If Ashe were
right, on what world, what kind of world, had that material been woven,
and how far had it been brought that he could wear it now?
Suddenly McNeil slid into their shelter and dropped two hares at the
edge of the fire.
"How goes it?" he said, as Ross began to clean them.
"Reasonably well," Ashe, his eyes still closed, replied to that before
Ross could. "How far are we from the river? And do we have company?"
"About five miles--if we had wings." McNeil answered in a dry tone. "And
we have company all right, lots of it!"
That brought Ashe up, leaning forward on his good elbow. "What kind?"
"Not from the village." McNeil frowned at the fire which he fed with
economic handfuls of sticks. "Something's happening on this side of the
mountains. It looks as if there's a mass migration in progress. I
counted five family clans on their way west--all in just this one
morning."
"The village refugees' stories about devils might send them packing,"
Ashe mused.
"Maybe.
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