Perhaps it was a blessing that Garcia did not remember!
Out of desperation that was like a prayer, a plan arose in his brain. It expanded and crystallized, then faded as memory slipped away like a rock under rising water. For a few moments he was a boy on a Dakota wheat farm, staring down at a strange grave.
Then the water receded; the rock remained. He was again Captain Torkel and the plan lay like an opened flower in his thoughts.
Please, God, don't let me forget now. Let me keep my memory for a while longer, just a little while longer.
His hand tight about his pistol, he strode across the meadow and plunged into the singing forest.
Rays from the sinking sun penetrated the foliage at intervals, creating islands of rainbow brilliance in the semi-darkness. Leaves fluttered above him. An orange-colored bird darted upward, releasing a cackle that was like shrill, old-woman laughter.
He moved slowly, hesitating, listening.
Soon he heard the low voices of Sirians. He stepped off the forest path, concealing himself in foliage. He tried to clear his mind so that the natives would not receive a telepathic warning.
The Sirians came nearer.
Captain Torkel counted: one, two, three, four, five. The first, he saw, was Taaleeb.