drop his hand. Growling savagely, Fatso turned to face the other Neanderthal, who said, simply:
“Black hair is unarmed and has surrendered; do not strike him again.”
At this astounding statement, Fatso stopped short, blinking incredulously. Gradually, the import of Hurok’s brief statement percolated through his thick skull. His fury ebbed, replaced by slack-jawed amazement.
And as for myself, I was amazed as well. I had not thought to find even the barest rudiments of gentlemanliness among these Stone Age primitives. But such nobler sentiments were to be found, at least, within the breast of Hurok.
Fatso was a cowardly bully, and did not enjoy a fight even under the best of circumstances, so he subsided, growling, eyeing me with surly menace.
Hurok gestured with his spear.
“Assist One-Eye to the boats and revive him with water,” he instructed the other. Then he prodded me in the back, and drove me to where the dugouts were beached.
Thus it was that I again became captive to the Apemen. But this time I was alone.…
CHAPTER 11
THE JAWS OF DOOM
From the upper branches of a great Jurassic conifer, Jorn the Hunter grimly watched as the Apemen forced me into one of the dugout canoes, and pushed forth into the waters of the Sogar-Jad.
One by one the clumsy primitives cast off from the shore. Paddling with long sticks, they fought the tide, emerging into the wider seas beyond. Soon the row of hollow logs, with their bestial rowers and their lone, hapless captive, blurred and faded in the steamy fogs which floated over the face of the waters.
Jorn uttered a stern oath. The young Cro-Magnon, it seems, had conceived of an instant liking for me as had I for him. It was, he thought, fatalistically, cruelly unfair for me to have been captured again, when by my plan and daring, I had freed them all: but life in the savage jungles of Zanthodon is cruel and unfair; in this primitive realm beneath the earth’s crust, survival does not always go to the best, but often to the luckiest.
Clambering lithely down out of his tree, the young Hunter stood motionless for a moment, savoring the air with sensitive nostrils and straining his keen ears for the slightest sign that might betoken the whereabouts of his erstwhile comrades.
Detecting nothing, he struck out for the higher ground, sensibly striving to put as much distance between the Apemen and himself as could be done. He could not be certain that all of the Drugars had taken to the dugouts; and, even if they had, it might well be a ruse. It was not beyond the dull wits of the Apemen to circle back to the shore at another point, scheming to take their former captives by surprise.
Jorn had not fled with the Professor, Darya and myself, but had taken another route, running for his life.
He had briefly glimpsed another of his countrymen ducking between the boles of the trees at the jungle’s edge, and thought him to be Fumio, but he could not be sure.
Finding a jungle aisle, Jorn picked up his pace, breaking into a long, loping stride that he could hold for hours, if necessary, without flagging.
But it was not his intention to attempt to return to his homeland of Thandar alone and empty-handed.
Not while Darya his princess was lost, accompanied only by the old man.
He intended to search every square foot of the jungle until he found them, whether alive or dead.
* * * *
Darya and the Professor did not go very far into the jungle before they became hopelessly lost. They paused to rest beside a pool of calm, clear water whose source was a rocky spring. Fanning his perspiring brow with his sun helmet, the Professor sagged limply onto a fallen log while Darya began searching along the margins of the pool.
“Whatever are you looking for, my dear?” the Professor inquired, after a time. The jungle girl showed him a handful of flat, smooth stones she had selected out of the mud.
“Indeed? And of what use to us are those pebbles?” he asked.
I have already described
“Black hair is unarmed and has surrendered; do not strike him again.”
At this astounding statement, Fatso stopped short, blinking incredulously. Gradually, the import of Hurok’s brief statement percolated through his thick skull. His fury ebbed, replaced by slack-jawed amazement.
And as for myself, I was amazed as well. I had not thought to find even the barest rudiments of gentlemanliness among these Stone Age primitives. But such nobler sentiments were to be found, at least, within the breast of Hurok.
Fatso was a cowardly bully, and did not enjoy a fight even under the best of circumstances, so he subsided, growling, eyeing me with surly menace.
Hurok gestured with his spear.
“Assist One-Eye to the boats and revive him with water,” he instructed the other. Then he prodded me in the back, and drove me to where the dugouts were beached.
Thus it was that I again became captive to the Apemen. But this time I was alone.…
CHAPTER 11
THE JAWS OF DOOM
From the upper branches of a great Jurassic conifer, Jorn the Hunter grimly watched as the Apemen forced me into one of the dugout canoes, and pushed forth into the waters of the Sogar-Jad.
One by one the clumsy primitives cast off from the shore. Paddling with long sticks, they fought the tide, emerging into the wider seas beyond. Soon the row of hollow logs, with their bestial rowers and their lone, hapless captive, blurred and faded in the steamy fogs which floated over the face of the waters.
Jorn uttered a stern oath. The young Cro-Magnon, it seems, had conceived of an instant liking for me as had I for him. It was, he thought, fatalistically, cruelly unfair for me to have been captured again, when by my plan and daring, I had freed them all: but life in the savage jungles of Zanthodon is cruel and unfair; in this primitive realm beneath the earth’s crust, survival does not always go to the best, but often to the luckiest.
Clambering lithely down out of his tree, the young Hunter stood motionless for a moment, savoring the air with sensitive nostrils and straining his keen ears for the slightest sign that might betoken the whereabouts of his erstwhile comrades.
Detecting nothing, he struck out for the higher ground, sensibly striving to put as much distance between the Apemen and himself as could be done. He could not be certain that all of the Drugars had taken to the dugouts; and, even if they had, it might well be a ruse. It was not beyond the dull wits of the Apemen to circle back to the shore at another point, scheming to take their former captives by surprise.
Jorn had not fled with the Professor, Darya and myself, but had taken another route, running for his life.
He had briefly glimpsed another of his countrymen ducking between the boles of the trees at the jungle’s edge, and thought him to be Fumio, but he could not be sure.
Finding a jungle aisle, Jorn picked up his pace, breaking into a long, loping stride that he could hold for hours, if necessary, without flagging.
But it was not his intention to attempt to return to his homeland of Thandar alone and empty-handed.
Not while Darya his princess was lost, accompanied only by the old man.
He intended to search every square foot of the jungle until he found them, whether alive or dead.
* * * *
Darya and the Professor did not go very far into the jungle before they became hopelessly lost. They paused to rest beside a pool of calm, clear water whose source was a rocky spring. Fanning his perspiring brow with his sun helmet, the Professor sagged limply onto a fallen log while Darya began searching along the margins of the pool.
“Whatever are you looking for, my dear?” the Professor inquired, after a time. The jungle girl showed him a handful of flat, smooth stones she had selected out of the mud.
“Indeed? And of what use to us are those pebbles?” he asked.
I have already described
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