Hunt the Space-Witch! Read Online Free PDF Page A

stalemate broke.
    And it was going to break soon. Harkins would be unable to hold the maddened animal off for long. His fingers were trembling, and soon the log would slip from his grasp. And then—
    A flashing metallic hand reached down from somewhere above, and abruptly the pressure relaxed. To his astonishment, Harkins watched the hand draw the animal upward.
    He followed it with his eyes. A robot stood over them, faceless, inhuman, contemplating the fierce beast it held in its metal grip. Harkins blinked. He had become so involved in the struggle that he had not heard the robot’s approach.
    The robot seized the animal by each of its throats, and tore . Casually, it flipped the still-living body into the shrubbery, where it thrashed for a moment and subsided—and then the robot continued through the forest, while the vultures from the tree-limb swooped down upon their prize.
    Harkins sank down on a decaying stump and sucked in his breath. His over-tensed arms shook violently and uncontrollably.
    It was as if the robot had been sent there for the mission of destroying the carnivore—and, mission completed, had returned to its base, having no further interest in Harkins’ doings.
    I’m just a pawn , he thought suddenly. The realization hit him solidly, and he slumped in weariness. That was the answer, of course: pawn. He was being manipulated. He had been shunted out of his own era, thrown in and out of Jorn’s village, put in and out of deadly peril. It was a disquieting thought, and one that robbed him of his strength for some minutes. He knew his limitations, but he had liked to think of himself as master of his fate. He wasn’t, now.
    All right—where do I go from here?
    No answer came. Deciding that his manipulator was busy somewhere else on the chessboard at the moment, he pulled himself to his feet and slowly began to move deeper into the forest.
    He walked warily this time, keeping an eye out for wildlife. There might not be any robots’ hands to rescue him, the next time.
    The forest seemed calm again. Harkins walked step by step, moving further and further into the heart of the woods, leaving Jorn’s village far behind. It was getting toward afternoon, and he was starting to tire.
    He reached a bubbling spring and dropped gratefully by its side. The water looked fresh and clear; he dipped a hand in, feeling the refreshing coolness, and wet his fingers. Drawing the hand out, he touched it experimentally to his lips. The water tasted pure, but he wrinkled his forehead in doubt.
    â€œGo ahead and drink,” a dry voice said suddenly. “The water’s perfectly good.”
    Harkins sprang up instantly. “Who said that?”
    â€œI did.”
    He looked around. “I don’t see anybody. Where are you?”
    â€œUp here on the rock,” the voice said. “Over here, silly.”
    Harkins turned in the direction of the voice—and saw the speaker. “Who—what are you?”
    â€œMen call me the Watcher,” came the calm reply.
    The Watcher was mounted on the huge rock through whose cleft base the stream flowed. Harkins saw a man, or something like a man, with gray-green, rugose skin, pale, sightless eyes, and tiny, dangling boneless arms. Its mouth was wide and grotesque, contorted into something possibly intended to be a grin.
    Harkins took a step backward in awe and surprise.
    â€œI’m not pretty,” the Watcher said. “But you don’t have to run. I won’t hurt you. Go on—drink your fill, and then we can talk.”
    â€œNo,” Harkins said uneasily. “Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?”
    The thick lips writhed in a terrifying smirk. “What am I doing here? I have been here for two thousand years and more, now. I might ask what you are doing here.”
    â€œI—don’t know,” Harkins said.
    â€œI know you don’t know,” the Watcher said mockingly. He