Gallifa found MacFarland by the main-gate shack. He helped him secure a manual excavating kit to the side of the truck, and then headed for a hogback MacFarland had spotted from the early air photos.

Gallifa jolted the truck up a rutted mound and braked close to a grove of trees. They had covered roughly ten miles. Gallifa was still uneasy about Bradshaw, but he had maintained an exceptionally sharp lookout and had seen nothing which might be termed dangerous to a wary colonist. If anything had harmed Bradshaw, the ground must have swallowed it.

MacFarland shouldered his pack and stalked toward an outcropping rock formation. Gallifa planned to work close to the truck in order to keep in touch with the other crews who were on less personalized missions of mass survey with highly sensitive instruments. That was the way, of course, that most of the work would have to be done.

A short time later MacFarland reappeared, red-faced and panting, and with a bulging pack. Gallifa had activated the scanning scope and was casually inspecting the terrain.

"Finding anything of interest?" MacFarland grunted, after he had caught his breath.

"Nothing except a couple of those little creatures like the ones we saw back in camp," Gallifa answered. At MacFarland's frown he remembered, and filled in the details.

"Want to take a look?" he asked.

MacFarland shrugged out of the pack and clambered into the truck. He expertly advanced the power of the scope and swung it in slow arcs.

"I'll help with the pack," Gallifa volunteered.

"Wait a minute!" MacFarland called excitedly. "Take a look at this."

Gallifa frowned and glanced into the view screen. His jaw fell. He leaned forward and swallowed hard. "That's an ugly looking beast," he affirmed, with a grimace.

"I thought the spotting cruiser said there weren't any dangerous animals in the zone where we were supposed to land," MacFarland said caustically. "I think we had better revise the theory—unless you want me to believe the teeth on that thing are used for shredding lettuce."

"No," Gallifa said. "It's a meat eater, all right. Either the cruiser made a mistake, or—and this is more likely—the beast has wandered in from a more natural habitat. You know, I believe it's after one of the gnomes."

MacFarland left the screen and swung the automatic rifle to bear on the beast. He carefully adjusted the telescopic sights, centering the hair lines on the target. There was a quiet whir and a slight shifting of the rifle as the computer device allowed for correct elevation and windage.

"I have the critter dead center," MacFarland said eagerly.

"Don't shoot," Gallifa suddenly warned. "There is something awfully peculiar about this. I'm positive our friend sees that fellow, but he doesn't seem the least bit worried. Keep the rifle trained, but let's watch a little longer. I'm interested in this."

The gnome did seem aware that he was being stalked. Every so often he stopped to peer over his shoulder where his adversary was in plain view. Then he calmly went on feeding. He made no effort to flee or find concealment.

Gallifa watched in puzzlement. Was the creature really so stupid? It wasn't logical. It just didn't make sense. How had the race survived?

The pursuer tentatively crawled a few feet and stopped, its eyes gleaming. It crawled a few more. It seemed to be appraising the distance to be traversed. All at once it gathered its powerful legs snugly under it. A quick rush and a spring ...

The gnome suddenly stopped feeding and curled into a tight ball. The charging beast seemed to be trying to change its course in mid-leap. It landed almost on top of its prey, but it didn't strike. Instead, it whirled, biting its shoulder and clawing spasmodically. Then it charged headlong across the slope and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Back at the truck, Gallifa turned to MacFarland. "Did you shoot it?" he asked with wide eyes.

MacFarland shook his head.

"The gnome just curled up like a porcupine," Gallifa said, frowning. "And that's certainly no protection ... I wouldn't think. It doesn't have spines or anything."

"You're right," MacFarland answered. "I think the meat eater had a fit, and it's a damn good thing for your friend Mr. Gnome, too!"

"You may be right," Gallifa speculated slowly. "Only—You know, it's a far-fetched thought, but maybe the gnomes throw out some scent that stops their enemies cold."

"It would have to be considerably potent," MacFarland snorted. "To cause a fuss like that!"

"Well," Gallifa affirmed with finality, "Samuels will have several specimens for us back at the base. We will find out after we get back."

"I just thought of something," MacFarland exclaimed suddenly. "Do you think maybe that—that cat—or one like it, attacked Bradshaw? It may have been the reason he ran through the brambles, figuring the beast couldn't follow."

"Hmm, I see what you mean," Gallifa replied thoughtfully. "The beast was sort of catlike, and it could have roughed Bradshaw up some. Only it doesn't seem logical that the experience could have driven him to the type of mental breakdown he suffered. Still, it's as good a guess as any, I suppose. Maybe Bradshaw will snap out of it and be able to tell us himself."

MacFarland glanced at the sky. "We'd better be getting back," he suggested. "The other crews will be in, and we have a lot of data to correlate tonight."

Gallifa agreed and secured the rifle and scope. Before he could turn the truck around, they heard the sound of a helijet approaching at maximum speed. Gallifa shaded his eyes and looked at the now hovering craft.

"I think it is Hawkins," he reported. "And I'd say offhand that he wants to talk to us."

The 'copter landed expertly a few feet away, and the blades slowed to idling speed. It was Hawkins. He waved excitedly as he ran toward the truck.

"Mac! Gallifa!" he called. "There's a space ship down a few miles from here!"

Gallifa gasped. A wrecked ship? It seemed inconceivable. A space craft wasn't dainty. Damage from a wreck should have been plainly visible even from the spotting cruiser—ignoring completely their own air maps.

He faced Hawkins. "Are you sure?" he asked incredulously. "How did we ever miss the wreckage?"

"The ship isn't wrecked," Hawkins said levelly. "It's in the same condition that it was in when it landed."

"It's not wrecked?" MacFarland repeated blankly. "Now who in hell—" He turned to Gallifa. "I thought we were the first crew on the planet," he said, almost accusingly. "It's very strange no one told us of any other expedition."

Gallifa frowned in annoyance. "We are the first. I'm sure of that. The other ship must be a free-lance." He turned to Hawkins. "How about the crew? Are they still with the ship?"

"They're still with the ship," Hawkins said quietly. "But they're all dead. It's quite a mess," he added simply.

"A mess?" Gallifa echoed. "Could you tell how they died? Was it a disease? Were they killed by some animals? Speak up, man!"

"You aren't going to believe this," Hawkins said grimly. "But it sure looks like they killed each other."

"Why would they want to do that?" MacFarland protested. "Are you sure, Hawkins? How could you tell, anyway?"

"I could tell," Hawkins insisted. "You better come and have a look for yourselves. I'll take you in the 'copter, then bring you back for the truck."

Gallifa shrugged, and the men joined Hawkins in the helijet. The mapping man handled the controls, and the ship soared into the air.

"There is something else kind of funny, too," Hawkins volunteered. "The ship landed almost on top of a colony of the screwiest bunch of things you ever saw. They look something like little gnomes, only with a pinkish fur. They are all around the ship, but they haven't bothered anything."

"More gnomes," Gallifa told MacFarland. "I wonder if they're ecologically basic?" He addressed Hawkins. "Gnomes are exactly what I called them, but I'm quite sure there were never such gnomes on Earth. What do you mean by colony? Like a village?"

"No," Hawkins said slowly. "Not that. Maybe I don't mean colony. They just sort of hang around and eat together. They don't have any dwellings, or anything like that. At least, none that I could see," he amended.

Gallifa wasn't sure why he sighed with relief. At least his hypothesis wasn't spoiled. They were clannish. But hell, rabbits were clannish. Herd development wasn't anything more than instinct.