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enough, but not against a standing dinosaur. His only advantage was his brain—and as the creature loomed larger, he was none too sure of that. But the job had to be done, and his perverse pride forced him to see it through, even at the risk of becoming the Chief's heir.
    â€œHee-ya, Snorthorn!” he cried loudly, waving his arms.
    One moment the dinosaur was standing; the next, he was charging at a good twenty miles an hour. Or so it seemed.
    There was only one response to such a charge: to get out of the way. Flint ran, straining his utmost, hearing the thud thud thud of Old Snort's tremendous hooves hammering the ground close behind. Too close behind; the animal could catch a man in full flight, and knew it.
    Then Tsopi shot past, her tentacle looped down to touch her own body. From the small bearing came a piercing keening noise, as of an animal in terror.
    Flint dodged to the side, caught his foot in a vine root, and sprawled headlong. The feet of the dinosaur smashed down—and missed him by a good yard. The turf sank several inches. Old Snort had seen him fall, but was unable to change course on such short notice—and Tsopi was buzzing along immediately ahead, commanding attention.
    Flint got up, unhurt. He should have watched his feet better; now all the tribesmen would know of his clumsiness. But perhaps it was just as well, for he was obviously not the hero of this adventure. The Polarian was. Flint watched the chase with interest.
    Tsopi approached the misnamed deadfall, dinosaur in galloping pursuit. The trap was a huge pit, ten feet deep and forty in diameter, covered by a network of crisscrossing vine stems. It was not concealed; dinosaurs' eyes were not so sharp, and their brains not so good as to decipher its menace before putting a foot in it. Natural hazards were one thing; natural selection had bred care. But artificial hazards were only a century old, on this world, and the dinosaurs had not had time to learn yet. All that had been necessary was to build it several weeks before the hunt, to give the man-smell time to wear thin. Old Snort would crash through the vine segments and fall in, and though his shoulder was two feet taller than the drop, his mass and musculature were such that he would not be able to climb out. Forward propulsion was not the same as upward movement, as the Polarian's problem with climbing showed.
    Suddenly Tsopi veered away from the pit, followed of course by Old Snort. Both skirted the edge, and the dinosaur did not fall in.
    â€œThe alien fool!” the man next to Flint exclaimed. “Why didn't he go over it, the way we planned?”
    Why not, indeed? Had the Polarian deliberately sabotaged the hunt?
    Now they were looping back: toward the men. Tsopi accelerated right at Flint. If old Snort continued on his course—well, they could scatter, but one or more men would be tramples.
    â€œPlint!” Tsopi cried, her tentacle touching the ground. “I cannot cross the trap at speed!”
    Then Flint realized his mistake. A man would have bounded from one vine to the other automatically, safely, but the Polarian could not jump. Not that way. The crisscrossing vines were an impassable menace.
    â€œMove toward it, then dodge aside!” Flint cried. “Old Snort can't turn as fast as you can.”
    â€œRight!” The Polarian looped about again, and such was the concentration of the dinosaur that he charged right by Flint without seeing him. One-track body, one-track mind.
    But Old Snort was slowing; he could not maintain charge speed for long. That would complicate the trap; he might lose interest in the uncatchable alien and turn to the slower men. “Let him follow close!” Flint called. And wondered how it was the earless Polarian could hear him.
    Tsopi eased off, letting the dinosaur catch up. They headed back toward the covered pit, the small form almost merging with the large one.
    â€œNow she's playing it too close,”