Kimball Trent bent his head to one side, peered through a line of tiny holes that pierced the side of the canoe. He grinned tightly, seeing the dirt-clotted figure of the Gharrian come slowly into sight on the river bank. The monster searched the water for a second, then turned and went toward the woods with an implacable slowness that was all the more terrifying because of the utter lack of speed.
Trent looked ahead at the girl, barely making her out in the semi-gloom of the camouflaged canoe. Her eyes were on his features, and they did not waver at his stare.
"Who are you, Barb, that you stand against the Masters, and what manner of weapons are those you carry?" she asked.
Trent shook his head slightly, missing some of the words because of the queer manner she had in her syllabication and pronunciation. Then he grinned, remembering that this was not the past, and that language would have changed considerably during the five centuries of his enforced entombment.
"I do not know what you mean by 'Barb,'" he said. "My name is Kimball Trent, and the weapons are—well, weapons."
"You speak strangely," the girl said slowly. "Where are you from—Giland, or Connet, or where?"
Trent studied the question for a moment, then understanding came to his eyes. "You mean Long Island and Connecticut?" he asked.
The girl shrugged, brushed soft hair back from a smooth forehead. "Once they were called that, I think," she admitted.
Trent shook his head. "I came from the woods," he said. "Who are you, and how did you get mixed up with that Gharrian?" he finished.