221
222
Alan Dean Poster
under his restocked pack. The desert was oddly cool
underfoot, the sand stable and motionless once again. It
was as though the grains had never been displaced, had
never moved.
“I don’t know, but we have to do something about this
repeated steali—”
“Watch it, mate.”
“About this repeated foraging of yours. Why do you
insist on maintaining the euphemisms, Mudge?”
The otter grinned at him. “For appearances’ sakes,
mate.”
“It troubles me as well,” Roseroar murmured, “but we
must make use of any means that we can to see this thing
through.”
“I know, but I’ll feel better about it if we can pay for
what we’ve ‘borrowed’ on our way back.”
Mudge sighed, shook his head resignedly. ” ‘Umans,”
he muttered.
Despite Jon-Tom’s expectations, they did not catch up
to their quarry. They did encounter occasional groups of
nomads returning to their campsites, sometimes sharing
their camps for the night. All expressed ignorance when
asked if they had seen any travelers fitting Jalwar’s or
Folly’s description.
On the third day they had their first glimpse of the
foothills which lay beyond the western edge of the Timeful
Desert. On the fourth they found themselves hiking among
green grass, cool woodlands, and thick scrub. Mudge
luxuriated in the aroma and presence of running water,
while Roseroar was able to enjoy fresh meat once more.
On their first day in the forest she brought down a
monitor lizard the size of a cow with one swordthrust.
Mudge joined her in butchering the carcass and setting the
steaks to cook over a blaze of thin, white-barked logs.