83
The Empire of Pang Lang
When I heard Steve Coldin was putting together an anthology of stories which would deal with only the alien’s point of view, I tried to think of the most alien being imaginable. I was sidetracked immediately by the alien universe thriving in my backyard.
In your backyard, too, if you ever bother to look.
For my central character, I chose the most obviously self-confident, independent, handsome, intelligent-looking inhabitant of that pocket universe. If you’ve ever met Tang Lang, or any of his cousins, you’ll know immediately who I mean.
If not, you’re not looking over your shoulder hard enough.
It was not the sun that woke Tang Lang. Concealed as he had been for the night, the sun would be well intA fhe heavens before he rose. It was the growing warmth of the air, passing maternally across his body,
84
The Empire of fang Lang
the heat in the soil, the pitch-change in the world. In a hundred ways, he smelled Day.
Which was as well. Sunrise was not the best time to move a-hunting. The night-men were long asleep, the day-folk not yet stirring.
In truth the sun had been skyward for some time. Nearby, two of the city-builders were inspecting the shell of a small armored Crawler. The Crawler had given out recently. Probably it had failed to return to its resting place in time and was caught by the night. Not fragile, it still had not coped with the extreme change in temperature by daybreak, young as it appeared to be.
It would have been a pretty prize for the city-dwellers. But they saw Tang Lang awake. They were not cowards, no: not the city-builders. But they were wise. They turned and rail, leaving the ruined Crawler for whoever might chance on it. Wise ones took no chances with T’ang Lang. He was not famed for Ms pleasant humor.