They were conscious of an odor—­the sharp, unidentifiable scent Dane had noticed during the loading of the wood.  It was not unpleasant—­merely different.  And it—­or something—­had an electrifying effect upon Queex.  The blue hunter climbed with the aid of its claws to the top of the nearest pile of wood and there settled down.  For a space it was apparently contemplating the area about it.

Then it raised its claws and began the scraping fiddle which once before had drawn its prey out of hiding.  Oddly enough that dry rasp of sound had a quieting effect upon Sinbad and Dane felt the drag of the harness lessen as the cat moved, not toward escape, but to the scene of action, humping himself at last in the open panel, his round eyes fixed upon the Hoobat with a fascinated stare.

Scrape-scrape—­the monotonous noise bit into the ears of the men, gnawed at their nerves.

“Ahhh—­” Ali kept his voice to a whisper, but his hand jerked to draw their attention to the right at deck level.  Dane saw that flicker along a log.  The stowaway pest was now the same brilliant color as the wood, indistinguishable until it moved, which probably explained how it had come on board.

But that was only the first arrival.  A second flash of movement and a third followed.  Then the hunted remained stationary, able to resist for a period the insidious summoning of Queex.  The Hoobat maintained an attitude of indifference, of being so wrapped in its music that nothing else existed.  Rip whispered to Weeks: 

“There’s one to the left—­on the very end of that log.  Can you net it?”

The small oiler slipped the coiled mesh through his calloused hands.  He edged around Ali, keeping his eyes on the protuding protruding bump of red upon red which was his quarry.

“—­two—­three—­four—­five—­” Ali was counting under his breath but Dane could not see that many.  He was sure of only four, and those because he had seen them move.

The things were ringing in the pile of wood where the Hoobat fiddled, and two had ascended the first logs toward their doom.  Weeks went down on one knee, ready to cast his net, when Dane had his first inspiration.  He drew his sleep rod, easing it out of its holster, set the lever on “spray” and beamed it at three of those humps.

Rip seeing what he was doing, dropped a hand on Weeks’ shoulder, holding the oiler in check.  A hump moved, slid down the rounded side of the log into the narrow aisle of deck between two piles of wood.  It lay quiet, a bright scarlet blot against the gray.

Then Weeks did move, throwing his net over it and jerking the draw string tight, at the same time pulling the captive toward him over the deck.  But, even as it came, the scarlet of the thing’s body was fast fading to an ashy pink and at last taking on a gray as dull as the metal on which it lay—­the complete camouflage.  Had they not had it enmeshed they might have lost it altogether, so well did it now blend with the surface.