He followed her, little aware of the ground he trod.

When the Lannachska were ready to fight, they were called to Salmenbrok by Tolk’s Whistlers until the sky darkened with their wings. Then Trolwen made his way through a seethe of warriors to Van Rijn.

“Surely the gods are weary of us,” he said bitterly. “Near always, at this time of year, there are strong south winds.” He gestured at a breathless heaven. “Do you know a spell for raising dead breezes?”

The merchant looked up, somewhat annoyed. He was seated at a table outside the wattle-and-clay hut they had built for him beyond the village — for he refused to climb ladders, or sleep in a damp cave — dicing with Corps Captain Srygen for the beryl-like gemstones which were a local medium of exchange. The number of species in the galaxy which have independently invented some form of African golf is beyond estimation.

“Well,” he snapped, “and why must you have your tail fanned?… Ah, seven! No, pox and pills, I remember, here seven is not a so good number. Well, we try again.” The three cubes clicked in his hand and across the table. “Hm-m-m, seven again.” He scooped up the stakes. “Double or nothings?”

“The ghost-eaters take it!” Srygen got up. “You’ve been winning too motherless often for my taste.”

Van Rijn surged to his own feet like a broaching whale. “By damn, you take that back or—”

“I said nothing challengeable,” Srygen told him coldly.

“You implied it. I am insulted, myself!”

“Hold on there,” growled Trolwen. “What do you think this is, a beer feast? Eart’ho, all the fighting forces of Lannach are now gathered on these hills. We cannot feed them here very long. And yet, with the new weapons loaded on the railway cars, we cannot stir until there is a south wind. What to do?”

Van Rijn glared at Srygen. “I said I was insulted. I do not think so good when I am insulted.”

“I am sure the captain will apologize for any unintended offense,” said Trolwen, with a red-shot look at them both.

“Indeed,” said Srygen. He spoke it like pulling teeth.

“So.” Van Rijn stroked his beard. “Then to prove you make no doubt about my honesties, we throw once more, nie? Double or nothings.”

Srygen snatched the dice and hurled them. “Ah, a six you have,” said Van Rijn. “It is not so easy to beat. I am afraid I have already lost. It is not so simple to be a poor tired hungry old man, far away from his home and from the Siamese cats who are all he has to love him for himself, not just his monies… Tum-te-tum-te-tum… Eight! A two, a three, a three! Well, well, well!”

“Transport,” said Trolwen, hanging on to his temper by a hair. “The new weapons are too heavy for our porters. They have to go by rail. Without a wind, how do we get them down to Sagna Bay?”

“Simple,” said Van Rijn, counting his take. “Till you get a good wind, tie ropes to the cars and all these so-husky young fellows pull.”

Srygen blew up. “A free clan male, to drag a car like a… like a Draka?” He mastered himself and choked: “It isn’t done.”

“Sometimes,” said Van Rijn, “these things must be done.” He scooped up the jewels, dropped them into a purse, and went over to a well. “Surely you have some disciplines in this Flock.”

“Oh… yes… I suppose so—” Trolwen’s unhappy gaze went down-slope to the brawling, shouting winged tide which had engulfed the village. “But sustained labor like that has always… long before the Drakska came… always been considered — perverted, in a way — it is not exactly forbidden, but one does not do it without the most compelling necessity. To labor in public — No!”

Van Rijn hauled on the windlass. “Why not? The Drak’honai, them, make all kinds tiresome preachments about the dignity of labor. For them it is needful; in their way of life, one must work hard. But for you? Why must one not work hard in Lannach?”

“It isn’t right,” said Srygen stiffly. “It makes us like some kind of animal.”

Van Rijn pulled the bucket to the well coping and took a bottle of Earthside beer from it. “Ahhh, good and cold… hm-m-m, possibly too cold, damn all places without thermostatted coolers—” He opened the bottle on the stone curb and tasted. “It will do. Now, I have made travels, and I find that everywhere the manners and morals of peoples have some good reason at bottom. Maybe the race has forgotten why was a rule made in the first place, but if the rule does not make some sense, it will not last many centuries. Follows then that you do not like prolonged hard work, except to be sure migration, because it is not good for you for some reason. And yet it does not hurt the Drak’honai too much. Paradox!”

“Unlawfulness take your wonderings,” snarled Trolwen. “It was your idea that we make all this new-fangled apparatus, instead of fighting as our males have always fought. Now, how do we get it down to the lowlands without demoralizing the army?”

“Oh, that!” Van Rijn shrugged. “You have sports — contests — nie?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you explain these cars must be brought with us and, while it is not necessary we leave at once—”

“But it is! We’ll starve if we don’t!”

“My good young friend,” said Van Rijn patiently, “I see plain you have much to learn about politics. You Lannachska do not understand lying, I suppose because you do not get married. You tell the warriors, I say, that we can wait for a south wind all right but you know they are eager to come to grips with the foe and therefore they will be invited to play a small game. Each clan will pull so and so many cars down, and we time how fast it goes and make a prize for the best pullers.”

“Well, I’ll be accursed,” said Srygen.

Trolwen nodded eagerly. “It’s just the sort of thing that gets into clan traditions—”

“You see,” explained Van Rijn, “it is what we call semantics on Earth. I am old and short with breath, so I can look unprejudiced at all these footballs and baseballs and potato races, and I know that a game is hard work you are not required to do.”

He belched, opened another bottle, and took a half-eaten salami from his purse. The supplies weren’t going to last very much longer.

When the expedition was halfway down the Misty Mountains, their wind rose behind them. A hundred warriors harnessed to each railway car relaxed and waited for the timers whose hourglasses would determine the winning team.

“But they are not all so dim in the brain, surely,” said Sandra.

“Oh, no,” answered Wace. “But those who were smart enough to see through Old Nick’s scheme were also smart enough to see it was necessary, and keep quiet.”

He huddled in a mordant blast that drove down alpine slopes to the distant cloudy green of hills and valleys, and watched the engineers at work. A train consisted of about thirty light little cars roped together, with a “locomotive” at the head and another in the middle. These were somewhat more sturdily built, to support two high masts with square sails. Given wood of almost metallic hardness, plus an oil-drip over the wheels in lieu of ball bearings, plus the hurricane thrust of Diomedean winds, the system became practical. You didn’t get up much speed, and you must often wait for a following wind, but this was not a culture bound to hourly schedules.

“It’s not too late for you to go back, my lady,” said Wace. “I can arrange an escort.”

“No.” She laid a hand on the bow which had been made for her — no toy, a 25-kilo killing tool such as she had often hunted with in her home forests. Her head lifted, the silverpale hair caught chill ruddy sunlight and threw back a glow to this dark immensity of cliffs and glaciers. “Here we all stand or we all die. It would not be right for a ruler born to stay home.”