“We’ll try to hold those distances,” he said. “We can’t look over the country in detail that way but it will give us a good general survey of it. We don’t have too much time left by now and we’ll make as many miles into the north as we can each day. The woods goats will tell us when it’s time for us to turn back.”
They parted company with casual farewells but for Steve Schroeder, who smiled sardonically at the bones of the woods goats in the vale and asked:
“Who’s supposed to tell the woods goats?”
Tip, the black, white-nosed mocker on Lake’s shoulder, kept twisting his neck to watch the departure of the others until he had crossed the next hill and the others were hidden from view.
“All right, Tip,” he said then. “You can unwind your neck now.”
“Unwind—all right—all right,” Tip said. Then, with a sudden burst of energy which was characteristic of mockers, he began to jiggle up and down and chant in time with his movements, “All right all right all right all right—”
“Shut up!” he commanded. “If you want to talk nonsense I don’t care—but don’t say ‘all right’ any more.”
“All right,” Tip agreed amiably, settling down. “Shut up if you want to talk nonsense. I don’t care.”
“And don’t slaughter the punctuation like that. You change the meaning entirely.”
“But don’t say all right any more,” Tip went on, ignoring him. “You change the meaning entirely.”
Then, with another surge of animation, Tip began to fish in his jacket pocket with little hand-like paws. “Tip hungry—Tip hungry.”
Lake unbuttoned the pocket and gave Tip a herb leaf. “I notice there’s no nonsensical chatter when you want to ask for something to eat.”
Tip took the herb leaf but he spoke again before he began to eat; slowly, as though trying seriously to express a thought:
“Tip hungry—no nonsensical.”
“Sometimes,” he said, turning his head to look at Tip, “you mockers give me the peculiar feeling that you’re right on the edge of becoming a new and intelligent race and no fooling.”
Tip wiggled his whiskers and bit into the herb leaf. “No fooling,” he agreed.
He stopped for the night in a steep-walled hollow and built a small fire of dead moss and grass to ward off the chill that came with dark. He called the others, thinking first of Schroeder so that Tip would transmit to Schroeder’s mocker:
“Steve?”
“Here,” Tip answered, in a detectable imitation of Schroeder’s voice. “No luck.”
He thought of Gene Taylor and called, “Gene?”
There was no answer and he called Chiara. “Tony—could you see any of Gene’s route today?”
“Part of it,” Chiara answered. “I saw a herd of unicorns over that way. Why—doesn’t he answer?”
“No.”
“Then,” Chiara said, “they must have got him.”
“Did you find anything today, Tony?” he asked.
“Nothing but pure andesite. Not even an iron stain.”
It was the same kind of barren formation that he, himself, had been walking over all day. But he had not expected success so soon. …
He tried once again to call Gene Taylor:
“Gene … Gene … are you there, Gene?”
There was no answer. He knew there would never be.
The days became weeks with dismaying swiftness as they penetrated farther into the north. The hills became more rugged and there were intrusions of granite and other formations to promise a chance of finding metal; a promise that urged them on faster as their time grew shorter.
Twice he saw something white in the distance. Once it was the bones of another band of woods goats that had huddled together and frozen to death in some early blizzard of the past and once it was the bones of a dozen unicorns.
The nights grew chillier and the suns moved faster and faster to the south. The animals began to migrate, an almost imperceptible movement in the beginning but one that increased each day. The first frost came and the migration began in earnest. By the third day it was a hurrying tide.
Tip was strangely silent that day. He did not speak until the noon sun had cleared the cold, heavy mists of 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
