It was only a year and a half ago that Phil Farmer, till then a totallyunknown (editorially speaking at any rate) young man of Peoria, wrotehimself a novel that won him instantaneous acclaim as perhaps the hottestnew science fiction writer currently astir. Its title was "The Lovers"and since then he has gone right on proving himself a top-hand craftsman.
Crane didn't get the nice man's name—until itwas far too late to do anything at all about it.
Jack Crane lay all morning inthe vacant lot. Now and then hemoved a little to quiet the protestof cramped muscles and stagnantblood, but most of the time hewas as motionless as the heap ofrags he resembled. Not once didhe hear or see a Bohas agent, or,for that matter, anyone. The predawndarkness had hidden hispanting flight from the transiejungle, his dodging across backyardswhile whistles shrilled andvoices shouted, and his crawlingon hands and knees down analley into the high grass andbushes which fringed a hiddengarden.
For a while his heart hadknocked so loudly that he hadbeen sure he would not be ableto hear his pursuers if they didget close. It seemed inevitablethat they would track him down.A buddy had told him that a newcamp had just been built at aplace only three hours drive awayfrom the town. This meant thatBohas would be thick as hornetsin the neighborhood. But no blackuniforms had so far appeared.And then, lying there while thepassionate and untiring sunmounted the sky, the bang-bangof his heart was replaced by anoiseless but painful movementin his stomach.
He munched a candy bar andtwo dried rolls which a housewifehad given him the evening before.The tiger in his belly quit pacingback and forth; it crouched andlicked its chops, but its tail wasstuck up in his throat. Jack couldfeel the dry fur swabbing hispharynx and mouth. He suffered,but he was used to that. Nightwould come as surely as anythingdid. He'd get a drink then toquench his thirst.
Boredom began to sit on hiseyelids. Just as he was about toaccept some much needed sleep,he moved a leaf with an accidentaljerk of his hand and uncovered acaterpillar. It was dark exceptfor a row of yellow spots alongthe central line of some of its segments.As soon as it was exposed,it began slowly shimmying away.Before it had gone two feet, itwas crossed by a moving shadow.Guiding the shadow was a blackwasp with an orange ring aroundthe abdomen. It closed the gapbetween itself and the worm witha swift, smooth movement andstraddled the dark body.
Before the wasp could graspthe thick neck with its mandibles,the intended victim began rapidlyrolling and unrolling and flingingitself from side to side. For aminute the delicate dancer aboveit could not succeed in clenchingthe neck. Its sharp jaws slid offthe frenziedly jerking skin untilthe tiring creature paused for thechip of a second.
Seizing opportunity and larvaat the same time, the wasp stoodhigh on its legs and pulled theworm's front end from the ground,exposing the yellowed band of theunderpart. The attacker's abdomencurved beneath its ownbody; the stinger jabbed betweentwo segments of the prey's jointedlength. Instantly, the writhingstilled. A shudder, and the caterpillarbecame as inert as if it weredead.
Jack had watched with an eyenot completely clinical, feeling thesympathy of the hunted and thehounded for a fellow. His ownstruggles of the past few monthshad been as desperate, though notas hopeless, and ...
He stopped thinking. His heart