"Freeze," said Pritchard.
The boy went rigid. "What is it?"
"On the branch above you." Pritchard's voice cracked out above the ringing blades. "Hold it, everybody! Hold it!" Then, in a lower tone, he gave orders, and the three or four cadet hunters near McManus slowly began to ease out their snappers. The cam-rec clicked into action.
"For the cripes sake, what is it?" whispered McManus, the red of exertion washing out of his face until it was a dripping ivory mask.
"I don't know." Pritchard began waving his arms slowly to attract the attention of the thing eighteen inches above that red hair. "I'd call it a scorpion if it didn't look like a spider. I'd call it a spider if it didn't look like a scorpion. It's not quite as big as a sheepdog." He uttered a chirping whistle and continued to wave his arms.
"For the love of God, blast it, then."
"I didn't finish telling you about Munson," remarked Pritchard conversationally. "Way back in 2018, he started the Venusian War—"
"Must we have a history lesson now?" said McManus through clenched teeth.
II