One was a part of its heritage from the dying mind of Cliff Hawk. Over that too the rogue puzzled, without comprehension.
Why was it that it felt so attracted, so drawn to, so conscious of the presence of that small and unimportant organized mass of thought-radiant matter that Cliff Hawk's mind had indentified as "Molly Zaldivar"?
Through the blind, transflex eyes of the sleeth riding high over the cottage where Molly Zaldivar lay sleeping, the mind of the rogue stared down. Molly Zaldivar, it thought, what do I want with you?
And inside the house Molly started up from sleep and tried to scream. Sleep, ordered the rogue; and the girl subsided into the catalepsy of terror. No one had heard her scream; no one was in the house at that moment, and she had not been able to be loud enough to reach those who were outside on the grass, staring up at the sleeth.
The boy said, awed, "Mister, that's a wicked-looking beast. You sure it won't hurt us?"
The Reefer barked a savage laugh. "Not any more, boy," he rumbled. "Time was that sleeth would follow me like a kitten. Do everything I wanted it to, never think of disobeying—I raised it from a cub, it never knew any boss but me. But now it does." He studied the sleeth thoughtfully for a moment. As it hung in the sky on its shimmering transflection fields, the great black creature looked like some wingless Pegasus astride the air, its dangling claws capable of wrenching any carbon-based, air-breathing, muscle-powered animal in two as readily as a hawk's talons rend fur. "Fine beast," he said. "But not mine anymore."
Andy Quam said angrily, "Why did you bring it here? This sort of animal doesn't belong on a planet!"
"Why, because it's mine, Monitor Quamodian," and Reefer said simply, "I'm a hunter, and it's my companion. It goes wherever I go. Or used to. Why," he cried, suddenly enthusiastic, "with that sleeth I collected the finest specimens of every game animal in the solar system! You should have seen them. A score of fine pyropods. Darkbeasts from out past the reefs, moonbats, creatures from the hot deeps of Venus-there was nothing in a dozen light-years could touch that sleeth as a killer!"
Andy Quam said in disgust, "You talk as though killing were a good thing. Violence is evil. The laws of Almalik do not permit the destruction of life by life!"
The Reefer's deep eyes twinkled. "And would you never take a life, Monitor Quamodian? Not even, say, to save Miss Zaldivar?"
Andy Quam flushed. "We Companions are exempt from certain of Almalik's laws," he said stiffly. "We may even admit violence, in some situations."
"Then help me!" cried the Reefer. "I'm going to stalk something new, Monitor Quamodian, and you can join me in the hunt. I don't know what it is that's controlling my sleeth, but I'm going to take its pelt to put in my collection!"
"Nonsence," cried Andy Quam, startled. "Why—great Almalik, man —I mean, how can you? Don't you realize that that's probably a rogue star?"
The Reefer's laughter boomed. "Scare you, Monitor Quamodian?"
"No! Or—yes, maybe. I don't think it is unreasonable of a mere human being to question his ability to deal with a star!"
The boy, who had been watching them silently, turning from face to face, coughed and interrupted. Changing the subject he said, "Say, preacher! What's the matter with the moon?"
A dozen degrees over the horizon the gibbous moon floated, almost invisible, so dark a red was it. It was leprously stained and discolored, by no means the brilliant white fat crescent it should have appeared.
"It's the sun," said Andy Quam gloomily. "Remember how red and angry-looking it.was when it set? After those sunbolts struck? The moon's just reflecting it. And this man thinks he can destroy the thing that did that!"
"Worth a try, Monitor," boomed the Reefer cheerfully. "Mind if I borrow your flyer?"
"For what?"
"Why, for the hunt. It's a bit of a walk from here to the hills on foot," the Reefer apologized. "As I don't have the sleeth to take me there any more, I'd appreciate the use of your flyer. It's long past Star-day now, no reason not to use it."
Rufe cried out sharply. "Preacher! Listen—what's that sound?"
Quamodian raised his hand imperiously, silencing the Reefer's booming voice. They listened. Then Quam's face twisted. "It's Molly," he cried, turning to run toward the house. "She's calling my name!"
But when Andy Quam burst through the door of the girl's room she was lying wide-awake, looking at the ceiling. Slowly she lowered her eyes to look at him. "Andy," she said. "I should have known you'd come. I've always been able to rely on you."
Quamodian's ears burned. "Are you all right?" he demanded. "I heard you calling. . ."
She sat up on the edge of the bed. "All right? I suppose so." Her face was a mask of tragedy for a moment. "Poor Cliff," she whispered. "It's strange! I thought he was talking to me, in my dream. But it wasn't really him—it was something huge and strange. A monster." She shook herself.
Then, gloriously, she smiled. There was tragedy beneath the smile, but it was clear to Andy Quam that she was making an effort to be cheerful. "I dragged you all the way across space," she said. "I'm sorry. I've always been a trouble to you, Andy dear."
"Never a trouble," he said, speaking from a depth of passion that shook him. Molly was touched. She reached out and patted his arm. "Is there anything to eat?" she asked, incongruously. "It's been a long time!"
Rufe was happy to oblige when Quamodian relayed the girl's request to him, producing more sandwiches and milk, a seemingly inexhaustible supply of food. "Won't your family mind your taking us in like this?" asked Andy Quam. "We're eating you out of house and home!"
The boy's face clouded. "It's all right, preacher," he said.
Quamodian frowned at him. "Come to think of it," he said, "where are your family? It's pretty late for them to be at the Starchurch."
"Oh, they're not there anymore. They—they've gone away for a while."
Andy Quam stopped in the middle of the humming little kitchen, busy generating new supplies of bread and milk and meats to replace those the boy had drawn from its programs, and said firmly, "You're hiding something, Rufe. Why?"
"Aw, don't ask me, preacher. It's just—well, it's kind of private."
But then Molly Zaldivar came out of her room, looking remarkably refreshed and restored, and Andy Quam let the matter drop.
For half an hour they were all at ease, Molly as friendly and affectionate as ever in the old days on Exion Four, the boy beside himself with pleasure at pleasing Molly, even the Reefer almost jolly. The huge man from space demanded to know whether Quamodian would join him in his hunt for the rogue. For a moment, in that warm room, it almost seemed like a reasonable idea, and Quamodian let himself think about it —a long chase, a view-hallo, the quarry at bay. But it was fantasy. This was no beast of the forest but an inimical creature of linked plasmas whose size and might were utterly incomprehensible to humans. To hunt it was like setting a snare for a supernova.
Then Andy Quam saw Molly hiding a yawn, and realized with a start how utterly exhausted he was. "Let's get some sleep," he ordered, and fussed over them all until they had sorted themselves out into various rooms. Only then did Quamodian let himself sprawl out on the couch in the living room, the door to Molly's room just past his head, ready to spring up at any alarm.
It had been a good many hours, and a good many millions of parsecs, since he had slept. When he closed his eyes he was unconscious almost at once, and slept like the dead.
16
Where was the rogue? As well try to fix the position of an electron in its blurred orbit around a nucleus; it was under the hill and in it, suffusing the skies around, inhabiting the body of the sleeth that soared tirelessly and patiently over the house where Molly Zaldivar slept, penetrating and entering every hidden place within hundreds of miles, and reaching out into near space.