That made it difficult. He looked questioningly at the swamp, but his guide frowned. "Snakes," he said laconically. "Tigers, crocodiles."
That left the plain, but out there they'd be spotted instantly, and picked up soon after. He couldn't afford to be questioned by anyone. He could hear the soldiers. They were getting closer.
The plain. They had to cross it and yet they couldn't. Unless—He turned to Gowru. "A fog," he said triumphantly. "All we need is another fog."
His guide smiled with sorrowful dignity. "It takes whisky to make a good fog. If you had listened to me you would have brought a supply along. But alas, you are the reformer type, and because of that we are now caught." His head sunk forward in defeat.
His chin touched his chest and at that his head snapped back and it was easy to see that he was not defeated. "Without whisky I can't make a fog," he admitted. "Do you know how many molecules are involved in even a medium-sized fog?"
Rains didn't, but thought he ought to look impressed.
"A surface now, even a relatively large surface, contains a comprehensible number of molecules," said Gowru. "My mind isn't sharp when I'm sober, but I can handle that many."
"I don't see how—" But darkness interrupted his thoughts. "What is that?" asked Rains.
"I put a surface around us. It has the shape of a tank."