"What're you doing wandering around like this?"
"Been a hunting. Yes, suh, been doing me a little hunting." He sighed wearily and mopped the rain out of his tight coils of graying hair.
Morgan eyed the burlap sack suspiciously. It was wet, and it wriggled. "What's that?"
"'Ass my night's work," said the man and jerked a corner of the sack. It opened, and three Oren parasites spilled out with weak squeaks of anguish.
The girl gasped angrily. "They're still in contact with Oren. Kill them!"
"Yes'm, they're in contact—but without eyes, how're they gonna know wheah they are?"
Morgan made a wry mouth at Shera. The old man was smart—and right. But he felt another uneasy suspicion. The old man said "hunting." Hunting for what—food? The idea twisted disgust in Morgan's stomach.
"What're you going to do with them?"
"Oh—" The oldster kicked one of them lightly with his toe. The pink thing rolled against the wall. There were vestigial signs of arms, legs, but tiny and useless, grown fast to the body. The visitor glanced up with a sheepish grin.
"I feed 'em to my dawgs, suh. Dawgs like 'em. Getting so my dawgs can smell the difference twixt a man and an Orenian. I'm training 'em. They help me with my hunting."