Morgan looked at Hanson. Hanson waggled his head and grinned ruefully.

"That--uh--lady likes you, suh."

Morgan snorted and went to the door. She was just disappearing into a tangle of weeds that had once been an orange grove. He set off after her at a quick trot. "Shera, wait--"

He caught up with her at the edge of the swamp, where she was backing quickly away from a coiled water-moccasin. He tossed a stick at the snake, and it slithered into the shallow water. Then he caught her arms, and she whirled to face him with defiant eyes.

"You think I'm a--a--"

"I don't."

"You act like I'm barely human."

"I didn't mean it that way--"

"You don't even trust me, and you want me to--"

"I _don't_."

"Trust me." She nodded.

"I do."

She stamped her foot in the soft muck. "Then kiss me."

A grim possibility occurred to him, and he hesitated an instant too long. She wrenched herself free with a snarl and bolted back toward the shanty. "_I could_ have done _that_ last night," she snapped over her shoulder, "while you were asleep."

The chase led back to the house. When he burst back inside, she was already panting over the sink, sc.r.a.ping plates. When he approached her from behind, she whirled quickly, clenching a platter in both hands.

When she brought it down across his head with a clatter of broken china, Morgan gave up. He retreated, nursing his scalp, then stalked angrily out to join Hanson. Dogs were baying to the north. The old man looked worried.

"They're comin', suh. Must be a lot of 'em. I got my dawgs trained so they don't bark less they's a bunch of 'em."

Morgan listened for a moment. "I hear a truck."

"That's so?" Hanson shook his head. "They ain't never come in a truck before."

"Truck--must be a dozen of them at least." He eyed Hanson sharply.

"Run or fight?"

The old man scratched his toe in the dirt. "Ain't never yet run from a fight."

Morgan turned silently and strode back in the house for the gun. Shera ignored him. "Orenians coming," he grunted, and went back out to join the oldster.

Morgan and Hanson trotted through the scrub spruce, heading for the roadway. But they turned short and cut north through the edge of the brush. Morgan caught a glimpse of the truck far ahead. Hanson's hounds were snarling about the wheels and leaping up toward the bed. The road was soft sand to their right. Ducking low, they darted ahead until it appeared firm enough to admit the truck.

"We want them to get past us," he hissed to Hanson. "When they do, you stand up and show yourself. When they start piling out, I'll start shooting. Okay?"

"Yes, suh." He patted his pitchfork and grinned. They stopped and crouched low in the brush.

"Please, suh--don't hit my dawgs."

"I'm counting on them to help."

The truck grumbled slowly past them. The hounds were snapping furiously as they tried to leap over the tailgate. Morgan caught a glimpse of white faces, staring fixedly at nothing. Then he nudged the oldster.

Hanson stood up, shaking his pitchfork and shrieking hate at the occupants. The truck moved on a few yards, then ground to a stop.

"_Come and join us_," thundered a collective voice. "_For we are Oren, who is one._"

Morgan could see nothing through the screen of foliage. But the old man was still howling invective.

"_From the stars comes Oren. To the stars he goes. Come and join us._"

"Come get me, you devils. I'll kill ya!"

"_Oren is millions. He cannot die. We come._"

Hanson's foot nudged Morgan's nervously. Still he lay under cover, waiting for their advance. Feet shuffled on the bed of the truck. The hounds were going wild. There was something weird about sounds of Orenian movement. It was always coordinated--so many marionettes with one set of controls. But they could shift from parallel coordination to complementary, dovetailing each set of movements to achieve the common purpose.

Morgan burst forth from the brush and fired at the tight group of bodies near the back of the truck. They were packed in a circle to protect the group from the slashing fangs of the dogs. Two of them fell, without outcries. He fired three times before they broke apart.

There were still at least eight of them, but the dogs had two down.

"Oh, G.o.d! Children!" Morgan bellowed. "Call off the dogs!"

"Not _human_ children."

"Call them off!"

Hanson obeyed reluctantly. A pair of calm-eyed child-things scrambled to their feet and began advancing with the group of adults. The Orenians fanned out and began closing in like the fingers of a giant fist. Morgan shot four of them before the circle closed to hatchet range. He and Hanson stood back to back, slashing out at the ring of fanged faces.

The attackers were weaponless. They cared nothing for individual bodies. The collectivum swayed, writhed, darted in--and fell in blood.

The wounded crawled close to their ankles, barbs protruding from their lips. They roared constantly, "_Oren is paradise. Come to Oren._"

A child, who had been rescued from one of the dogs, crawled among the legs of the adults and lunged for Morgan's feet. He was forced to kick it back with a hard heel.

Suddenly their ranks broke. There were only four of them left standing. They backed away and stopped--three men and a middle-aged woman. "_Oren will return._" They turned and marched toward the truck.

"We need the truck," panted Morgan.

Hanson flung his pitchfork and caught the last one in the center of the back. The others moved on unheeding. Morgan sadly lifted the shotgun.

When it was over, they went to look at the two child-things. One was unconscious, but not badly wounded. The other had a broken arm. It shot out its fang and circled. With a sick heart, Morgan lashed out and caught it by the hair, before it could sting him.

"See if there's pliers in the truck," he muttered.