Thomas Decker was half an hour from home when Whisperer stopped him in his tracks.

— Decker, said Whisperer, speaking inside Decker's mind. Decker, now I'll get you. This time I will get you.

Decker swiveled about on the game trail he had been following, his rifle raised, held away from his body, ready to snap to his shoulder against the first sign of danger.

There was nothing in sight, nothing stirring. The heavy growth of trees and brush came down close against the trail on either side. It all hung motionless. There was not the slightest breeze, no flicker of a bird. There was absolutely nothing. Everything was frozen, as if eternity had clamped down.

— Decker!

The word was inside his mind. There had been no sound, nothing spoken. The only sound was in his mind and he had never been able to decide, in all his previous encounters with Whisperer, if there had been a sound inside his mind. He just knew the words, lodged there in that area of his brain in the front of his head, just above his eyes.

— Not this time, Whisperer, he said to the other, speaking to it as it had bespoken him, no words uttered, but forming the thoughts and words inside his mind for Whisperer to read. Today I'm not playing any games with you. I've played the last game with you. There won't be any more.

— Chicken, said Whisperer. Chicken, chicken, chicken!

— To hell with your chicken business, said Decker. Come out and show yourself and see if I am chicken. I've had it with you, Whisperer. I'm up to here with you.

— You are chicken, said Whisperer. You had me in your rifle sights last time and you did not pull the trigger. Chicken, Decker, chicken.

— I have no reason to kill you, Whisperer. Actually no wish to. But, so help me God, I'll let you have it just to get rid of you.