cries had become so faint a croaking that alarm had shaken her into action.
They lay in a forlorn heap, their mouths open, their antennae limp, their eyes closed, while breaths which were gasps for life itself lifted their furred breasts. Simsa paid no attention to the off-worlder who had now gone ashore to work at whatever had kept him busy. She forced the tight capping from one of the water jars (one of the last two which were entirely full) and held a pannikan with shaking hands as she dribbled into it the precious liquid, near counting the drops. Her body ached for a drink—she wanted to lie and just let some coolness wash over her whole sun cracked skin—
With the pannikan in hand, she crawled to the hamper nest. Zass first. The girl cradled the zorsal between her arm and her breast. With all the care she could use to keep the contents from spilling, she held the pannikan above the creature’s gaping mouth, letting the moisture, which was sickly warm yet still life-giving, drip down. She could not be sure, but that body felt too hot to her, as if not only the punishing sun, but an inner fever ate at it now. At first, a bit of the liquid ran from the side of the beak-like muzzle. Then she saw Zass make a convulsive effort and swallow.
Only a little—but enough that the zorsal found voice to complain plaintively when Simsa replaced her and picked up one of the others to do likewise. Carefully, she shared the contents of the pannikan among them as equally as she could. The younger birds revived sooner, pulled themselves up with their clawed paws to the edge of the hamper and teetered back and forth there, one gathering enough voice to honk the cry with which they greeted dusk and hunting time.
The girl then took back Zass into her hold, supporting the Zorsal’s head with her scraped hand. The creature’s huge eyes were now open and, Simsa believed, knowing. Her plan for losing them—that she could never do here. They could not survive in a country so utterly barren and heat-blasted.
No, she must take them with her when she went—went? For the first time, Simsa looked about with more understanding. What she saw now brought such a rush of fear that, in spite of the baking her body had taken most of the day, set her shivering.
The mad off-worlder! While she had been lazing away the day he had done this!
Not only had he stripped away most of the decking on the main portion of the boat, but he had taken the sail, slit it into strips. To make what? The thing which rested on the shingle was a monstrous mixture of hide-cloth from the sail, pieces of wood ripped and then retied into what looked like a small boat—except that it was flat of bottom. To it, while she had been unconscious, he had also transferred and lashed into place the rest of their food hampers, and now he was coming for the water jars. Simsa’s cracked lips were splitting sore as she snarled up at him. He had left her no way of escape now.
She could either remain where she was, to die and dry like those blackened remnants behind the rocks, or be a part of his madness. Her claws came out of their sheaths and she growled, wanting nothing more than to make a red ruin of his smooth face, his large body. At bay, the water jars behind her, she faced him ready to fight. Better to die quickly than be baked in this furnace of a land.
He halted. At least he feared her a little. A spark of confidence awoke in Simsa at that. He had an off-world knife at his belt—port law allowed him no other weapons here. Let him use that against her claws—against the zorsals, if the creatures were recovered enough to obey her signal. She dropped Zass to the deck and heard the guttural battle cry arising in answer to her own emotion which the creature sensed. The other two lifted their wings, sidled along their perch—ready to fly, to attack—
“It is our only chance, you know,” he said evenly, as if they were discussing some market bargain.
Her fingers crooked and
They lay in a forlorn heap, their mouths open, their antennae limp, their eyes closed, while breaths which were gasps for life itself lifted their furred breasts. Simsa paid no attention to the off-worlder who had now gone ashore to work at whatever had kept him busy. She forced the tight capping from one of the water jars (one of the last two which were entirely full) and held a pannikan with shaking hands as she dribbled into it the precious liquid, near counting the drops. Her body ached for a drink—she wanted to lie and just let some coolness wash over her whole sun cracked skin—
With the pannikan in hand, she crawled to the hamper nest. Zass first. The girl cradled the zorsal between her arm and her breast. With all the care she could use to keep the contents from spilling, she held the pannikan above the creature’s gaping mouth, letting the moisture, which was sickly warm yet still life-giving, drip down. She could not be sure, but that body felt too hot to her, as if not only the punishing sun, but an inner fever ate at it now. At first, a bit of the liquid ran from the side of the beak-like muzzle. Then she saw Zass make a convulsive effort and swallow.
Only a little—but enough that the zorsal found voice to complain plaintively when Simsa replaced her and picked up one of the others to do likewise. Carefully, she shared the contents of the pannikan among them as equally as she could. The younger birds revived sooner, pulled themselves up with their clawed paws to the edge of the hamper and teetered back and forth there, one gathering enough voice to honk the cry with which they greeted dusk and hunting time.
The girl then took back Zass into her hold, supporting the Zorsal’s head with her scraped hand. The creature’s huge eyes were now open and, Simsa believed, knowing. Her plan for losing them—that she could never do here. They could not survive in a country so utterly barren and heat-blasted.
No, she must take them with her when she went—went? For the first time, Simsa looked about with more understanding. What she saw now brought such a rush of fear that, in spite of the baking her body had taken most of the day, set her shivering.
The mad off-worlder! While she had been lazing away the day he had done this!
Not only had he stripped away most of the decking on the main portion of the boat, but he had taken the sail, slit it into strips. To make what? The thing which rested on the shingle was a monstrous mixture of hide-cloth from the sail, pieces of wood ripped and then retied into what looked like a small boat—except that it was flat of bottom. To it, while she had been unconscious, he had also transferred and lashed into place the rest of their food hampers, and now he was coming for the water jars. Simsa’s cracked lips were splitting sore as she snarled up at him. He had left her no way of escape now.
She could either remain where she was, to die and dry like those blackened remnants behind the rocks, or be a part of his madness. Her claws came out of their sheaths and she growled, wanting nothing more than to make a red ruin of his smooth face, his large body. At bay, the water jars behind her, she faced him ready to fight. Better to die quickly than be baked in this furnace of a land.
He halted. At least he feared her a little. A spark of confidence awoke in Simsa at that. He had an off-world knife at his belt—port law allowed him no other weapons here. Let him use that against her claws—against the zorsals, if the creatures were recovered enough to obey her signal. She dropped Zass to the deck and heard the guttural battle cry arising in answer to her own emotion which the creature sensed. The other two lifted their wings, sidled along their perch—ready to fly, to attack—
“It is our only chance, you know,” he said evenly, as if they were discussing some market bargain.
Her fingers crooked and
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