three beasts made good their escape.
The remaining moose, though, were still trapped in the now tight circle of hunters. Their hairy bodies bristled with the arrows lodged in them. One animal had fallen, an arrow in its eye, and lay writhing on the ice while two of the club-wielders pounded mercilessly at it. A second, battered to its knees, growled defiance and butted with its antlers at its assailants. A third, bleeding in a dozen places, still stood erect, trumpeting ear-splitting calls of anger over the ice.
The hunters closed upon them for the kill. Forgotten now were the other six animals, who were allowed to break through the circle and flee, despite their wounds. All three trapped moose were down, now, and clubs were flailing. The sight horrified Jim, but he forced himself to watch. He had never seen violent death before.
It was all over in a few minutes. Three great creatures lay dead on the ice. A dozen of the hunters went efficiently to work with bone knives, skinning the beasts, peeling off huge chunks of fat and meat and wrapping them in the animal hides for easy transportation.
Now, and only now, did the hunters deign to notice the eight strangers in their midst.
Three of the hunters strode over. They were short, Jim saw, no more than five feet tall, but their bodies were thick and hard-muscled, and they showed no sign of distress over the exposure of their arms and faces to the cold. One was gray-haired and stubble-bearded, apparently the leader of the band. The other two were much younger. None of them looked at all friendly.
The old one said something. He spoke in short, sharp monosyllables, harsh grunting sounds that emerged as though each one cost him dearly.
Dr. Barnes replied, speaking clearly and loudly: "We come in peace. Peace ."
Again the monosyllabic grunts. The two younger hunters conferred in brusque whispers. The old chief stared malevolently at Dr. Barnes.
"Take this," Dr. Barnes said, and handed the power torch he was holding to Jim. He held out his hand, fingers upraised. "Peace," he repeated. "I carry no weapons. Peace! Friendship!"
Back came more incomprehensible words-higher in pitch now, more excited-sounding.
Dr. Barnes glanced at Dom Hannon. "Dom, does that language of theirs make any sense to you ?"
The philologist shrugged. "It sounds as though it may have been English once. But the language has rotted away. There's nothing left of it but a few grunts. I can't pick up the sense of it."
Several other hunters detached themselves from the group dressing the kill, and strolled over. The scene began to look ugly. The hunters were sinister-looking little men, brutish and suspicious, and their bodies had the acrid smell of people among whom bathing is unknown.
"They must think we're trespassing on their hunting territory," Roy Veeder said. "He's probably warning us to get back to our own neighborhood."
"If they try anything," Ted Callison muttered, "we'll let them have it with the torches!"
"No," Jim said. "They belong here and we don't. We've got no right to kill them!"
"Only in self-defense," Roy said. "Looks to me as if they're going to attack."
And, for a moment, it did appear that trouble was brewing. The parley was getting nowhere. Dr. Barnes and the nomad chief had given up the attempt to communicate through language, and were pantomiming, but even that was not creating much mutual understanding. The old chief had his knife out and was waving it through the air in a belligerent fashion, while Dr. Barnes smiled, spoke mildly, showed his empty hands, and pointed to himself and then onward toward the sea to indicate he was only passing through, not staying to compete for hunting rights.
Meanwhile, the younger hunters were carrying on an independent-and heated-discussion of their own. It looked to Jim as if one of them were arguing for an immediate attack, the other one counseling patience.
All but five of the hunters had gathered around the parleyers now. The five were
The remaining moose, though, were still trapped in the now tight circle of hunters. Their hairy bodies bristled with the arrows lodged in them. One animal had fallen, an arrow in its eye, and lay writhing on the ice while two of the club-wielders pounded mercilessly at it. A second, battered to its knees, growled defiance and butted with its antlers at its assailants. A third, bleeding in a dozen places, still stood erect, trumpeting ear-splitting calls of anger over the ice.
The hunters closed upon them for the kill. Forgotten now were the other six animals, who were allowed to break through the circle and flee, despite their wounds. All three trapped moose were down, now, and clubs were flailing. The sight horrified Jim, but he forced himself to watch. He had never seen violent death before.
It was all over in a few minutes. Three great creatures lay dead on the ice. A dozen of the hunters went efficiently to work with bone knives, skinning the beasts, peeling off huge chunks of fat and meat and wrapping them in the animal hides for easy transportation.
Now, and only now, did the hunters deign to notice the eight strangers in their midst.
Three of the hunters strode over. They were short, Jim saw, no more than five feet tall, but their bodies were thick and hard-muscled, and they showed no sign of distress over the exposure of their arms and faces to the cold. One was gray-haired and stubble-bearded, apparently the leader of the band. The other two were much younger. None of them looked at all friendly.
The old one said something. He spoke in short, sharp monosyllables, harsh grunting sounds that emerged as though each one cost him dearly.
Dr. Barnes replied, speaking clearly and loudly: "We come in peace. Peace ."
Again the monosyllabic grunts. The two younger hunters conferred in brusque whispers. The old chief stared malevolently at Dr. Barnes.
"Take this," Dr. Barnes said, and handed the power torch he was holding to Jim. He held out his hand, fingers upraised. "Peace," he repeated. "I carry no weapons. Peace! Friendship!"
Back came more incomprehensible words-higher in pitch now, more excited-sounding.
Dr. Barnes glanced at Dom Hannon. "Dom, does that language of theirs make any sense to you ?"
The philologist shrugged. "It sounds as though it may have been English once. But the language has rotted away. There's nothing left of it but a few grunts. I can't pick up the sense of it."
Several other hunters detached themselves from the group dressing the kill, and strolled over. The scene began to look ugly. The hunters were sinister-looking little men, brutish and suspicious, and their bodies had the acrid smell of people among whom bathing is unknown.
"They must think we're trespassing on their hunting territory," Roy Veeder said. "He's probably warning us to get back to our own neighborhood."
"If they try anything," Ted Callison muttered, "we'll let them have it with the torches!"
"No," Jim said. "They belong here and we don't. We've got no right to kill them!"
"Only in self-defense," Roy said. "Looks to me as if they're going to attack."
And, for a moment, it did appear that trouble was brewing. The parley was getting nowhere. Dr. Barnes and the nomad chief had given up the attempt to communicate through language, and were pantomiming, but even that was not creating much mutual understanding. The old chief had his knife out and was waving it through the air in a belligerent fashion, while Dr. Barnes smiled, spoke mildly, showed his empty hands, and pointed to himself and then onward toward the sea to indicate he was only passing through, not staying to compete for hunting rights.
Meanwhile, the younger hunters were carrying on an independent-and heated-discussion of their own. It looked to Jim as if one of them were arguing for an immediate attack, the other one counseling patience.
All but five of the hunters had gathered around the parleyers now. The five were
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