"Clean the animals," said Ute.

I did not like her giving me orders.

"I do not want to," I said.

"Then build the fire," said Ute.

"You know I cannot manage the fire drill," I said, angrily. I had never been able to master it.

"Then," said Ute, "let us not make a fire."

"No," I said. "I cannot eat raw flesh! We must have a fire!"

"It is dangerous," said Ute.

"Make a fire, Ute," I begged.

"Then clean the animals," she said.

"All right," I said. I hated that job. It was so dirty, so sticky and slimy. Ute always wanted me to do it! Who was she to give me orders? I did not like her. She was stupid. she made grammatical mistakes in speaking her own language! I hated her.

With a sharp rock and a stick I started to work on the animals.

I no longer needed Ute. She had taught me probably as much as she could. I could now get along without her. Besides, she acted superior to me. I was an Earth girl, superior to Gorean girls! She acted like she was our leader. I had not told her she could be the leader! I hated her.

"What are you thinking of, El-in-or?" asked Ute.

"Elinor," I said, sharply.

"Elinor," said Ute.

"Nothing," I said.

"Oh," said Ute.

After I had worked for awhile, Ute, taking up a rock and a stick, began to help me.

I did not thank her. She should have done the work herself. I had spent the day fishing. She had only roved about the thicket, hunting birds and checking her snares.

Ute began to hum.

"Why are you humming?" I asked her, irritated.

"Because I am happy," said Ute.

"Why are you happy? I asked.

She looked at me, puzzled. "Because I am free," she said.

When we had cleaned the animals, and the birds, and the fish, which later job I left to Ute, for I did not like to touch the creature. Ute bent over the fire drill.

"Hurry," I told her. I was hungry.

Ute worked for more than fifteen minutes, bowing the drill, sweating, her eyes fixed on that tiny, blackened pit in the wood.

"Hurry," I told her. "Hurry!"

Then, at last, a tiny flame appeared, eating at the flakes of dried leaves on forked sticks.

In a few minutes, we had our fire.

Because we had more food than usual, we set up two small spits on forked sticks. When the food was done, we removed it from the spits, placing it on leaves. I was terribly hungry. It was now dark out, and the evening was chilly. It would be pleasant to eat by the fire, and warm ourselves, while we enjoyed our open-air repast.

"What are you doing, Ute!" I cried, seizing her wrist.

She looked at me, puzzled. "Putting out the fire," she said.

"No," I cried.

"It is dangerous," she said.

"There is no one about," I said.

"It is dangerous," she repeated.

I had no wish to eat in the dark, nor to freeze. "Do not put out the fire, Ute." I said. "It is all right."

Ute shook her head, undecided.

"Please!" I pressed.

"All right," smiled Ute.

But scarcely more than a Gorean Ihn had passed before Ute, suddenly, with a look of terror in her eyes, began to fling dirt on the fire.

"What are you doing!" I cried.

"Be quiet!" she whispered.

Then I heard, far overhead, in the darkness, the scream of a tarn.

"It is a wild tarn," I said.

The fire was now out.

"We must leave now," said Ute, frightened.

"It is only a wild tarn," I insisted.

"I hope that is true," said Ute.

I felt a shiver course my spine.

Ute began to destroy, in the darkness, the small shelter of sticks and leaves we had constructed.

"Bring what food you can," she said. "We must leave now."

Angry, but frightened, I gathered what food I could find.

When she had finished with the shelter, Ute felt about and, with her hands, scooped together the bones and entrails, the furs and scales, left over from our catch, and buried them.

As well as she could, she destroyed all signs of our camp. Then, moving swiftly through the darkness, I following, carrying what food I could, Ute fled out camp.

I followed her, hating her. I was afraid to be without her.

We moved southwestward through the great thicket, and then, finally came to its edge.

The night was dark.

Ute scrutinized the skies. We saw nothing. She listened for a long time. We heard nothing.

"You see, Ute," I said, irritated. "It was nothing."

"Perhaps," agreed Ute.

"I hear no more tarn screams," I told her.

"Perhaps they have dismounted," suggested Ute.

"It was only a wild tarn," I told her.

"I hope that that is true," she said.

Together, at the edge of the thicket, we ate the remains of our meal, which I had carried.

We wiped our hands on the grass, and threw the bones into the brush. "Look!" whispered Ute.

Through the brush, some two hundred yards away, moving in the darkness, we saw two torches.

"Men," moaned Ute. "Men!"

From the thicket, running together, we fled southwestward.

By dawn we came to another large stand of Ka-la-na, in which we, wearily, concealed ourselves.

Four days later in yet another thicket, one afternoon, Ute requested that I set one of our snares on a small game trail we had found earlier.

We had heard nothing more of pursuit. We had seen no more torches, following us in the night.

We had again escaped.

Swinging the loop of binding fiber, I walked along the trail.

There were small birds about, and I saw a scurrying brush urt, even a lovely, yellowish Tabuk fawn. I crossed two tiny streams.

Suddenly I stopped, terrified.

I heard the sound of a man's voice. I slipped from the soft, gentle, green path between the trees and brush, and fell to my stomach, concealed among the brush and grasses.

They were not coming along the trail.

I inched forward, on my elbows and stomach, and then, through a tiny parting in the brush, saw them.

My heart almost stopped.

They were in a small clearing. There were two tarns hobbled nearby. The men had made no fire. They were clad in leather, and armed. They were warriors, mercenaries. They seemed rough, cruel men. I recognized them. I had seem them as long ago as Targo's compound north of Laura. They were hirelings of Haakon of Skjern, his men.

"She is nowhere in here," one of the men told the other.

"If we had hunting sleen," said the other, "and could find her trail, we would have her in our bracelets before dusk."

"I hope she is red silk," said the other.

"If she is not when we apprehend her," said the other, "by the time we turn her over to Haakon she will be of the reddest of silks."

"Haakon might not be pleased," said the other.

The first laughed. "Haakon does not know which girl is red silk and which is white silk."

"That is true," grinned the other.

"Besides," pointed out the first, "do you really think Haakon expects us to return white silk girls to his chain?"

"Of course not, laughed the second, slapping his knee. "Of course not!" "This one has led us a merry chase indeed," said the first man, grimly. "We will make her pay us back well for our time and trouble."

"But what if we do not catch her?" asked the second.

"She is indeed elusive," said the first man, "but we will catch her." Laying on my stomach in the grass, listening, I moaned inwardly. "She seems intelligent," said the second.

"Yes," pointed out the first, "we saw her fire."

"True," said the second, "though she seems clever, though she seems intelligent, though she has well eluded us this far, she yet built a fire."

The first smiled. "Any girl foolish enough to build a fire," he said, "will, sooner or later, be caught."

"What is our plan?" asked the second.