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. But to hands long-
comforted by the tools they held, it was better than noth-
ing at all.
Clambering into tumblestone mazes, he'd used his
rock to cut a strip from the leather kilt he wore, and con-
centrated on binding the strip about the rock to make a
grip that would fit his hand. He stumbled, fell against a
spur of stone, and felt it gash his shoulder. Warm blood
ran down his arm, bright droplets spattering the rock be-
neath his feet. He paused for only a moment, looking at
the blood, and raised one eyebrow in ironic salute. Then
he had moved on.
Above the tumblestone rose the sheer faces of rock
cliffs, and among the cliffs he had found the crevasse,
and now he waited there. He had seen them coursing up
through the mazes, had seen the one that paused and
sniffed where it found the droplets of his blood. One, at
least, would find him here. That one had the scent and
would not lose it again.
The crevasse was a great slit, deep into the standing
cliff. Far above was open sky, but the walls were sheer,
with no place to climb. For a time the cut had run on, in-
ward and upward, even widening at one point, where a
tiny cold spring dripped from a sandstone cleft to pool in
the sand below then disappear into the rising ground. He
had stopped there for a moment, trying to quench a
thirst that tortured him
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