fatigue: the sunlight was warm; the spot seemed
secure ... What if the berl should return? Reith forced himself to wakefulness.
While Traz slept he repacked his gear.
----
CHAPTER THREE
TRAZ AWOKE.
HE turned Reith a sheepish look and rose quickly to his feet.
Reith arose;
they set forth: by some unspoken understanding into the northwest. The time was
middle morning, the sun a tarnished brass disc in the slate sky. The air was
pleasantly cool, and for the first time since his arrival on Tschai Reith felt
a lifting of the spirits. His body was mended, he had recovered his equipment,
he knew the general location of the scout-boat: immeasurable improvement over
his previous situation.
They trudged
steadily across the steppe. The forest became a dark blur behind them:
elsewhere the horizons were empty. After their midday meal they slept for a
period; then, awakening in the late afternoon, they went on into the northwest.
The sun
dropped into a bank of low clouds, casting an embroidery of dull copper over
the top. There was no shelter on the open steppe; with nothing better to do
they walked on.
The right was
quiet and still; far to the east they heard the wailing of night-hounds but
were not molested.
The following
day they finished the food and water from the packs which Traz had supplied and
began to subsist on the pods of pilgrim plant and sap from watak roots: the
first bland, the second acrid.
On the
morning of the third day they saw a fleck of white drifting across the western
sky. Traz flung himself flat behind a low shrub and motioned Reith to do
likewise. “Dirdir! They hunt!”
Reith brought
forth his scanscope, sighted on the object. With elbows on the ground he zoomed
the magnification to fifty diameters, when air vibration began to confuse the
image. He saw a long flat boat-like hull, riding the air on rakish cusps and
odd half-crescents: an aesthetic style, apparently, rather than utilitarian
design. Crouched on the hull were four pale shapes, unidentifiable as Dirdir or
Dirdirmen. The flyer traveled a course roughly parallel to their own, passing
several miles to the west. Reith wondered at Traz’s tension. He asked, “What do
they hunt?”
“Men.”
“For sport?”
“For sport.
For food, as well. They eat man-meat.”
“I’d like to
have that flyer,” mused Reith. He rose to his feet, ignoring Traz’s frantic
protests. But the Dirdir flyer disappeared into the north. Traz relaxed, but
searched the sky. “Sometimes they fly high and look down until they spot a lone
warrior. Then they drop like perriaults, to noose the man, or engage him with
electric swords.”
They walked
on, always north and west. Toward sunset Traz once again became uneasy, for
reasons Reith could not discern, though there was a particularly eerie quality
to the landscape. The sun, obscured by a mist, was small and dim and cast a
light as wan as lymph over the vastness of the steppe. There was nothing to be
seen save their own long shadows behind them, but as Traz walked he looked this
way and that, pausing at times to search the way they had come. Reith finally
asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Something is
following us.”
“Oh?” Reith
turned to look back across the steppe. “How do you know?”
“It is a
feeling I have.”
“What would
it be?”
“Pnumekin,
who travel unseen. Or it might be nighthounds.”
“Pnumekin:
they are men, are they not?”
“Men in a
sense. They are the spies, the couriers of the Pnume. Some say that tunnels run
beneath the steppe, with secret entrance traps, perhaps under that very bush!”
Reith
examined the bush toward which Traz had directed his attention, but it seemed
ordinary enough. “Would they harm us?”
“Not unless
the Pnume wanted us dead. Who knows what the Pnume want? ... More likely the
night-hounds are out early.”
Reith brought
forth his scanscope. He searched the steppe, but discovered nothing.
“Tonight,”
said Traz, “we had best
secure ... What if the berl should return? Reith forced himself to wakefulness.
While Traz slept he repacked his gear.
----
CHAPTER THREE
TRAZ AWOKE.
HE turned Reith a sheepish look and rose quickly to his feet.
Reith arose;
they set forth: by some unspoken understanding into the northwest. The time was
middle morning, the sun a tarnished brass disc in the slate sky. The air was
pleasantly cool, and for the first time since his arrival on Tschai Reith felt
a lifting of the spirits. His body was mended, he had recovered his equipment,
he knew the general location of the scout-boat: immeasurable improvement over
his previous situation.
They trudged
steadily across the steppe. The forest became a dark blur behind them:
elsewhere the horizons were empty. After their midday meal they slept for a
period; then, awakening in the late afternoon, they went on into the northwest.
The sun
dropped into a bank of low clouds, casting an embroidery of dull copper over
the top. There was no shelter on the open steppe; with nothing better to do
they walked on.
The right was
quiet and still; far to the east they heard the wailing of night-hounds but
were not molested.
The following
day they finished the food and water from the packs which Traz had supplied and
began to subsist on the pods of pilgrim plant and sap from watak roots: the
first bland, the second acrid.
On the
morning of the third day they saw a fleck of white drifting across the western
sky. Traz flung himself flat behind a low shrub and motioned Reith to do
likewise. “Dirdir! They hunt!”
Reith brought
forth his scanscope, sighted on the object. With elbows on the ground he zoomed
the magnification to fifty diameters, when air vibration began to confuse the
image. He saw a long flat boat-like hull, riding the air on rakish cusps and
odd half-crescents: an aesthetic style, apparently, rather than utilitarian
design. Crouched on the hull were four pale shapes, unidentifiable as Dirdir or
Dirdirmen. The flyer traveled a course roughly parallel to their own, passing
several miles to the west. Reith wondered at Traz’s tension. He asked, “What do
they hunt?”
“Men.”
“For sport?”
“For sport.
For food, as well. They eat man-meat.”
“I’d like to
have that flyer,” mused Reith. He rose to his feet, ignoring Traz’s frantic
protests. But the Dirdir flyer disappeared into the north. Traz relaxed, but
searched the sky. “Sometimes they fly high and look down until they spot a lone
warrior. Then they drop like perriaults, to noose the man, or engage him with
electric swords.”
They walked
on, always north and west. Toward sunset Traz once again became uneasy, for
reasons Reith could not discern, though there was a particularly eerie quality
to the landscape. The sun, obscured by a mist, was small and dim and cast a
light as wan as lymph over the vastness of the steppe. There was nothing to be
seen save their own long shadows behind them, but as Traz walked he looked this
way and that, pausing at times to search the way they had come. Reith finally
asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Something is
following us.”
“Oh?” Reith
turned to look back across the steppe. “How do you know?”
“It is a
feeling I have.”
“What would
it be?”
“Pnumekin,
who travel unseen. Or it might be nighthounds.”
“Pnumekin:
they are men, are they not?”
“Men in a
sense. They are the spies, the couriers of the Pnume. Some say that tunnels run
beneath the steppe, with secret entrance traps, perhaps under that very bush!”
Reith
examined the bush toward which Traz had directed his attention, but it seemed
ordinary enough. “Would they harm us?”
“Not unless
the Pnume wanted us dead. Who knows what the Pnume want? ... More likely the
night-hounds are out early.”
Reith brought
forth his scanscope. He searched the steppe, but discovered nothing.
“Tonight,”
said Traz, “we had best
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