also saw the reflective, glowing eyes of half a dozen animals like it who’d apparently been waiting, all but i n visible in the tall grass.
He finally fell asleep and remained so as long as the prairie continued to roll smoothly beneath the tires of the rollabout. When he awoke again, the countryside was no longer quite as flat and the machine was laboring, running on batteries now, to climb back into what remained of the da y light. As they reached the crest of each hill, the slanting sun rays caught them again and the night would be temporarily put off. Straining around the underpinnings of the vehicle for a look forward, each time he could see a little scattering of lights which must be coming from the town. Then the rollabout—and the night—would descend again. They’d reach the trough between two ridges, ford a shallow stream or cross an untrus t worthy-looking bridge, and begin to climb again.
He wasn’t sure if it was the altitude or the time of day, but he began to get cold and realized he hadn’t brought a coat or blanket. There wouldn’t be a next time—he hoped—so the experience didn’t have much to teach him, but he filed it away as another result of the freedom he’d sought and even napped briefly again, not knowing the danger that represented. Before the sun had vanished from the mountaintops, when a few of the twinkling lights lay around him rather than in front of him, and before the rollabout reached the market in Curringer where he was certain he’d be discovered and sent back to the Project, he decided, after an agony of indecision, to climb over the tire and jump out. He had to start his new life sometime—that’s why he was here—and it might as well be now.
No more willing to hit the ground at twenty-five miles an hour than he had been to remain a slave the rest of his life, he waited until the rollabout had just struggled to the peak of another long, slow climb, then rolled off its equipment rack and watched it disappear over a horizon only yards away. Catching his breath after a soft but prickly landing in one of the aromatic bushes, he picked himself up and followed the rollabout at a cautious interval. It was much faster than he was and quickly began to dwindle in the distance, toward the city lights. The ground here was rough, even on the track, and loose stones in the roadbed hurt his feet through the thin-soled sandals he’d been issued that morning, giving him an opportunity to discover the freedom to endure the agony of sore feet.
The evening wore on and soon the sun was gone from the highest hilltop, which was next after the one where he’d jumped from the roll a bout. He never recalled seeing the spectacular sunset that night which was characteristic of Pallas. Other things occupied his mind. A subtle afte r glow remained on the horizon to remind him it had occurred. Having trudged for hours, concerned about the increasing darkness, trying not to imagine wild flesh-shredders behind every bush, convinced he’d made a mistake by abandoning his ride too soon, he was astonished to hear scuffing noises behind him, transmitted in the unreal silence through the ground.
At once he realized he was seeing perfectly by the blue-white light of Pallas B. Stepping behind an upthrust boulder which had been blasted in half to clear the road, he turned in time to spy a party of a dozen men and women, each armed with a big, heavy-looking pistol hanging from a broad leather belt. They didn’t see him, but laughed as they swaggered his way, as arrogant in their bearing, in his view, as the blue goons who dominated the Project and the lives of everyone in it.
To make things worse, swinging glaze-eyed, gutted and lifeless b e tween them, its once-graceful legs tied to an aluminum pole two of them carried on their shoulders—no burden at all in the minimal Pallatian gravity—was a large, furry animal they’d apparently just killed with those guns. He was astonished and sickened to
He finally fell asleep and remained so as long as the prairie continued to roll smoothly beneath the tires of the rollabout. When he awoke again, the countryside was no longer quite as flat and the machine was laboring, running on batteries now, to climb back into what remained of the da y light. As they reached the crest of each hill, the slanting sun rays caught them again and the night would be temporarily put off. Straining around the underpinnings of the vehicle for a look forward, each time he could see a little scattering of lights which must be coming from the town. Then the rollabout—and the night—would descend again. They’d reach the trough between two ridges, ford a shallow stream or cross an untrus t worthy-looking bridge, and begin to climb again.
He wasn’t sure if it was the altitude or the time of day, but he began to get cold and realized he hadn’t brought a coat or blanket. There wouldn’t be a next time—he hoped—so the experience didn’t have much to teach him, but he filed it away as another result of the freedom he’d sought and even napped briefly again, not knowing the danger that represented. Before the sun had vanished from the mountaintops, when a few of the twinkling lights lay around him rather than in front of him, and before the rollabout reached the market in Curringer where he was certain he’d be discovered and sent back to the Project, he decided, after an agony of indecision, to climb over the tire and jump out. He had to start his new life sometime—that’s why he was here—and it might as well be now.
No more willing to hit the ground at twenty-five miles an hour than he had been to remain a slave the rest of his life, he waited until the rollabout had just struggled to the peak of another long, slow climb, then rolled off its equipment rack and watched it disappear over a horizon only yards away. Catching his breath after a soft but prickly landing in one of the aromatic bushes, he picked himself up and followed the rollabout at a cautious interval. It was much faster than he was and quickly began to dwindle in the distance, toward the city lights. The ground here was rough, even on the track, and loose stones in the roadbed hurt his feet through the thin-soled sandals he’d been issued that morning, giving him an opportunity to discover the freedom to endure the agony of sore feet.
The evening wore on and soon the sun was gone from the highest hilltop, which was next after the one where he’d jumped from the roll a bout. He never recalled seeing the spectacular sunset that night which was characteristic of Pallas. Other things occupied his mind. A subtle afte r glow remained on the horizon to remind him it had occurred. Having trudged for hours, concerned about the increasing darkness, trying not to imagine wild flesh-shredders behind every bush, convinced he’d made a mistake by abandoning his ride too soon, he was astonished to hear scuffing noises behind him, transmitted in the unreal silence through the ground.
At once he realized he was seeing perfectly by the blue-white light of Pallas B. Stepping behind an upthrust boulder which had been blasted in half to clear the road, he turned in time to spy a party of a dozen men and women, each armed with a big, heavy-looking pistol hanging from a broad leather belt. They didn’t see him, but laughed as they swaggered his way, as arrogant in their bearing, in his view, as the blue goons who dominated the Project and the lives of everyone in it.
To make things worse, swinging glaze-eyed, gutted and lifeless b e tween them, its once-graceful legs tied to an aluminum pole two of them carried on their shoulders—no burden at all in the minimal Pallatian gravity—was a large, furry animal they’d apparently just killed with those guns. He was astonished and sickened to
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