Calling World-4 of Kithgol

Accidentally, Yorgh sent whirling off into space a grim, 200-year-old message ... and lived to see his dead world meet the vibrant future.
The Star was obscured by blowing sand, and Yorgh could not see much of The World either. The wolly he rode snorted in panic at the howl of the sandstorm. Finally, the big hunter swung down to the ground and dragged the six-legged beast by the guide rope.
Where are those trees I passed this morning? he muttered.
He longed for a drink from the water-skin slung at his shoulder with his rolled cloak, but there was so much sand in his short, golden beard that he would probably choke himself.
The sand whipped against his gray pants of coarse wool and the dark red tunic for which he had given the Sea People two dozen copper arrowheads, and twirled loosely beneath his calf-high leather boots. Yorgh squinted his eyes till they were mere gleams of bright blue among the laughter wrinkles.
And I didn't even find the copper rocks! he growled. I should have stayed in the flatlands, hunting with the others.
He discovered that he was heading into a gully where the ripping winds had scooped sand from between ridges of dark rocks. Yorgh was not sure whether it offered shelter or the chance to be buried alive, but he plunged ahead to investigate. Within fifty paces, the howl at his back diminished.
Not the rocks; it's a lull, he exclaimed, peering upward.
The sky was an ugly reddish brown, dark and menacing. He wondered how soon more tons of sand would sweep down to refill the gully. As he gazed upward, a round stone rolled under his foot and he sprawled forward. Even as he dropped, it seemed that he was falling further than he should be.
He brushed sand from his eyes and looked up. From the edge of a hollow whirled from the floor of the gully by opposing winds, the wolly stared down at him with an expression of scared idiocy. The ends of his horn bow and copper-tipped lance thrust up beside the saddle.