flat and stepped forward to stand over him, while for the first time since they had left Earth, from the maolot's throat came the deep, rumbling drone that was a true equivalent of a warning snarl.
"Mikey!" said Jef, and tried to get up. Mikey put one heavy forepaw on him and held him down, still staring blindly off into darkness, still rumbling his drone of warning.
Then, eerily, from the darkness came the sound of a high-pitched, human voice, shouting.
"All right!" it called. "Peace—nobody hurts nobody—I'm coming in. All right?"
Mikey took his paw off Jef and stood back. The droning in his throat ceased. Jef scrambled to his feet, staring at the maolot, and then off into the utter darkness of the forest into which Mikey was still facing.
There were a few seconds of waiting, and then a faint rustle from the obscurity was followed by the sudden appearance into the firelight of a slim figure a head shorter than Jef, dressed in leather jacket and green-brown check pants of thick-woven local cloth, with something slung on its back so that a gunstocklike end showed above the left shoulder. There was a quiver of what looked like short arrows at the belt. Jef blinked. It was some twelve-year-old: No—it was a young woman with close-cut brown hair and a lean, tanned face.
"Peace," she said again, stopping on the far side of the fire. "All friends—nobody hurts nobody like I said. But you're real lucky you've found how to make a watchdog out of a maolot. Before I saw that, I'd half a mind to put a bolt into you first and ask questions after."
"Put..." Jef shook his head. The words made no sense. "Why?"
"Why you're on my place—and no message sent you were coming through!" the girl said.
Jef blinked again. Her place? She looked to be somewhere between a dozen and sixteen years old.
"Strangers," she was saying now, "get shot on sight in these woods nowadays, when they show up without warning. Everybody knows that. Why don't you?"
Chapter Six
Jef stared at her.
Her question was a good one. Why didn't he?
"Nobody told me," he said. The words sounded foolish in the quiet night above the crackling fire. There was that difference in her speech that he had noticed with the Constable and others, the faint pause in a sentence every so often. "Your place?"
"That's right," she said. "I'm Jarji Jo Hillegas; and this is my ranch—from Silver Meadow to Way Down Creek. I've got over six hundred head of eland running these woods. All the ranches around here are Hillegas ranches. My oldest sister's got the next one south, and my next-to-youngest brother's got his just north of mine. My dad's land backs us all up, eastways."
"Oh," said Jef. "You're an upland game rancher. But—" he hesitated, "you're young for that, aren't you?"
"I'm twenty-two—Standard."
"Oh." Jef continued to stare at her, uncertain as to whether she had simply taken him for an outsider who would believe anything, or not. In no way, he told himself, could she be only one Standard year younger than he was. Not the way she looked.
"And who the hell are you?" she was asking.
"Jef Aram Robini," said Jef automatically. "I'm—I'm here on a research project. I'm headed for the trading post—Post Fifty-right now. But I'm taking Mikey here—" He gestured at the maolot.
"—up to the mountains. He's been raised under observational conditions on Earth; and now I'm trying to find out how he'll adapt, back on his own world."
"The mountains? Why didn't you ride up with one of the supply-truck trains?"
"I wanted to get Mikey back into his natural environment as soon as possible. He's actually eight years old—"
"No, he isn't."
"As a matter of fact he is."
"I don't know who told you that, Robini, but anybody who knows maolots can tell you he's not more than four years, Local. If he was eight years old—"
"As it happens," Jef found an actual pleasure in interrupting her for a change, "he is. That's one of the reasons I brought him all the way back here. On
"Mikey!" said Jef, and tried to get up. Mikey put one heavy forepaw on him and held him down, still staring blindly off into darkness, still rumbling his drone of warning.
Then, eerily, from the darkness came the sound of a high-pitched, human voice, shouting.
"All right!" it called. "Peace—nobody hurts nobody—I'm coming in. All right?"
Mikey took his paw off Jef and stood back. The droning in his throat ceased. Jef scrambled to his feet, staring at the maolot, and then off into the utter darkness of the forest into which Mikey was still facing.
There were a few seconds of waiting, and then a faint rustle from the obscurity was followed by the sudden appearance into the firelight of a slim figure a head shorter than Jef, dressed in leather jacket and green-brown check pants of thick-woven local cloth, with something slung on its back so that a gunstocklike end showed above the left shoulder. There was a quiver of what looked like short arrows at the belt. Jef blinked. It was some twelve-year-old: No—it was a young woman with close-cut brown hair and a lean, tanned face.
"Peace," she said again, stopping on the far side of the fire. "All friends—nobody hurts nobody like I said. But you're real lucky you've found how to make a watchdog out of a maolot. Before I saw that, I'd half a mind to put a bolt into you first and ask questions after."
"Put..." Jef shook his head. The words made no sense. "Why?"
"Why you're on my place—and no message sent you were coming through!" the girl said.
Jef blinked again. Her place? She looked to be somewhere between a dozen and sixteen years old.
"Strangers," she was saying now, "get shot on sight in these woods nowadays, when they show up without warning. Everybody knows that. Why don't you?"
Chapter Six
Jef stared at her.
Her question was a good one. Why didn't he?
"Nobody told me," he said. The words sounded foolish in the quiet night above the crackling fire. There was that difference in her speech that he had noticed with the Constable and others, the faint pause in a sentence every so often. "Your place?"
"That's right," she said. "I'm Jarji Jo Hillegas; and this is my ranch—from Silver Meadow to Way Down Creek. I've got over six hundred head of eland running these woods. All the ranches around here are Hillegas ranches. My oldest sister's got the next one south, and my next-to-youngest brother's got his just north of mine. My dad's land backs us all up, eastways."
"Oh," said Jef. "You're an upland game rancher. But—" he hesitated, "you're young for that, aren't you?"
"I'm twenty-two—Standard."
"Oh." Jef continued to stare at her, uncertain as to whether she had simply taken him for an outsider who would believe anything, or not. In no way, he told himself, could she be only one Standard year younger than he was. Not the way she looked.
"And who the hell are you?" she was asking.
"Jef Aram Robini," said Jef automatically. "I'm—I'm here on a research project. I'm headed for the trading post—Post Fifty-right now. But I'm taking Mikey here—" He gestured at the maolot.
"—up to the mountains. He's been raised under observational conditions on Earth; and now I'm trying to find out how he'll adapt, back on his own world."
"The mountains? Why didn't you ride up with one of the supply-truck trains?"
"I wanted to get Mikey back into his natural environment as soon as possible. He's actually eight years old—"
"No, he isn't."
"As a matter of fact he is."
"I don't know who told you that, Robini, but anybody who knows maolots can tell you he's not more than four years, Local. If he was eight years old—"
"As it happens," Jef found an actual pleasure in interrupting her for a change, "he is. That's one of the reasons I brought him all the way back here. On
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