For a period of at least five minutes the room was as quiet as death. Then, suddenly, Rand’s voice rang out clearly:
“Inspector Cameron, you’re a man! But I am too. My horse is saddled and waiting for me. I hate to disobey you, sir, but I’m leaving at once. When I return from the Barrens—if I ever do—I’ll report here and you can place me under arrest. Good-bye, sir!”
He saluted briskly and turned away. Inspector Cameron was still gaping when the door closed softly after the retreating figure.
CHAPTER VI
SHIPS FROM THE STARS
A wonderful huntsman was Kantisepa, the very greatest among his people. In his aimless journeying he had passed over a large part of the vast, immutable north, proceeding far from known haunts into lands which seldom had heard the footfalls of the hunter. He had viewed wild scenes, the glory and grandeur of which few other eyes had seen. Unnamed rivers and lakes, lofty mountains, interminable swamps, places so barren and devoid of all vegetation, so breathless, weird and forlorn that life passed on in horror, fearful of the madness that lurked there—all these he had looked upon during his ceaseless pilgrimages.
He had hunted moose and caribou and the ferocious black bears of the mountains. Once he had fought off a wolf with no better weapon than a club. His long association with the wild and its denizens had bred in him a certain uncanny wisdom. Insects and beasts and birds—he knew them all with the unerring certainty of a trained naturalist. Yet now, standing in the bright glare of the sun, gaze focused on certain huge dark specks in the distant horizon, it was evident from his expression that at last he had seen something he could not classify.
Two birds of mammoth, gigantic size were flying straight towards him. Larger than a moose or bear, of greater size even than the largest tepee, they sailed through the air, drumming as they went. Their speed and size and the horrible noise they made so frightened poor Kantisepa, that he crouched low in a thicket, resolving under no circumstances to show himself to the invaders.
Two of the huge birds flew close together—evidently for companionship. The third one, probably much younger—for it was smaller—brought up the rear, at a considerable distance behind its mates. As this bird drew close to the clearing, an incredible thing happened. It fluttered suddenly and began to fall. It came down, spinning, righted itself, coasted along for quite a distance, as if planning to alight, then lost control of its equilibrium entirely and crashed to the ground with such a sickening thud that Kantisepa was quite sure that it was destroyed utterly.
The two other birds were almost out of sight when the catastrophe occurred. These, Kantisepa considered, must be the parent birds, and in their eagerness to reach their destination, had probably forgotten their offspring, which was probably just learning to fly. At any rate, though the Indian stood a long time waiting, the others did not return and, finally, overcome by the natural curiosity of his race, he set out in the direction of the luckless victim.
When he had approached to within a few hundred yards of his objective, he was startled almost out of his senses. Crawling out of the mass of broken wings and fragments of the bird’s body, came a curious animal, which in many respects resembled a man. A very marked difference between the creature and a man was the enormous size of the creature’s eyes—three or four times larger than the eyes of his own people—composed of some peculiar substance which glinted and sparkled under the bright reflection of the sun. Then Kantisepa noted another peculiarity: Although possessing legs almost identical to his own, this strange being did not stand upon them in the ordinary manner, but chose instead to walk on both arms and legs, as a bear sometimes walks. Of a very ready and open mind, Kantisepa could explain the creature’s presence in only one way: a parasite of some kind, possessing the same relationship to the bird as a flea would to a dog.