The ant ignored the clubs; all it knew was the scent of flesh. It charged the nearest of the men, then swerved at the last second to attack the woman beside him. Three clubs smashed into the earth behind it. The woman screamed in anger and swung; the ant shied in the nick of time, and the club pounded sand right in front of it. It leaped onto the wood and ran its length, then up the arm that held it, knowing how to deal with these soft creatures, for had it not killed the anteater-man and the uniped with a single clash of its huge mandibles? It scurried to the shoulder and reached out to bite…
But there was no neck.
Shouts rang in its ears as something struck its abdomen, knocking it from the woman's shoulders and sending it spinning through the air. It landed on its feet, though, and turned to charge back.
A dozen clubs pounded at it.
The ant danced, managing to avoid all the blows except the one that crushed the tip of one antenna. Even for a live eating machine like itself, the danger was obvious, and it turned and ran. The people ran after it, shouting and slamming clubs every time they came near. Having been revived by the water, however, the ant outstripped them and shot out into the desert.
Something struck it, and it fell to the side, then rolled and came to its feet again, not even stopping to look but running and running from these horrible creatures that did not die when they should. At last the clan's shouting diminished behind it.
The companions woke in late afternoon, drank, ate the last of the sandfish, and sat about trading tales again, then fell asleep for the night.
Balkis woke suddenly and looked about, wondering what had wakened her. She saw Anthony and Panyat likewise sitting up, blinking in puzzlement. The rosy hues of dawn made even the river of stones lovely, the rocks seeming to glow.
“What wakened us?” Anthony asked.
His voice seemed unnaturally loud, and Balkis suddenly knew the answer. “Silence woke us! The river has stopped!”
They turned to look, and sure enough, the stones had stopped turning. All three shouted with delight. They made a quick breakfast, tied their branches to their packs, left their sand-skis for anyone who might want to travel southward, and set out to cross the river of stones.
“Step carefully,” Panyat warned. “One or two might turn beneath your feet, and even those that hold still may be uncertain footing.”
Uncertain indeed, as Balkis discovered—she had thought it would be like crossing a brook on stepping-stones, but such stones had been flattened by long use, and these were all rounded from their grinding. They pressed painfully against the soles of her slippers, all the more because the long journey had worn those soles thin. She tried one large step, skipping a rock in between, and cried out with alarm, arms windmilling. Anthony instantly turned back and caught her wrist, steadying her enough so that she caught her balance— but he threw himself off and tumbled gracelessly to the stones. Balkis cried out and stooped to help him up.
He cast a rueful glance at her, then brushed himself off, avoiding her gaze. “It is not as easy as it seems.”
“Not at all,” Balkis agreed. “Pardon me for slowness, but I think I shall mince my way across.”
So she did, stopping on only one stone at a time and making sure both feet were secure before she stepped to the next—or as secure as they could be on a rounded surface; she teetered each time, but caught her balance, then stepped on. Finally, though, one stone turned beneath her foot, and she cried out as she slipped and fell.
Again Anthony was beside her in an instant, lifting her to her feet—but pain stabbed through her ankle, and she caught her breath to stifle a scream.
“Carefully, then,” Anthony said. “Lean on me, and hop with the good foot. Hold the other high.”
“Be wary,” she told him. “I do not wish you to be hurt, too”
But he wasn't, not until they were within ten feet of the northern bank. Then he stepped over a small pile of rocks, a sort of granite wave, and as he put both feet past it, one stone fell, crashing down at his heel. To escape it, Anthony stepped more quickly than he should have and fell with a cry of surprise. Balkis hauled back on his arm, almost upsetting herself, and cried with pain as her injured foot touched rock.
“Can you rise?” she asked.
“I think so.” But Anthony spoke through stiff lips, his face white and strained. He shoved himself to his feet—then cried out and fell to his knees.
Panyat was there, though, shoving a shoulder under Anthony's and keeping his fall from having too rough a landing. “You must both lean on me now,” he told them. “Come, it is only a few yards more.”
That was how they finished the crossing, bracing themselves on Panyat's shoulders, which turned out to be just the right height. As they stepped onto the hard ground of the northern bank, they sank down with sighs of relief.
“I had not thought it would be so hard to cross a waterless river when it v/as still,” Anthony admitted.
“Thank Heaven we did not have to try when it moved!” Balkis said.
They rested a little while, then pushed themselves to their feet and turned to look northward—and stared in dismay.
There were no dunes here, nor even very much sand—only hardpacked ground, bright here and there with salt-pans. There was actually plant life, but only outcrops of thorny brush, dry now but ready to bloom if rain came.
It had been a very long time since that happened.
The river of stones twisted across that wasteland, miles and miles to a distant range of mountains from which it flowed.
Anthony shuddered. “How could there ever have been life here?”
“There is water,” Panyat told him, “but it flows deep under the ground.”
“We cannot drink it when it is hidden,” Balkis said in despair.
Anthony, scanning the landscape with narrowed eyes, remarked, “Perhaps there is a way to climb down to it—how else would people know it is there?”
Balkis searched, too, hope resurgent, before shaking her head sadly. “I see no cave, nor any other way to journey downward.”
“Nonetheless, there is such,” Panyat told them. “Let us each gather a few pieces of driftwood, for if we can find that stream, we may be able to ride it.”
Balkis shuddered. “I have no wish to climb out among those stones again—nor will my ankle stand it!”
“Nor shall it have to,” Panyat returned. “The smaller branches are torn off the trees and cast up on the banks.” He proved his point by bringing each of them a driftwood staff. Leaning on them, they each managed to find a few good-sized branches about five feet long lying by the banks. They dragged them as Panyat led the way along a winding track, barely discernible in the hard-packed earth, to the lee of a huge boulder—and there, to their surprise, they saw a cave, a scooped-out declivity whose bottom lay below the ground.
Panyat took the sticks and tossed them in. They fell with a clatter that seemed to go on a long time, and Balkis paled. “How are we to descend so far?”
“Very carefully,” Panyat answered, “especially with those turned ankles. But the way is easy enough, though rough.”
They followed him into the cave, stepping down gingerly— and discovered a sort of staircase probing deep into the earth, made of slabs of rock and shelves of shale. The height of the steps was uneven, their depth varied from a few inches to several feet, and Balkis asked, as she sat down to descend a particularly high step, “Did people build this?”
“I think not,” said Panyat. “Even the ancients would have made it more even. I would guess that the gods made this staircase and cared little about human convenience—but it will take us down to the stream. Be glad we will not have to climb back up laden with waterskins, as did the traders who showed me this.”