Wolff and Chryseis had a fifty-yard headstart. Still holding Chryseis’ hand, the horn in his other hand, Robert Wolff ran as fast as he could.
“I don’t know!” she said despairingly. “We could hide in a tree hollow, but we’d be trapped if they found us.”
They ran on. Now and then he looked back: the brush was thick hereabouts and hid some of the gworl, but there were always one or two in evidence.
“The boulder!” he said. “It’s just ahead. We’ll take that way out!”
Suddenly he knew how much he did not want to return to his native world. Even if it meant a route of escape and a temporary hiding place, he did not want to go back. The prospect of being trapped there and being unable to return here was so appalling that he almost decided not to blow the horn. But he had to do so. Where else could he go?
The decision was taken away from him a few seconds later. As he and Chryseis sped toward the boulder, he saw several dark figures hunched at its base. These rose and became gworl with flashing knives and long white canines.
Wolff and the girl angled away while the three at the boulder joined the chase. These were nearer than the others, only twenty yards behind the fugitives.
“Don’t you know any place?” he panted.
“Over the edge,” she said. “That’s the only place they might not follow us. I’ve been down the face of the rim; there’re caves there. But it’s dangerous.”
He did not reply, saving his breath for the run. His legs felt heavy and his lungs and throat burned. Chryseis seemed to be in better shape than he: she ran easily, her long legs pumping, breathing deeply but not agonizingly.
“Another two minutes, we’ll be there,” she said.
The two minutes seemed much longer, but every time he felt he had to stop, he took another look behind him and renewed his strength. The gworl, although even further behind, were in sight. They rolled along on their short, crooked legs, their bumpy faces set with determination.
“Maybe if you gave them the horn,” Chryseis said, “they’d go away. I think they want the horn, not us.”
“I’ll do it if I have to,” he gasped. “But only as a last resort.”
Suddenly, they were going up a steep slope. Now his legs did feel burdened, but he had caught his second wind and thought that he could go awhile longer. Then they were on top of the hill and at the edge of a cliff.
Chryseis stopped him from walking on. She advanced ahead of him to the edge, halted, looked over, and beckoned him. When he was by her side, he, too, gazed down. His stomach clenched like a fist.
Composed of hard black shiny rock, the cliff went straight down for several miles. Then, nothing.
Nothing but the green sky.
“So … it is the edge . . . of the world!” he said.
Chryseis did not answer him. She trotted ahead of him, looking over the side of the cliff, halting briefly now and then to examine the rim.
“About sixty yards more,” she said. “Beyond those trees that grow right up to the edge.”
She started running swiftly with him close behind her. At the same time, a gworl burst out of the bushes growing on the inner edge of the hill. He turned once to yell, obviously notifying his fellows that he had found the quarry. Then he attacked without waiting for them.
Wolff ran toward the gworl. When he saw the creature lift its knife to throw, he hurled the horn at it. This took the gworl by surprise-or perhaps the turning horn reflected sunlight into his eyes. Whatever the cause, his hesitation was enough for Wolff to get the advantage. He sped in as the gworl both ducked and reached a hand out for the horn. The huge hairy fingers curled around the horn, a cry of grating delight came from the creature, and Wolff was on him. He thrust at the protruding belly; the gworl brought his own knife up; the two blades clanged.