Tinnerman nodded soberly. "It couldn't have slept through that. I used the spikes.... I didn't catch on until I saw the way the leaves had been eaten around the head. All it had to do was open its mouth—but it let me go. Live and let live."
Abel came to his feet. "O.K., Charlie—we'll wait six hours before heading for the ship. That'll give us time to look this thing over. Don't get me wrong—I haven't made up my mind. I may still tell the captain ... but not right away."
Tinnerman relaxed. "Let's see what we can learn," he said. He reassembled Abel's pack, then glanced up.
The foot was there, poised with Damoclesian ponderosity fifteen feet above their heads. The eye was open, fibrils extended. The quinquepedalian had come upon them silently.
"Split!" Tinnerman yelled. The two men dived in opposite directions. Once more the ground bounced with concussion, as he raced for the nearest tree. He slid around it, safe for the moment.
A glance back showed the monster hauling its foot back into the air. Only half of Don Abel had made it to safety. Then the huge hoof hovered and dropped, and the grisly sight was gone. There was only another flat print in the earth.
Abel might have been fast enough, if he hadn't been weakened by the fight. Just as Slaker would have been more careful, had he been warned. The quinquepedalian was the agent; but Tinnerman knew that he was the cause of the two deaths.
Now Quink approached the tree, spinning in her stately dance, hoofs kissing the shadowed ground without a sound. She stood.
Why hadn't she crushed them both as they fought, oblivious to the danger above? She must have been there for several minutes, watching, listening. One gentle stomp, and vengeance would have been complete. Why had she waited?