"Yes, Dr. Tersen," Kramer said in his own voice.
Reese frowned. Tersen? He remembered someone of that name—some scientist involved in a scandal a few years back on Earth. But what he was doing here on Damballa and what sort of control was he exerting over Lloyd Kramer?
"I am to keep you from escaping," Kramer said flatly. "Put the knife away, Jim Reese."
Reese glanced past Kramer and saw moving figures—colonists, coming toward him. He recognized them but still there was something unfamiliar about them. They moved stiffly. Like so many zombies, Reese thought.
Sweat poured down his body. He didn't want to hurt Kramer, not even the strangely-possessed Kramer before him.
Stooping quickly, he picked up a handful of the soft, warm Damballa mud and hurled it into Kramer's face. The big man, blinded, spat out mouthfuls of mud. Reese turned and ran.
"After him!" Kramer rumbled. "He's getting away!"
Reese heard a dozen pairs of feet behind him. He dodged back into the jungle, felt a slimy trailer of vine slap across his face and plunged into a swampy morass covered over with quivering chulla-ferns.
He crouched there for five minutes, ten, listening while the colonists thrashed about searching for him. He felt chilled despite the tropical warmth of the forest.