morning. When he spoke it was to give a message from Chiara:
“Howard … last report … Goldie is dying … pneumonia … ”
Goldie was Chiara’s mocker, his only means of communication—and there would be no way to tell him when they were turning back.
“Turn back today, Tony,” he said. “Steve and I will go on for a few days more.”
There was no answer and he said quickly, “Turn back—turn back! Acknowledge that, Tony.”
“Turning back … ” the acknowledgment came. “ … tried to save her … ”
The message stopped and there was a silence that Chiara’s mocker would never break again. He walked on, with Tip sitting very small and quiet on his shoulder. He had crossed another hill before Tip moved, to press up close to him the way mockers did when they were lonely and to hold tightly to him.
“What is it, Tip?” he asked.
“Goldie is dying,” Tip said. And then again, like a soft, sad whisper, “Goldie is dying … ”
“She was your mate … I’m sorry.”
Tip made a little whimpering sound, and the man reached up to stroke his silky side.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry as hell, little fellow.”
*
*
*
For two days Tip sat lonely and silent on his shoulder, no longer interested in the new scenes nor any longer relieving the monotony with his chatter. He refused to eat until the morning of the third day.
By then the exodus of woods goats and unicorns had dwindled to almost nothing; the sky a leaden gray through which the sun could not be seen. That evening he saw what he was sure would be the last band of woods goats and shot one of them.
When he went to it he was almost afraid to believe what he saw.
The hair above its feet was red, discolored with the stain of iron-bearing clay. He examined it more closely and saw that the goat had apparently watered at a spring where the mud was material washed down from an iron-bearing vein or formation. It had done so fairly recently—there were still tiny particles of clay adhering to the hair. The wind stirred, cold and damp with its warning of an approaching storm. He looked to the north, where the evening had turned the gray clouds black, and called Schroeder:
“Steve—any luck?”
“None,” Schroeder answered.
“I just killed a goat,” he said. “It has iron stains on its legs it got at some spring farther north. I’m going on to try to find it. You can turn back in the morning.”
“No,” Schroeder objected. “I can angle over and catch up with you in a couple of days.”
“You’ll turn back in the morning,” he said. “I’m going to try to find this iron. But if I get caught by a blizzard it will be up to you to tell them at the caves that I found iron and to tell them where it is—you know the mockers can’t transmit that far.”
There was a short silence; then Schroeder said, “All right—I see. I’ll head south in the morning.”
Lake took a route the next day that would most likely be the one the woods goats had come down, stopping on each ridge top to study the country ahead of him through his binoculars. It was cloudy all day but at sunset the sun appeared very briefly, to send its last rays across the hills and redden them in mockery of the iron he sought.
Far ahead of him, small even through the glasses and made visible only because of the position of the sun, was a spot at the base of a hill that was redder than the sunset had made the other hills.
He was confident it would be the red clay he was searching for and he hurried on, not stopping until
