No-Fur tightened his grip on his spear — of Barrier material it was, roughly sharpened at one end — as he sensed the approach of somebody along the tunnel, coming from the direction of Tekka’s country. It could be a Different One bearing a child who would become one of the New People, it could be attack. But, somehow, the confused impressions that his mind received did not bear out either of these assumptions.
No-Fur shrank against the wall of the tunnel, his body sinking deep into the spongy material. Now he could dimly see the intruder — a solitary form flitting furtively through the shadows. His sense of smell told him that it was a female. Yet he was certain that she had no child with her. He tensed himself to attack as soon as the stranger should pass his hiding place.
Surprisingly, she stopped.
“I come in peace,” she said. “I am one of you. I am,” here she paused a little, “one of the New People.”
Shrick made no reply, no betraying movement. It was barely possible, he knew, that this female might be possessed of abnormally keen eyesight. It was even more likely that she had smelled him out. But then — how was it that she had known the name by which the New People called themselves? To the outside world they were Different Ones — and had the stranger called herself such she would at once have proclaimed herself an alien whose life was forfeit.
“You do not know,” the voice came again, “how it is that I called myself by the proper name. In my own Tribe I am called a Different One—”
“Then how is it,” No-Fur’s voice was triumphant, “that you were allowed to live?”
“Come to me! No, leave your spear. Now come!”
No-Fur stuck his weapon into the soft cavern wall. Slowly, almost fearfully, he advanced to where the female was waiting. He could see her better now — and she seemed no different from those fugitive mothers of Different Ones — at whose slaughter he had so often assisted. The body was well proportioned and covered with fine, silky fur. The head was well shaped. Physically she was so normal as to seem repugnant to the New People.
And yet— No-Fur found himself comparing her with the females of his own Tribe, to the disadvantage of the latter. Emotion rather than reason told him that the hatred inspired by the sight of an ordinary body was the result of a deep-rooted feeling of inferiority rather than anything else. And he wanted this stranger.
“No,” she said slowly, “it is not my body that is different. It is in my head. I didn’t know myself until a little while — about two hands of feeding — ago. But I can tell, now, what is going on inside your head, or the head of any of the People—”
“But,” asked the male, “how did they—”
“I was ripe for mating. I was mated to Trillo, the son of Tekka, the chief. And in our cave I told Trillo things of which he only knew. I thought that I should please him, I thought that he would like to have a mate with magical powers that he could put to good use. With my aid he could have made himself chief. But he was angry — and very frightened. He ran to Tekka, who judged me as a Different One. I was to have been killed, but I was able to escape. They dare not follow me too far into this country—”
Then — “You want me.”
It was a statement rather than a question.
“Yes. But—”
“No-Tail? She can die. If I fight her and win, I become your mate.”
Briefly, half regretfully, No-Fur thought of his female. She had been patient, she had been loyal. But he saw that, with this stranger for a mate, there were no limits to his advancement. It was not that he was more enlightened than Trillo had been, it was that as one of the New People he regarded abnormality as the norm.
“Then you will take me.” Once again there was no hint of questioning. Then — “My name is Wesel.”
The arrival of No-Fur, with Wesel in tow, at the Place-of-Meeting could not have been better timed. There was a trial in progress, a young male named Big-Ears having been caught red-handed in the act of stealing a coveted piece of metal from the cave of one Four-Arms. Long-Nose, who should have relieved No-Fur, had found the spectacle of a trial with the prospect of a feast to follow far more engrossing than the relief of the lonely sentry.
It was he who first noticed the newcomers.
“Oh, Big-Tusk,” he called, “No-Fur has deserted his post!”
The chief was disposed to the lenient.
“He has a prisoner,” he said. “A Different One. We shall feast well.”
“He is afraid of you,” hissed Wesel. “Defy him!”
“It is no prisoner.” No-Fur’s voice was arrogant. “It is my new mate. And you, Long-Nose, go at once to the tunnel.”
“Go, Long-Nose. My country must not remain unguarded. No-Fur, hand the strange female over to the guards that she may be slaughtered.”
No-Fur felt his resolution wavering under the stern glare of the chief. As two of Big-Tusk’s bullies approached he slackened his grip on Wesel’s arm. She turned to him, pleading and desperation in her eyes.
“No, no. He is afraid of you, I say. Don’t give in to him. Together we can—”
Ironically, it was No-Tail’s intervention that turned the scales. She confronted her mate, scorn written large on her unbeautiful face, the shrewish tongue dreaded by all the New People, even the chief himself, fast getting under way.
“So,” she said, “you prefer this drab, common female to me. Hand her over, so that she may, at least, fill our bellies. As for you, my bucko, you will pay for this insult!”
No-Fur looked at the grotesque, distorted form of No-Tail, and then at the slim, sleek Wesel. Almost without volition he spoke.
“Wesel is my mate,” he said. “She is one of the New People!”
Big-Tusk lacked the vocabulary to pour adequate scorn upon the insolent rebel. He struggled for words, but could find none to cover the situation. His little eyes gleamed redly, and his hideous tusks were bared in a vicious snarl.
“Now!” prompted the stranger. “His head is confused. He will be rash. His desire to tear and maul will cloud his judgment. Attack!”
No-Fur went into the fight coldly, knowing that if he kept his head he must win. He raised his spear to stem the first rush of the infuriated chief. Just in time Big-Tusk saw the rough point and, using his tail as a rudder, swerved. He wasn’t fast enough, although his action barely saved him from immediate death. The spear caught him in the shoulder and broke off short, leaving the end in the wound. Mad with rage and pain the chief was now a most dangerous enemy — and yet, at the same time, easy meat for an adversary who kept his head.
No-Fur was, at first, such a one. But his self-control was cracking fast. Try as he would he could not fight down the rising tides of hysterical fear, of sheer, animal blood lust. As the enemies circled, thrust and parried, he with his almost useless weapon, Big-Tusk with a fine, metal tipped spear, it took all his will power to keep himself from taking refuge in flight or closing to grapple with his more powerful antagonist. His reason told him that both courses of action would be disastrous — the first would end in his being hunted down and slaughtered by the Tribe, the second would bring him within range of the huge, murderous teeth that had given Big-Tusk his name.
So he thrust and parried, thrust and parried, until the keen edge of the chief’s blade nicked his arm. The stinging pain made him all animal, and with a shrill scream of fury he launched himself at the other.