A Heritage of Stars by Clifford D. Simak Page A

You looked things over well before you went so cleverly to earth. But even then I knew the mark upon you.”
    â€œShut up the clatter,” he told her roughly. “What is this mark you speak of, and you say you felt me? Do you mean you sensed me?”
    â€œOh, but he’s a clever one,” she said. “And so well spoken, too, with a fine feeling for the proper words. ‘Sensed me,’ he says, and I suppose that is a better word. Until now I did not clap eyes upon you, but I knew that you were there and I knew where you went and kept track of you, sleeping there, all the livelong day. Aye, you cannot fool the old girl, no matter what you do.”
    â€œThe mark?” he asked. “What kind of mark? I haven’t any marks.”
    â€œWhy, the mark of greatness, dearie. What other could it be, a fine strapping lad like you, out on a great adventure.”
    Angrily, he reached down to pick up his knapsack, slung it on his shoulder.
    â€œIf you’ve made all the fun you want of me,” he said, “I’ll be on my way.”
    She laid a hand upon his arm. “Not so fast, my bucko. It is Meg, the hilltop witch, that you are talking with. There are ways that I can help you, if I have a mind to, and I think I have a mind to, for you’re a charming lad and one with a good heart in him. I sense that you need help and I hope you’re not too proud to ask it. Although among the young there’s always a certain arrogance of pride. My powers may be small and there are times they are so small I wonder if in truth I really am a witch, although many people seem to think so and that’s as good as being one. And since they think I am, I set high fees on my work, for if I set a small fee, they’d think me a puny witch. But for you, my lad, there’ll be no fee at all, for you are poorer than a church mouse and could not pay in any case.”
    â€œThat’s kind of you,” said Cushing. “Especially since I made no solicitation of your help.”
    â€œNow listen to the pride and arrogance of him,” said Meg. “He asks himself what an old bag like myself could ever do for him. Not an old bag, sonny, but one that’s middle-aged. Not as good as I once was, but not exactly feeble, either. If you should want no more than a tumble in the hay, I still could acquit myself. And there’s something to be said for a young one to learn the art from someone who is older and experienced. But that, I see, is not what you had in mind.”
    â€œNot exactly,” Cushing said.
    â€œWell, then, perhaps you’d like something better than trail fare to stuff your gut. The kettle’s on and you’d be doing Meg a favor to sit at table with her. If you are bound to go, it might help the journey to start with a belly that is full. And I still read that greatness in you. I would like to know more about the greatness.”
    â€œThere’s no greatness in me,” he protested. “I’m nothing but a woods runner.”
    â€œI still think it’s greatness,” Meg told him. “Or a push to greatness. I know it. I sensed it immediately this morning. Something in your skull. A great excitement welling in you.”
    â€œLook,” he said, desperately, “I’m a woods runner, that is all. And now, if you don’t mind.”
    She tightened her grip upon his arm. “Now, you can’t go running off. Ever since I sensed you.…”
    â€œI don’t understand,” he said, “about this sensing of me. You mean you smelled me out. Read my mind, perhaps. People don’t read minds. But, wait, perhaps they can. There was something that I read—”
    â€œLaddie, you can read?”
    â€œYes, of course I can.”
    â€œThen it must be the university you are from. For there be precious few outside its walls who can scan a line. What happened, my poor precious? Did they throw you