“He’d never leave his house. Not to walk around among people who are sweating. He deals only with people who tell him he’s right before he speaks.”
“It’s Wrenn, it is, it is!” cried Jubilith. She clutched his arm. “Osser, I’m afraid!”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?… By the dying Red One, it
is
Wrenn, telling men what to do as if this was
his
city.” He laughed. “There are few enough here who are strong, Juby, but he’s the strongest there is. And look at him scurry around for me!”
“I’m afraid,” Jubilith whimpered.
“They jump when he tells them,” said Osser reflectively, shading his eyes. “Perhaps I was wrong to let them tire themselves out before I help them do things right. With a man like him to push them … Hm. I think we’ll get it done right the first time.”
He pushed himself away from the parapet and swung to the stairway.
“Osser, don’t, please don’t!” she begged.
He stopped just long enough to give her a glance like a stone thrown. “You’ll never change my mind, Juby, and you’ll be hurt if you try too often.” He dropped into the opening, went down three steps, five steps …
He grunted, stopped.
Jubilith came slowly over to the stairwell. Osser stood on the sixth step, on tiptoe. Impossibly on tiptoe: the points of his sandals barely touched the step at all.
He set his jaw and placed his massive hands one on each side of the curved wall. He pressed them out and up, forcing himself downward. His sandals touched more firmly; his toes bent, his heels made contact. His face became deep red, and the cords at the sides of his neck ridged like a weathered fallow-field.
A strained crackle came from his shoulders, and then the pent breath burst from him. His hands slipped, and he came up again just the height of the single stair-riser, to bob ludicrously like a boat at anchor, his pointed toe touching and lifting from the sixth step.
He gave an inarticulate roar, bent double, and plunged his hands downward as if to dive head-first down the stairs. His wrists turned under and he yelped with the pain. More cautiously he felt around and down, from wall to wall. It was as if the air in the stairway had solidified, become at once viscous and resilient. Whatever was there was invisible and completely impassable.
He backed slowly up the steps. On his face there was fury andfrustration, hurt and a shaking reaction.
Jubilith wrung her hands. “Please, please, Osser, be care—”
The sound of her voice gave him something to strike out at, and he spun about, raising his great bludgeon of a fist. Jubilith stood frozen, too shocked to dodge the blow.
“
Osser
!”
Osser stopped, tensed high, fist up, like some terrifying monument to vengeance. The voice had been Wrenn’s—Wrenn speaking quietly, even conversationally, but magnified beyond belief. The echoes of it rolled off and were lost in the hills.
“
Come watch men building, Osser
!”
Dazed, Osser lowered his arm and went to the parapet.
Far below, near the base of the hill, Wrenn stood, looking up at the tower. When Osser appeared, Wrenn turned his back and signaled the men by the stone-boat. They twitched away the tarpaulin that covered its load.
Osser’s hands gripped the stone as if they would powder it. His eyes slowly widened and his jaw slowly dropped.
At first it seemed like a mound of silver on the rude platform of the ox-drawn stone-boat. Gradually he perceived that it was a machine, a machine so finished, so clean-lined and so businesslike that the pictures he had shown Jubilith were clumsy toys in comparison.
It was Sussten, a man Osser had crushed to the ground with two heavy blows, who sprang lightly up on the machine and settled into it. It backed off the platform, and Osser could hear the faintest of whines from it. The machine rolled and yet it stepped; it kept itself horizon-level as it ran, its long endless treads dipping and rising with the terrain, its sleek body moving smooth
“It’s Wrenn, it is, it is!” cried Jubilith. She clutched his arm. “Osser, I’m afraid!”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?… By the dying Red One, it
is
Wrenn, telling men what to do as if this was
his
city.” He laughed. “There are few enough here who are strong, Juby, but he’s the strongest there is. And look at him scurry around for me!”
“I’m afraid,” Jubilith whimpered.
“They jump when he tells them,” said Osser reflectively, shading his eyes. “Perhaps I was wrong to let them tire themselves out before I help them do things right. With a man like him to push them … Hm. I think we’ll get it done right the first time.”
He pushed himself away from the parapet and swung to the stairway.
“Osser, don’t, please don’t!” she begged.
He stopped just long enough to give her a glance like a stone thrown. “You’ll never change my mind, Juby, and you’ll be hurt if you try too often.” He dropped into the opening, went down three steps, five steps …
He grunted, stopped.
Jubilith came slowly over to the stairwell. Osser stood on the sixth step, on tiptoe. Impossibly on tiptoe: the points of his sandals barely touched the step at all.
He set his jaw and placed his massive hands one on each side of the curved wall. He pressed them out and up, forcing himself downward. His sandals touched more firmly; his toes bent, his heels made contact. His face became deep red, and the cords at the sides of his neck ridged like a weathered fallow-field.
A strained crackle came from his shoulders, and then the pent breath burst from him. His hands slipped, and he came up again just the height of the single stair-riser, to bob ludicrously like a boat at anchor, his pointed toe touching and lifting from the sixth step.
He gave an inarticulate roar, bent double, and plunged his hands downward as if to dive head-first down the stairs. His wrists turned under and he yelped with the pain. More cautiously he felt around and down, from wall to wall. It was as if the air in the stairway had solidified, become at once viscous and resilient. Whatever was there was invisible and completely impassable.
He backed slowly up the steps. On his face there was fury andfrustration, hurt and a shaking reaction.
Jubilith wrung her hands. “Please, please, Osser, be care—”
The sound of her voice gave him something to strike out at, and he spun about, raising his great bludgeon of a fist. Jubilith stood frozen, too shocked to dodge the blow.
“
Osser
!”
Osser stopped, tensed high, fist up, like some terrifying monument to vengeance. The voice had been Wrenn’s—Wrenn speaking quietly, even conversationally, but magnified beyond belief. The echoes of it rolled off and were lost in the hills.
“
Come watch men building, Osser
!”
Dazed, Osser lowered his arm and went to the parapet.
Far below, near the base of the hill, Wrenn stood, looking up at the tower. When Osser appeared, Wrenn turned his back and signaled the men by the stone-boat. They twitched away the tarpaulin that covered its load.
Osser’s hands gripped the stone as if they would powder it. His eyes slowly widened and his jaw slowly dropped.
At first it seemed like a mound of silver on the rude platform of the ox-drawn stone-boat. Gradually he perceived that it was a machine, a machine so finished, so clean-lined and so businesslike that the pictures he had shown Jubilith were clumsy toys in comparison.
It was Sussten, a man Osser had crushed to the ground with two heavy blows, who sprang lightly up on the machine and settled into it. It backed off the platform, and Osser could hear the faintest of whines from it. The machine rolled and yet it stepped; it kept itself horizon-level as it ran, its long endless treads dipping and rising with the terrain, its sleek body moving smooth
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