Night fell before they had reached the end of their trek.
With the night, as was to be expected in a continental climate, came a severe drop in temperature. As the sun sank blindingly over the western horizon—at least they had a solar system of understandable function here—Dalreay said harshly, “You’ve had your last rest until we meet my people, Bob. To rest now without adequate shelter would be fatal. You must keep marching—and keep up with me! I shan’t wait for you. If I leave you—I’ll leave you. If you think you see me again after that—it’ll only be an apparition.”
“I know,” said Prestin. “It’ll only be an echo.”
Without bothering to find out what this other-worlder was babbling about, Dalreay started off with a long loping stride. Prestin was astounded that he could do it after what had happened, but he had to keep up. There was no going back now.
After about three hours Prestin heard a strange shuffling, padding, panting sound. He looked up blearily. Dalreay was hurrying forward. Under the starglow Prestin could see tall bulky shapes swaying like animated haystacks. He cried out and tried to run after Dalreay. His feet gave way, his legs gave way, his body gave way. He fell over. He lay on the ground, his face pressed against a clump of coarse grass, feeling its dampness icy cold against his cheek, and he knew he could go no farther.
Rough hands grasped him. He was lifted up. Shaded yellow light burst over his face. He heard Dalreay talking and a hoarse, gruff voice answering. “Kill him now and have done.”
“No!” Dalreay sounded firm. “He knows nothing. He came through the barrier like a floundering fish. He could be useful. He is a weakling, but he stuck by me—”
“Very well.” The harsh voice betrayed a weary heart. “Keep him. But if he causes trouble—you, Todor Dalreay, will answer. If necessary, with your life!”
“As I am Todor Dalreay of Dargai, I will so answer!”
Prestin tried to speak. “You fool,” he whispered. “You fool, Todor. Only your blind pride makes you take such a chance on a stranger—”
But he couldn’t frame the right words. He fell into deep unconsciousness as they were strapping him into a blanket and moss bed that heaved like a channel packet.
His dreams centered mistily around that old gift of his for losing things, for mislaying the everyday items of life. He dreamed that Margie mislaid her diamond bracelet. He dreamed that Fritzy mislaid her eye lashes and makeup and mini-skirt. He dreamed that he smiled at Alec, and the tough man was suddenly bereft of his express rifle. He had had a power all his life and had not known it. What other powers did other ordinary people possess that they knew nothing about?
These people among whom he had fallen, now. This proud man, Todor Dalreay, and his ready acceptance of what would be considered among civilized communities as a ludicrously imprudent obligation. This world of Irunium, itself. It was a real world. It had its own ecology and its own rules and it would not look kindly on a man from another world. But, stirring in his sleep and realizing that he was no longer dreaming, Robert Infamy Prestin made up his mind that he would survive and he would go back to his own world—he would…
He opened his eyes. The slow jog-jogging he had slept through all night continued and now he saw that his blanket and moss bed were strapped to the flank of an enormous beast. He could see a caravan of them, plodding methodically over the sand and grass, large and ponderous, like half-melted elephants, like the elephants of soap kids got at Christmas and, using gleefully, cried because ears and trunk, eyes and tucks sloughed away to a rounded vanishment.
Armored men with swords and spears paced beside the animals. Women and children rode panniers or walked with their men. The colors of scarf and dress were bright, fluttering bravely in the morning sun, but an air of defeat and despair hung like a pall over the caravan.
Dalreay trudged by. He glanced up, saw Prestin’s open eyes, smiled and waved. Hadn’t the man slept at all, then? Or was he entirely compounded of sinew and muscle?
“Buon’ giorno, Bob! How do you feel?” The wind caught his words.
“Fine, thank you. And you?”
“I can go on. In Irunium one must always go on, Bob. If I cut you down can you walk? Breakfast, such as it is, will be available in half an hour. The women are cooking it now.”
Prestin blinked. “But the caravan is still moving!”
“Of course.” Dalreay swung up lithely, drawing free the lashings of Prestin’s hanging bed. “Naturally. They cook on the backs of the Galumphers as we go—they have slate cooking slats and the Galumphers feel nothing of the fires—” He broke off. “Why do you smile?”
“Galumphers,” said Prestin. “I don’t believe it.”
“It is a name they were given,” he said casually. “I did not ask when I learned. They came down from the north, driven past the Cabbage Patch by King Clinton”—he made a small sign with his fingers as he spoke that name—” a good few years ago now. They are vital to our economy. Most of their bulk is water.”
Prestin gripped the lashings and eased himself out of the blankets. The wind whipped at him.
“Don’t lose any of the moss, Bob. The lumphers like to eat it, and we don’t want to leave trails.”
“Check,” said Prestin. He folded the blanket flap over carefully, gawped as he saw the machine-stitched label Witney. “That’s an English blanket!”
“I know.” Dalreay patted the hanging bed. “Best sort you can get. They come in trade.”
“Anyway,” said Prestin, dropping to the ground and walking alongside Dalreay—he had to slow down his normal impatient pace to keep level with the rolling Galumpher—”what do you mean about trails? This great Galumpher must leave a trail a tyro could pick up.”
“Not so, Bob. This little ground wind rubs out ordinary tracks. The Ulloas like to follow scents and they are our greatest weakness. Even so, they’re not too good at ordinary tracking. They’re not Dargan of Dargai.” He said with a conscious flashing pride.
Dargan of Dargai. A tribal name, obviously. Prestin knew well enough that he could spend a lifetime here learning customs; plenty of men had done that in the past on Earth, living their whole lives among primitive and savage peoples. But he did not have the time. One statement made by Dalreay, however, particularly interested him.
“You said the Galumphers were brought down past the Cabbage Patch by King Clinton recently.” He smiled at Dalreay, feeling the kinship for this man warming him. “Surely, Todor, you must know there are a dozen assumptions there I’d like to know about!”
“Of course. But you must have realized that I am not normally a nomad. The Dargan of Dargai should by rights still be living in Dargai but we were driven out—I assumed you would understand this from my green clothes. Why should green be a camouflage color in brown and golden deserts, in tall sere grasses with red Calchulik flowers? The green is a badge of honor!”
“I should have realized. But, Todor—the Cabbage Patch—?”
“Well, naturally King Clinton had to go around, even though the Galumphers are as strong as—he did say, once, how many of your horses they equalled, but I forget—but even they couldn’t force a way through the Growth.”
Prestin kept his temper. “I’ll try it another way. Who was King Clinton?”
“Oh—he was another out-worlder—but a very special one. Oh, yes,” Dalreay smiled as he spoke, making that small secret sign. “A very special one.”
“A few years ago, a good few years ago, you said. I gathered that was recently, that your culture had not employed Galumphers previously. But—how long ago?”