The thing must have dropped from an immense height. Perhaps from space? It could have brained him. Was it intended to do so?
He gathered his courage, reached out and touched the rod gently. He’d anticipated it would be hot from air friction. Actually, it was unduly cold, almost icy. He tapped and felt it. It wasn’t metal; it seemed more like stone. He wrenched it from the ground.
As he handled it, it became warmer and softer. It began to bend in the middle. Suddenly, it fell apart in his hands and the contents ran. He dropped the pieces with a cry of disgust. Bird lime wasn’t anything unusual in itself. Neither was water vapor, which formed the ball-clouds in the sky. What kept fooling you on Amara were the shapes and the manner of presentation of basically familiar substances. He used much of his drinking water in cleaning up. He’d lost all taste for his meal and left it.
Somewhere near the stratosphere, beyond view, some species of bird, obviously large from its droppings somehow maintained flight. Either there was a layer of dense air up there, formed by some meteorologitary support. He pictured a sort of winged gasbag.
Just another doodle, he told himself, and resumed the journey. For some time he kept discovering himself tending to cower in anticipation of further gifts from heaven.
Then he lost himself in wonder as he drew nearer the immense phenomenon that had looked tree-shaped.
It was no tree. It wasn’t even solid. The fuzzy dark mass surmounting it was the biggest cloud ever—miles in diameter. Roughly globular, its edges were whirling mist. It was condensing on a great scale at the bottom, and the rain was pouring torrentially down at an angle in a concentrated stream, jetting onto the land. Yet the cloud maintained a uniform density. As fast as it lost water it absorbed more invisible moisture from the atmosphere.
Such perpetual clouds did exist on Earth, rare and isolated freaks in the southern hemisphere. But the confined path of the rain squirting from this one was peculiarly an Amaran phenomenon. There was a force at work here probably never before encountered by man.
The yellowy light shone through the jet, straight as a glass pipe, and clusters of air bubbles glinted in their swift, slanting passage.
The thunder was really heavy now, shock waves riding with the sound waves. The ground vibrated.
The cloud hung over the land like a foreshadowing of doomsday, but the brightly shimmering gold shaft sprang from it like a message of hope. A golden mist enfolded its base.
Sherret walked on into the mist. It was fine spray and soon soaked him. The tiny globules danced in the air to the organ roar of the rushing water. Presently he found himself at the lip of a valley. It’s lower slopes plunged into a sea of heavy spray. They were steep; the valley was practically a canyon.
He followed the edge of it for a long way, until the mist thinned enough to give him a general picture. The cloud must have been spouting for an eternity. This deep valley had been worn into shape by hurtling water through innumerable centuries. It was dead straight and, canal-like, ruling a line to the horizon. Sherret paused to consider. He had something more than two hundred and fifty miles yet to cover on the trek to Na-Abiza. This strange river was rushing pretty much in the direction he believed he must follow. If it kept headed that way, he might get a free ride.
If he had a boat… But Captain Maxton hadn’t thought to supply one. He went on his way thoughtfully. A few miles on the valley sides were a bit less precipitous. Down near the water’s edge bushes had begun to make their appearance. Further along, they were bigger and sturdier; some of the branches were as thick as his wrist.
He picked his point, then made a careful way down to it. He slid here and there but didn’t fall. The water glided past very fast over its smooth bed. It was hard to judge its speed, for there were few ripples and no flotsam. About twenty miles an hour, maybe.
He dumped his rucksack on the narrow bank and tested his machete on a nearby bush. It chopped cleanly. The wood was hard and rather sapless. He began to cut reasonably straight lengths.
When he had sufficient planks laid out, he uncoiled the rope he’d brought and began binding them. The raft consumed it all save for a short length he kept for a painter. Yet it was quite a small raft.
He hunted along the bank for a really big bush, hewed off and trimmed its longest branch. It was to be his navigating pole.
After a meal, he prepared for the launching. He strapped his rucksack on his back again; he didn’t want it swept away in any mishap. He pushed an edge of the raft into the water. It was nearly wrenched from him. He’d underestimated the speed of the torrent. It must be well over thirty miles an hour.
He checked the painter by which he’d moored the raft to a firm-rooted bush. He judged it would hold. Then, straining, he shoved the raft wholly into the water. It tugged like a wild dog on a leash. The bush was yanked, groaning, almost horizontal. He clambered onto the raft, balanced himself, and turned to slice through the painter with the machete. The rope parted and the raft shot off down river with an acceleration that laid him flat on his back, feet in the air, his navigating pole across his chest.
