not sled dogs, they’re sled wolf -dogs. And keep away from them, they bite.” McCaughlin said possessively.
“Well, what is it—do you want to leave them tied here? It would be hard to get the dogs down the cliff ladders.”
“Cliff ladders?”
“Yes. You see, it’s the only way to get down to our city. Maybe a look would be worth a thousand words. You can tie the dogs to that cactus over there.”
“Give the dogs a rest,” McCaughlin said. “They can use it.” Rockson agreed. “Tie them up here, we’ll come back for them—hopefully with some food—later.”
“Glad to meet you all,” Rockson muttered. “But we have to get some transportation from your tribe and move quickly, Smokestone. Please lead on to your—invisible—city.”
“This I’ve gotta see,” said McCaughlin, packing up the pot and cups and joining Rockson and the others in their walk across the barren plain with the chief and his two young relatives.
As they walked, mystified as to where they were headed, Rockson was asked by Smokestone if he knew Trickster Deity, leader of the Crazy Alligator tribe.
“Unfortunately I do, I spent some time with him and his tribe once. I give the experience mixed reviews.”
“I understand. He’s my distant cousin, but he’s sort of the black sheep of the family. Be careful now, walk slower all of you. Or you will fall into our beloved city.”
Rockson stopped when the chief put up his hand, and so did the others. “Golly,” McCaughlin said, “Will you have a look at that?”
Their feet were at the edge of a thousand-foot precipice. They were staring down into a circular hole in the ground about a hundred yards across. There were buildings, similar to Pueblo Indian cliff houses, carved into the opposite wall of the fantastic hole. And people were moving about the dwellings. Lots of people.
“We were afraid you would ride your odd-looking sleds right down into the abyss, so we three came up to greet you. Our remote-sensing devices—atop that mesa, the tall thin one about twelve miles backtracked some electronic device you have with you.”
Rockson turned to the Russian, fumed, “ That’s it , Scheransky— You’re leaving that damned Schecter weather device here with the Yumaks.”
Rona changed the subject: “Chief, did your people always live out here?”
“My ancestors were urban Indians. Los Angeles. When our vision-seekers saw the nuke war coming, they left the city, en masse, trekked to a cavern, a big one, exposed for the first time in thousands of years by the nuke quakes. Some of us stayed there. Others thought living in a big cave was spooky so we went south. And here we are. We found this swell place. It used to belong to the ancient Anasazi Indians. They built most of the place, we just improved it.”
Smokestone was the first to start descending, using barely visible footholds in the rock as a ladder.
“Watch yourself now, friends,” he cautioned, “be sure to place your feet in the same places I do. There’s food and drink aplenty awaiting you—and some excellent motorcycles for continuing your mission.”
Rock was second to begin descending. The footholds and hand niches were adequate, but he couldn’t talk, he had to concentrate so carefully to make it. He wondered how the heck they got motorcycles up and down the canyon. Then he saw a rope device—some sort of elevator—far across the circular structure, near the houses. A platform of bent and shaped wood planks—more like a big basket without sides. Could that four-by-six basket on thin ropes hold a Harley?
Once they all descended, they were invited into a sandstone dwelling, and Indian maidens brought water and food. “This is wonderful,” exclaimed Danik. “But we must not tarry.”
Later, while the others were received by a group of high tribal officials, the chief took Rockson on a brief tour. From the erudite quality of the conversation, it soon became evident that Smokestone was a
“Well, what is it—do you want to leave them tied here? It would be hard to get the dogs down the cliff ladders.”
“Cliff ladders?”
“Yes. You see, it’s the only way to get down to our city. Maybe a look would be worth a thousand words. You can tie the dogs to that cactus over there.”
“Give the dogs a rest,” McCaughlin said. “They can use it.” Rockson agreed. “Tie them up here, we’ll come back for them—hopefully with some food—later.”
“Glad to meet you all,” Rockson muttered. “But we have to get some transportation from your tribe and move quickly, Smokestone. Please lead on to your—invisible—city.”
“This I’ve gotta see,” said McCaughlin, packing up the pot and cups and joining Rockson and the others in their walk across the barren plain with the chief and his two young relatives.
As they walked, mystified as to where they were headed, Rockson was asked by Smokestone if he knew Trickster Deity, leader of the Crazy Alligator tribe.
“Unfortunately I do, I spent some time with him and his tribe once. I give the experience mixed reviews.”
“I understand. He’s my distant cousin, but he’s sort of the black sheep of the family. Be careful now, walk slower all of you. Or you will fall into our beloved city.”
Rockson stopped when the chief put up his hand, and so did the others. “Golly,” McCaughlin said, “Will you have a look at that?”
Their feet were at the edge of a thousand-foot precipice. They were staring down into a circular hole in the ground about a hundred yards across. There were buildings, similar to Pueblo Indian cliff houses, carved into the opposite wall of the fantastic hole. And people were moving about the dwellings. Lots of people.
“We were afraid you would ride your odd-looking sleds right down into the abyss, so we three came up to greet you. Our remote-sensing devices—atop that mesa, the tall thin one about twelve miles backtracked some electronic device you have with you.”
Rockson turned to the Russian, fumed, “ That’s it , Scheransky— You’re leaving that damned Schecter weather device here with the Yumaks.”
Rona changed the subject: “Chief, did your people always live out here?”
“My ancestors were urban Indians. Los Angeles. When our vision-seekers saw the nuke war coming, they left the city, en masse, trekked to a cavern, a big one, exposed for the first time in thousands of years by the nuke quakes. Some of us stayed there. Others thought living in a big cave was spooky so we went south. And here we are. We found this swell place. It used to belong to the ancient Anasazi Indians. They built most of the place, we just improved it.”
Smokestone was the first to start descending, using barely visible footholds in the rock as a ladder.
“Watch yourself now, friends,” he cautioned, “be sure to place your feet in the same places I do. There’s food and drink aplenty awaiting you—and some excellent motorcycles for continuing your mission.”
Rock was second to begin descending. The footholds and hand niches were adequate, but he couldn’t talk, he had to concentrate so carefully to make it. He wondered how the heck they got motorcycles up and down the canyon. Then he saw a rope device—some sort of elevator—far across the circular structure, near the houses. A platform of bent and shaped wood planks—more like a big basket without sides. Could that four-by-six basket on thin ropes hold a Harley?
Once they all descended, they were invited into a sandstone dwelling, and Indian maidens brought water and food. “This is wonderful,” exclaimed Danik. “But we must not tarry.”
Later, while the others were received by a group of high tribal officials, the chief took Rockson on a brief tour. From the erudite quality of the conversation, it soon became evident that Smokestone was a
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