He did not come to a conscious decision; but in a moment he discovered that his legs were gathering under him and he sprang toward the top of the rock. He turned in air to bring his feet under him, landed well, spun around to face the small Watcher.
And then something did happen. There was another flash of that intense golden explosion of silent light, and for a moment he was blinded. And when he could see again at all he saw that the bubble was burst open, sliced from within, like an org's egg with the hatchling just coming out; and out of it was stepping—what? A man? Short, fat, squat, dark, curiously clothed—but yes, a man!
FOUR
The figure that came out of the bubble was twice as broad as the boy, and nearly a head shorter. To the boy it looked like one of his own people, but somehow squashed down and wearing strange bright clothing such as he had never seen before.
The wingmen and their women wore no more than they had to: the harness to hold their wallets and fasten to their wings, a few square inches of cloth or shaved leather for ornament, a few more for modesty.
By the boy's standards, the man was fearsomely overdressed. His clothing covered nearly all of him. From waist to feet he wore a sort of bright yellow leotard, ending under bright-colored soft boots. From waist to shoulders he wore a sleeveless tunic. His wrists were ornamented with broad, bright-colored bands that looked as if they had the feel of leather, but were colored in blues and greens and mauves; they held little pouches and bright shiny things that glittered and seemed to move. Even the man's head was covered, with a soft cap which (the boy did not know) could come down to protect his eyes against dust or glare, or if need be could shield the entire upper part of him against rain or cold. And that was a bright orange color; taken all in all, the man was queerly and fearsomely garbed, the boy marveled. With such apparel he could never hope to avoid being seen by org or Watcher or game!
His costume and his queer proportions were not all that was queer about him. Even his face was strange.
He was surely much older than the boy, two or three thousand sleeps at least. But his face did not show it. It was not weathered or lined from wind or storm. His teeth were bright and even, as perfect as the boy's own, and far more so than, say, those of the boy's older brother, who had used them to nip off ends of leather for the five thousand sleeps of his adult life.
All this the boy saw in the same photographic glance in which he observed that the man carried no weapon. None at all; neither bow nor knife. Not even a club. Even so, the boy judged, he might not be without danger. His squat frame had the look of strength.
The man took a step toward the boy. It was not menacing. It was comic. The boy had never seen anything like it; the man's step was grotesquely energetic, it propelled him unmeaning into the air. He came down, stumbled, caught himself, fell again in overreaction, and sprawled to the ground. The expression on his broad face was funnier than his ungainly tumbling act itself. The boy could not help laughing. From the ground the man laughed, too.
Then the man stood up, quite carefully, with a wink and exaggerated caution. He spread his hands as if to show he had no weapons. The boy knew that already; he made no move.
The man, slowly and carefully, as if to show that he meant no harm, grasped one wrist with the fingers of the other hand and did something to the shiny baubles on it. Then he spoke to the boy.
When he did, his voice came from two places at once. It came from his mouth in the normal way. Another voice, harsher and more metallic than his own, came stumbling from the bauble on his wrist. The sounds from the thing on his wrist were not the same as the sounds from his mouth, but the boy could understand neither of them. He bent his head in the gesture of negation.
The man looked as if he were irritated with his toy. He touched it again, and spoke once more.
This time the boy thought he caught the suggestion of a word. Strangely, it came from the man's wrist, not his mouth. It sounded rather like the word the boy's people used for "what?" But there was more to it, and the rest was gibberish.
The man shrugged and let his arm fall to his side. Then he grinned, touched his chest, and said a single word. The sound of it was "Ben." The man waited inquiringly, as if expecting a response.
The boy was not sure what was expected of him, other than that the man seemed to want him to speak. The man gestured, pointed to his wrist, and made several other sounds. One sounded like "Pmal," pronounced very slowly and carefully, but what it meant the boy had no idea.
He said slowly, "I don't know what you want me to do."
The man applauded, grinned, motioned for more.
"Well," the boy said, "I am Fifteenth of the men in my people." He paused, a little suspiciously, but the man urged him on. It seemed foolish, but there did not seem to be anything dangerous in it. Hesitantly he went on: "But I am far from my people and no longer one of them," he soliloquized. "So perhaps I can have only a word-name, like an outlaw or a woman. Are you an outlaw? But I am going to get an org's egg. I will hatch it and tame the org. Perhaps I will call myself Org Rider!" he finished, and fell silent, listening to the pleasing sound of the name in his mind's ear.
Excited, the man touched his wrist and spoke again. This time the words from his wrist made sense; they were poorly pronounced, but clearly enough they said: "I am Ben. You are Org Rider!"
From the boy's expression the man saw that communication had begun. His own face reflected joy. He spoke again, and the thing on his wrist stuttered, emitted a few nonsense syllables, and then, very clearly, said: "My people far."
He gestured for the boy to speak on.
But the boy had heard another sound. Frowning, he turned to search the sky.
It was a strangely ominous sound, like the hum of a bee-tree. The boy's first thought was Org! Yet the sound was wrong, not the harsh scream his mother had described, but even more fearsome.
Then he saw it: a faint gray glint against the polychrome sky, diving toward them, very fast.
Watcher!
It was like a spearpoint arrowing toward them in the sky; it had no wings, but it moved so fast the boy could hardly realize what was happening. The man heard it, too. Astonishment spread across his broad face. He turned, bounced toward the silently hovering small Watcher, fell clumsily but righted himself and touched it with quick, skillful hands.
At once one face of the small Watcher flared with a bright golden flame, and a bubble began to grow out of it.
The boy did not stand watching this performance. He ran for his weapons. He did not know what good they would be against a Watcher, but he had no other options open to him than to use them.
A bright flash of light from above gave him a split second's warning, then something crashed nearby. Queer sudden yellow flowers bloomed on the black rock, and faded into pale smoke. A sharp reek of burning choked him.
The bubble from the side of the small Watcher had grown tall as the boy now; abruptly it flared brightly gold. Unfortunately for the boy he was staring directly at it when it happened. For a moment he was blinded. Bright lights were out of his experience entirely, except for lightning and the smoky glow of a campfire; the eyes of his people did not have quick recovery mechanisms, since they had no sun in their sky to contend with and no need. He clawed at his eyes in acute pain. He could not distinguish just what was happening.
The man named Ben was clawing at the bubble, trying to drag out of it some glittering object that had appeared inside. The boy could not recognize it; he could barely see the outlines, could barely see when again there was that sudden crash, and a flash of light behind and above him, and yellow flame and smoke exploded on Ben himself. The boy heard a terrible scream, felt splinters of rock as they tore at his flesh, smelled a queerly hot choking odor that took his breath.