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"But I thought that the whole idea of hunting was to kill things."

"You, John," she told him, "are the sort of man who would use grenades in a trout stream."

"However did you guess?" he countered.

"Mr. Grimes," sneered de Messigny, "is obviously unacquainted with the mystique of huntin', shootin' and fishin'. But I have no doubt, Marlene, that under your expert tutelage he will acquire a smattering."

"No doubt," she agreed coldly. "Now, John, you have your gun. I shouldn't need to tell you about safety catches, pointing it at people and all the rest of it. Here's your bag of cartridges." Grimes took it, slung it over his shoulder. "A miniwagon will accompany us to bring in the game we shoot and will also carry our refreshments. Are you ready?"

"Yes," he said.

He followed her out of the gun room.

"Good huntin'!" called the Duchess ironically.

* * *

As before, it was a beautiful morning. They strode out over the dew-spangled grass, the sunlight warm on their faces, the grim pile of the castle behind them. To one side and a little back trundled the miniwagon, a vehicle little more than a rectangular box on balloon tired wheels. No doubt it possessed a rudimentary intelligence as well as hidden capabilities. Overhead soared the watchbirds, and ahead, trotting sedately, was a pair of beautiful dogs, red- rather than brown-coated, their plumed tails upraised and waving.

They left the relatively short grass of the fields for rougher ground, gently undulating, with outcroppings of chalky rock (but limestone, thought Grimes, could not exist on this planet), with clumps of golden-blossoming gorse, of purple-flowered heather. The warm air was full of spicy scent, and the stridulation of unseen insects was a pleasant monotone.

Suddenly the Princess stopped, broke her gun, snapped two cartridges into the breech, clicked the weapon into a state of readiness. A little clumsily, Grimes followed suit. Then Marlene gave an order in a language with which Grimes was not familiar, and both dogs yelped softly in acknowledgment. They were away then, running between the boulders and the gorse clumps, tails in a rigid line with their bodies. They were away, something almost serpentine in their smooth, fluid motion, vanishing up the hillside.

There was an outburst of yapping, a surprisingly loud clatter of wings. Two gaudy birds rocketed up, levelled off and flew toward Grimes and the Princess. They were fast, fantastically fast, and their line of flight was unpredictable. The butt of Marlene's gun was to her shoulder and the twin barrels twitched gently as she lined up, leading the birds. There was a report, dull rather than sharp, and, a microsecond later, another one. Two bundles of ruined feathers fell to the ground. The miniwagon rolled toward them, extended a long, thin tentacle, picked up the bodies and dropped them into a receptacle at its rear.

"Nice shooting," said Grimes. He felt that it was expected of him.

"Yes," she agreed, without false modesty. "With the next pair we shall see how you can do."

Again the dogs gave voice, and again a couple of fire pheasants took to the air. Grimes was used to taking snapshots with a pistol, but never with a weapon like the one that he was holding now. But it was so well designed and balanced that it was almost part of him. He let go with his left barrel, felt the satisfaction of seeing a little explosion of scarlet and orange feathers as the shot struck home. But he was too slow with his right, and the surviving bird was darting away and clear before he could pull the trigger.

But it was coming back, flying straight toward him, steadily this time. Grimes fired, was sure that he had scored a hit, but the thing still came on steadily. Hastily, but without fumbling, he ejected and reloaded, fired again, both barrels in quick succession.

Damn it! he thought, the brute must be armour-plated!

Again the ejection and the reloading but before he could bring the gun up to his shoulder, the Princess put out a hand to stop him.