He put it out of his mind. Warm and dry, he filled his waterskin, caught and broiled one more meal of scuttlers, then strapped on his gear and dove out from the hillside to catch the wind.
He was more cautious than ever now, turning unexpectedly to search the sky behind him to see what might be following. Nothing was, neither small Watcher nor ship carrying the repellent creatures who had marked him with the thing around his neck. He was not so far from the rocky, desolate upper reaches of Knife-in-the- Sky that orgs would be unexpected. But he saw nothing like an org . . .
Until it was almost too late.
The far thin scream drew his eyes aloft. A pale brown fleck was dropping out of that high gray haze, sliding down across the long blade of the summit.
It grew as it came toward him, taking shape and color. A slim, winged fish-form of bronze and silver: the body bronze, tapering to a narrow waist behind the stubby wings; the tail and wingtips shining silver. It was beautiful and terrible.
And it was coming toward him.
Org Rider woke out of the trance that held him and realized his danger. This was not a dream, it was a creature that could kill him in a single careless rake of claw or tooth. And he was exposed in the open air, where its speed and skill were far greater than his own.
He dived, flapping desperately, staring over his shoulder to watch it come. It grew so close that he could see the shape of the individual lapped triangular scales, bronze and silver. Its powerful legs unfolded, spreading cruel black talons that stretched toward him. He closed his own wings and arrowed toward a black crevice below, where two great boulders had tumbled together. Even in that moment the beauty of the org choked his throat. To own that power! It was worth the risk of his life . . .
But it seemed his life was already forfeit; his fall was slower than the org's dive. His weapons were useless; the bow hanging from his harness, the spear impotent in this free-fall. Even the knife would only annoy the org, it could not hope to prevail against that wide red mouth spiked with shining fangs.
On impulse, without thought, he snatched the cold hard sphere of the Watchman's eye from his throat. He did not even feel the bite of the thong as it broke free. He flung it into the org's great mouth.
Confused, the creature broke away, lost momentum, soared past and away. It went by with a roar of wind and a strange falling note in its scream. It recovered almost at once, wheeled and returned . . .
But by then Org Rider was deep in the crevice between the boulders.
For many hundreds of breaths the org stayed near the crevice, moaning to itself in anger and frustration, scrabbling at the rock with its claws. Its intelligence was too high to let it come in after him; in the cramped quarters, his spear was a more deadly weapon than its claws. And yet it did not leave.
Its nest had to be nearby. Org Rider knew that nothing else would keep the creature there so long. There was prey in plenty easier to find. Mere hunger did not account for its tenacity.
The thought was like a sniff of dream-fungus, intoxicating, dizzying, a little frightening. Where there was a nest there were eggs. Where there were eggs was one to steal.
Methodically Org Rider unstrapped his wings and lightened his pack. He dared not fly so close to the org's nest. He would have to move fast, and could carry nothing that he did not urgently need. His only way to reach the nest was to thread the maze of spaces between the boulders, where the org might not see him and would hesitate to attack. He wondered briefly what had become of the Watchman's eye. Had the org swallowed it? Was it broken, so that the Watchers might come angry and avenging at any time? He could not tell.
Leaving everything behind except for knife, compass, and a coil of rope, he breathed heavily to charge his muscles, rocked to test his footing, crouched and jumped. He was only in the open for a moment, in a long surge from shelter to shelter. The org was out of sight. He could hear its baffled screaming, but did not see it and assumed it therefore did not see him.
The journey to the top of the boulder pile was long and hard, and beyond it a naked cliff rose above the highest crevice, a dozen times his height.
Org Rider could leap that far; any of his people could. Yet it tested his strength, and he would be exposed while leaping, off balance and vulnerable when he landed. He peered out, saw no org, and leaped without allowing himself time to be afraid.
He soared upward, caught the slippery rock at the rim of the cliff and pulled himself up onto it.
Before him lay a level mile of flat, black rock. In the middle of it rose a rough pink cone.
The org's nest.
Although it was in view, no more than half a dozen long leaps away, it was not yet in reach. A great org hovered over it, scales gleaming in the high blue light of the peak. It had not seen him, but if he approached it would be a matter of moments only. It would never let him reach the nest.
He needed to think. He could not remain in the open for that purpose; he spotted a narrow crevice and scuttled across the flat rock, hugging the ground as inconspicuously as he could.
He drowsed and thought for a long time, and at the end of it the solution to the problem seemed as far away as when he began. It was maddening to have come so far and to fail now. Yet where was the choice? He could stay there for a long time hoping that the guardian org would wander away. That hope was foolish. Far more likely the other org would give up its fruitless sentry duty at the crevice between the boulders or below, and come up to join its mate; and then he would have two to avoid. With two adult orgs nearby it was no longer a question of being able to steal an egg, but of survival. Sooner or later they would find him. And that would be his death.
But as he crouched and drowsed his problem was being solved for him. He did not know it at first. He heard the raucous shrieks of the org, realized tardily that there were two orgs now crying out their rage and resentment, and heard with his mind what his subconscious had been listening to for long moments: a dull, distant slam, slam, slam unlike any other sound he had ever heard.
Cautiously Org Rider poked his head out of the crevice and was just in time to see a brilliant flare of golden light.
Dazzled and half-blinded by afterimages, he knew at once that again one of the small Watchers was nearby. Squinting to see what was happening, he saw a naked machine in the air, quartering away from him, emitting the slamming sounds and puffs of smoke. It was curiously ugly, like a stick figure of an org or a person; it had wings, but they did not move, were rigidly extended. And the two orgs were attacking it, screaming in fierce rage. Pieces were falling from it, broken bits that scattered down across the face of the mountain. One seemed to have the shape of a man, and it was from it that the yellow flare had come. But if it was a man he had forgotten his wings and did not know how to hand-soar to guide his landing; he tumbled end over end, disappearing from sight. The machine itself slammed crazily on.
There would never be a better chance.
Blind and caught unawares, Org Rider knew he had to act. He did not stop to think. He was out of the crevice and leaping for the pink cone in less than a breath.
Now was when he needed wings! But he did not have them, and so could only leap, guide himself with his hands, come down with his legs already under him, and leap again. He could hear the distant slam-slam of the machine, and the scream of the orgs, but he dared not leap high enough to see what they were doing, lest the orgs see what he was doing. At least the sounds were still distant—and he was already tumbling over the rim of the nest.
Built of stones plastered with org manure, it had a good, clean, dry odor, a little like the smell of parching grain. The shallow pink cup held a single egg.