Rifles unslung, the two began walking cautiously. They had gone about halfway, and Stuart was studying the two moons, when his feet were abruptly yanked out from under him and he fell to the ground. The patch of pinkish grass under him seemed to ripple, rolling him over and over helplessly until he was brought up against a rounded hummock. Before he could struggle to his feet, he came floundering back again to be dumped at the edge of the patch. Sitting up dazedly, he found Rogers looking for something to shoot at.
"What the devil happened?" whispered the scout. Gordon's voice came over the earphones: "What's going on down there? All I can hear up here in the turret is grunts and whispers, but what I see sure looks screwy!"
Stuart got up lamely, rubbing his sore leg. "I was sniffed at and rejected, in a manner of speaking," he answered. "Watch." He drew his hand gun, which happened to be the most convenient thing, and tossed it on the animated grass before the flabbergasted scout could stop him. Immediately it was whisked away to the central hump, brushed with feelers, and sent tumbling back to his feet. "A most intriguing experience," murmured the linguist, studying the pink grass with his head cocked to one side. "I shall have to try it again when there's more time." He picked up the gun and limped away on patrol.
Rogers, with an expression of surprised scorn and amusement on his handsome face, explained briefly to Gordon what had happened. As he caught up with Stuart, he glanced toward the nose of the Special Agent. "See anything yet, chief?"
In the nose turret, two gun barrels continued their sweep. "Nope," came back Gordon's voice. "There's a broad prairie just beyond the trees on the 'East' side of this clearing, if you remember. Plain as day in this double moonlight. Almost looks like my home state, except for a few hills of that phosphorescent coral rock. Maybe—HEY! Some kind of critters running toward the hills! About five kilometers away. Flashes...." He broke off, as if absorbed in watching.
The two men on the ground slowly continued their patrol, listening intently. In about fifteen seconds, above the faint rustling of the leaves in the pre-dawn breeze, they heard far-off snarling roars, mingled with crackling explosions. Almost total silence followed, as if the whole forest were listening. "All quiet," Gordon reported after a while. "Must have been what the traders called hell-cats, attacking some native settlement. Looks like we made a fair guess about where to find some natives."
"We also know where they keep some of their popguns," added Rogers sarcastically.
Gordon's voice chuckled. "Patrol says the only known weapon has an apparent range of two or three kilometers at most, and probably is not portable."
The scout looked skeptical. "Patrol says," he repeated sourly. "Apparently, probably, maybe. I notice our old buddies haven't cared to get within a hundred kilometers of said popgun."