By the time Horn allowed his followers to take some rest - they'd found a hillock that had become an island - Larsen had been forced to recognize that the money wasn't hidden in the boats. He searched further, because the fugitives had been in the clearing when the Theban landed. The cone-shaped crimson-fluorescent beacon had a doorway. He explored its interior. There was the broadcasting unit - the beacon itself - and means for changing the signal it broadcast. If a survey ship discovered a danger in the ship lane hereabouts, the beacons along the lane could be adjusted to give due warning of it to space mariners. But there was no money hidden in the cone. There was no recent excavation in the clearing where the money might have been buried. Larsen even had the supply pit emptied of its decaying, malodorous contents to be sure the Danae's people hadn't stashed away their precious cargo there.
So there was nothing to do but hunt down the fugitives and force them to reveal its location. At just about the time Horn had his partly rested followers take up their journey again, Larsen led some of his crewmen in a hunt for them. He actually wanted two things: the money and Horn. Both were necessary. If Horn could be found, Larsen believed he could threaten or bribe him into securing his own safety by his co-operation. Horn had co-operated from Formalhaut to Hermas, and from Hennas to here. But Larsen knew nothing of Ginny, whose presence had determined so much of what Horn had done.
The castaways seemed an even simpler problem. Human beings are adapted to human- ecology planets. Worlds not modified to grow Earth vegetation and support Earth animals simply don't produce food for humans to live on. The castaways had some food, but not much. They couldn't hope to find more on Carola. In time they must yield their treasure in exchange for food - which, of course, would last them only so long anyhow. So Larsen considered that, with a little judicious hunting and perhaps the killing of a few, the refugees from the Danae would surrender - under solemn promises of transportation to a civilized world - could be murdered in between the stars, and everything would be very tidily finished. Larsen led his hunting party after the castaways with a serene confidence.
The planet Carola paid no attention. Its single continent was mostly swamp, though there was higher ground along most of its coastline. There were rain clouds of incredible density, and storms of unbelievable violence. On this particular day the belts of storm clouds poured down torrents upon the empty seas and on much relatively solid ground. The swamps to the west of the beacon were filling up, and rain continued to fall beyond the western horizon at a rate of seven to ten inches per hour.
Presently the clouds would reach the beacon clearing. Then even hillsides would become torrents, and the already rising water level would grow higher. The game trails Horn now followed would be submerged fathoms deep. If the planet were aware of anything at all - and some people believe that worlds and suns are aware of their own existence - it was absorbed in the simple fact of being. It did not heed mere bipeds moving restlessly here and there on its surface. It did not even concern itself over the slaughter of its fauna for trespass on the beacon clearing.
Larsen's hunting party had luck, at first. They found the fugitives' tracks almost at once. They followed the trail, though the footprints were much obscured by the spoor of the beasts the ship's lights had drawn to the clearing after the castaways fled. But by paying close attention, fragments of tracks could be traced. Some were men's, some women's, and a few had been made by children. Larsen was unpleasantly pleased. If he found the castaways and got the money, hunger would make Horn return. Then he must run the Theban's engines, and matters would go as Larsen had planned.
But the trailing was slow. More than once they lost the track and went past the junction of other game trails the Danae's people had turned into. They had to search painstakingly to track down the forty millions of credits the castaways had taken from the Danae when they abandoned her. The fugitives would feel Larsen's displeasure for causing him the extra effort of trailing them.
It was past midafternoon, though, when he came to the place where water began to show among the trees. The footprint trail was visible, but he didn't see the hole made by the engineer's shorted blast rifle. The water level had risen and filled it. Larsen's party came to the place where the trail ended altogether, where it went into water which glittered as far as they could see. Horn's and the engineer's footprints showed here, too, but they, like the others, went into the water and didn't come back.
Larsen cursed. He knew nothing of Ginny and he couldn't imagine Horn's purposes or habits of thought. But people didn't go into swamps to stay; they went into swamps to come out of them somewhere else. They must know of solid ground beyond this slowly surging liquid. But where they could go, Larsen could follow.
He led the way into the water, with his men trailing him. The water rose to their ankles, to their knees, to their thighs. They did not notice another jungle trail which joined the one they followed. Horn had turned back along that trail and found the Danae's company. Larsen didn't. The water continued to deepen, and he growled to his followers to hold their weapons high. He pressed on.
At just about this time, in late afternoon, Horn led his people ashore, miles away. They were on the far side of the beacon clearing. Horn led the way a full mile from the swamp's edge and worked with the others to cut a tiny open space in which to bivouac for the night. It was away from the jungle trail they'd followed. The hypochondriac passenger protested that his health would not let him exert himself. Horn drove him to labour, regardless. The engineer went through the motions of working, but he was very badly in need of a drink. The others, weary as they were, understood that a game trail was not a good place in which to camp. Large animals might want to use it during the night. But besides, the castaways realized that Horn had taken them out of a very real danger and they were safer than they had been. They weren't confident of the future, but they were much more hopeful than before.
Horn arranged for watches during the night. He organized his following briskly, and the Danae's captain dignifiedly agreed with his measures.
Larsen's enterprise was less fortunate. He led his followers deep into the swamp. From thigh deep the water became breast high. The rifles had to be carried overhead lest they come into contact with water and destroy themselves. It wouldn't be practical to use them even in an emergency.
The water grew deeper yet. The sun sank low. Larsen snarled at his followers. The branches across a jungle trail, of course, are never more than so many feet above its floor. A crewman caught his blast rifle in a branch and it was wrenched from his hand. It roared, shorted out.
The men of Larsen's party scattered as the rifle proceeded to destroy itself with thoroughness and much tumult. Another man stumbled. Another blast rifle created the monstrous uproar a short-circuit rifle does. There was panic, steam, and flying mud. There was boiling water. Branches were severed. One jungle tree toppled across the path.
Larsen's followers got to safe distances and waited out the destruction. Before they dared reassemble the sun was low indeed. Then they dared not go on. No sane man will wade in a flooded jungle after nightfall.
Larsen cursed, but his men retreated, splashing in their haste. It was dark before they came wholly out of the water. They actually took a wrong path and came out at the castaway's original hiding place, from which Horn had led them. They walked over and blotted out the footprints they were looking for, blundered on, found out that they were lost.