mouth lay well beneath the bottom line of the mask.
As he watched, something appeared at the mouth, dropped to the ground. He thought it was a root, could not be sure. The great red leaf trembled and, as the rork munched and mumbled the stalk, was drawn slowly towards the indistinct dark cavern of the mouth —
Rango jostled his arm. The rork was lost to sight. Angered, Lomar turned to the guide, who, not looking at him, pointed below, much closer by.
“Sst, Mist Ran — aim the lookin glass down there … you seece eh big-big tree near brook?”
Lomar, after a moment, did. In the farseer, so quickly that he gave a start, appeared an animal utterly unlike a rork, and much, much smaller. Something was in its mouth, either a small leaper or a large crybaby, perhaps. It was there but an instant, then, suddenly, it scuttled away. First another, then another, the same kind of creature, passed rapidly before his gaze. The grass quivered a bit. Then nothing more. After another minute he put down the farseer.
“What you seece, Mr. Ran?” the Tock demanded — somewhat anxiously, it seemed. “Rips?”
“Was that what they were? Long and low?”
His guide nodded vigorously, his long, dark, now clean hair shaking. “Yace. Rips … How many you seece?”
“Three of them … why?”
“Three? No more? For-sure?”
Lomar assured him there were no more. The Tock reflected, clearly — by his expression — uncertain whether this was good or bad. Then he gestured towards Pia Sol, whose sullen blood-orange disk seemed to hover just a bit over the horizon. “Time to goce make a housey for hide en sleep.”
Rango took considerable pains, stripping the loose, soft bark from chosen trees, trimming branches with his hack; but it was small enough for all that, and had to be entered on hands and knees. Lomar was glad that they had both bathed. Rango insisted on making a fire despite the heater and the ward lamp in Lomar’s field pack, and, as they sat by it after supper, he began to talk.
One star was brighter than all in that black sky, blazing with a blue-white brilliance while the crybabies wailed and sobbed all around them. Rango flung out his hand towards it. “Old Earth,” he said, awe in his voice.
“What’s that?” Lomar was startled.
“Old Earth, Old Earth.”
“World as gives our fathers birth,
“Wish a-may, wish a-might,
“Haves the wish a-wish tonight,”
chanted Rango.
It was, of course, Lomar very well knew, nothing of the sort. It was Pia 3, the ball of slag officially known as Ptolemy Philadelphius, but unofficially called (in the cleaned-up version) “The Dung Heap.” But, being touched by both the fellow’s innocence and the verse which, in one form or another, was old when “our fathers” were still bound to the surface of their native world, he would not for the world have disillusioned him. The Tocks had little enough; they had, in fact, almost nothing.
Except this.
• • •
Had it been possible to plunge at once that next morning into the rufous jungle below, Lomar might have done it. But the descent of the off side of Last Ridge was obviously even a heavier undertaking than the ascent of the nigh side had been. Rango’s frequent noisy swallowing and thong-clutching as they viewed the prospect showed that he was probably far from anxious to put his new-bought charm to the test. And then, suddenly, suddenly, it seemed to Lomar that he had to find out a lot more about the rorks before meeting any of them face (so to speak) to face.
Up till now it had seemed that the Tocks were the one and the only key to the redwing matter. Now it seemed that there was another key — the rorks.
Rango received the sudden change of plans with relief, and hastened eagerly into talk. “Yace, Mist Ran, no-good now. You waist an see — comes Cold Time, wece goin nen. Nen spiders changen skins. Assen gahst no strengths. Lossa Tocks, some men, too, wece comin down to Rorkland. You come, too, Mist Ran.
As he watched, something appeared at the mouth, dropped to the ground. He thought it was a root, could not be sure. The great red leaf trembled and, as the rork munched and mumbled the stalk, was drawn slowly towards the indistinct dark cavern of the mouth —
Rango jostled his arm. The rork was lost to sight. Angered, Lomar turned to the guide, who, not looking at him, pointed below, much closer by.
“Sst, Mist Ran — aim the lookin glass down there … you seece eh big-big tree near brook?”
Lomar, after a moment, did. In the farseer, so quickly that he gave a start, appeared an animal utterly unlike a rork, and much, much smaller. Something was in its mouth, either a small leaper or a large crybaby, perhaps. It was there but an instant, then, suddenly, it scuttled away. First another, then another, the same kind of creature, passed rapidly before his gaze. The grass quivered a bit. Then nothing more. After another minute he put down the farseer.
“What you seece, Mr. Ran?” the Tock demanded — somewhat anxiously, it seemed. “Rips?”
“Was that what they were? Long and low?”
His guide nodded vigorously, his long, dark, now clean hair shaking. “Yace. Rips … How many you seece?”
“Three of them … why?”
“Three? No more? For-sure?”
Lomar assured him there were no more. The Tock reflected, clearly — by his expression — uncertain whether this was good or bad. Then he gestured towards Pia Sol, whose sullen blood-orange disk seemed to hover just a bit over the horizon. “Time to goce make a housey for hide en sleep.”
Rango took considerable pains, stripping the loose, soft bark from chosen trees, trimming branches with his hack; but it was small enough for all that, and had to be entered on hands and knees. Lomar was glad that they had both bathed. Rango insisted on making a fire despite the heater and the ward lamp in Lomar’s field pack, and, as they sat by it after supper, he began to talk.
One star was brighter than all in that black sky, blazing with a blue-white brilliance while the crybabies wailed and sobbed all around them. Rango flung out his hand towards it. “Old Earth,” he said, awe in his voice.
“What’s that?” Lomar was startled.
“Old Earth, Old Earth.”
“World as gives our fathers birth,
“Wish a-may, wish a-might,
“Haves the wish a-wish tonight,”
chanted Rango.
It was, of course, Lomar very well knew, nothing of the sort. It was Pia 3, the ball of slag officially known as Ptolemy Philadelphius, but unofficially called (in the cleaned-up version) “The Dung Heap.” But, being touched by both the fellow’s innocence and the verse which, in one form or another, was old when “our fathers” were still bound to the surface of their native world, he would not for the world have disillusioned him. The Tocks had little enough; they had, in fact, almost nothing.
Except this.
• • •
Had it been possible to plunge at once that next morning into the rufous jungle below, Lomar might have done it. But the descent of the off side of Last Ridge was obviously even a heavier undertaking than the ascent of the nigh side had been. Rango’s frequent noisy swallowing and thong-clutching as they viewed the prospect showed that he was probably far from anxious to put his new-bought charm to the test. And then, suddenly, suddenly, it seemed to Lomar that he had to find out a lot more about the rorks before meeting any of them face (so to speak) to face.
Up till now it had seemed that the Tocks were the one and the only key to the redwing matter. Now it seemed that there was another key — the rorks.
Rango received the sudden change of plans with relief, and hastened eagerly into talk. “Yace, Mist Ran, no-good now. You waist an see — comes Cold Time, wece goin nen. Nen spiders changen skins. Assen gahst no strengths. Lossa Tocks, some men, too, wece comin down to Rorkland. You come, too, Mist Ran.
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