Worn and
tired, he tried to think ahead. There was no chance of again contacting
Ulffa's tribe. Along with all the other woodland hunters they must have
fled before the advance of the horsemen. No, there was no reason to go
back, and why make the effort to advance?
The sun was hot. This was one of those spring days which foretell the
ripeness of summer. Insects buzzed in the reed banks where a green sheen
showed. Birds wheeled and circled in the sky, some flock disturbed,
their cries reaching Ross in hoarse calls of warning.
He was still plastered with patches of dried mud and slime, the reek of
it thick in his nostrils. Now Ross brushed at a splotch on his knee,
picking loose flakes to expose the alien cloth of his suit underneath,
seemingly unbefouled. All at once it became necessary to be clean again
at least.
Ross waded into the stream, stooping to splash the brown water over his
body and then rubbing away the resulting mud. In the sunlight the fabric
had a brilliant glow, as if it not only drew the light but reflected it.
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