Sargol's sun--the one which gave such limited light to dead
Limbo--the sun under which Naxos, his first Galactic port, grew its food.
He could not pick them out--was not even sure that any could be sighted
from Terra. Strange suns, red, orange, blue green, white--yet here all
looked alike--points of glitter.
Tomorrow at dawn he must go on. He turned his head away from the sky and
grass, green Terran grass, was soft beneath his cheek. Yet unless he was
successful tomorrow or the next day--he might never have the right to
feel that grass again. Resolutely Dane willed that thought out of his
mind, tried to fix upon something more lulling which would bring with it
the sleep he must have before he went on. And in the end he did sleep,
deeply, dreamlessly, as if the touch of Terra's soil was in itself the
sedative his tautly strung nerves needed.
It was before sunrise that he awoke, stiff, and chilled. The dryness of
pre-dawn gave partial light and somewhere a bird was twittering. There
had been birds--or things whose far off ancestors had been birds--in the
"hot" forest. Did they also sing to greet the dawn?
Dane went over the flitter with his small counter and was relieved to
find that they had done a good job of shielding under Ali's supervision.
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