“Will nothing make you listen to reason, Pryor? We don’t want to flush you out but we may have to. You have only four hours left, four hours, Pryor. We are trying to save you before the time runs out—”
Let ’em talk, let them talk their damned heads off—if they had heads. Another mile and he would be in Gorse Valley, let them flush him out of that. Since the landslide three years ago, the valley had become a bewildering tangle of fallen trees, soil and boulder, in many places a virtual tunnel of escape.
“Are you so bigoted, so steeped in pre-conceived ideas that you are unable to grasp the possibility of a benevolent Invasion? There was no TIME for niceties, can’t you accept that? Draw a parallel, Pryor. Consider a native village suddenly faced with Bubonic Plague. Skilled medical attenti
