A sense of relief swept over Jim. His tenseness relaxed. He said slowly: “What do you want of us, Talon?”
“Yes . . . Talon.” His arm had a hand, with a sheaf of broad, flat fingers. He pointed to the ornament hanging on the chest of his shrunken body. “Talon . . . leader of my people.” He spoke haltingly, groping with the unfamiliar words, and carefully, as though to avoid error. “Called Talon. You . . . lie quiet and soon my words are more. I study. Lie quiet . . . until I speak again.” He gestured. “Lie quiet, or—”
Another more vehement gesture. It embraced Jim and Ren. Jim understood the threat. The voice repeated very calmly, “You had better lie down . . . now!”
The eyes seemed leaping pools of green fire.
They sank back. With his elbows slightly raising him, Jim watched the head of Talon hitching itself to the stern of the boat.
The moon had risen high above the horizon. From where Jim lay he could see its yellow, horn-shaped disk. That, and a narrow segment of the star-strewn sky, was all that showed above the gunwales of the boat. The stars rolled with a lazy swing; the boat was throbbing, propelled evidently, by some invisible engine, over a calm, rolling sea, and in the silence Jim could hear the water slipping past the boat’s smooth sides.
He wondered how far from shore they were? If he and Ren, with a leap, could plunge overboard, a mad, fool-hardy attempt, of course, but still he must see where they were, try and plan something.
“Ren?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Move over a little. I’m going to get behind you and sit up, see where we are, how far from shore.”