"I would have!"

"And thereby made the day for the one who'd done it," Maeta retorted. The Hunter agreed with her, but kept the thought to himself.

"Where does he live?" asked Bob. "I know what he looks like-a little bit plump for his height."

"East of the dock road, close to the beach. Yes, he's a little on the heavy side. He's not very active; I see him in the library a lot of the time. He doesn't seem to get around with his own age group much."

"Doesn't he like them, or don't they like him?"

"I've never thought about that. I'd guess it's his own choosing. As I said, he's reading a lot of the time-at least, he usually has several books at once out of the library, and pretty often is curled up somewhere inside the place with a book. Jenny may be right, but I'm not at all sure. Her father, remember, is blaming someone else for what happened to you and her; he thinks you didn't manage to kill that other creature the Hunter was after. I sort of agree with him. Would your masculine pride be offended if I walked home with you now?"

Bob felt uncomfortable at the suggestion, and might have dismissed it too tersely for real politeness, but the Hunter expressed himself sharply.

"Bob, even if you don't want to believe she could protect you from anything, she would at least be a witness. Her presence could prevent something from happening, or give us a better chance of finding how it happened. Never mind what she calls your masculine pride; use your human brains."

"All right, Mae." Bob spoke aloud. "The Hunter is on your side. I was just going to suggest I take you home, since the accidents seem to be spreading, but I suppose there's no evidence they're interested in you. All right, let's go."

The walk was uneventful. There was very little talk; all three were listening carefully for evidence of others on or near the road. The moon, though high in the northeast, was of little help; this was the jungle branch of the island, and the trees shadowed the road itself as well as the underbrush on each side. Once past the school there were no streetlights.

Bob pointed out to Maeta the scene of the bicycle trap, though there was nothing useful to see in the shadows and even her flashlight revealed little. He and the Hunter had checked the scene over very carefully, in full daylight, the day after the incident, but even the experienced detective had found nothing informative or even suggestive. It bothered his pride. Maeta left them at the Kinnaird's door, refusing the suggestion that she come in. Her last remark was the recommendation that Bob's father come with them the next day if he were free. As usual, Bob had to hold this item until his sister was upstairs for the night. It then led to some discussion, and was modified firmly by the lady of the house.

"Arthur has been having all the fun," she pointed out. "I love our daughter, but I think it's my turn to get a day on the water with you young folks, and let your father entertain Daphne tomorrow. All right, Dear?"

The Hunter suspected that it was not entirely all right. As far as he knew, Arthur Kinnaird had not had any "fun" on the project either. However, no one was greatly surprised when the man made no objection to his wife's idea.

He took the child off after breakfast, and the rest of the group headed northwest along the road as soon as father and daughter were out of sight. Bob's bicycle had not yet been repaired, but he used his father's and they reached North Beach in a few minutes. Maeta was waiting for them, and after a quick but careful inspection of the canoe itself and the search equipment, they shoved off.

The women paddled, while Bob undid the wires fastening the pipe to the rest of the gear. The plug and telegraph had been repaired, but he tested the latter again. Then he tied the new rope, which had been supporting the concrete box, very securely around the pipe, and placed one hand in the open end of the latter.

The Hunter left through the skin of the hand, the process as usual taking several minutes, and signaled with the buzzer when it was complete. Bob told the others. The alien could hear their voices, but did not yet bother to make an eye.

"We're ready here," Bob said. "Are we close to your marker, Mae?"

"Pretty near. We have, to hide Tank Four behind Seven, and line the north corner of Eleven against the middle of Nine. It will be a few minutes yet."

She had provided these bearings, the night before, and the Hunter had mapped them. He knew without looking, therefore, that they were about a mile north and a little west of North Beach, a little less than that straight west of Apu, and about half a mile from the nearest breakers.

Eventually the young woman called, "There it is. Be ready, Bob." The Hunter felt his pipe being lifted. Then came, "All right, we're right over it," and almost instantly warm water closed over him and his protection.

He made an eye, but there was little to see until he reached the bottom. The pipe was nearly horizontal, and turning slowly; sometimes he could see the line from the buoy marking the location, sometimes his eye was directed away from it. The boat was not visible, as the Hunter had formed the eye a little way inside the pipe to minimize stray light, and the open end of the pipe itself was slanted slightly downward.

Bob had felt the tension go off the line when the Hunter reached bottom, and had stopped paying out. However, the alien found himself almost buried in the soft mud, and buzzed the signal to pull up slightly. The spin had stopped, of course, but slowly resumed as torsion in the rope tried to relieve itself, and he slowly scanned the whole circumference.

The light was more than adequate, and he could see a long, low hillock on the mud, corresponding roughly in size to Maeta's description. There was less coral this far from the reef, but some had grown on and over the ridge; the feature must have been there for some years at least.

He was ten or twelve feet to one side of the nearest \part of the elevation. He extended his eye briefly, to see which way the canoe was pointing, buzzed directions, and in a minute or less was over the ridge near its center. Then he gave the "down" signal, and in a moment was on the bottom once more, not so deeply buried this time.

Feeling at least as much tension as any of the others had been showing, he extended a pseudopod into the slimy mud. It was at least six inches thick even at the top of the hillock, but under that six-inch layer was metal. He was tempted to leave the pipe entirely, but very luckily did not. He kept groping with hair-fine tendrils, adding detail to the picture he was developing. Yes, the girls were right. It was his quarry's ship, the upper portion at least nearly intact. He could feel and read symbols identifying service connections, and presently found one of the small valves which his own species used for entrance and exit. The larger ports, for cargo and for the trained animals they sometimes used to manipulate controls, would be in the lower part of the hull, which seemed to be right-side up.

The access valve was shut. He felt around for the power control and activated it, but was not very surprised when nothing happened. It was much harder to operate the manual control, but after several minutes he had the opening cracked enough to let himself flow in. He thought once again of leaving the pipe entirely -and entering the ship with his whole substance, but once again decided to wait. It was not real foresight, at least not conscious foresight, but it was lucky.

He buzzed a "yes" to those above, blaming himself for not ending their suspense sooner, and reached farther into the hull through the partly open valve.

He had time to realize what was happening to him, but not enough to do anything about it.