lp, for Red Earth's mind was far reaching and a Power Giver was in the western area. But he was calmly confident in his ability and envisioned no such emergency. For the first two days, he covered ground that was partly familiar. Then he moved southward. The bleak landscape was unchanged. It was a world of exposed rocks, long since eroded clean by the storms. He was the only life, save for a few thin air-feeders growing on the protected side of the largest boulders. Nothing moved but poison-laden air, which rose from the rank low areas, and was shifted by the vast movements of the atmosphere. His broth supply was holding out well and he was finding enough air to be able to conserve the vital stores within his body. Because of the five-day lull in the storms he covered a large area; the picture in his mind was based on a comparison of his progress with the well-known image of the distance around the planet. He rested. During his sixth night on the plateau the winds increased and new clouds of forbidding density moved in. He spent the following day in his protective cover, unable to breathe. He used his life stores sparingly, allowing his body to lapse into a state of sluggishness during which his heart beat only rarely. Although his mind was slowed, his capacity for cenesthesia allowed him to take stock of his condition. He was satisfied. The new storm blew through the day, calmed at night, but then began anew at dawn. The inactivity galled Rack, and, in order to escape the boredom of nonmovement, he reviewed all of the knowledge he had gained in the last few days. He wished for a contact with a Keeper, but did nothing since the distances and energies involved would have been a drain. He would not admit, even in the privacy of his mind, that he was indeed looking for a fabled lost city. Yet there was some connection, he conceded, between his being on the escarpment plateau and his having once heard an unconfirmed legend regarding a lost city beside the river. While the storm blew and there was no breathable air, he indulged in speculation about the Old Ones. If it were true that the land had once been rich with growing things, the waters sweet, then the Old Ones would have sought locations such as this, near water. The city, if there had been one, could have been on either side of the river, but the legend repeated by the Healers had specified the western bank, which meant that it had been located on what now was the plateau. Since, according to the observations of Rack and other Healers with similar interests, the plateau was a fairly recent development, any city that might have stood there would have been lifted with the upheaval of the earth and been tumbled and broken. The most tenuous of Rack's speculations he would never have made public, lest he be ridiculed. If a city had stood on the western bank and had been broken and scattered by the titanic upheaval of the earth, the rains would have long since washed away any trace—except, perhaps, for the hard materials, which were heavier than the stones. It was his vague hope that he would find particles of the hard material lodged in the broken fields of stone atop the plateau. It was, indeed, a foolish hope. There was still no connection, except in his imagination, between the Old Ones and the hard materials. But he would not have been content to spend his free time in the confinement of his establishment. His feet tingled from the walking, his scales sizzled when the acid rain struck them, his cells were being used as he lived on his stored air. Yet even if he spent the rest of his life span using his free time to walk the desolate places, it was his life. And even if he never found another nugget of hard material, the mere seeing, the experiencing, the knowledge that he, Rack the Healer, had explored vast stretches of his world with his own feet would be reward enough. When, at last, the storm abated enough so that he could find some hint of air amid the dense yellows and purples, he moved onward, eyes always on the ground. Near the midpoint of the day he came upon a sinkhole and looked down, expecting to see the usual rank growth, to sense the poisonous accumulation of heavy gases. He was amazed to find that not only could he see to the bottom of the rather large depression, but also he could smell the goodness of clean air. The vegetation on the floor of the depression, was not the misshapen plants that grew in other sinkholes. The sparse growth was more like the harmless stuff that grew along the river bank. He squatted to examine his find, peering through the obscuring curtains of gases. He could hear running water. He moved tentatively down the sloping face of the depression, taking stock as he went. He found no deadly elements, only an improvement in the general atmosphere. Encouraged, he continued down until he stood on the floor of the small valley. He confirmed that the vegetation was not the deadly sort. The air was clean. There seemed to be a sort of rising current which lifted the heavy, noxious gases and dispersed them into the overhanging clouds. He advanced across the valley floor, feeling the unfamiliar softness of soil under his feet. He walked gingerly, for only a fool walked unconcernedly on the deadliness of soft earth. This earth, however, was surprisingly free of the hard particles that destroyed cells more rapidly than the most healthy Healer could replace them. He made his way toward the sound of running water and came upon a wonderfully clean outpouring. The water gushed from the rocks underlying the soft earth, bubbling up with a cheery sound, so clear that he could see small particles of soil circulating in it. He tested it gingerly and found it to be scalding hot. He knew then why the small valley was not like the usual low spot. The polar air that lay over the plateau was cooler than the air in the sinkhole which was heated by the water. Even when the heat of the summer lay over the plateau, the air in the sinkhole would still be much hotter than the surrounding air, thus creating upcurrents and discouraging the growth of noxious weeds. He was squatting on the edge of the basin into which the astoundingly clean water flowed from its source in the valley wall. The soft earth under his feet sent out particles, but the quantity, although more than the emission of solid rock, was less than the quantity encountered in a dense cloud, and was well below the danger level for a Healer. A load of worry lifted from his mind and his interest was drawn to the movement of the water as it swirled into the basin. The water seemed about waist deep. The flow was strong. Seeking an outlet from the basin, it had cut through the soft earth to bedrock and loose stone. He followed the stream's wanderings as it looped from the side of the valley toward the center, its entire length lined with the harmless vegetation. The water, incredibly, remained clean. The bed of the stream was covered with loose, rounded pebbles. He had never seen anything quite like it. Near the fall wall, the wall closest to the edge of the escarpment and the river, it formed a small lake and from that lake there was no outlet. Rack concluded that the water must be seeping down through the earth and rocks to the level of the river below. The most pleasing thing about the valley, however, was not the miraculously clean water of the meandering stream, but the relative purity of the air. When a low-hanging cloud passed, noxious vapors filled the valley for only short periods of time before they were lifted by the rising currents. It was almost as if the valley generated its own clean air. He did not understand, but neither did he question. He walked on the strange-feeling softness, examined the harmless green growths alongside the creek, then left the water reluctantly to explore the remainder of the valley. He located nothing as exciting as the water and soon was tired. It was growing dark. He slept with the sound of running water in his ear. In the light of morning, invigorated by sleep and good air, he examined the stream more closely. He knew the erosive effect of moving water and accepted the fact that it was the stream that had cut through the thick layer of soft earth, a layer fully as deep as the distance between his outstretched thumb and finger, to the rocky underlayer. He reached into the water and handled the smooth, rounded pebbles. He could feel the heat through his protective hide—the water was hotter than the hottest day in the southern regions. He was bemused by the smoothness of the pebbles, and fingered them with pleasure, sorting them according to size, arranging them on the green-covered bank. He started with the larger pebbles and stacked smaller ones on top to form a small mound. He was for the moment a child, playing children's games. His mind was idle. At first he did not note the difference in weight as he fingered a small, rounded pebble and lifted it. Then the shift of a cloud let a glow of sunlight through and the pebble in his fingers glowed with a life of its own, yellow and rich. He made an explosive sound through his small lips. Hard material. Of much the same heft as his treasured nugget of gray hard material, but yellow, unbelievably beautiful. Feverishly, he pawed through the pebbles of the stream. His efforts roiled the water with silt until he was unable to see. He berated himself for greed. Many a Healer went through life without finding a single nugget of hard material. He now owned three, and this latest find was, by far, the most wonderful. He spent a long period contemplating it. It showed no signs of having been crafted. It was irregular in shape, but smoothed by the action of the stream. It showed no hint of corrosion, remaining yellow even in the tainted air. Sated with the sensations he received from the nugget, he began to speculate on its origin. Being heavier than the pebbles it had been lodged at the bottom of the stream when he found it. Perhaps hard materials were formed naturally, under the surface. He shuddered. Seated on the softness of the strange soil, he could more fully comprehend the meaning of below the surface. When walking on solid stone, or on the smoothness of the plains of glass, one often forgot that there was a subsurface. Here and on the escarpment's face, subsurface had meaning, for one could see the exposed layers of rock, the different shapes and textures. He carefully placed his hand on the bank of the stream, down low, near the surface of the water. The hard projectiles tingled his small finger scales, but the increase was insignificant. Had the action of the running water cleansed the earth itself? An entirely new concept thundered into his brain. He loved life, revered it, as did every member of the race. He would not have considered breaking the most ancient of laws, lest he lose prematurely that precious gift with which he was entrusted. And yet, he had held his hand below the surface, next to the exposed soft soil of the creek bank and he had lived, had not even been endangered. This valley, he thought, was different, unlike any other spot on the planet, at least any spot he had seen. The air was clean. Pure water cut through the surface earth and exposed pebbles and beautiful nuggets of hard material. Not daring to openly entertain his new idea about the subsurface he walked back to the basin and watched the rushing water emerge from the rocks. He moved a few stones experimentally, placing them where the water gurgled from the confining basin. Guiltily he searched the area and found only solitude. He told himself he was not breaking the law. He was merely shifting rocks— this was permissible as long as the rocks were lying free on the surface. The pile of rocks grew, but the water ran between them undeterred. He filled the chinks with small pebbles, then with gritty small particles, scooped from the floor of the creek. The flow of water was slowed and the level rose in the basin. His tough feet dislodged some vegetation from the banks of the creek and he picked up a piece, seeing that a certain amount of the soft earth clung to it. He was shocked. He dropped the offending bit of green, then picked it up again. It was lying free, wasn't it? He knew he was stretching logic, for his feet had dislodged it. But the vegetation had a wet, spongy feeling and he placed it in the chinks between the rocks of his dam. It held back the water so well that he recklessly trod up and down the banks of the creek to loosen more of the green material. His dam grew, until finally a trickle of water began to run around the far edge. At first the water was soaked up by the soft earth. Then it puddled, ran. He watched, fascinated, waiting for it to begin to cut into the soft material and expose the rocks underneath. By nightfall, his diverted stream was running all the way down the valley to join the old stream bed a short distance above the lake. The water running over the new earth was muddied by its passage, yet the cutting away of the soft material had not begun. Rack spent an uneasy, guilt-ridden night. In the morning his curiosity overcame his guilt, for the running water had begun to loosen more of the earth. The new stream bed was noticeably depressed and here and there rocks showed through. Moreover, the hard projectiles were no more frequent than before. But it was going to be a very slow process, he determined some days later when the bed of his diverted stream was still composed of softened mud. He left the valley reluctantly. Soon he was caught in a fresh storm and weathered it inside his protective covering of the Material. He wandered and explored, but nowhere did he find anything as interesting as his valley. Everywhere he was confronted by bleak, barren rocks, yielding nothing. During a lull in the storms he jogged back to the east, coming on his valley just as he began to eat seriously into his reserves. He breathed the pure air, watched his stream work, and noted that more and more rocks and pebbles were showing in the new stream bed. He slept beside the heated water of the basin for many nights, spending his days searching the old stream bed for more hard-material nuggets. He found none. Impatient, as his time grew short, he removed his dam, returning the water to its original channel, and began to search the new stream bed. He found only mud and bare, unpolished pebbles. He decided to build another dam and worked feverishly, the technique familiar now, to build up the low area on the side of the basin where his first artificial creek had overflowed. The newly diverted stream was maddenly slow in carving a channel, and as his time grew less and less he cut his daily ration of broth and worriedly watched the storms worsen as the sun circled drew toward its end. He found the object on his last day in the valley. The timing seemed to be significant, as if nature had been withholding the bombshell to the last possible instant. He came upon it as he was sorting through the rocks and pebbles in his second stream bed. He knew when he picked it up that something exciting was happening. It was different. The pebbles and stones were sharp-edged, broken. This object was smooth, oblong, and rounded on the ends, although it was darkened and pitted. And it was strangely light in his hands, having neither the weight of natural stone nor the heavier feel of the hard materials. He cleaned it in the running water, rubbing the accumulated mud from it, heedless of the fact that in fingering the mud he was technically digging. The mud was from below the surface. But his excitement allowed no moralizing. The object had the look, the feel, of being crafted. At first, when he saw that it was transparent, he was deflated. It was, he felt with a sinking heart, merely an abandoned piece of the Material. But further examination and comparison proved that idea to be wrong. It was not as light as the Material, nor did it have the feel of life possessed by the smooth, flexible substance created by the Far Seers. It was definitely artificial and totally alien—obviously not a product of his civilization. There were two possibilities: either it had fallen from the sky, as some Far Seers suggested the hard materials had, or it had been made by some earlier inhabitant of the planet. As he packed and left the valley, he prepared his arguments. He, at least, was convinced that he had a bombshell to toss into the minds of Red Earth and all the other doubters. For if the object that rested in his pack had not been made by his civilization, and if it had not fallen from the sky, there was only one other explanation. It was a relic of the Old Ones. And to have evidence that the Old Ones could have fabricated somet