pictures.
They were tramping stolidly down a ravine where a big gray slab of ice butted against an iron mountain, forming a kind of waffleboard of alternately stretched and compressed rock. There was no premonition, no tremor of intent. The ravine wall just buckled, showering the lead animals with shards of ice and lumps of snow, and there it was: lean this time, snakelike and undulant, streaming with soft amber light, alabaster chunks bobbing under its rough hide like bergs afloat in some interior fluid. It churned out of the massive ice cleft as if unaware of any resistance—much less of the men and animals that scattered before it, yelling and scrambling in all directions, none taking aim or even looking for a potential vulnerable spot to shoot. All except the boy. He was in the rear of the party when the ice wall ripped open and boulders crashed down. He stood very still. The debris rained around him or tumbled past, crunching over snowbanks or smacking near his boots, and he was the only constant point in all this motion. He studied it. The Aleph twisted its long form as it descended to the ravine floor, ponderous, sheets of ice creaking and splitting under its weight— wiry this time, the boy thought, like it’s swimming— and helical waves pulsed along it, watery amber light refracting from the peaks of the ripples as it crossed the ravine with a liquid writhing grace— only it’s not touching the ground —and with a huge unconcern slammed into an iron bluff, the blunt head (now without features) entering the rusty cliffs with a grinding noise, the whole side of the mountain seeming to flinch at the attack, shock waves fanning out from the contact. With indifference it nosed in, dust and pebbles spewing out from the hole it made, and then the boy saw the spots. They formed and re-formed along the snaky body, some bigger than a man, not mere floating blue spots but actual openings that shifted and deepened— that hexagonal again, sure enough —and gave forth a somber blue-black glow, like looking far down into an ice mountain and seeing through it the pale glow of the sun rising on the other side.
Eagle rushed by him. The Aleph was almost buried now in its oval tunnel, and Eagle rushed on, never breaking stride as it dodged among the fleeing men and rushing animals, not slowing as it passed Old Matt—who was bent over, squinting—and leaped ahead, so fast Manuel could hardly follow it. The nub end of the Aleph was bone-white, coiling with a kind of muscular surge, hanging a meter above the ground, as if held aloft by magnetic fields—and Eagle jumped on it. It clawed at the surface and managed to get a toehold on some minute break in the otherwise smooth-seeming skin. Its sharp hand-servos slashed at the glossy sheen, and Manuel thought he saw a red, searing mark spring from the hide, but before he could be sure one of the amber ripples coursed down to the tip of the body, reflected, and on its way back toward the head caught Eagle by a foot and deftly, effortlessly tumbled it off. Manuel rushed toward Eagle and while running saw that it had left a scar, a definite scar, turning deep red as he watched. Then the white tip of the thing slipped into the tunnel and was gone.
Eagle shook and pawed at the ice, a little dazed. Old Matt came trotting forward fast as he could and gradually other men came up, talking to each other and looking at the tunnel—some even bravely venturing into it, shining lamps upon the walls that were bored out with a screw-like pitch—and relating the way they’d seen it (no one had taken a fax picture) and what Eagle had done or tried to do. The boy did not hear them. He tasted the metallic liquid scent that swarmed up, prickling, into his nostrils—not fear this time, but something stronger, because it settled into him and would stay: a certainty, a sense of things coming, a foreknowledge of what could be—acrid and final and uncompromising in its ferocity, claiming
They were tramping stolidly down a ravine where a big gray slab of ice butted against an iron mountain, forming a kind of waffleboard of alternately stretched and compressed rock. There was no premonition, no tremor of intent. The ravine wall just buckled, showering the lead animals with shards of ice and lumps of snow, and there it was: lean this time, snakelike and undulant, streaming with soft amber light, alabaster chunks bobbing under its rough hide like bergs afloat in some interior fluid. It churned out of the massive ice cleft as if unaware of any resistance—much less of the men and animals that scattered before it, yelling and scrambling in all directions, none taking aim or even looking for a potential vulnerable spot to shoot. All except the boy. He was in the rear of the party when the ice wall ripped open and boulders crashed down. He stood very still. The debris rained around him or tumbled past, crunching over snowbanks or smacking near his boots, and he was the only constant point in all this motion. He studied it. The Aleph twisted its long form as it descended to the ravine floor, ponderous, sheets of ice creaking and splitting under its weight— wiry this time, the boy thought, like it’s swimming— and helical waves pulsed along it, watery amber light refracting from the peaks of the ripples as it crossed the ravine with a liquid writhing grace— only it’s not touching the ground —and with a huge unconcern slammed into an iron bluff, the blunt head (now without features) entering the rusty cliffs with a grinding noise, the whole side of the mountain seeming to flinch at the attack, shock waves fanning out from the contact. With indifference it nosed in, dust and pebbles spewing out from the hole it made, and then the boy saw the spots. They formed and re-formed along the snaky body, some bigger than a man, not mere floating blue spots but actual openings that shifted and deepened— that hexagonal again, sure enough —and gave forth a somber blue-black glow, like looking far down into an ice mountain and seeing through it the pale glow of the sun rising on the other side.
Eagle rushed by him. The Aleph was almost buried now in its oval tunnel, and Eagle rushed on, never breaking stride as it dodged among the fleeing men and rushing animals, not slowing as it passed Old Matt—who was bent over, squinting—and leaped ahead, so fast Manuel could hardly follow it. The nub end of the Aleph was bone-white, coiling with a kind of muscular surge, hanging a meter above the ground, as if held aloft by magnetic fields—and Eagle jumped on it. It clawed at the surface and managed to get a toehold on some minute break in the otherwise smooth-seeming skin. Its sharp hand-servos slashed at the glossy sheen, and Manuel thought he saw a red, searing mark spring from the hide, but before he could be sure one of the amber ripples coursed down to the tip of the body, reflected, and on its way back toward the head caught Eagle by a foot and deftly, effortlessly tumbled it off. Manuel rushed toward Eagle and while running saw that it had left a scar, a definite scar, turning deep red as he watched. Then the white tip of the thing slipped into the tunnel and was gone.
Eagle shook and pawed at the ice, a little dazed. Old Matt came trotting forward fast as he could and gradually other men came up, talking to each other and looking at the tunnel—some even bravely venturing into it, shining lamps upon the walls that were bored out with a screw-like pitch—and relating the way they’d seen it (no one had taken a fax picture) and what Eagle had done or tried to do. The boy did not hear them. He tasted the metallic liquid scent that swarmed up, prickling, into his nostrils—not fear this time, but something stronger, because it settled into him and would stay: a certainty, a sense of things coming, a foreknowledge of what could be—acrid and final and uncompromising in its ferocity, claiming
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