The first golden rays of sunshine illuminated the peaks of the snow-mantled mountains. A breeze stirred. Kibba whistled softly and pointed. On the lakeshore, less than a bowshot away, stood three strange beings, their long legs hidden in lingering mists. Two were extremely tall; the third was smaller, but still easily the height of a guilder. They had white, round heads covered with caps the color of yellow rock flowers. The large ones wore forest-green garb, while the shorter one wore a sand-colored covering. The short one bent, scooped a small container in the water and lifted it to eye level. One of the big ones pointed, and all three walked down thebeach, the smaller one struggling to keep pace with the long strides of the other two.
The creatures rounded a bend in the shoreline and approached the rocky tumble from which fell a small waterfall. One of the green-clad giants clambered up the boulders and moved along its face until it straddled the descending streamlet. It bent and put a hand in the water and then stood erect, shaking its head vigorously. It returned to the beach, and after several minutes, the strange beings turned and headed away from the waterfall, returning along the shoreline to their camp.
Braan threw his body from the island peak and swooped low over the foggy lake. The visitors did not look back. Using his speed, Braan heaved air downwards, laboring to the top of the sheltered waterfall. He perched next to the small cascade and observed it tumbling into the lake below. A profusion of wildflowers clung to crevices and crannies, and gnarled fir trees stubbornly hugged the rocks. Higher up, two twisted and weather-whitened snags leaned over the feeder brook. At that moment, the sun broached the rim of the plateau to the east and cast the pure light of morning over the scene. But Braan barely noticed. Breathing heavily, the hunter sought a vestige of the alien presence. He could smell them—a curious, sour scent. He sniffed the air for other reasons—another scent, the stale spoor of rockdogs, assaulted his awareness. Danger was near.
Braan warily continued along the rocky elevation, away from the lake. He ascended a rock-tumbled ridge and prowled a shallow canyon cradling another babbling stream. A breeze rustled the isolated clumps of grass and wafted the sweet smell of wildflowers. The exertion and the sun's bright rays warmed his blood, dulling his attention. Without warning, one of the strange creatures walked from behind a boulder. It was looking at the ground and picking rockberries. It sensed Braan's presence and turned to face the hunter. It was tall, nearly twice Braan's height, and covered in sand-colored material—not skin or fur. It had grotesquely long legs and hands with five fingers—strong looking hands. The tall, flat-faced being's wide, big-lipped mouth was stained with rockberry juice. It had monstrous, ungainly protrusions of skin and cartilage protruding from its round head, and it had blue eyes! Blue as the sky. The strange creature's pale eyes stared out at him, startled at first, revealing a fleeting fear. The fear dissipated, leaving only curiosity.
The representatives of the different races stood, confused, but instinctively unafraid—as if a sudden move would cause the tableau to disintegrate. Braan stirred first. Suppressing the urge to take flight, the hunter scrambled uphill. The long-legs watched him climb, taking a few halting steps after him—to prolong the encounter, not in pursuit.
* * *
"Damn," Dawson muttered.
The sun was sliding high, the moaning glory chorus dying out. But the midnight-blue berries growing sparsely on the tortured, ground-hugging shrub were exquisite. Big and juicy—real food. She tried not to eat too many, but they were so good. She picked rapidly, spitting seeds. It was time to head back. O'Toole said he would watch the radio while she was out but not to take more than an hour; he needed to get the beacon ready. Dawson had set out on the little stream and followed its course into the flower-bedecked defile. She was retracing her steps, absorbed in picking berries, when she looked up and saw the creature. A giant bat?
Taloned feet caught her attention, as did the spindly digits of its hands. Unbelievably, the little animal carried a bow and wore a leather garment. Dawson stared down at its long, narrow face, large black eyes unflinchingly locked into her own. She sensed intelligence and tried to say something, but her voice failed. Dawson exhaled—she had been holding her breath. The creature warily turned and waddled uphill, moving quickly over the rocks. Dawson swallowed, took a deep breath, and reluctantly headed down the hill. O'Toole would be angry.
* * *
Braan circled back to maintain contact with the tall newcomer. The long-legs moved unsteadily downhill, carrying its container of rockberries. Berries—it was not a meat-eater. Braan was attracted to subtle movement on the hillside. Rockdogs—two of them—skulked along the shadows of boulders above and ahead of the long-legs. Stalking.