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Updated: May 11, 2025
The prospector stood trying to stare at him from the center of his pack train, wiping his watering eyes and sand-stained mouth. "Hello, there!" called Hiram. "It spoke to us in passing, too. How do you like 'em?" "I got to like 'em," returned the old man. "I eat 'em breakfast, dinner, and supper. Grub don't taste good any more 'less a twister's passed over it and seasoned it up. Who are you?"
Trigger put out a hand to touch his shoulder and then drew it back. She glanced up for a moment at the plasmoid station in the screen, seeming to turn slowly as they went orbiting by it. She noticed that one of the space flares they'd planted there had gone out, or else it had been plucked away by a passing twister's touch.
When it had passed he sat erect once more and dug the dirt from his ears and eyes, trying to follow the twister's progress as it sped drunkenly on to find other victims. Then it was that Hiram saw the pack train, not far distant over the desert, making ready to receive the coming whirlwind.
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