So,
still wearing the livery of the off-world men, Ross continued on his
way, hardly caring where he went or how. The mud plastered on him by his
frequent falls was some protection against the swarm of insect life his
passing stirred into attack. However, he was able to endure a swollen
face and slitted eyes, being far more conscious of the wrenching feeling
within him than the misery of his body.
The character of the marsh began to change once more. The river was
splitting into a dozen smaller streams, shaping out fanlike. Looking
down at this from one of the marsh hillocks, Ross knew a faint surge of
relief. Such a place had been on the map Ashe had made them memorize. He
was close to the sea at last, and for the moment that was enough.
A salt-sharpened wind cut at him with the force of a fist in the face.
In the absence of sunlight the leaden clouds overhead set a winterlike
gloom across the countryside. To the constant sound of birdcalls Ross
tramped heavily through small pools, beating a path through tangles of
marsh grass.
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