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Bobbin closed his eyes and shook his head. Things
were bad before. Now he was out of raisins.
High above the ridge that separated two wilderness
valleys, and miles north of the pass, the gnome repaired
and rerouted his control lines and prepared to come
about one more time. At least now he had controls
again, after a fashion. He could turn east, then south,
and possibly find the people he had lost at the mountain
crossing.
Then movement of an entirely different sort caught
Bobbin's eye, and he raised himself high in his wicker to
peer dead ahead. Something was coming from the north,
coming toward him, a speck against the horizon but de-
finitely coming his way... and flying. Where exaspera-
tion had been, hope surged forward, brightening the
gnome's gaze.
Flying! Someone else is up here in another flying ma-
chine, Bobbin thought gleefully. I'm not alone. Grinning
eagerly, he settled into his wicker seat and lowered the
nose of the soarwagon gently, aiming for the approach-
ing flier. Someone to compare notes with! Someone who
might have an answer to my dilemma! Someone else in
the sky!
At a mile's distance, the gnome studied the stranger.
Red in color -- bright, crimson red -- with movable wings
that flapped rhythmically, and a long, trailing append-
age of some sort. And legs? Yes, definitely legs. Not
wheels or runners, but jointed legs, like an animal's.
And who was flying it? Bobbin could not see a cockpit
or basket, not even someone mounted on a bench
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