He was just a few hours too late!
Ross folded his arms across his hunched knees and rested his head on
them. There was no possible way he could ever reach the post or his own
kind--ever again. Thousands of miles lay between him and the temporary
installation in this time.
He was so sunk in his own complete despair that he was long unaware of
finally being free of the pressure to turn back which had so long
haunted him. But as he roused to feed the fire he got to wondering. Had
those who hunted him given up the chase? Since he had lost his own race
with time, he did not really care. What did it matter?
The pile of wood was getting low, but he decided that did not matter
either. Even so, Ross got to his feet, moving over to the drifts of
storm wrack to gather more. Why should he stay here by a useless beacon?
But somehow he could not force himself to move on, as futile as his
vigil seemed.
Dragging the sun-dried, bleached limbs of long-dead trees to his half
shelter, he piled them up, working until he laughed at the barricade he
had built.
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