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it was readily apparent from the little time he had already spent on its
surface that this was, for example, no Pyrassis or
Midworld.
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Running
As he strolled, with Pip circling overhead, he tried to get a better look at
the small, scurrying things that were darting about among the dunes. There was
not enough light, and he had not brought one from the ship. That lack would
force him to turn around soon enough, he knew. Most importantly, as he felt
his talent beginning to return to strength, he could not perceive any of the
kind of complex emotional resonance that would indicate he might be in the
physical presence of a higher intelligence such as the dominant local species.
For just an instant on first emerging from the
Teacher, he thought he might have picked up something emotive as well as
alien. It had disappeared almost as soon as he had sensed it.
Some mental illusion; a misperception on his part. He shook his head and
smiled. No matter how increasingly proficient he grew in its use, his Talent
could prove as erratic as ever.
On a Class IVb world, he knew, it was as incumbent on him to stay out of view
and not reveal himself to the locals as it was for the
Teacher
. The mere sight of an obviously otherworldly being like himself could be
dangerously disruptive to the local culture.
It was an effect, in fact, that he had had on others before.
3
Ebbanai did not stop running until he reached home. The sight of the sturdy,
domed structure standing foursquare and isolated in the first patch of
tillable soil to shoulder its way between the dunes was a grateful reminder
that he was not mad, and that he had not fallen into some loathsome,
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spirit-inspired nightmare. Beyond, barely discernible in the moonlight, other
houses were just visible, spotted along the winding road that led to Metrel
City.
As he raced down the last gentle slope, a wandering perermp crossing from
cover to cover got snarled in
Ebbanai s two right front legs. Long, lean, half the net-caster s body length,
and built low to the ground, the slow-moving perermp found itself tangled up
like some animate length of ship cable in the frantic
Dwarra s lower limbs. Four-legged Dwarra and multi-limbed herbivore found
themselves tumbling over and over downhill as each sought frantically to
extricate its entwined limbs from the other. As they rolled, Ebbanai strained
his antennae toward those of the perermp, trying to indicate that he meant it
no harm, but the twin protrusions of the lesser creature remained maddeningly
out of reach.
Coming to rest at the base of the slope, more irritated than angry, Ebbanai
relaxed the skin flaps that had been reflexively held close to his body so as
not to become abraded or, worse, ripped away. Rising, he methodically
unwrapped the clumsy creature from where it remained tangled around his legs.
Its wide-
spreading mouthparts were flat and fleshy, suitable only for munching on the
soft, low-growing, moisture-laden vegetation that covered the dunes. Even so,
it did its best to bite him, antennae flailing and meeping feebly as the
net-caster flung it over the nearest hillock. Landing with a heavy thud, it
promptly righted itself and scrambled off in search of the nearest hole large
enough to admit its bruised, attenuated body.
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Running
Breathing hard, Ebbanai plunged down the entry path paved with flat, irregular
stones he had laid with his own hands. He even forgot to extinguish the
greeting light, leaving it to flicker away atop its post, wasting oil. This
far from major arteries of commerce and the sins of town, it was not necessary
to lock the front door. Everyone along the inland peninsular road knew one
other.
Storra was waiting for him. On the nights when he went out with the net, she
would stay up working at the loom located in the forepart of the house,
utilizing her weaving to keep awake until he returned. The pungent aroma
wafting from the kitchen smelled of jent leaf and koroil: she always prepared
a late-night snack for him, knowing how hungry he would be after long, hard
hours spent casting and pulling in the weighted net.
As he drew up sharply, his thin torso expanding and contracting with the
exertion of the single, pleated lung within, she turned from her loom and eyed
him up and down. While the piquant food simmering in the kitchen hinted of her
concern for him, her tone did not. That was Storra: an unpredictable ongoing
collision of the caring and the caustic.
You re home early, she observed succinctly.
I saw I saw . . . ! His upper body sank down into its more flexible lower
half. The nature and evolutionary design of the Dwarran spine prevented them
from bending over very far. He fought to catch his breath.
Rising from her comfortable squatting position before the loom, she set aside
the length of indigo-
stained seashan she had been working into the half-finished carpet and glanced
behind her mate.
Not anything edible, it seems. I see net, but no feyln, no marrarra, not even
a handful of soft-shelled tibordi.
He started, looked suddenly embarrassed. He had forgotten to leave the
still-damp net outside, on its drying rack.
Hurriedly, he retraced his steps and dumped it outside the front door, not
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even bothering to ensure it was properly folded. Her eyes contracted
suspiciously when he, for the first time she could remember, threw the bolt
that secured the door against the outside.
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