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water bag had been torn, and the water had long since disappeared into the sand. His meat sack had been pulled apart. The meat was gone, and several of the crabs were busy eating the sack itself. Only his hunting kit was not ruined, though the fur top had been stripped off and the contents scattered.
    "No! No!" Karl shouted at the crabs. He grabbed his spear and attacked them with the blunt end, but the crabs only hunkered into the sand and pulled their claws in front of their faces. Karl snatched his half-eaten things away from the crabs, gathered them into a pile, and then fell upon it. "Why didn't I watch them more closely?" he moaned. "Why was I so stupid?"
    Then Karl lowered his head into his arms. The crabs had succeeded in following him to his end.

4. Terrys on the Desert
    For a long time Karl lay as if he were already dead, but at last the hot sun forced him to rise and set up his kitewing. As he slid into its welcome shade, he tried to ignore his unsatisfied hunger and thirst. He could survive for a while without food, but without water he had only a few days at best. He shuddered anew each time he glanced at the carrion crabs that were busy burrowing underground for the day. I will act more bravely when I die than when I hunted the terry, he promised himself. But this did not relieve his feeling of horror when he imagined the crabs picking the flesh from his bones.
    When Karl awoke, the sun was low and the air had cooled. He rose slowly, already feeling a desperate need for water. As he folded his kitewing a motion in the sand drew his attention, and he watched as one of the smaller crabs clawed its way to the surface. He wanted to kick it, but instead he turned and took an inventory of his belongings. His water bag was torn, but he could mend it. His hunting kit was intact, so he had his knife, an extra spear point, rope, sheets of terry leather, needles, and fire-making tools. At least he still had the tools to survive, though he could not imagine what good they would do him now.
    He started off in the direction of the setting sun, the carrion crabs not far behind. Cursed crabs, he thought, I should eat them. Then he stopped and shook his head, surprised that the idea had not occurred to him before. Why not eat them?
    The difficult part would be killing the crabs. He had no hammer or rocks. If he tried opening one of them with his knife, he would surely break the brittle obsidian blade. And even the smallest crab could give him a nasty gash with its pincers. He would have to be careful.
    By the time he heard the crabs skittering after him on the sand, Karl had a plan. Taking the terry rope out of his hunting sack, he made a noose at each end, then quietly walked back to the crabs. The biggest was in the lead again with the rest scattered behind. A few feet away he spied one of the smallest. That was the one he wanted.
    Holding the blunt end of his spear in front of him, Karl advanced, allowing the crab to grab the spear handle with one of its giant pincers. Then he flipped the creature onto its back. While the crab clawed at the air trying to right itself, Karl slipped a noose over each pincer. Jerking the crab up into the air, he swung it high above his head and smashed it down upon the rock-hard shell of the largest crab. Again and again he pounded the small crab against the shell of its largest companion. When he heard the shell crack, he stopped.
    Still trembling from the exertion, Karl separated the top of the shell from the body. With knife and thumb he stripped out some of the raw flesh and stuffed it into his mouth and started to chew. The sour, salty taste nearly gagged him and he had to force himself to swallow. When he had choked down as much of the crab flesh as he could stand, he raised the upside-down shell and drank the juice that had accumulated there, shuddering with each swallow, even though the moisture felt good in his dry throat. Feeling more sick than satisfied, Karl picked up his bag and his