And then his foot struck a yielding branch and his aroused suspicion sent him lunging forward.
A heavy something fell with a sickening thud, brushing as it struck the sole of his disintegrating shoe. A cleverly rigged deadfall of small trees and rock, doubtless.
"You're slipping, Harl," he shouted.
But he could feel the sudden sweat damping his palms, and the muscles twitched unsteadily in his arms and across his stomach.
With morning he was half a mile away, in a foxhole less than sixty yards from the massive outer perimeter of the arena. Two of his snares had yielded a rabbit each, and so he was supplied for several days.
The foxhole had two entrances, both well-concealed, and he had rigged elaborate warning devices should the vicinity be approached. So he was sleeping.
His dreams were unpleasant.
In his latest dream an extremely shapely and smiling young woman with dark hair was heaving a grenade into a pit where he lay bound and helpless. The grenade swelled until it became a space ship heading directly toward the frail scout craft he piloted....
And a tiny blob of dislodged mud from the dugout spatted his face. He sat up.