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“I—” Larry’s voice failed. He could not even resent the blow. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Kennard stood over him, fury slowly giving way to puzzlement and pity. “You’re out of your head. Pickup that tinder—” When Larry had obeyed, he stood back, warily. “Am I going to have trouble with you,damn it, or do we have to eat raw meat?”

Larry dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands. The reluctant spark caught the tinder; Kennard knelt, coaxing the tiny spark into flame, feeding it with twigs. Larry sat motionless, even thesmell of the roasting meat unable to penetrate through the thick, growing fog of distress. He did not see Kennard looking at him with a frown of growing dismay. When Kennard took the roasted bird from thefire and broke it in half, Larry only shook his head. He was famished, the smell of the meat made hismouth water and his eyes sting, but the fear, like a thick miasma around him, fogged away everythingelse. He hardly heard Kennard speak. He took the meat the Darkovan boy put into his hands, and put itinto his mouth, but he could neither chew nor swallow. At last he heard Kennard say, gently, “All right. Later, maybe, you’ll want it.” But the words sounded very far away through the thing that was thickening,growing in him. He could feel Kennard’s thoughts, like seeing the glow of sparks through half-dead ash; Kennard thought that he, Larry, was losing his grip on reality. Larry didn’t blame him. He thought so too. But the knowledge could not break through the numbing fear that grew and grew—

It broke, suddenly, a great cresting wave. He heard himself cry out, in alarm, and spring upright, but itwas too late.

Suddenly the clearing was alive with darkly clustering swarms of crouching figures; Kennard yelled andleaped to his feet, but they were already struggling in the meshes of a great net of twisted vines that hadjerked them closely together.

The fogged thickness of apprehension was gone, and Larry was clear headed, alert, aware of this newcaptivity. The net had drawn them close, but not off their feet; they could see the forms around themclearly in the firelight and the color of phosphorescent torches of some sort. And the new attackers werenot human.

They were formed like men, though smaller; furred, naked save for bands of leaves or some wovenmatting around their waists; with great pinkish eyes and long prehensile fingers and toes. They clusteredaround the net, twittering in high, birdlike speech. Larry glanced curiously at Kennard, and the other ladsaid tersely, “Trailmen. Nonhumans. They live in the trees. I didn’t know they’d ever come this far to thesouth. The fire probably drew them. If I’d known—” He glanced ruefully at their dying fire. The trailmenwere circling round it, shrilling, poking at it gingerly with long sticks, throwing dirt at it, and finally theymanaged to cover it entirely. Then they stamped on it with what looked like glee, dancing a sort ofvictory dance, and finally one of the creatures came to the net and delivered a long speech in their shrilllanguage; neither of the boys, of course, could understand a word, but it sounded enraged andtriumphant.

Kennard said, “They’re terrified of fire, and they hate humans because we use it. They’re afraid of forestfire, of course. To them, fire means death.”

“What are they going to do to us?”

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“I don’t know.” Kennard looked at Larry curiously, but all he said, at last, was, “Next time I’ll trust your

hunches. Evidently you have some precognition too, as well as telepathy.”

To Larry, the trailmen looked like big monkeys—or like the
 
kyrri
 
, only smaller and without theimmense dignity of those other creatures. He hoped they did not also have the
 
kyrri
trick of giving offelectric sparks!

Evidently they did not. They drew the net tight around the boys’ feet, forcing them to walk by tugging atthe vine ropes, but offered no further violence. A few hundred feet of this, and they came upon awidened path; Kennard whistled, softly, at sight of it.

“We’ve been in trailmen country, evidently, most of the day. Probably they’ve been watching us all day,

but they might not have bothered us if I hadn’t lit that fire. I ought to have known.”

It was easier to walk on the cleared path. Larry had lost track of time, but was stumbling with wearinesswhen, much later, they came to a broad clearing, lighted by phosphorescence which, he now saw, camefrom fungus growing on broad trees. After a discussion in their twittering speech, the trailmen looped thenet-ropes around the nearest tree and began to swarm up the trunk of the next.

“I wonder if they’re just going to leave us here?” Kennard muttered.

A hard jerk on the rope disabused them. Slowly, the net began to rise, jerking them off their feet, so thatthey hung up, swaying, in the great bag. Kennard shouted in protest, and Larry yelled, but evidently thetrailmen were taking no chances. Once the slow motion rise stopped, and Larry wondered if they weregoing to be hung up here in a sack like a pair of big sausages; but after a heart-stopping interval, theybegan to rise again.

Kennard swore, in a smothered voice. “I should have cut our way out, the minute they left us!” He drewhis dagger and began feverishly to saw at one of the great vines enclosing them. Larry caught his arm

“No, Kennard. We’d only fall.” He pointed downward into the dizzying distance. “And if they see that,

they’ll only take the knife from you. Hide it! Hide it!”

Kennard, realizing the truth of what Larry said, thrust the knife into his shirt. The lads clung together asthe great vine net ascended higher and higher toward the treetops; far from wishing, now, to cut their wayout, they feared it would break. The light brightened as they neared the lower branches of the immensetrees, and at last, with a bump that flung them against one another, the net was hauled up over a branchand on to the floor of the trail-men’s encampment in the trees.

Larry said urgently, “One of us should be a match for any two of those little creatures! Perhaps we canfight our way free.”

But the swarms of trailmen surrounding them put a stop to Larry’s optimism. There must have been fortyor fifty, men, women and a few small pale-fuzzed babies. At least a dozen of the men rushed at the net,bearing Larry and Kennard along with them. When, however, they ceased struggling and made signs thatthey would walk peacefully, one of the trailmen—he had a lean, furred monkeyface and green, intelligenteyes—came forward and began to unfasten the complicated knots of the snare with his prehensilecompetent fingers. The trailmen, however, were taking no chances on a sudden rush; they surrounded thetwo boys closely, ringing them round and giving them no chance to escape. Seeing for the moment thatescape was impossible, Larry looked round, studying the strange world of the trail-city around him.

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Between the tops of a circle of great trees, a floor had been constructed of huge hewn logs, coveredover with what looked like woven rush-matting. It swayed, slightly and disconcertingly, with everymovement and step; but Larry, seeing that it supported this huge shifting crowd of trailmen, realized that itmust have been constructed in such a way as to support immense weights. How could so simple a peoplehave figured out such a feat of engineering? Well, he supposed that if beavers could make dams thatchallenged the ingenuity of human engineers, these nonhumans could do just about the equivalent in thetreetops.

A pale greenish light filtered in from the leaves overhead; by this dim light he saw a circle of hutsconstructed at the edges of the flooring. A thatch of green growing leaves had been trained over theirroofs, and vines covered their edges, hung with clusters of grapes so succulent and delicious that Larryrealized that he was parched.

They were thrust into one of the huts; a tough grating slammed down behind them, and they wereprisoners.

Prisoners of the trailmen!

Larry slumped on the floor, wearily. “Out of the frying pan into the fire,” he remarked, and at Kennard’spuzzled look repeated the remark in rough-hewn Darkovan. Kennard smiled wryly. “We have a similarsaying: ‘The game that walks from the trap to the cookpot.’ ”

Kennard hauled out his knife and began tentatively to saw at the material of the vines comprising theirprison. No use—the vines were green and tough, thickly knotted and twined, and resisted the knife as ifthey had been iron bars. After a long grimace, he put the knife away and sat staring gloomily at themoss-implanted floor of the hut.

Hours dragged by. They heard the distant shrill and twittering voices of the trailmen, birdsongs in thetreetops, the strident sound of cricketlike insects. In the moss that grew on the hut floor there werenumerous small insects that chirped and thrust inquisitive heads up, without fear, like house pets, at thetwo boys.

Gradually the green-filtered light dimmed; it grew colder and darker, and finally wholly dark; the noisesquieted, and around them the trail-city slept. They sat in darkness, Larry thinking with an almostanguished nostalgia of the clean quiet world of the Terran Trade City. Why had he ever wanted to leaveit?

There, there would be lights and sounds, food and company, people speaking his own tongue…

In the darkness Kennard stirred, mumbled something unintelligible and slept again, exhausted. Larry feltsuddenly ashamed of his thoughts. His quest for adventure had led him here, against all warnings—and Kennard seemed likely to share whatever obscure fate was in store for them at the hands of the trailmen. By Darkovan standards he, Larry, was a man. He could at least behave like one. He found the warmestcorner of the hut, hauled off his boots and his jacket, and, on an impulse, spread his jacket over thesleeping Kennard; then, curled himself up on the moss, he slept. He slept heavily and long; when hewoke, Kennard was tugging at his sleeve and the wicker-woven door was opening. It opened, however,only a little way; a wooden tray was shoved inside and the door closed again quickly. From outside theyheard the bar drop into place.

It was light, and warmer. With one impulse, the two boys fell on the tray. It was piled high with food; theluscious grapes they had seen growing, nuts with soft shells which Larry managed to open with the

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broken blade of his small knife, some soft, spongy, earthy things which smelled like excellent honey. They made a substantial meal, then put the tray down and looked at one another, neither wanting to be the first to speak of the apparent hopelessness of their position.

Larry spoke first, examining the intricate carving of the tray: “They have tools?”

“Oh, yes. Very fine flint knives—I’ve seen them in a museum of non-human artifacts in Arilinn,” Kennard returned, “and some of the mountain people trade with them—give them knives and tools in return for certain things they grow: dye-stuffs, mostly, certain herbs for medicines. Nuts and fruits. That sort of thing.”

“They seem to have a fairly complex culture of their own, then.”

“They do. But they fear and hate men, probably because we use fire.”

Larry, thinking of the forest fire—only a few days ago— could not really blame the trailmen for theirfears. He examined the cup which had contained the honey. It was made of unfired clay, sun-baked andrough. What else could a culture do without fire?

There were still some fruits and nuts remaining on the tray, so abundant had been the meal. He said, “Ihope they’re not fattening us up for their Sunday dinner.”

Kennard laughed faintly. “No. They don’t even eat animals. They’re completely vegetarian as far as Iever heard.”

Larry exploded, “Then what the mischief do they want with us?”

Kennard shrugged. “I don’t know—and I’m damned if I know how to ask them!”

Larry was silent, thinking that over. Then: “Aren’t you a telepath?”

“Not a good one. Anyway, telepathy transmits worded thoughts, as a rule—and emotions. Two telepaths who don’t speak the same language have such different concepts that it’s almost impossible to read one another’s minds. And trying to read the mind of a non-human—well, a highly skilled Hasturlord,

or a
 
leronis
 
(a sorceress like the one you saw at the fire) might be able to manage it. I couldn’t even try

it.”

So that, it seemed, was that.

The day dragged by. No one came near them. At evening, another tray piled high with fruit, nuts andmushrooms was slid into their prison, and the old one deftly extracted. Still a third day came and went,with neither of the boys able to imagine a way to get out of their predicament. Their jailer entered theirhut, now to give them food and take away their empty dishes. He was a large and powerfulcreature—for a trailman—but walked with a limp. He seemed friendly but wary. Kennard and Larrydiscussed the possibility of overpowering the creature and making their escape, but that would only landthem in the trailmen’s city—with, perhaps, hundreds of miles of trail-men’s forest country to betraversed. So they contented themselves with discussing plan after futile plan. None of them seemed evenremotely feasible.

It seemed, by the growing light, to be noon of the fourth day when the door of their prison opened andthree trail-men entered, escorting a fourth who seemed, from their air of deference, to be a person of

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some importance among them. Like the others, he was naked save for the belt of leaves about his waist, but he wore a string of clay beads mingled with crimson berries, and had an air of indefinable dignity which made Larry, for some reason, think of Lorill Hastur.