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were billions within their own Sphere. In many respects, Outworld was closer co Polaris than to Sol.
    Suddenly Flint had an idea. If the Polarians could be made to seem instrumental in relieving this crisis, there would be little credit due Flint himself, and thus no question of becoming heir to the Chief. Strongspear would never confer honor on an alien.
    â€œYour offer of assistance is much appreciated,” Flint said to Tsopi. “I noticed you move very swiftly. Do you think you could lead Old Snort toward our deadfall, without running the risk of getting trampled or gored?” Actually, as the Shaman had remarked, it was a misnomer. This was a concealed pit, not a killing weight to drop on the animal. But Strongspear called it a deadfall, so that was what it was.
    â€œThis would be simple,” Tsopi said, glowing with pleasure. Flint wondered whether her constant illumination was a Polarian trait or a female one.
    â€œGet that dino turd out of here!” Strongspear yelled, furious that the alien should witness the human predicament.
    â€œWe shall clean up Snort's refuse as soon as we get him into the trap,” Flint said, hoping the Polarian would misinterpret Strongspear's reference. If only it weren't so apt!
    They moved out. Flint showed Tsopi where the deadfall was, then they rounded up the scattered tribesmen and approached the dinosaur.
    â€œThe idea is to lure him away from our dead,” Flint explained. “But since he has killed men, he must be killed, not just removed. So we have to lead or drive him over the pit. The only problem is–”
    â€œHe can outrun us,” a tribesman finished.
    â€œYes,” Flint agreed grimly. “Therefore the Polarian has kindly agreed to take the lead. Old Snort can't outrun a Polarian on level ground.”
    The men looked dubious, but acceded to Flint's evident authority. If he muffed it, he would be in trouble, not they. They formed a half circle around the dinosaur, a wide arc, for they were not eager to provoke him into another devastating charge. The monster would tend to shy away from a large group of men at a distance, unable to see or smell them well enough to attack them with confidence. But this was chancy.
    Flint and Tsopi came near. Old Snort snorted as he became aware of them. He stomped the ground, making it shudder. From up close, he was huge—twice the height of a man. The bones of his head opened out into a massive shield about the neck, and he had three great horns on his nose. “A triceratops,” the Shaman had said. “Not a true reptile, here on Outworld, but close enough for practical purposes. The planet permits larger development. Convergent evolution.” Flint hadn't cared about the technicalities; all he knew was that Old Snort was about as formidable an opponent as the planet offered. True, there were also predator dinosaurs, but they seldom bothered to go after anything as small as men, and men stayed well clear of them, so there was little contact. There were many of these hornbeasts, in contrast, and their young made good hunting. The sheer stupidity of flushing this one, instead of smaller prey...
    Flint shook his head. Old Snort, the most ferocious of the lot, terror of the plain for over a century.
    The huge head swung around, attracted by Flint's motion. The triple horns pointed at man and Polarian. Any notion that the dinosaur was dull or slow was dissipated by that alert reaction; Old Snort was stupid, but fully competent within his province. The opposite of the Shaman, who was intelligent but often incompetent about routine things, like gutting roachpigs for cooking. He tended to shy away from the squirting green juices.
    The dinosaur snorted again, the air misting out around his nasal horn with a half-melodious honk, and stamped one mighty hoof warningly. He did not like intruders.
    Flint hadn't brought his own spear, and had no immediate use for his stone handax. The tool was good