It was that thought which gave him courage to start crawling, almost blindly, towards the barrier again, pulling himself along by his arms and hands.
There was a chance in a million that he’d have strength left when he got there to throw his harpoon-spear just once, and with deadly effect, if the Roller would come up to the barrier, or if the barrier was gone.
It took him years, it seemed, to get there. The barrier wasn’t gone. It was as impassable as when he’d first felt it.
The Roller wasn’t at the barrier. By raising himself up on his elbows, he could see it at the back of its part of the arena, working on a wooden framework that was a half-completed duplicate of the catapult he’d destroyed.
It was moving slowly now. Undoubtedly it had weakened, too.
Carson doubted that it would ever need that second catapult. He’d be dead, he thought, before it was finished.
His mind must have slipped for a moment, for he found himself beating his fists against the barrier in futile rage, and made himself stop. He closed his eyes, tried to make himself calm.
“Hello,” said a voice.
It was a small, thin voice. He opened his eyes and turned his head. It was a lizard.
“Go away,” Carson wanted to say. “Go away; you’re not really there, or you’re there but not really talking. I’m imagining things again.”