path. 
Oh, if she could only cry out, call Hjalmar! She felt the muscles of her throat straining, but no sound came. And now she was standing before the hothouse, and her hand had opened the door. 
The Rambler was waiting for her. Very slowly, like a man flexing his arm, it reached out one of the stocky branches toward her. Amy saw that at the end of the branch, well hidden under the dark green, glossy leaves, was a slender, translucent, hollow thorn. It was about the size of the hypodermic needle the doctor had used when, in her last year's physical examination, he'd taken a sample of blood. 
Amy knew exactly what was going to happen. First the hollow thorn, until her veins were dry, and then the slowly opening maw, gaping above the big, swollen, meter-wide base the thick leaves of the Rambler had served to conceal. It would take a long time, but Hjalmar would never miss her before it was too late. 
[Illustration: _She knew exactly what was going to happen._] 
The Rambler's branch moved delicately over the surface of Amy's right wrist, the one with the modeling knife. The other branches were drooping limply away from the purple-pink of its swollen base, waiting, while it hunted the exact spot. It hesitated for an instant and then--Amy's mouth drew into a soundless Oh of pain--struck home. 
A dark fluid began to stain the hollow thorn. For just a fraction of a second the Rambler's mental grip on Amy Dinsmore relaxed; she could feel its blind concentration on its own black enjoyment. And in that fraction of a second Amy threw the cake of soap in her left hand straight into the Rambler's fleshy maw. 
The Rambler gripped at her mind again, but it was a disturbed and feeble grip. Its branches began to move around the fleshy bole they had shielded, slowly, and then in a furious heaving. The thorn which had entered her wrist was jaggedly withdrawn. Amy, her wrist streaming blood, stared at the Rambler for a moment and then lunged at it with the menacing knife.Sitting outside on the ground beside the hothouse afterward, her forehead on her hands, feeling sick and faint, Amy had an idea. At first she pushed it from her; it was far-fetched, silly, even a little repulsive. But was it so silly after all? And as to being unpleasant, well, bollo meat commanded enormous prices in the market and, from everything she'd ever heard, the bollo was the very reverse of a fastidious feeder. Even pigs certainly weren't dainty in their eating habits. If she parboiled it in several waters and then braised it slowly, with a hint of ginger in the sauce.... Well, after all, why not?
Amy, the modeling knife in her hand, went into the hothouse again.
"Gee, Aunt Amy, this meat's good," Robert said. He was talking with his mouth full. "I've eaten indigenous chow on three 

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