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The outmost tip of that chain was only a distant smudge lying low on the water. "The largest ... that one with trees." Shann whistled. Since the night of the storm the wolverines were again more amenable to the very light discipline he tried to keep. Perhaps the fury of that elemental burst had tightened the bond between men and animals, both alien to this world.
The Throg circled warily, obviously expecting a trap. Twice it darted back in the direction from which it had come. As it returned from its second retreat, another of its kind showed, a black coin dot against the amber of the sky. Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any advantage and perhaps all hope.
Shann could not seem to think clearly. It was as if in his efforts to contact Thorvald, he had exhausted some part of his brain, so that now he was dazed just when he needed quick wits the most! This whole scene had a weird unreality. He had seen its like a thousand times on fiction tapes the Terran hero menaced by aliens intent on saving ... saving....
Smaller than a Terran deer, its head bore, not horns, but a ridge of stiffened hair rising in a point some twelve inches about the skull dome. Shann haggled off some ragged steaks while the wolverines feasted in earnest, carefully burying the head afterward. It was when Shann knelt by the spring pool to wash that he caught the clamor of the clak-claks.
On his palm lay a coin-shaped medallion, bone-white but possessing an odd luster which bone would not normally show. And it was carved. Shann put out a finger, though he had a strange reluctance to touch the object. When he did he experienced a sensation close to the tingle of a mild electric shock.
"Taggi?" He called again gently, striving to bring that heavy head up on his knee. "The furred one is not dead." For a moment Shann was not aware that those words had formed in his mind, had not been heard by his ears. He looked up, eyes blazing at the Wyvern coming toward him in a graceful glide across the crimsoned sand.
If the Survey officer was going to make any move in the mottled dusk, it would have to be soon. Mottled dusk.... The Throgs had moved a little away from him. Shann looked beyond them to the perimeter of the cleared field, not really because he expected to see any rescuers break from cover there. And when he did see a change, Shann thought his own sight was at fault.
"That should serve." Thorvald tightened the last lashing, straightening up, his fists resting on his hips, to regard the craft with a measure of pride. Shann was not quite so content. He had matched the Survey officer in industry, but the need for haste still eluded him. So the ship such as it was was ready. Now they would be off to explore Thorvald's Utgard.
Of all the men on the Survey team, Shann Lantee had been the least important. The dirty, tedious clean-up jobs, the dull routines which required no technical training but which had to be performed to keep the camp functioning comfortably, those had been his portion. And he had accepted that status willingly, just to have a chance to be included among Survey personnel.
Now was the moment to bluff. Shann shook his head, hoping that the gesture of negation was common to both their species. "I don't know the code," he said aloud. The Throg's bulbous eyes gazed, at his moving lips. Then the translator was held before the Terran's mouth. Shann repeated his words, heard them reissue as a series of clicks, and waited.
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