Authors: Chad Oliver
When
they
had
recovered,
the
escaping
Neanderthals
had
a
good
lead
on
them,
and
even
as
they watched,
the
half-men
split
into
three
groups,
fanning out
across
the
great
plains
and
each
group
taking
a different
direction.
With
grim
urgency
now,
the
Danequa
reorganized.
A
large
party
of
warriors
ran
off
at full
speed
to
intercept
the
Mroxor
bearing
toward
the east.
They
had
to
be
stopped
at
all
costs
before
they reached
the
almost
unprotected
valley
of
the
Danequa,
where
the
Danequa
women
and
children
were. A
smaller
group
charged
after
the
Mroxor
heading west,
and
another
party
ran
out
across
the
plains directly
toward
the
north.
Mark,
Tlaxcan,
and
Nranquar
were
in
the
center group,
with
Fang
racing
at
their
side.
The
Neanderthals
were
running
for
their
lives,
snarling
like
elusive animals
through
the
tall
grass
of
the
plains.
The
Danequa
charged
after
them,
trying
desperately
to
get within
arrow
range.
The
pell-mell
race
settled
down into
a
trotting
run
as
it
rapidly
turned
into
an
endurance
contest.
For
hours
they
forced
themselves
on
through
the tall
grasses
and
the
brilliant
flowers,
while
the
sun marched
sedately
through
the
blue
sky,
and
the
gentle breezes
played
unconcernedly
across
the
earth.
Mark was
strong
and
hard
now,
but
he
was
tiring
speedily and
nearing
complete
exhaustion.
He
could
not
run forever,
and
evening
would
be
upon
them
soon,
forcing
them
to
turn
back
from
their
grim
hunt.
He
forced himself
to
go
on,
however,
knowing
that
every
step took
him
closer
to
his
long-awaited
goal.
The
space-time
machine,
if
only
nothing
had
happened
to
it!
You’ll
never
get
another
chance,
his
straining
mind whispered,
urging
him
on.
They
were
gaining
on
the
half-men
now.
The Mroxor,
hampered
by
their
women
and
children,
were losing
ground.
Determined
to
hold
out
until
the
saving
night,
the
Mroxor
suddenly
split
up
again
into still
smaller
groups.
At
an
unspoken
command,
the Danequa
peeled
off
their
own
units
to
follow
them across
the
plains.
Mark
and
Tlaxcan
were
left
alone, two
of
the
Danequa
against
two
of
the
cornered Mroxor.
On
and
on
they
went,
these
four
creatures
playing out
the
most
deadly
game
of
all
across
the
plains
of the
Ice
Age.
Fang’s
tongue
lolled
with
weariness,
and now
the
sun
was
dangerously
low
in
the
western
sky. Mark
forced
every
last
ounce
of
strength
into
the
race, every
single
atom
of
his
being
concentrated
on
catching
those
shambling
half-men
ahead
of
him.
Unless they
caught
them
before
night,
they
would
have
to turn
back
or
run
the
certain
risk
of
ambush
in
the
tall grass.
And
the
space-time
machine
was
so
near—surely it
was
just
ahead
of
them!
They
were
drawing
nearer,
the
gap
was
closing. They
were
gaining,
but
could
they
make
it
in
time?