It was the only shelter this side of the hills that separated the desert from the grassy plain. Yorgh pulled off his cloak, tied one corner to the tree with the strap of his water-skin, and set about making as good an imitation of a tent as possible. It might at least give him breathing room till the storm ended.
The Star shone hotly at noon the next day before Yorgh tramped wearily into the shade of the tree-lined creek that would lead him to his people's camp on the plain. He was lured to this route partly by the promised coolness and partly by the sight of a herd of kromp out on the open flat. These were six-legged, like every animal on The World except man. There were eighty or a hundred, and a few of the ill-tempered bulls were already sniffing the air and aiming their four horns about.
Yorgh splashed water over his face and neck. He wished he could stop for a swim, but he had walked all night after the sandstorm died down to get through the hills and out of the desert. The only thing which could have kept him from the camp, where he could hope for badly needed sleep, was a chance to find the gully again. When the sand had settled, however, he had found—not entirely to his surprise—that he had completely lost the direction.
"It's like the old legends," he murmured, standing up and taking the cylinder out of his pouch to look at it again. "Things like this always happened to the ancient heroes. They even flew among the stars—huh! That's a likely tale! But this...?"
Once again, as he had learned, he twisted the end of the cylinder. The other end glowed with a blue-green light.
Yorgh shook his head in wonder, and returned the object to his pouch. He went ahead at a relaxed but steady pace. In a few minutes, the sound of voices through the undergrowth brought his head up sharply. He went on, parting the bushes silently. Presently, he grinned as he peered out at a wide pool.
Five of the younger women were swimming or splashing in the shallows. Piles of wet clothing on the bank indicated the task that had brought them to this sheltered eddy in the creek. Yorgh looked hopefully for the red-gold tresses of Vaneen, the shapely—if too haughty—daughter of Chief Tefior, but vainly.
Let me see, he pondered, shall I be a clumsy kromp snorting through the trees, or a meat-eating ponadu?
Raising his hands to his mouth, he emitted a wailing cry that was the trademark of the only prowling killer on The World large enough to hunt a man. The splashing in the creek ceased immediately.