"_They_ hunt all life," the first break in Sssuri's self-absorption
came. "Where _they_ walk the little, harmless peoples face only death.
And so it has been here." He had pulled himself over the rim of the
cliff, and through the dark Dalgard could hear him panting with the
same effort which made his own lungs labor.
Just as the stench of the snake-devil's lair had betrayed its site,
here disaster and death had an odor of its own. Dalgard retched before
he could control throat and stomach muscles. But Sssuri was unmoved,
as if he had expected this.
Then, to Dalgard's surprise the merman set up the first real call he
had ever heard issue from that furred throat, a plaintive whistle
which had a crooning, summoning note in it, akin to the mind touch in
an odd fashion, yet audible. They sat in silence for a long moment,
the human's ears as keen for any sound out of the night as those of
his companion. Why did Sssuri not use the customary noiseless greeting
of his race? When he beamed that inquiry, he met once again that
strange, solid wall of non-acceptance which had enclosed the merman as
they climbed.
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