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Sorensen nodded. He seemed to have aged ten years in a day’s time.

“In the morning,” Drake said, “we’ll be able to work something out We’ll.... What’s wrong, Bill?”

“Do you really think we have a chance?” Sorensen asked.

“Sure we do. We’ve got a damned good chance.”

“Be realistic,” Sorensen said. “The longer this goes on, the more animals the Quedak can throw against us. What can we do about it?”

“Hunt him out and kill him.”

“The damned thing is about the size of your thumb,” Sorensen said irritably. “How can we hunt him?”

“We’ll figure out something,” Drake said. He was beginning to get worried about Sorensen. The morale among the men was low enough without Sorensen pushing it down further.

“I wish someone would shoot that damned bird,” Sorensen said, glancing overhead.

About every fifteen minutes, the bird of paradise came darting down for a closer look at the camp. Then, before the guard had a chance to fire, he swept back up to a safe altitude.

“It’s getting on my nerves, too,” Drake said. “Maybe that’s what it’s supposed to do. One of these times we’ll—”