They had seen no sign from the old man, but Al-fin turned to them and nodded once more. "Meat," he said. He made no further move.
"Why doesn't he get it?" Saxton asked finally. "Apparently he agrees—but he just stands there."
"Maybe we're supposed to do something now," Wallace said. "But what? Do you suppose we're expected to pay him some way?"
"That could be," Saxton answered. "Or maybe the chief's eating the last of what they have now, and they'll give us a chunk when they get some more. Anyway, let's not wait any longer. I'm starved. Even canned concentrate would taste good to me now."
By morning the s-tracer had marked the tracking chart sufficiently to give them some data on the bloodhound's actions. Wallace went over it carefully.
Saxton stayed in his bunk and pretended to be still sleepy, but Wallace could feel his gaze following the work closely. When at last he looked up Saxton said, "Well?"
"We have something to work on," Wallace answered the question in his voice. "But unless we get more, I don't see how it will help us.
"The bloodhound," he went on, not waiting for further inquiry from Saxton, "is acting pretty much as we thought it would. It has no straight line trajectory. At irregular intervals it circles, backtracks, or goes off at a new tangent. Often it stays over a particular territory for longer than the three hours we'd need to get away. It's probable that at some time it will do this on the other side of the planet—where it couldn't pick up the signal of our leaving. But...."
Saxton was sitting up now. "But what?"