He slowed down, cautiously looking over the area. He stopped at the water's edge and looked across the lake. It did not seem far to the other side, but the water stretched out through the forest both to his right and to his left. For a moment he hesitated. The rumbling noises were coming closer. They frightened him. He made up his mind. The water was friendly. He knew that. He walked into it. Soon it became too deep for him to reach bottom and he began to swim, using his arms and legs in a dog-paddle stroke.
He waded ashore on the far bank, shook the water from him and, with a brief glance back toward the oncoming motor noises, trotted into the underbrush.
The vegetation was getting sparse, the trees smaller, and the rocky ground began to slope down steeply. He could see out over the land far into the distance. The world lay below him, quiet and motionless. Perhaps also without unknown terrors. He started down.
He was making his way around a large rock outcropping when he stopped abruptly. Instantly he fell into a guarded crouch. A short distance before him he saw movement among the vegetation. A small creature was burrowing rapidly with its legs into the loose dirt, enlarging a hole in the ground. Quickly it disappeared into the earth, out of sight. He watched in wonder. He started to move again, but suddenly he froze.
Off to one side a short distance away he saw it. Another creature. Larger. Looking dangerous.
Moving slowly, stealthily, across the ground, it was totally intent on a clump of vegetation. Pointed head stretched forward, ears laid back, bushy tail held straight back, the creature delicately placed paw before paw as it moved ahead. The stalking coyote was utterly unaware of Tom.
Suddenly it pounced. Sharp teeth snapped shut, catching the small, furry-gray thing that suddenly leaped from hiding. A piercing screech was cut off in mid-agony as the thing was given a savage shake, held firmly in bared fangs.
Tom stayed motionless as the coyote trotted off with its prey, the dead baby rabbit dangling from its maw. He felt no emotion. Some deep-seated knowledge told him what he had witnessed: a creature feeding upon another. He was vaguely aware of an unfilled feeling within himself — but it was unimportant. Hunger had not yet made its pangs felt. He continued down the mountainside…
On a road across the wide gorge high above him an Air Force scout was parked. Three men were sitting in it: A1C Wilson behind the wheel, Paul in the seat beside him and Sergeant Hays in the back Paul and Hays were searching the mountain area with field glasses.
They had driven up to Whitney Portal early that morning. There had been no sign of Tom. Paul had left the two other search parties with Major Ward in charge to comb the area where Tom had been spotted by the Ranger observation station. On a hunch he'd driven a short distance down the road toward the valley below.
He let his field glasses slowly travel across the mountainslope on the far side of the wide Canyon. From left to right — up a notch and back — from right to left… He had a clear, unobstructed view.
Suddenly Hays rose up out of his seat. “There he is!” he shouted excitedly. “There, sir!” He pointed. “Way down… over to the left.”
Paul shifted his binoculars. He searched the spot Hays had pointed out. There! A movement among the rocks and scrub trees. A tiny, lone figure.
Tom!
For a moment Paul watched him. Tom was making his way down the slope, scrambling over the rocky ground. He was almost at the bottom of the foothills. Ahead of him, like a gigantic contour map, lay the expanse of Owen's Valley. He seemed to move effortlessly. Paul felt instant relief. Tom could not be badly hurt. But the relief was short-lived. It also meant that he was capable of giving them a hell of a run for their money.
He plunked himself down in his seat. “He's headed for the valley,” he said. “Come on, Wilson. Let's go!”
At once Wilson started up the scout. He slammed it into gear, and the little vehicle leaped forward. Paul clung to the windshield as Wilson raced down the narrow, winding road recklessly, skillfully, lurched around hairpin curves inches away from thousand-foot drops and careened headlong toward the valley below.
Twenty minutes later he came to a gravel-spurting stop where the canyon met the flatlands. Paul jumped from the scout. He climbed up onto a large rock and searched the area with his field glasses. Before him lay a vast expanse of jumbled rocks and boulders.
Hays joined him. “Anything?”
Paul shook his head. “He could be anywhere in that damned mess,” he said bitterly. He turned toward the scout. “Wilson!” he called. “Get Major Ward on the radio. Have the other parties join us here. On the double!”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul turned to Hays, his face set. “We'll scour this whole godforsaken area,” he said grimly, “if it takes us all day.”
Hays nodded. He touched the fresh bandage on his cheek. “We'd better find the Major soon,” he observed soberly, “or he's gonna kill himself…”
2
Randi knew she appeared tense and distraught as she sat on the edge of her chair in Colonel Howell's office, listening to him. The other officer in the room was a man she did not know. A Major Trafford. Arthur Trafford. He seemed nice enough, but Randi had been too unsettled to do much more than acknowledge him when Howell introduced them.
Howell had told her about the crash — and about Tom's strange behavior. She was frightened and confused.
“I think that'll give you an idea of what we're up against, Randi,” Howell said, not unkindly. “You know we'll do everything possible to reach Tom.”
She nodded miserably. “I know, Jon.” She was deeply troubled. “Only—”
“The search-and-rescue effort is already under way. Captain Jarman is in charge. He's up there right now. We have a top medical officer on the job, too.” He tried to reassure her. “We'll find Tom — even if his actions are… unpredictable.”
Randi looked at him anxiously. “How — how bad is he, Jon?”
Howell evaded a direct answer. “I'll personally supervise the entire operation. We'll do the best we can under the circumstances. We—”
Randi stared at him. “Circumstances?” she inquired tautly. “What circumstances?”
“Randi,” Howell said firmly, “this is a military operation. We know what we are doing. But we are faced with an unusual situation.”
Randi watched him with growing anxiety.
“Tom is not just another pilot down,” Howell went on. “We have to consider his — his state of mind.” He looked at the distraught woman sitting across from him. He wished he could tell her of the other considerations that were dictating his actions. And he knew he could not.
With a conscious effort Randi controlled herself, but she was at the edge — and she knew it. “What's wrong with his mind, Jon?” she asked, her voice catching in her throat. “What's wrong?”
Howell looked grim. “Randi,” he began, “you must—”
Major Trafford suddenly stood up. He came over to the desk.
“Colonel Howell,” he said, his voice calm and unruffled, “I wonder if I might talk to Mrs. Darby for a moment.” He looked steadily at Howell. For a brief instant Howell glared at him. He glanced at Randi. She looked stricken — on the verge of breaking down. He nodded.
Trafford turned to Randi. He sat down on the edge of Howell's desk, unobtrusively interposing himself between them.