Aton threw his largest stone in a high arc that intercepted no branches during its ascent. It came down noisily fifty yards from his tree—away from the hunter. The man should pass very near, on his way to investigate. The first stone would have to be accurate, even so; a projectile weapon, properly used, could be as deadly as a knife.

The quarry began to whistle tunelessly, approaching. Did the fool expect to stalk an animal that way? There would be no point in reasoning with such an idiot. Best simply to kill him and backtrack to the ship. Aton could handle any conventional model.

The whistling grew louder. Aton raised his arm, flexing his wrist comfortably. He would have to expose himself momentarily; it was too risky to aim by the sound alone.

The whistling stopped. “I should advise you,” a scratchy voice said, “that my old-fashioned rifle has an old-fashioned heat preceptor. If you are sapient, act accordingly.”

The tree would protect him somewhat. The hunter would not dare to approach too close, and could not gain anything by circling. But neither could Aton hope to overcome him, since he had lost the advantage of surprise. He would have to parley.

“Sapient,” he called. “Truce.”

“I’ll hold my fire,” the voice agreed, “as long as I think it wise. I’m not a very good shot, anyway—more likely to hit the stomach than the heart.” The warning was plain enough: this man would shoot to maim rather than to kill.

Aton accepted the warning and put down his stones before stepping into view. He had no desire to experience the niceties of “poor” marksmanship. The hunter was less foolish than anticipated.

The hunter was short, slightly built, and middle-aged. Small, very bright eyes peered out from a deeply creased and sallow face. The hands, too, were yellow, the flesh sunken between tendons, the nails coarse and too long. But the vintage rifle those hands held was absolutely steady, and it bore unwaveringly upon Aton’s midsection. This was no pampered sportsman.

The hunter was giving Aton a similar perusal. “When you return to nature, you certainly go all out,” he said at last. Aton suddenly remembered: they wore clothing outside, and he was naked from being in the caverns. His hair was filthy and inches long on every side; his beard was matted over chin and chest, tangled with bits of grass. His own skin was deathly pale, except where the dirt encrusted it.

“You have the look of a fugitive,” the man continued. “I wondered why it never occurred to you to parley honestly, instead of foolishly trying to ambush an armed man. Perhaps I should immolate you now, before you reverse the opportunity.”