“I know I can, sir!”
“Go at once,” the Leader said. “We will fasten the pelt to our flagstaff. We will undoubtedly be commended at the Jamboree.”
“Yes, sir!” Drog hastily gathered up his equipment, filled his canteen with liquid, packed a lunch of solid food, and set out.
A few minutes later, he had levitated himself to the general area of S-233 by 482-W. It was a wild and romantic country of jagged rocks and scrubby trees, thick underbrush in the valleys, snow on the peaks. Drog looked around, somewhat troubled.
He had told the Patrol Leader a slight untruth.
The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t particularly skilled in Forest and Mountain Lore, hunting or tracking. He wasn’t particularly skilled in anything except dreaming away long hours among the clouds at the five-thousand-foot level. What if he failed to find a Mirash? What if the Mirash found him first?
But that couldn’t happen, he assured himself. In a pinch, he could always gestibulize. Who would ever know?
In another moment he picked up a faint trace of Mirash scent. And then he saw a slight movement about twenty yards away, near a curious T-shaped formation of rock.
Was it really going to be this easy? How nice! Quietly he adopted an appropriate camouflage and edged forward.
The mountain trail became steeper, and the sun beat harshly down. Paxton was sweating, even in his air-conditioned coverall. And he was heartily sick of being a good sport.
“Just when are we leaving this place?” he asked.
Herrera slapped him genially on the shoulder. “Don’t you wanna get rich?”
“We’re rich already,” Paxton said.
“But not rich enough,” Herrera told him, his long brown face creasing into a brilliant grin.
Stellman came up, puffing under the weight of his testing equipment. He set it carefully on the path and sat down. “You gentlemen interested in a short breather?” he asked.