"No," I said. "It is walking on two feet."
Then, after a time, the noise was gone. I heard Imnak replace the knife in its sheath. I then returned my own blade, too, to its sheath.
"I am going out," I said.
I drew on furs. The outer parka I retrieved from the long, low entrance way to the shelter. This entrance, contrived as it was, made it impossible for the direct blast of an outside wind to get inside. It is generally better for the fur of the heavy parka to be left in the entrance way, where it is colder. One brushes snow from the parka before leaning down and moving through the tunnel to the interior of the shelter, but, in the shelter, the residue of snow would melt, wetting the garment. Later, when the lamp goes out, the garment could stiffen and freeze. It is better for the fur not to be constantly put through this cycle of dampening and freezing; also, the heavy parka is rather large for the drying frame, which is generally used for smaller articles, like boots and mittens. Also, of course, the garment is more comfortable to put on if it is not cramped and frozen.
Crouching down I edged toward the opening. The roof of the exit tunnel was about a yard high, at the inner end. Usually a hide tent is hung inside the snow shelter, which provides additional insulation. It is fastened by pegs within the shelter, which are anchored outside, on the rounded outer roof. We had not set the tent within the shelter this sleeping period, however. I had brushed aside a hide flap, though, which was hung over the inner entrance. At the outer end of the tunnel, where one emerged to the outside, the ceiling of the tunnel was about four and one half feet in height The general reason for the tunnel dimensions is to prevent wear and tear on mittens and clothing, which can be a very serious matter in subzero temperatures; a needle and thread in the arctic can be as important as a knife and a harpoon. Another value of the tunnel dimensions, of course, is that one may emerge from the shelter with a weapon at the ready. This can be of value in a country where there may be dangerous animals.
I began to move down the tunnel. I heard Imnak behind me.
At the outer end of the tunnel, gently, I edged out the snow blocks which, for most practical purposes, closed the opening. One does not seal the shelter, of course; that can be extremely dangerous; it must be adequately ventilated, particularly when the lamp is lit. Air from the entrance, or another aperture, moving into or through the shelter and, warmed, rising, escaping at the smoke hole in the roof, supplies the required ventilation.
When I emerged from the opening I, knife in hand, looked cautiously about. A moment later Imnak, knife, too, in hand, straightening up, emerged beside me.
It seemed very calm.
The girls, too, Poalu first, and then Arlene and Audrey, crept out.
It was very quiet, and desolate, and cold.
The Northern Lights still spun and played in the sky.
Imnak and I, knives ready, the girls remaining at the hut, scouted the terrain in the immediate vicinity.
"I have found nothing," I told Imnak.
"Nor I," he said.
"There was something here," I said, "for we heard it outside."
"Did you find tracks?" asked Arlene.
"No," I said.
"The ice is hard," said Imnak.
"But it was here, something," I said.
"Yes," said Imnak.
"There seems to be nothing here now," I said.
"No," said Imnak.
I looked about again. "It is gone," I said. We sheathed our knives.
"Perhaps there was nothing here," said Arlene. "Perhaps It was only the ice and the wind."
"No," I said. "Something was here."
"Aiii!" cried Imnak, suddenly, pointing upward. Arlene screamed.
In the lights in the sky, in those shimmering, subtle, shifting streaks and curtains of light, mostly yellowish green, some hundreds of miles in height, clearly portrayed, though it was for a moment only, was the gigantic, hideous visage of a Kur.
Imnak stood in silence, looking at it, and I, too. Poalu did not speak. Audrey screamed, and turned away. Arlene stood beside me, clutching my arm.
There was no mistaking that towering face etched in the lights and the darkness. It was clearly that of a Kur. Its outline was shaggy. Its eyes seemed to blaze, as though fires burned behind them. Its nostrils were distended. Its mouth was fanged. Then its lips drew back, in the Kur's sign of anticipation, of pleasure, of amusement. Then its ears lay back against the side of its head. Then the visage faded and disappeared, the eyes last, as soon as it had come. Before the ears had lain back against the side of its head I had seen that one of them, the left, had been hail torn away. Then the lights themselves were gone, and we saw only the stars and the polar night over the desolate horizon.
"What was it?" asked Arlene.
"It was that which you had served," I told her.
"No, no!" she said.
"Surely it is a sign that we should turn back," said Poalu.
"No," said Imnak.
"Do you not think it is a sign?" she asked.
"I think it is a sign," he said.
"Then we must turn back!" she said.
"No," said Imnak.
"Is it not a sign that we must turn back?" she asked.
"I do not think so," he said.
"Then what is its meaning?" asked Poalu.
"Its meaning, I think," said Imnak, "is that it is too late to turn back."
"I think you are right, Imnak," I said.
I looked up at the sky. It was too late, indeed, to turn back. I smiled to myself. I had come, after long trekking, to the country of Zarendargar, to the brink of the camp of my enemy, to the brink of the camp of Half-Ear.
"I think, Imnak," I said, "that I am close to finding him whom I have sought."
"Perhaps, already, he has found you," said Imnak.
"Perhaps," I said. "It is hard to know."
"Let us flee, Master," wept Arlene.
"I am of the Warriors," I told her.
"But such things," she said, "control even the forces of nature."
"Perhaps so, perhaps not," I said. "I do not know,"
"Flee!" she said.
"I am of the Warriors," I said.
"But you may die," she said.
"That is acknowledged in the codes," I said.
"What are the codes?" she asked.
"They are nothing, and everything," I said. "They are a bit of noise, and the steel of the heart. They are meaningless, and all significant. They are the difference. Without the codes men would be Kurii."
"Kurii?" she asked.
"Beasts, such as ice beasts, and worse," I said. "Beasts such as the face you saw in the sky."
"You need not keep the codes," she said.
"I once betrayed my codes," I said. "It is not my intention to do so again." I looked at her. "One does not know, truly, what it is to stand, until one has fallen. Once one has fallen, then one knows, you see, what it is to stand."
"None would know if you betrayed the codes," she said.
"I would know," I said, "and I am of the Warriors."
"What is it to be a warrior?" she asked.
"It is to keep the codes," I said. "You may think that to be a warrior is to be large, or strong, and to be skilled with weapons, to have a blade at your hip, to know the grasp of the spear, to wear the scarlet, to know the fitting of the iron helm upon one's countenance, but these things are not truly needful; they are not, truly, what makes one man a warrior and another not. Many men are strong, and large, and skilled with weapons. Any man might, if he dared, don the scarlet and gird himself with weapons. Any man might place upon his brow the helm of iron. But it is not the scarlet, not the steel, not the helm of iron which makes the warrior."
She looked up at me.
"It is the codes," I said.
"Abandon your codes," she said.
"One does not speak to a slave of the codes," I said.
"Abandon them," she said.
"Kneel, Slave Girl," I said.