There were other sounds now, from small animals that scooted about on six legs and looked like fur-bearing armadillos. Then the ferns were behind him, and he was out onto a road that came over the hill.
Case got off the road in a hurry. Well tended fields lay on either side of it with spaced rows of grain that was taller than he. He could walk between the rows and be out of sight of the road.
He took a few quick steps, pushed aside a stalk of grain, and tripped. His gasp was involuntary but loud. For a second he lay still, then got to his feet. He had tripped over a root.
"Natsa!" a voice shouted. There was the thump of heavy feet behind him.
Case whirled. Just in time. A big orange-skinned man in a metallic suit came bursting out of the next row of grain. He took one look at Case, and reached for the holstered weapon at his side.
But few men could outdraw and out-shoot Case Damon. A flash of green played about his opponent's head. And then there was no head.
"Natsa to you," Case grunted at the body.
He was used to death in many forms, and it upset him not at all to handle the body. The fellow had been about his own size. At least he would now have a suit that wouldn't attract attention. He decided to keep his own gun rather than trust a strange one, but he exchanged holsters with the corpse.
"Now, if only Natsa doesn't show up, I'll make tracks out of here," Case said to himself.