You come, too.”
And Lomar had thought that it might not be until then that he would be coming back to Last Ridge and its tremendous views.
But he was wrong.
The Station Library echoed to his steps. It was free enough of dust and dirt, the clean up Tocks saw to that. But no one was there. Catalogs, stacks and files were open to his touch. The two viewing rooms were as empty as the rest of the place. He threaded the spools to allow for continuous showing, sat back in his seat and depressed the cam on the arm of the chair.
Some of the spools were text clear through, others were 3D and narrative. The words had been written, and the voices spoken, by men and women long, long dead, and were marked throughout with little touches of the archaic. Nothing had been done to add to the material for centuries. However, there was no reason to assume that the rorks were any different now than they were then. And the unworn condition of the repro now unfolding before his eyes gave no reason to assume that many people had ever been interested in learning about them.
There it was, in three dimensions, sound, and color: Rorkland. And there were the rorks, much better, clearer, longer views than he’d gotten with just his farseer.
“… fearfully intelligent….”
Now, that was odd … He watched with bemused fascination a speed-up of the skin-shedding process the creatures gradually went through in winter, as they lay in their nests, moving sluggishly, when at all. Why, if the ancient observers had been correct, — why, if the rork were strictly herbivorous and attacked only in self-defense, should they be described as
fearfully
intelligent? Had the author-narrator been suspicious that his contemporaries were wrong and others right? — that the rork ate men, as well as attacking them on sight? And did they indeed venture into Tockland to capture human babies for a more grisly diet than mere redwing?
There was something stirring, tragic, in the views of the original settlers, forebears of the Tocks: clean, alert, vigorous, full of intelligence and zeal. To what had their descendents come!
He emerged from the library slowly and thoughtfully.
And to find the Station in an uproar.
• • •
No one, that month, thought of redwing at all. The Tocks came pouring in from all quarters of their small homeland — some of them from so far off that their grubby-faced and naked brats screamed in terror at the strange sight of Station personnel. The force fields were set up and all Guildsmen supplied with arms and — wonder of wonders! — Manton, the Motor Aide, even parted with several of his precious skimmers. And Edran Lomar found himself in one of them with Tan Carlo Harb, the Station Officer.
The shrill sound of the alarm still seemed to echo in his ears as he looked over the side. Height had been set for ten feet as soon as the vehicle passed out of the treelined streets. “I’m a rather good shot at rips,” the SO said, “but when things are like this, there’s no point in trying for individual kills. No sport in it when you can hardly miss…. I’m upping speed, boy. Hold on. Hold … on.”
After the lurch the ride was smooth again. “How often are things like this?” Lomar asked. “When the rips swarm?”
A new light was in the SO’s eyes, a new color in his cheeks. “Oh, every so often,” he said, vaguely. “If the north end of the continent wasn’t on a plateau, things would be much worse. As it is, well, to tell you the truth, it’s chiefly a rather exciting but hardly a dangerous period. Not for us. Gives us a chance to get the kinks out of our buttocks and the stale air out of our lungs, run around and skim around and shout … and all that.
Ha!
Look there! Below, left —
there!
”
There, where the SO’s plump finger pointed, a bush seemed suddenly to explode as at least a dozen leapers sprang out of it. And springing after them were the yellow-grey brindled bodies of the rips. They were perhaps no
And Lomar had thought that it might not be until then that he would be coming back to Last Ridge and its tremendous views.
But he was wrong.
The Station Library echoed to his steps. It was free enough of dust and dirt, the clean up Tocks saw to that. But no one was there. Catalogs, stacks and files were open to his touch. The two viewing rooms were as empty as the rest of the place. He threaded the spools to allow for continuous showing, sat back in his seat and depressed the cam on the arm of the chair.
Some of the spools were text clear through, others were 3D and narrative. The words had been written, and the voices spoken, by men and women long, long dead, and were marked throughout with little touches of the archaic. Nothing had been done to add to the material for centuries. However, there was no reason to assume that the rorks were any different now than they were then. And the unworn condition of the repro now unfolding before his eyes gave no reason to assume that many people had ever been interested in learning about them.
There it was, in three dimensions, sound, and color: Rorkland. And there were the rorks, much better, clearer, longer views than he’d gotten with just his farseer.
“… fearfully intelligent….”
Now, that was odd … He watched with bemused fascination a speed-up of the skin-shedding process the creatures gradually went through in winter, as they lay in their nests, moving sluggishly, when at all. Why, if the ancient observers had been correct, — why, if the rork were strictly herbivorous and attacked only in self-defense, should they be described as
fearfully
intelligent? Had the author-narrator been suspicious that his contemporaries were wrong and others right? — that the rork ate men, as well as attacking them on sight? And did they indeed venture into Tockland to capture human babies for a more grisly diet than mere redwing?
There was something stirring, tragic, in the views of the original settlers, forebears of the Tocks: clean, alert, vigorous, full of intelligence and zeal. To what had their descendents come!
He emerged from the library slowly and thoughtfully.
And to find the Station in an uproar.
• • •
No one, that month, thought of redwing at all. The Tocks came pouring in from all quarters of their small homeland — some of them from so far off that their grubby-faced and naked brats screamed in terror at the strange sight of Station personnel. The force fields were set up and all Guildsmen supplied with arms and — wonder of wonders! — Manton, the Motor Aide, even parted with several of his precious skimmers. And Edran Lomar found himself in one of them with Tan Carlo Harb, the Station Officer.
The shrill sound of the alarm still seemed to echo in his ears as he looked over the side. Height had been set for ten feet as soon as the vehicle passed out of the treelined streets. “I’m a rather good shot at rips,” the SO said, “but when things are like this, there’s no point in trying for individual kills. No sport in it when you can hardly miss…. I’m upping speed, boy. Hold on. Hold … on.”
After the lurch the ride was smooth again. “How often are things like this?” Lomar asked. “When the rips swarm?”
A new light was in the SO’s eyes, a new color in his cheeks. “Oh, every so often,” he said, vaguely. “If the north end of the continent wasn’t on a plateau, things would be much worse. As it is, well, to tell you the truth, it’s chiefly a rather exciting but hardly a dangerous period. Not for us. Gives us a chance to get the kinks out of our buttocks and the stale air out of our lungs, run around and skim around and shout … and all that.
Ha!
Look there! Below, left —
there!
”
There, where the SO’s plump finger pointed, a bush seemed suddenly to explode as at least a dozen leapers sprang out of it. And springing after them were the yellow-grey brindled bodies of the rips. They were perhaps no
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