by Mike Lewis
a coiled water-moccasin. He tossed a stick at thesnake, and it slithered into the shallow water. Then he caught herarms, and she whirled to face him with defiant eyes.
"You think I'm a--a--"
"I don't."
"You act like I'm barely human."
"I didn't mean it that way--"
"You don't even trust me, and you want me to--"
"I _don't_."
"Trust me." She nodded.
"I do."
She stamped her foot in the soft muck. "Then kiss me."
A grim possibility occurred to him, and he hesitated an instant toolong. She wrenched herself free with a snarl and bolted back towardthe shanty. "_I could_ have done _that_ last night," she snapped overher shoulder, "while you were asleep."
* * * * *
The chase led back to the house. When he burst back inside, she wasalready panting over the sink, scraping plates. When he approached herfrom behind, she whirled quickly, clenching a platter in both hands.When she brought it down across his head with a clatter of brokenchina, Morgan gave up. He retreated, nursing his scalp, then stalkedangrily out to join Hanson. Dogs were baying to the north. The old manlooked worried.
"They're comin', suh. Must be a lot of 'em. I got my dawgs trained sothey don't bark less they's a bunch of 'em."
Morgan listened for a moment. "I hear a truck."
"That's so?" Hanson shook his head. "They ain't never come in a truckbefore."
"Truck--must be a dozen of them at least." He eyed Hanson sharply."Run or fight?"
The old man scratched his toe in the dirt. "Ain't never yet run from afight."
Morgan turned silently and strode back in the house for the gun. Sheraignored him. "Orenians coming," he grunted, and went back out to jointhe oldster.
Morgan and Hanson trotted through the scrub spruce, heading for theroadway. But they turned short and cut north through the edge of thebrush. Morgan caught a glimpse of the truck far ahead. Hanson's houndswere snarling about the wheels and leaping up toward the bed. The roadwas soft sand to their right. Ducking low, they darted ahead until itappeared firm enough to admit the truck.
"We want them to get past us," he hissed to Hanson. "When they do, youstand up and show yourself. When they start piling out, I'll startshooting. Okay?"
"Yes, suh." He patted his pitchfork and grinned. They stopped andcrouched low in the brush.
"Please, suh--don't hit my dawgs."
"I'm counting on them to help."
The truck grumbled slowly past them. The hounds were snappingfuriously as they tried to leap over the tailgate. Morgan caught aglimpse of white faces, staring fixedly at nothing. Then he nudged theoldster.
Hanson stood up, shaking his pitchfork and shrieking hate at theoccupants. The truck moved on a few yards, then ground to a stop.
"_Come and join us_," thundered a collective voice. "_For we are Oren,who is one._"
Morgan could see nothing through the screen of foliage. But the oldman was still howling invective.
"_From the stars comes Oren. To the stars he goes. Come and join us._"
"Come get me, you devils. I'll kill ya!"
"_Oren is millions. He cannot die. We come._"
Hanson's foot nudged Morgan's nervously. Still he lay under cover,waiting for their advance. Feet shuffled on the bed of the truck. Thehounds were going wild. There was something weird about sounds ofOrenian movement. It was always coordinated--so many marionettes withone set of controls. But they could shift from parallel coordinationto complementary, dovetailing each set of movements to achieve thecommon purpose.
Morgan burst forth from the brush and fired at the tight group ofbodies near the back of the truck. They were packed in a circle toprotect the group from the slashing fangs of the dogs. Two of themfell, without outcries. He fired three times before they broke apart.There were still at least eight of them, but the dogs had two down.
"Oh, God! Children!" Morgan bellowed. "Call off the dogs!"
"Not _human_ children."
* * * * *
"Call them off!"
Hanson obeyed reluctantly. A pair of calm-eyed child-things scrambledto their feet and began advancing with the group of adults. TheOrenians fanned out and began closing in like the fingers of a giantfist. Morgan shot four of them before the circle closed to hatchetrange. He and Hanson stood back to back, slashing out at the ring offanged faces.
The attackers were weaponless. They cared nothing for individualbodies. The collectivum swayed, writhed, darted in--and fell in blood.The wounded crawled close to their ankles, barbs protruding from theirlips. They roared constantly, "_Oren is paradise. Come to Oren._"
A child, who had been rescued from one of the dogs, crawled among thelegs of the adults and lunged for Morgan's feet. He was forced to kickit back with a hard heel.
Suddenly their ranks broke. There were only four of them leftstanding. They backed away and stopped--three men and a middle-agedwoman. "_Oren will return._" They turned and marched toward the truck.
"We need the truck," panted Morgan.
Hanson flung his pitchfork and caught the last one in the center ofthe back. The others moved on unheeding. Morgan sadly lifted theshotgun.
When it was over, they went to look at the two child-things. One wasunconscious, but not badly wounded. The other had a broken arm. Itshot out its fang and circled. With a sick heart, Morgan lashed outand caught it by the hair, before it could sting him.
"See if there's pliers in the truck," he muttered.
* * * * *
Hanson returned with them after a moment's rummaging. They jerked outits fang and let it go. It walked calmly to the north, purposedefeated. They did the same to the other.
"It's crazy," he was gasping. "Stark crazy. They spend over a dozenOrenians just to get two of us. And they didn't want to kill us atthat."
"Lo'dy, suh! Who _is_ Oren? You know?"
Morgan shook his head. "He's the collectivum, Han."
"But suh--he had to come from some place. People weren't like this--"
"Yeah. I guess he came from space, like they say."
"Just them little pink brain-gobblers?"
"Uh-uh! Scientists figure they came in some alien host. The hostscouldn't take Earth conditions. They stung a few humans and died."
"Anybody ever see 'em?"
"Not that I know of. Nor found their ships."
"O Lo'dy, I'm sick, suh."
"Let's go back to the shanty, Han."
"Yes, suh. Look on the back o' my neck, will you suh?"
Morgan looked, then turned slowly away.
"Is it, suh?"
Morgan took a deep breath. "I--I--guess--"
"I stumbled once. I guess he got me then."
Morgan laid a hand on the old man's arm. There was nothing to say.
"Mistuh Morgan--would you do me a favo'?"
Morgan knew what he wanted. "I can't shoot you, Han. I'll leave youthe gun, though."
"No, suh, that ain't it. I was wondering--could you help me catch apainter tonight--before I go?"
"A panther?" Morgan squeezed his arm and blinked hard. He grinned."Sure, Han."
"Guess it'll be two, three days afore it starts happening to me."
"Yeah. Will you want the gun?"
"No, suh, don't think much of suicide. I'll just go out and wrestle mea 'gator in the swamp."
They went back to the house. Shera was sitting on the step.
"I've made up my mind," she said dully.
"About what?"
"I'll do it."
She got up and walked away. When Morgan tried to follow, she turnedand flicked out the barb at him, then laughed coldly. Shivering, heturned away.
That night the dogs treed a panther, and Hanson died. It happenedwhile he was climbing with pole and rope, angling to get a noose onthe lithe beast while Morgan waited with another rope below. Thelantern was hung from a branch while Hanson inched out
on the limb.When he thrust the noose forward, the panther brushed it aside with aquick slap. It leaped. Hanson lost his balance and crashed to theground with a howl. The panther slapped a dog spinning and darted awayin the night with three dogs following.
Morgan knelt quickly beside the old man. His back was broken.
"Please, suh--don't move me. The Lo'd's a-comin' fo' old Han."
"Hush, fellow," Morgan murmured.
"Suh, that painter's a she. And they's cubs
