Then he and the two girls began their slow, cautious, stalk.  As long as the grassland was dotted with young trees, they walked upright, making good time, but the last five hundred yards they had to crawl, stopping often to check the wind, while the horse-herd drifted slowly by.  Then they were directly behind the herd, with the wind in their faces, and they advanced more rapidly.

“Close enough?” Dard whispered to Analea.

“Yes; I’m taking the one that’s lagging a little behind.”

“I’m taking the one on the left of it.”  Kalvar Dard fitted a javelin to the hook of his throwing-stick.  “Ready?  Now!”

He leaped to his feet, drawing back his right arm and hurling, the throwing-stick giving added velocity to the spear.  Beside him, he was conscious of Analea rising and propelling her spear.  His missile caught the little bearded pony in the chest; it stumbled and fell forward to its front knees.  He snatched another light spear, set it on the hook of the stick and darted it at another horse, which reared, biting at the spear with its teeth.  Grabbing the heavy stabbing-spear, he ran forward, finishing it off with a heart-thrust.  As he did, Varnis slung her carbine, snatched a stone-headed throwing axe from her belt, and knocked down another horse, then ran forward with her dagger to finish it.

By this time, the herd, alarmed, had stampeded and was galloping away, leaving the dead and dying behind.  He and Analea had each killed two; with the one Varnis had knocked down, that made five.  Using his dagger, he finished off one that was still kicking on the ground, and then began pulling out the throwing-spears.  The girls, shouting in unison, were announcing the successful completion of the hunt; Glav, Olva, and Dorita were coming forward with the children.

* * * * *

It was sunset by the time they had finished the work of skinning and cutting up the horses and had carried the hide-wrapped bundles of meat to the little brook where they had intended camping.  There was firewood to be gathered, and the meal to be cooked, and they were all tired.

“We can’t do this very often, any more,” Kalvar Dard told them, “but we might as well, tonight.  Don’t bother rubbing sticks for fire; I’ll use the lighter.”

He got it from a pouch on his belt—­a small, gold-plated, atomic lighter, bearing the crest of his old regiment of the Frontier Guards.  It was the last one they had, in working order.  Piling a handful of dry splinters under the firewood, he held the lighter to it, pressed the activator, and watched the fire eat into the wood.

The greatest achievement of man’s civilization, the mastery of the basic, cosmic, power of the atom—­being used to kindle a fire of natural fuel, to cook unseasoned meat killed with stone-tipped spears.  Dard looked sadly at the twinkling little gadget, then slipped it back into its pouch.  Soon it would be worn out, like the other two, and then they would gain fire only by rubbing dry sticks, or hacking sparks from bits of flint or pyrites.  Soon, too, the last cartridge would be fired, and then they would perforce depend for protection, as they were already doing for food, upon their spears.