"What's up, chief?" one of the men asked as the tricycle sped back the way they had just come.
"I ... I don't really know," the impresario said slowly. "I ... I have a ... a sort of feeling ... that maybe we can find Anlo after all. We'd better go back and look some more."
For the watcher above knew Hanlon was not dead.
All of George Hanlon's mind must have become unconscious, for the next thing he knew was when the caval suddenly reared to escape those who were trying to stop it, and Hanlon's body was dumped unceremoniously to the ground. The caval, released from its compulsion, took off across the meadow at top speed.
Hanlon began to recover consciousness as rough hands slapped him awake. He first noticed that the sun was rising, for its rays were shining directly in his eyes. He blinked and turned his head away—and became aware of his captors.
He saw Ino Yandor standing there, beside a large trike. Beside him was one of his henchmen, holding the leashes of two straining tamous. These cat-like beasts, somewhat like Terran black panthers save they were a deep red in color, and had fangs much longer and sharper—and no tails—Hanlon knew to be trackers par excellence—as good as bloodhounds. Nor were they usually as fierce and blood-thirsty as they seemed.
The third man was the one who was holding him.
"Well now," Yandor eyed him angrily, "you think you're pretty clever, don't you?"