"Then I have not been a strong mate for you. I have been too weak, but I—"
"Leave the club where it is," O'Hara laughed. "And I'll talk no more to you of torches."
But with the Elder he was finally more successful. It came about through the Elder's reverence for the weapon he called Colt. The mechanics of it had an almost ecstatic fascination for him. He would take hours to explain the workings of each part, diagraming it in the sand before the caves, stopping from time to time to recite some victory he had won with it, a giant bear, a saber-tooth, a monster ground sloth that had come wandering from the lowlands.
"And do you know what makes it eternal?" he asked O'Hara. "It is the black water of our torches."
"I understand about the black water," said O'Hara instantly, determined now to trade on the Elder's reverence. "For that is what takes my flying thing into the air, like a bird."
"The black water does that?"
"When certain things have first been done to the black water. Would you like to see it?"
The Elder drew himself erect, a gaunt six feet eight, his face turned upward to the sky. "I would like to see the flying thing go up."
"Then I must have the black water."
"We will go to the place tomorrow."