Free War Against the Rull by A. E. van Vogt Page A

scant hundred yards away, like a wedge driven into the grassland, was the pointed edge of a forest. The grass beyond seemed almost like a projection of the forest growth. It, too, formed a wedge that petered out in bleak rock. At the far end of the grass was a herd of about a hundred grasseaters.
    "They're working this way!" Jamieson said. "And they'll pass close to that wedge of trees."
    A faint air of irony edged his companion's voice as she said, "And what will you do—run out and put salt on their tails? I tell you, Doctor Jamieson, we haven't got a thing that—"
    "Our first course," said Jamieson, unheeding, seeming to think out loud, "is to get into that thick belt of trees. We can do that by skirting along this cliff's edge and putting the trees between us and the animals. Then you can lend me your knife."
    "Okay," she agreed in a tired voice. "If you won't listen, you'll have to learn from experience. I tell you, you won't get within a quarter of a mile of those things."
    "I don't want to," Jamieson retorted. "You see, Barbara, if you had more confidence in life, you'd realize that this problem of killing animals by cunning has been solved before. It's absolutely amazing how similarly it has been solved on different worlds and under widely differing conditions. One would almost suspect a common evolution, but actually it is only a parallel situation producing a parallel solution. Just watch me."
    "I'm willing," she said. "There's almost any way I'd rather die than by starving. A meal of cooked grasseater is tough going, but it'll be pure heaven. Don't forget, though, that the bloodsucker grybs follow grasseater herds, get as near as possible at night, then kill them in the morning when they're frozen. Right now with darkness near, a gryb must be out there somewhere, hiding, sneaking nearer. Pretty soon he'll smell us, and then hell— "We'll come to the gryb when he comes for us," said Jamieson
    calmly- "I'm sorry I never visited this moon in my younger days; these problems would all have been settled long ago. In the meantime, the forest is our goal."
    Jamieson's outer calmness was but a mask for his inner excitement. His body shook with hunger and eagerness as they reached the safety of the forest. His fingers were trembling violently as he took her knife and began to dig at the base of a great, bare, brown tree.
    "It's the root, isn't it," he asked unsteadily, "that's so tough and springy that it's almost like fine tempered steel, and won't break even if it's bent into a circle? They call it eurood on Earth, and it's used in industry."
    "Yes," she said doubtfully. "What are you going to do—make a bow? I suppose you could use a couple of grass blades in place of catgut. The grass is pretty strong and makes a good rope."
    "No," said Jamieson. "I'm not making a bow and arrow. Mind you, I can shoot a pretty mean arrow. But I'm remembering what you said about not being able to get within a quarter of a mile of the beasts."
    He jerked out a root, which was about an inch in thickness, cut off a generous two-foot length and began to sharpen, first one end, then the other. It was hard going, harder than he had expected, because the knife skidded along the surface almost as if it were metal. Finally it obtained a cutting hold. "Makes a good edge and point," he commented. "And now, give me a hand in bending this double, while I tie some grass blades around to keep it this way."
    "Oh-oh!" she said wonderingly. "I see-e-e! That is clever. It'll make a mouthful about six inches in diameter. The grasseater that gets it will gobble it up in one gulp to prevent any of the others' getting the salt you're going,to smear on it. His digestive juices will dissolve the grass string, the points will spring apart and tear the wall of his stomach, producing an internal hemorrhage."
    "If s a method," said Jamieson, "used by the primitives of various planets, and our own Eskimo back on Earth uses it on wolves. Naturally, they all use