"What are you going to do about it?" he blurted. "You can't go on doing all the work. She needs a good—a good, lumping, I think the Ancients called it."
Carby grinned faintly.
"When she is ready," he said mildly, "she will help."
"Hah!" Brink snorted and went to the zippered entrance. "See you tomorrow, Bryt."
He crossed the near-darkness of the needle-strewn glade to his own tent. How bright were these stars and how sweet and cold was this raw air. In York Dome, with its thirty million citizens and its mild, conditioned atmosphere, one saw the stars only through telescreens or viewing ports.
Somewhere in the darkness a mournful wail, an aching ghost of a howl, sounded, and faded into the unfamiliar chirps, and hums of the night prowlers of the Sullan uplands....
There was a choked scream from nearby and Brink heard the crashing progress of Rea Smyt toward her tent. The zippered entrance brightened and then dimmed as she shut it behind her. Brink shrugged. Stooping he entered his own savory-smelling tent.
Tzal had covered the sleeping cots with the gay scarlet-and-blue blankets provided them, and their sliced and steaming rations were ready on the extended table shelf of the cart. Tzal smiled at him from the cot that doubled as a chair.
"Better eat before it gets cold," she invited, and helped herself to a serving of salmon-hued promine.
"Tomorrow," Brink said as he seated himself beside her, "we will dine on real meat—meat that I kill."