Cycle of Fire

that offer. Let me know when another glider appears, if I don’t see it myself.”

Dar went back to work with little interest in Kruger’s idea, whatever it might be, but he obediently kept one eye roving about the horizon. He was a little annoyed that Kruger was now constantly lifting his head to do the same thing, but was fair-minded enough to admit that the poor creature couldn’t help it. He was even more annoyed when Kruger proved the first to spot an approaching aircraft, but watched with interest as the boy prepared to use the buckles in signaling.

All he saw, however, was that a buckle was held before one of the small eyes, which apparently sighted through the center hole at the approaching glider. Dar could see no reason why this should give any assistance in aiming the reflected beam. He did see the spot of light shining through the same central opening on Kruger’s face, but had no means of telling that the boy had so placed the mirror that the reflection of his own features in its back had taken a definite position — one which brought the spot of sunlight on the reflected face directly on the hole through which he was looking at the glider. Holding himself as motionless as possible, he spoke.

“Do you have any special signal that depends on flashes of light — something the pilot would definitely recognize?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll just have to hope that he’ll be curious about a constant blink.” Kruger began rocking the mirror back and forth as he spoke.

Dar Lang Ahn was astonished when the actions of the aircraft showed plainly that its occupant had seen the flashes and he made no secret of the fact. Kruger passed it off as an everyday occurrence. He was still young, after all.

VIII. TRANSPORTATION

THE GLIDER did not land; its pilot was too cautious for that. Whatever might be making the flashes on the beach below was almost certainly not a launching catapult and if he touched the ground he would stay there. He had books of his own and had no intention of risking them. Nevertheless he skimmed low enough to make out the figures of Dar and Kruger and to be as puzzled by the latter as Dar had been.

One advantage of a glider is its silence. This characteristic, combined with the hyper-acute hearing of the Abyormenites, enabled a conversation to take place between Dar and the glider pilot. It was carried out in snatches as the aircraft swooped over and interrupted until it had passed on, turned into the updraft at the edge of the forest, picked up the altitude it had lost, and returned for another pass. Eventually, however, Dar got across the fact which he considered most important — the whereabouts of his books.

“I understand,” the pilot called down at length. “I will go on, turn in my load, and give your report. You had better stay where you are. Is there anything else that should be known by the Teachers?”

“Yes. My companion. You can see he is not a person. He knows much that is not in the books; he should go to the Teachers himself.”

“Does he speak?”

“Yes, though not well. He has words of his own, which are different from ours, and has not learned all ours yet.”

“Do you know any of his?”

“Some, yes.”

“Then perhaps it would be best if we brought you along, too. It will save time and there is not too much more of that.”

“I am not sure, but I get the impression that he does not die at the proper time; he expects to live longer. There may be no need of haste.”

One of the frequent interruptions to regain altitude allowed this information to sink into the pilot’s mind. When he swung past again:

“In any case remain with him. I will report all you have told me and someone will return to give you the decision of the Teachers. If you could improvise a catapult capable of launching a four-man glider it might expedite matters, since the portable ones are probably dismantled by now.” He passed on and began to circle in determined fashion for altitude, while Dar turned to Kruger to answer his questions about the numerous parts of the conversation the boy had either not heard or not understood.

“I had suspected, but found it hard to believe,” Kruger said at the end.

“What?”

“That this ‘time’ you have mentioned so often means the end of your life. How can it be that you know when you are going to die?”

“I have known it all my life; it is part of the knowledge in the books. Life starts, and continues for a measured time, and ends. That is why the books must go to the Ice Ramparts, so that the Teachers may use them to help instruct the people who come after.”

“You mean everyone dies at the same time?”

“Of course. Practically all lives started at the same time — except the few who have had accidents and had to start over.”

“How do you die?”

“We do not know, though the Teachers may. They have always told us the time but never the manner.”

“What sort of people are these Teachers?”

“Why, they are not people. They are — they are Teachers. That is, they look like people but are much bigger — bigger even than you.”

“Do they look more like your people than I do, or are there other differences like those between you and me?”

“They are exactly like me except for size — and the fact that they know so much, of course.”

“And they live on from one generation to the next — that is, through the time of one group of people and into that of the next — while all ordinary people die when the time comes?”

“So they, and the books, say.”

“How long is the time that you normally live?”

“Eight hundred and thirty years. We are now in the eight hundred and sixteenth.” Kruger thought this over and did a little mental arithmetic, and tried to imagine how he would feel knowing that he had just under nine months to live. He knew it would bother him; Dar Lang Ahn seemed to take it as a matter of course. Kruger could not help wondering whether his little friend had any secret washes concerned with a longer life span. He did not quite dare ask; it seemed to have the possibility of being a very touchy subject. He allowed the conversation to drift in the direction Dar was leading it. The little pilot seemed actually to pity him, Kruger finally realized, for not knowing when his own life was due to end; while he did not have the precise words to express his feelings, and they were a little too abstract to explain clearly, the boy got a definite impression that Dar considered the suspense of such a situation to be something he would not care to face.

“But enough of that.” Dar, too, seemed to feel that he was verging on what might prove an uncomfortable subject for his companion. “The pilot suggested that we try to set up a catapult so that they can take you off. We should at least be able to get it started before they come back. All we really need is the stakes; they will certainly bring the cables when they come.”

“How does the catapult work?”

Dar gave an explanation. Apparently it was simply an overgrown slingshot. The complication in its construction lay first in the need for placing it so that it could hurl the glider into a reasonably dependable updraft, and second in making sure that the supporting structure to which the cable was hooked could stand the strain — a flimsily assembled mass of timber suddenly coming loose and snapping back toward the glider could be decidedly embarrassing. The first requirement was not difficult to satisfy on the seashore; the second was a matter of experience. The work was actually easier than the raft building had been, since the pieces of wood used were much thinner. Kruger cut most of them with his knife to Dar’s specifications; the little native placed them and propped them with speed and skill.

Arren, circling lazily above the horizon, marked the passage of time, but neither workman noticed it