And finally the Cytha, not skinned down to the bare bones of its Thanksgiving-turkey-size, but far smaller than it had been, climbed awkwardly up the rifle and the sling to safety.
Duncan hauled the rifle up and twisted himself into a sitting position.
The Cytha, he saw, was reassembling.
He watched in fascination as the restless miniatures of the planet's life swarmed and seethed like a hive of bees, each one clicking into place to form the entire beast.
And now the Cytha was complete. Yet small—still small—no more than lion-size.
"But it is such a little one," Zikkara had argued with him that morning at the farm. "It is such a young one."
Just a young brood, no more than suckling infants—if suckling was the word, or even some kind of wild approximation. And through the months and years, the Cytha would grow, with the growing of its diverse children, until it became a monstrous thing.
It stood there looking at Duncan and the tree.
"Now," said Duncan, "if you'll push on the tree, I think that between the two of us—"
"It is too bad," the Cytha said, and wheeled itself about.