And over the fires that he made from weed-roots at the entrance to his little cave, he thought of the girl with the flaming hair. Her features nestled there amid the darting flames, eyes wide and searching as they met his, her mouth seeming to yearn toward him. Occasionally he would bury his face in his hands, and shudder.
Then came the morning when he filled his flagons with springwater, and walked toward the roan megathon. Holding the beast's head on his shoulder, he stroked the satiny jaw and pulled the short ears.
"We rot here, Saarl," he whispered, looking out across the desert. "We could die as well by riding forward to seek our fate."
The megathon tossed its shapely head and whinnied.
Flane grinned and hit his heavily muscled shoulder lightly. He threw blanket and saddle on him, and buckled the cinch. Swinging upward, he kicked a heel into Saarl's ribs.
Flane found the going not too difficult. The months they had spent at the cave inured them to the mad sun, and to little water. And Flane already knew the signs that meant the sand-hares were about. They rode on and on, into the sea of sand, week after week.
It was the stallion that first sensed the thing in the distance. He stood with nostrils flaring, head up, looking to the west. Flane rose in his stirrups, staring. There was something yellow and sparkling there, with something else twisted and caught around it.
"Let's go see, Saarl," he whispered, and let the roan run.
They circled the spaceship warily, the megathon stepping on dainty hooves, alert to fly. Flane had a hand on his sword-hilt, but when his eyes beheld the evidence of years that had dwelt here a while and gone away, he relaxed.
When they were closer to the ship, Flane saw the gigantic prism, and awareness came upon him.