Detective Morgan, Bartles, and Culp had been barreling along for 3 hours beneath a torrid sun, through arid yet magnificent terrain, dotted with ancient rocks and little groups of tenacious trees of exotic sorts. It was a tour guide's paradise, but the three were immune to its charms. Culp was getting restless. He had seen nothing to shoot at all morning. Then he saw the bird...huge, black, of a type unknown.

"Wot the hell is that?" he said, nudging Bartles, who was driving.

Bartles' eyes opened a little wider than usual. "Bloody hell!" he remarked. "Damned if I know. What an ugly bastard."

"A dead bastard," growled Culp. "Stop the jeep."

Bartles hit the brakes and they did a little skid, raising a big cloud of dust.

"What the hell---" Morgan looked up from his map of the Outback, as Culp stepped quickly out of the jeep, raised "Margaret" to his shoulder, sighted, and squeezed off six shots in rapid succession. The bird, which was flying quite high, was clearly struck by at least three bullets, as it veered suddenly in flight, but it recovered instantly, and did a swift turn, giving them the once over.

"Bloody---!" muttered Culp. He fired again, and again. He could sense the bird, if bird it was, looking straight down into his eyes from what seemed an impossibly remote and cold distance. It was like looking down a telescope into a black hole at the other end of the galaxy with a couple of burning red eyes at the center of it, and he had the peculiar sensation that he was falling, falling inevitably into that hole. His fingers froze on the trigger and stock, and the knuckles whitened. He barely noticed Morgan pulling the barrel down and glaring at him.

The bird made a pass over them at a fairly low altitude. It was quite large, black as pitch, wings like a huge bat crossed with a raven.

Bartles stood openmouthed and said something unintelligible. Morgan let go of Culp's rifle, reached for his shoulder holster, thought better of it.

The bird swooped past, showing not a mark or a sign of injury. It circled them three times. Morgan could feel his pulse beating in his temples.

Something like a low chuckle rippled remotely through the heat waves, and the bird turned away, back onto its original heading, giving them not a backward glance.

"Jesus Christ," said Culp.

"I didn't think you were a believer," said Morgan sarcastically. "Now put that damned rifle away. I told you. No recreational shooting on the job, and NO stopping unless I say! Bartles, get back behind the wheel and DRIVE. And keep your mouth shut."

Bartles put the jeep in gear like a man in a trance, and Culp sat beside him mute.

Morgan watched the bird going north. The same way they were going. He remembered scoffing at Chongo back in Chicago. No such thing as vampires. Never was, never would be. Anybody believe in that, he's a sap. Well, there's a first time for everything. That Fresnelli guy, the blood was drained out of him. And then the body just disappeared. You had to wonder about a thing like that.