Sometimes, facing problems which seemed beyond his ability, he wished there were more of him.

He did solve this one, for the time being. Relatively few bacteria had actually reached Bob's brain cells, and the alien managed to destroy these with comparatively little damage to nearby cells. He knew that these would not be repaired or replaced; it was the same with every humanoid species he knew, and was assumed by the scientists of his own kind to be an evolutionary byproduct of overspecialization of the brain cell. However, the brain itself was a highly redundant structure, and even though Bob was losing thousands of its cells every day, it would be many years before the cumulative effect became serious.

And at the moment, there was little point in worrying years ahead.

Bob was conscious and, except for the arm, normal by Monday night. He was still in the hospital section of the Seevers' home-Mrs. Seever remarked that with two patients, the, place was more like a hospital than it had been, for years-and after dinner the en-tire group assembled to bring everything up to date. Even Bob's parents were present; Daphne was spending the night with a friend.

The Hunter explained in detail what had happened to him, stressing the obvious fact that his people must be somewhere around, and mentioning as little as possible the lack of alertness which had led to such unfortunate results. The others told him of the message left at the ship, and its details, of which he approved. He agreed with the doctor that his entry into the ship had probably tripped a signal at the same time that it had released the paralyzing agent, so the check team was no doubt aware that the ship had been visited. What they would think when they found the small valve open but no prisoner on hand could only be guessed. Of course, if they found the message all would be well, but the Hunter agreed with Bob's pessimistic view that they had probably responded to the signal before the bottle had been placed. It would have been less surprising if they had arrived before the pipe containing his helpless form had been pulled up.

"They would beable to get to any place on Earth in an hour or so, and wouldn’t have to wait until night to check the ship," the Hunter assured in his human friends.

"Then we'd better get back to it as soon as we can," Maeta responded. "We'll try, or the Hunter will try, to tell whether the bottle message has been found and read; but more important, willleave a much more complete message in the Hunter's own language, with instructions on just where to meet him and how to recognize Bob. You didn't cover that in your note, did you, Bob?"

"No, I didn't think of it. I was more concerned with getting the history down. If they've read it, at least they'll know the other creature is dead, and, there's no more need for booby traps."

"They'll have heard, if they read it, that the other one is dead. Will they believe it?" asked Seever.

"That's why the Hunter will have to supplement that message," Maeta pointed out. "He should be able to identify himself clearly in some way-a serial num ber, or something like that."

"But I put my name on my note," Bob said. "They should be able to find me."

"Why?" asked the dark-haired girl. "We can't take for granted that they know all about Ell and its people."

"Why not? They must have investigated the island pretty well when they first came. They'd probably have found us then only I expect the Hunter and I weren't here."

"But why would theyhave known the people by name?" Maeta countered. "I suppose they'd have used human hosts the way the Hunter did, but they wouldn't have gotten in touch with them, would they? Talked to them, and used their help the way the Hunter used yours?"

"Definitely not," the detective said. "Unless some very special situation like minedemanded it, that would be extremely contrary to policy. I did it be-cause I didn't at the time think there was the slightest chance of help from home, and my quarry was a danger to your people."

"Right," Maeta nodded. "And whoever is here, they haven't been hanging around Ell all these years just getting to know these particular people. For one thing, if they had, wouldn't we have more people on the island in Bob's condition? Hunter addicts, if you don't mind?"

"Very unlikely," the alien replied. The group would have specialists able to forestall such events. That's why we're trying to get in touch with them, re member."

"But you should still add something of your own to Bob's message."

"He agrees," Bob relayed. "He says to get another bottle-a very small one will do-and something that will scratch glass. Do you have a carborundum scriber, or a small diamond, Doc?"

"I can get a scriber," Bob's father said.

"He doesn't want the whole tool, just the carbo tip. He's going to write on the inside of the bottle, and he probably couldn't maneuver the whole tool in there even if he could get it through the neck. He won't need a cork or sand ballast. He says he'll just tie the new bottle to the neck of the old one, to make some thing sure to attract attention."

"Then we can really count on being in touch with someone who can cure Bob, at last?" It was his mother, her voice not very steady. "It's been nice for those who could take this all as an intellectual problem, but I haven't been able to do that."

Bob answered his mother with a simple affirmative, but the Hunter's honesty forced him to go farther.

"If only police personnel like myself are on Earth, it may take longer. We might have to wait for a ship to go home and return with the specialist Bob needs."

"I don't want to mention that," Bob muttered back. "Why give her any more to worry about?" "Don't be shortsightedly selfish," his symbiont ad-monished him. "If events disappoint her, you won't be in a position to care; but she has the right to reality. You know that."

"I know you, anyway." Reluctantly, Bob relayed the Hunter's qualification. His mother took a deep breath and shook her head. Then she looked at her son and said, "Thanks, Hunter." Bob raised his eye brows. "And you, of course, Son."

That ended the discussion. Bob was falling asleep, and his parents and Maeta prepared to leave.

"When should I bring that carbide tip, Hunter?" Arthur Kinnaird asked as they reached the door. "Tonight? I can find one all right."

"No," Bob relayed. "He'll have to leave me to do that job, and says he won't do that before tomorrow night. You can all go back to normal living for a day. He'll do the message tomorrow night if I'm all right, and it can go out to the ship on Wednesday." His father nodded understanding, and Bob was asleep a minute later.

The Hunter spent the night as usual, going over and over his host's biochemistry in the endless effort to balance things better. The joint pains bad been absent that day, leaving the alien to wonder whether the infection toxins, the inactivity, Seever's antibiotics, or even the symbiont's own absence might be responsible. He ended the night in His usual mood of futility and frustration.

Bob's arm progressed normally the next day, as did his other injuries. The heart muscle was essentially healed; it had been a clean wound, splitting muscle fibers more than tearing them. The Hunter no longer had to pay much attention to face and ear, though his host complained frequently of itching at both sites. The source of these nerve signals remained obscure to the detective, but he could not bring himself to make a major project of finding it.

Arthur brought the carbide tip during the after noon, and Seever furnished a plain, thin-walled two-hundred-milliliter bottle; so during the night the Hunter was able to leave Bob for a few hours to writehis message on the inner side of the glass. It was a harder job than he had expected. The carbide cut the glass readily enough, but a good deal of force had to be applied. He covered a quarter of the bottle's inner surface with script which would have been microscopic to a human being.