a wide, smoking gash. The beast landed, sprang again,
and died.

Saxton let out a long breath of relief. "Close," he said.

Wallace stood with a puzzled frown on his face. "How did he know the
animal was there?" he asked.

"He must have a good sense of hearing," Saxton answered doubtfully.

"It can't be that good," Wallace protested.

"Maybe this is our chance to get some fresh meat," Saxton said. He
drew a knife from his belt and knelt beside the cat's carcass. He made
several rapid cuts. After a minute he looked up. "Nothing edible," he
said. "Nothing but skin, gristle, and tendons."

They walked on.

       *       *       *       *       *

They entered another clearing, and found themselves in the midst of a
group of naked savages, obviously Al-fin's people.

"Where did they come from?" Saxton asked, resting his hand on the grip
of his gun.

Wallace looked his way and shook his head. "No guns," he said. "We'll
have to take the chance that they're friendly."

Most of the members of the group, Wallace observed, were lying on the
ground, or idling about at the edges of the small clearing. He counted
twenty-three--of both sexes, and varying ages. There was no sign of
clothing or ornament on any of them. They were naked, filthy, and
nondescript; yet each had the mark of that quality that had puzzled
them in Al-fin--the deep inner assurance. A few glanced their way, but
without any evidence of an unusual degree of interest.

Their attention returned to Al-fin. Streaks of sweat had made gray
trails on his grimy face, and he gave off an odor that was sharp and
rancid. He sat on the ground and motioned for Wallace and Saxton to do
the same.

Wallace hesitated, then spread his hands resignedly. "This is a
strange game," he said. "We'll let him make the first moves." He and
Saxton sat down together.

Al-fin began speaking, without inflection and with few pauses. Some of
the individual words sounded faintly familiar, but the two men could
make no sense of what he said.

"I'm afraid we can't understand you," Wallace told him. In an aside to
Saxton he said, "He won't understand me either, but I don't think we'd
better ignore him."

Saxton nodded. "I guess you are right about his being human," he said.
"Some of those words were definitely Earthian."

Al-fin raised his voice in a shout, "Il-ma!"

One of the women in the center of the clearing laughed and came toward
them. She was stick-thin, as were Al-fin and most of the others, and
very dirty. As she came near she smiled. Her teeth were discolored and
rotting. She giggled.

Al-fin indicated her with a sweep of his arm. "Mate?" he inquired.

Wallace felt himself reddening. "Is he offering her to us?" he asked
Saxton.

"I think so." Saxton smiled uneasily. "It looks like it's our move now."

"We'll have to risk offending them." Wallace looked at Al-fin and
shook his head vigorously. "No mate," he said.

The woman giggled again and walked away. Al-fin seemed to have lost
interest. He pulled himself jerkily to his feet and went across the
clearing to the fire that the two surveyors had noted earlier. A large
clay kettle rested on a flat rock over the fire.

"There's meat in that kettle," Saxton said, whimsically licking his
lips. "I hope he passes some around."

"I don't think we should eat any," Wallace cautioned.

"Why not?"

"You know the saying, one man's meat...."

"But I'm starved for fresh meat," Saxton argued.

"We'll see if we can get him to give us some," Wallace said. "We can
take it back to the ship and test it before we eat any."

They watched Al-fin as he dug in the kettle with a stick and placed the
food he speared on a large leaf. He carried it to where an old man sat
with his back resting against a tree trunk. The hoary veteran had a
long scar on his right arm that ran from shoulder to elbow; evidently
he had had a brush with one of the big cats sometime in the past. Oddly
enough, he was the only native that was not thin and hungry-looking.

"He must be the chief," Saxton said. "At least he's well fed."

Wallace nodded.

When Al-fin returned Saxton said, "Meat." At the same time he rubbed
his stomach in a circular motion.

Al-fin paused, thinking over what Saxton had said, then nodded several
times. He made a gesture with his arm for them to follow and led them
to the fat old man. "Meat," Al-fin intoned expressionlessly, and stood
as though waiting for the old man's reply.

"I hope he's in a generous mood," Saxton said.

They had seen no sign from the old man, but Al-fin turned to them and
nodded once more. "Meat," he said. He made no further move.

"Why doesn't he get it?" Saxton asked finally. "Apparently he
agrees--but he just stands there."

"Maybe we're supposed to do something now," Wallace said. "But what? Do
you suppose we're expected to pay him some way?"

"That could be," Saxton answered. "Or maybe the chief's eating the
last of what they have now, and they'll give us a chunk when they get
some more. Anyway, let's not wait any longer. I'm starved. Even canned
concentrate would taste good to me now."

       *       *       *       *       *

By morning the s-tracer had marked the tracking chart sufficiently to
give them some data on the bloodhound's actions. Wallace went over it
carefully.

Saxton stayed in his bunk and pretended to be still sleepy, but Wallace
could feel his gaze following the work closely. When at last he looked
up Saxton said, "Well?"

"We have something to work on," Wallace answered the question in his
voice. "But unless we get more, I don't see how it will help us.

"The bloodhound," he went on, not waiting for further inquiry from
Saxton, "is acting pretty much as we thought it would. It has
no straight line trajectory. At irregular intervals it circles,
backtracks, or goes off at a new tangent. Often it stays over a
particular territory for longer than the three hours we'd need to get
away. It's probable that at some time it will do this on the other side
of the planet--where it couldn't pick up the signal of our leaving.
But...."

Saxton was sitting up now. "But what?"

"It's following a random pattern." Wallace studied his fingernails as
he sought for words to make the explanation clear. "The s-tracer will
show us when it is out of range--but there's no way for us to know how
long it will stay in any one place."

"In other words there will be intervals when it will be directly across
the planet from us. But unless it stayed there for close to three
hours--the time we'd need to clear the atmosphere--it would pick up our
signal as it came around, and run us down?"

"That's about it."

"Then we'll have to take the chance."

"We could. And if we can think of nothing better, we will. But the odds
would be heavily against us. Most of its locale changes are made in a
shorter period of time than we'd need to get away."

"We can't sit here for two years." Saxton was a man whose high-strung
nature demanded action, and was the more inclined of the two to take
chances. Wallace preferred weighing influencing factors before making
any decision.

"I think we'd better wait," Wallace said. "Perhaps we'll be able to
think of something that will give us a better chance."

Saxton pulled the sheet-blanket off his legs irritably, and climbed
from the bunk, but he did not argue.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the morning Saxton killed a small rodent, but found its flesh as
inedible as that of the cat. Wallace stayed inside studying the charts
and instruments.

They had their noonday meal in a small clearing by the side of the
ship. Wallace had been able to find no way of solving their difficulty.
For want of a better plan they'd decided to wait--while keeping close
track of their stalker.

"I've been thinking about those natives," Wallace said, as they lay
stretched on the grass. "If they are lost colonists--have you wondered
how they managed to survive here so long?"

"I did wonder how they protected themselves against the cats," Saxton
answered. "They don't seem to have any weapons."

"Al-fin demonstrated that they must have exceptionally good hearing,"
Wallace said. "But would that be enough? You'd think the cats would get
them--when they're sleeping, if not during the day--or kill off their
young."

"That's what I meant," Saxton said. "We saw no weapons, so they must
have some other means of defense."

"They live pretty much like animals," Wallace observed. "Maybe they
stay alive the same way. If animals aren't powerful, they're usually
swift. Or they have some other survival characteristics, such as
prolific propagation. But what do these savages have--except perhaps
the sharp hearing that you mentioned? That alone shouldn't be a
deciding factor. Yet they were able to survive here for two thousand
years."

"How about an instinct of dispersal?" Saxton asked. "There might be
hundreds of groups like the one we saw."

"That would help. But my thought was that if they don't use weapons
they might have gone at it from another angle: they adjusted
themselves, instead of their tools, to their environment."

"Special ability stuff?" Saxton asked.

Wallace glanced over at the other man. By the look of abstraction
on Saxton's face he knew that no answer was necessary. Saxton's
imagination was a moving force. When a subject intrigued him he
could no more abandon it and turn to something else than he could
stop breathing. The trait was one that made him an ideal partner
for Wallace, with his more logical reasoning, and his insistence on
weighing fact against fact and belief against belief. It was, in fact,
the reason the two men had been teamed. One was the intuitive, the
other the harmonizing, controlling, factor in their combination.

Saxton rose and stretched. "I think I'll go inside," he said. "I want
to poke around in the library a while."

Wallace smiled and followed his companion into the ship. This at least
would take Saxton's mind off their troubles. Their enforced inactivity
would be less tedious for the more imaginative man.

Saxton selected several tapes from the book shelf and put them in the
magnifier. "When I find something that sounds likely," he said, "I'll
read it. Stop me if you want to discuss anything I find."

       *       *       *       *       *

A half-hour later Saxton said, "Socrates maintained that the fewer our
needs, the nearer we resemble gods. Do you suppose Al-fin and his tribe
are approaching godhood?"

Wallace's answer, from the bunk where he lay, was a discourteous grunt.

"I thought so too," Saxton quipped. He went on reading.

Almost an hour went by before he spoke again. "This might help put
our savages in the proper place in their cycle," he said. "Quote:
'Giambattista Vica, a native of Naples, held a theory that human
history progressed in cycles, each of which followed the same course.
The first move in a civilization began when man, terrified by the
forces of nature, invented and worshipped gods in order to placate
them. Next, he made up myths of demi-gods and heroes, and arrived at
the idea of kingship. Finally, from kingship he came to democracy,
which degenerated into chaos; after which the next cycle started and
the process was repeated."

"Interesting," Wallace said. "But even if it fits, I think we
understand well enough where these people are in their cycle. What we
want now is a clue as to what makes them different."

Wallace was about to doze off when Saxton said, "Listen to this: '...
in which he first injected the hormone that produces milk in the
breasts of nursing mothers into the bloodstream of starved virgin rats
and then introduced newly hatched squabs into their cages. Instead of
devouring the luscious meal placed before them, the starved virgin
animals acted as tender foster mothers to the helpless creatures.'" He
looked across at Wallace expectantly.

"I'm afraid I don't--" Wallace began.

"Don't you see?" Saxton asked. "Something about the food here has made
the natives different. We've got to find that food."

"That might be true also," Wallace answered slowly. "But I'm not as
interested in finding what caused the difference as I am in finding
the difference itself."

"Find one and you find the other," Saxton argued. He held up his hand
as Wallace made as though to speak. "Sleep on it," he said. "Maybe
we'll have some ideas by tomorrow."

       *       *       *       *       *

They were able to extract no new clues from the tracking of the
bloodhound by the next forenoon. Neither man could arrive at any means
of thwarting the alien machine. Wallace had checked the graph track
minutely, looking for signs of a cycle, or cycles, in its movements. He
ended up convinced that none existed. It apparently operated entirely
at random.

At the mid-day meal Saxton suggested, "Let's pay those fellows in the
woods another visit."

"We may as well," Wallace agreed. "We're helpless here until we can
come up with some new idea."

They finished eating and strapped on their sidearms. They were not
certain that the path they took through the woods was the same they
had taken with Al-fin two days before, but at least it led in the same
general direction.

An hour later they were lost. Their way had not led them to the tribe
of naked savages and they had no idea where else to look. They were
debating whether or not to return to their ship when they stepped out
into a clearing--one larger than any they had come on earlier.

In the center of the clearing rested a spaceship! From where they stood
they could see that its hull was rusted and weather-beaten.

"That hasn't flown in a long time," Saxton said, after the first few
minutes of wonder.

"Probably not since it first landed here," Wallace answered.

The clearing about the vessel had been kept free of brush and bushes,
and when they went across, and through the open portal of the ship,
they found the inside immaculate.

"They certainly keep it clean," Saxton observed.

"It may be a shrine to them," Wallace said. "That would explain why
we found Al-fin kneeling when we landed, and yet why he treated us so
nonchalantly. He was worshipping our ship, not us."

"I hope they don't find us here," Saxton remarked. "We might be
violating some taboo."

Most of the interior fittings of the vessel, they found, had long ago
rotted away. Only the metal parts still remained intact. The instrument
board was unfamiliar to them. "Pretty definitely an early model,"
Wallace said.

Saxton found something on one wall that held his absorbed interest.
"Come here, Ivan," he called.

"What is it?" Wallace asked, going over to stand beside him.

"Read that."

Wallace read aloud from the engraved plaque: "_Spring, 2676. We, the
Dukobors, leave our Earth homes in the hope that we may find a dwelling
place for ourselves and our children, where we may worship our God as
we believe proper. We place ourselves in His hands and pray that He
will watch over us on our journey, and in the time to come._"

"That's over nineteen hundred years ago," Saxton said.

"Soon after the discovery of spacebridge," Wallace added. Without being
aware of it they both spoke in whispers.

They inspected the vessel for some time more, but found little of any
further interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

A short time after they left the ancient spaceship Wallace and Saxton
stumbled on Al-fin and his group of naked natives.

This time they made a concerted effort to communicate with Al-fin, and
one or two of the others, but with no more success than before. Neither
side could understand more than a few words of the other's language,
and they could accomplish very little with signs.

Al-fin sat with them for a time, until they saw him tilt his head in
the gesture they remembered. On his face was the same expression of
listening. After a moment he rose leisurely and indicated that they
were to follow him. Most of the other natives, Wallace noticed on
rising, had already gone over and bunched together at one end of the
clearing. They appeared restless, but not frightened.

"What's it all about?" Saxton asked.

"I suspect there's another cat in the neighborhood," Wallace answered.

Saxton pointed to the center of the clearing. Beneath a tree the
oldster with the scar on his arm sat alone, seemingly unaware that the
others had left him.

"Are they using their chief for a decoy?" Saxton asked.

"Perhaps the old duffer isn't the chief," Wallace answered. He reached
for his firearm.

A dirt-encrusted hand closed over his own. He looked up. Al-fin shook
his head.

Wallace turned to look back at the clearing just in time to see a big
cat step out of the bushes. It glanced across at them with an easy hate
in its red-shot eyes, and turned its attention to the fat man, who was
nearer. Slowly it gathered itself to spring.

Wallace shrugged off Al-fin's hand, that still rested on his, just as
the cat left its feet. He had no chance to fire. The cat finished its
spring--and the ground caved in beneath its feet. A moment later they
heard its snarling and spitting from several yards underground.

Calmly, unhurriedly, the natives picked boulders from the ground and
carried them to the pit. They dropped or threw them down on the cat
until its snarls changed from anger to pain, and died completely.

Wallace and Saxton walked to the edge of the pit and looked down. The
cat was dead. Its carcass lay sprawled over those of another dozen of
its kind.

"Evidently they've used this method often before," Wallace remarked. A
thought occurred to him and he looked at Saxton.

Saxton nodded in unspoken agreement. "We've just seen another
demonstration of that ability we're trying to find," he said.

"But what is it?" Wallace asked.

"Can it be anything except acute hearing?"

"If it was only that, how did they know where the cat would appear,
and what it would do? If it had circled the pit they would have been
helpless. Yet they did nothing except retreat to the far side of the
clearing and wait."

Saxton shook his head in defeat. "They did act with plenty of
assurance--but how did they know? Do you think we should stay around
some more, and watch how they operate?"

Wallace glanced up at the rapidly moving sun. "We'd better get back to
the ship," he said. "We have only about enough time to reach it before
dark. We can come back again tomorrow, if you want."

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening as he lay on his bunk, Wallace noted that Saxton was
growing restless again. Their being unable to find a way to evade
the bloodhound was bringing the irritable part of his nature to the
surface. The time had come again to furnish diversion. "I'm sure we
have all the clues on those savages," he said. "If we just understood
how to fit them together."

It worked. Saxton stopped pacing and bared his teeth in a smile. "You
still think they developed some special ability, don't you?" he asked.
"I don't agree. Nineteen hundred years--the time the colony's been
here--is too short for any change to take place. Evolution doesn't work
that fast."

"I'm not thinking of the slow process of adaptation," Wallace said,
"where the most fit, and their descendants, are the ones that tend
to survive and propagate. What I had in mind was a form of genetic
change. Such as a plant, or an animal, appearing that is different from
the rest of its species. A botanist, or a biologist, would call it a
'sport.' Like the appearance of a black rose on a bush of red roses. If
the black rose is more fitted to survive in its environment, or if it
is artificially propagated, it would soon replace the red."

"You think then that a child was born here with a difference that made
it more fit to survive in this environment than the others, and that
the savages we saw are its direct descendants?"

Wallace nodded.

"But wouldn't it be too much of a coincidence that the particular trait
should appear just when it was needed?"

"I don't think so," Wallace said. "Nature has a way of providing the
particular trait just at the time it _is_ most needed. A good example
is the way more male children are born during a war. There's no known
explanation for something like that. But nature seems to know what is
needed--and provides it."

"That sounds plausible," Saxton said, after a minute of consideration.
"According to your theory, then, those savages possess an ability
radically different from that of normal humans?"

"Not necessarily _radically_ different," Wallace answered. "It would
probably be a trait inherent in all of us, but not so evident, or
fully developed. Or perhaps it has made its appearance before, in
rare individuals, but not being a survival characteristic--where it
appeared--it died. Something like telepathy, or poltergeism, or any of
the other so-called wild talents."

"I'll admit I'm stumped," Saxton said. "And I don't think we'll learn
anything more here without staying and observing them a lot longer than
I'd care to. If we ever get back home, there are specialists in that
sort of thing, who can do more with the facts we gave them than we can."

Wallace sighed. "I suppose you're right," he said. "I hope we learn
what it is before we leave, but of course we can't wait if we get the
chance to go."

       *       *       *       *       *

Early the next afternoon they spied a figure hurrying toward them from
the edge of the wood.

"It's Al-fin," Saxton said. "I wonder why he's in such a hurry."

"He's carrying something under his arm," Wallace commented.

They waited while the native puffed his way up the bank of the small
plateau on which the spaceship rested. When he reached them he stood
for a moment fighting to regain his breath. It was evident that he had
run long and hard.

Pushing his package under one arm, Al-fin raised the other and pointed
at the sky. Bringing his arm around in a wide half-circle, he made a
sound with his lips like an Earth bumblebee. When he reached the end
of the half-circle he held a finger out in a long point. He ended the
performance by holding his hand out toward the spaceship and making
a scooping motion--as though he were throwing it into the air. Three
times he repeated the maneuver.

Wallace watched him in puzzled silence. At the end of the third
repetition his eyes widened with slowly dawning understanding. He ran
for the portal of the ship. "I'll be right back," he tossed over his
shoulder.

Inside he glanced quickly at the s-tracer. Its needles indicated that
the bloodhound was directly across the planet from them!

He dashed back to the open portal. "Inside! Quick!" he called to Saxton.

Saxton wasted not a minute in obeying. As he pushed past Wallace,
Al-fin came to the portal of the ship. He extended the parcel he had
been carrying under his arm to Wallace. "Meat," he said. "Bye."

"Thanks," Wallace answered, taking the gift. "Thanks--for everything."
He closed the portal quickly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three hours later they were in hyperspace. Another five minutes and
they were in the Ten Thousand Worlds portion of the galaxy--and safe.

Saxton turned over on his side. He had made a faster recovery from the
nausea of the bridge than usual. "Okay," he said to Wallace. "Give."

Wallace smiled. "Perhaps we'd better open Al-fin's gift first,"
he said, deliberately teasing Saxton with his procrastination. He
unwrapped the several large leaves from the package on the table.

Inside was a man's fat arm--with a long scar running from shoulder
joint to elbow!

       *       *       *       *       *

Saxton groaned and dashed for the lavatory. This time he was sicker
than he'd been during the jump. When he turned, streaks of pale green
showed through the duskiness of his cheeks. "They're cannibals," he
whispered.

"I wouldn't hold that against them," Wallace said. "It might have been
one of the necessities of their survival."

"I suppose so." Saxton turned intently to Wallace. "This much I got,"
he said. "When Al-fin said 'Bye,' I figured that he was telling us to
get out. But how did he know that it would be safe--and how did you
know enough to trust him?"

"I can't take too much credit," Wallace said. "Just all at once
everything clicked together--at the exact moment I understood that
Al-fin was trying to tell us to leave. You remember we decided that
their survival characteristic would probably be something inherent in
all of us, but not developed--or at least not to the extent that an
isolated colony of humans would need here?"

Saxton nodded.

"Well, I'm convinced that the answer is intuition."

"Intuition?"

"Yes," Wallace said. "Everyone knows what intuition is, and has it to
some degree. With no evidence to back up his reasoning a person knows
that something is going to happen. Sometimes he can even give exact
details. It's a definite, perceivable faculty. Yet no one has ever
been able to explain just what it is, or even how it works. But if you
looked at it in another way it wouldn't be so mysterious. It's another
sense--too deeply buried in our subconscious to be consistently active.
Those savages needed it here--fully developed--and nature provided it."

Saxton pulled himself up on one elbow. "And with it they can
practically see what's going to happen in the future," he finished for
Wallace. "They can predict--and be right every time! That's how Al-fin
knew it would be safe for us to leave." He paused. "It all fits. I
think you've got it."

Wallace smiled. "My guess is that they can't see very far into the
future. That's why Al-fin was out of breath when he came. By the time
he learned about the coming opposition of our ship and the aliens he
had to hurry to get to us, and tell us, before it was too late."

Wallace rubbed the stubble of whiskers on his chin with his knuckles.
"We'll have to report this planet suitable for colonizing," he said. "I
hate to think what will happen to those poor savages when civilization
moves in. They'll soon lose that future-seeing."

Saxton's eyes widened at some inner thought. He sat straight up in his
bunk. "Will they?" he asked. "Or will it work the other way? Someday
the children of those naked savages may...." He stopped. Wallace
recognized the glaze of abstraction that moved over his features.

Saxton began to sing a stanza from an old popular song that had
recently been revived: "_There's gonna be some changes made...._"