have six legs, and buzz. A lot of them have eight legs, and spend a lot of time in webs waiting for six-legged inhabitants to arrive for lunch. Many of the rest have four legs, and bark or moo or even lie in swamps pretending to be logs. In fact, only a tiny proportion of the inhabitants of Florida have two legs, and even most of them don't call it Florida. They just go tweet, and fly around a lot.
Mathematically, an almost insignificant number of living things in Florida call it Florida. But they're the ones who matter. At least, in their opinion. And their opinion is the one that matters. In their opinion.
Find a highway... Focus... Traffic swishing quietly through the soft warm rain... focus... high weeds on the bank... focus... grass moving in a way that isn't quite like grass moving in the wind... Focus... a pair of tiny eyes...
Focus... Focus... Focus... Click!
Masklin crept back through the grass to the nomes' camp, if that's what you could call a tiny dry space under a scrap of thrown-away plastic.
It had been hours since they'd run away from Grandson Richard, 39, as Gurder kept on putting it. The sun was rising behind the rain clouds.
They'd crossed a highway while there was no traffic, they'd blundered around in damp undergrowth, scurrying away from every chirp and mysterious croak, and finally they'd found the plastic. And they'd slept. Masklin stayed on guard for a while, but he wasn't certain what he was guarding against.
There was a positive side. The Thing had been listening to radio and television and had found the place the going-straight-up shuttles went from. It was only eighteen miles away. And they'd definitely made progress. They'd gone - oh, call it half a mile. And at least it was warm. Even the rain was warm. And the bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich was holding up.
But there were still almost eighteen miles to go.
"When did you say the launch is?" said Masklin.
"Four hours time," said the Thing.
"That means we'll have to travel at more than four miles an hour," said Angalo gloomily.
Masklin nodded. A nome, trying hard, could probably cover a mile and a half in an hour over open ground.
He hadn't given much thought to how they could get the Thing into space. If he'd thought about it at all, he'd imagined that they could find the shuttle plane and wedge the Thing on it somewhere. If possible maybe they could go, too, although he wasn't too sure about that. The Thing said it was cold in space, and there was no air.
"You could have asked Grandson Richard, 39, to help us!" said Gurder. "Why did you run away?"
"I don't know," said Masklin. "I suppose I thought we ought to be able to help ourselves."
"But you used the Truck. Nomes lived in the Store. You used the Concorde. You re eating human food." Masklin was surprised. The Thing didn't often argue like that.
"That's different," he said.
"How?"
"They didn't know about us. We took what we wanted. We weren't given it. They think it's their world, Thing! They think everything in it belongs to them! They name everything and own everything! I looked up at him, and I thought, here's a human in a human's room, doing human things. How can he ever understand about nomes? How can he ever think tiny people are real people with real thoughts? I can't just let a human take over. Not just like that!" The Thing blinked a few lights at him.
"We've come too far not to finish it ourselves," Masklin mumbled. He looked up at Gurder. "Anyway, when it came to it, I didn't exactly see you rushing up, ready to shake him by the finger," he said.
"I was embarrassed. It's always embarrassing, meeting deities," said Gurder.
They hadn't been able to light a fire. Everything was too wet. Not that they needed a fire, it was just that a fire was more civilised Someone had managed to light a fire there at some time, though, because there were still a few damp ashes.
"I wonder how things are back home?" said Angalo, after a while.
"All right, I expect," said
Mathematically, an almost insignificant number of living things in Florida call it Florida. But they're the ones who matter. At least, in their opinion. And their opinion is the one that matters. In their opinion.
Find a highway... Focus... Traffic swishing quietly through the soft warm rain... focus... high weeds on the bank... focus... grass moving in a way that isn't quite like grass moving in the wind... Focus... a pair of tiny eyes...
Focus... Focus... Focus... Click!
Masklin crept back through the grass to the nomes' camp, if that's what you could call a tiny dry space under a scrap of thrown-away plastic.
It had been hours since they'd run away from Grandson Richard, 39, as Gurder kept on putting it. The sun was rising behind the rain clouds.
They'd crossed a highway while there was no traffic, they'd blundered around in damp undergrowth, scurrying away from every chirp and mysterious croak, and finally they'd found the plastic. And they'd slept. Masklin stayed on guard for a while, but he wasn't certain what he was guarding against.
There was a positive side. The Thing had been listening to radio and television and had found the place the going-straight-up shuttles went from. It was only eighteen miles away. And they'd definitely made progress. They'd gone - oh, call it half a mile. And at least it was warm. Even the rain was warm. And the bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich was holding up.
But there were still almost eighteen miles to go.
"When did you say the launch is?" said Masklin.
"Four hours time," said the Thing.
"That means we'll have to travel at more than four miles an hour," said Angalo gloomily.
Masklin nodded. A nome, trying hard, could probably cover a mile and a half in an hour over open ground.
He hadn't given much thought to how they could get the Thing into space. If he'd thought about it at all, he'd imagined that they could find the shuttle plane and wedge the Thing on it somewhere. If possible maybe they could go, too, although he wasn't too sure about that. The Thing said it was cold in space, and there was no air.
"You could have asked Grandson Richard, 39, to help us!" said Gurder. "Why did you run away?"
"I don't know," said Masklin. "I suppose I thought we ought to be able to help ourselves."
"But you used the Truck. Nomes lived in the Store. You used the Concorde. You re eating human food." Masklin was surprised. The Thing didn't often argue like that.
"That's different," he said.
"How?"
"They didn't know about us. We took what we wanted. We weren't given it. They think it's their world, Thing! They think everything in it belongs to them! They name everything and own everything! I looked up at him, and I thought, here's a human in a human's room, doing human things. How can he ever understand about nomes? How can he ever think tiny people are real people with real thoughts? I can't just let a human take over. Not just like that!" The Thing blinked a few lights at him.
"We've come too far not to finish it ourselves," Masklin mumbled. He looked up at Gurder. "Anyway, when it came to it, I didn't exactly see you rushing up, ready to shake him by the finger," he said.
"I was embarrassed. It's always embarrassing, meeting deities," said Gurder.
They hadn't been able to light a fire. Everything was too wet. Not that they needed a fire, it was just that a fire was more civilised Someone had managed to light a fire there at some time, though, because there were still a few damp ashes.
"I wonder how things are back home?" said Angalo, after a while.
"All right, I expect," said
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