He had listened since that hour in the gorge for the shrilling of one
of the air hounds. And when it did not come the thought that maybe it
was the last of its kind had been heartening.
At last the scout lay down beside the off-world man, listening to the
soft hiss of waves on sand, the distant cluttering of night insects.
And his last waking thought was a wish for his bow.
There was another day of patient plodding; two, three. Raf, led by the
hand, helped over rocks and obstacles which were only dark blurs to
his watering eyes, raged inwardly and sometimes outwardly, against the
slowness of their advance, his own helplessness. His fear grew until
he refused to credit the fact that the blurs were sharpening in
outline, that he could now count five fingers on the hand he sometimes
waved despairingly before his face.
When he spoke of the future, he never said "if we reach the ship" but
always "when," refusing to admit that perhaps they would not be in
time. And Dalgard by his anxiety, tried to get more news from the
north.
"When we get there, will you come back to earth with us?" the pilot
asked suddenly on the fifth day.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293