“Nothing but pure andesite. Not even an iron stain.”

It was the same kind of barren formation that he, himself, had been walking over all day. But he had not expected success so soon.⁠ ⁠…

He tried once again to call Gene Taylor:

“Gene⁠ ⁠… Gene⁠ ⁠… are you there, Gene?”

There was no answer. He knew there would never be.

The days became weeks with dismaying swiftness as they penetrated farther into the north. The hills became more rugged and there were intrusions of granite and other formations to promise a chance of finding metal; a promise that urged them on faster as their time grew shorter.

Twice he saw something white in the distance. Once it was the bones of another band of woods goats that had huddled together and frozen to death in some early blizzard of the past and once it was the bones of a dozen unicorns.

The nights grew chillier and the suns moved faster and faster to the south. The animals began to migrate, an almost imperceptible movement in the beginning but one that increased each day. The first frost came and the migration began in earnest. By the third day it was a hurrying tide.

Tip was strangely silent that day. He did not speak until the noon sun had cleared the cold, heavy mists of morning. When he spoke it was to give a message from Chiara:

“Howard⁠ ⁠… last report⁠ ⁠… Goldie is dying⁠ ⁠… pneumonia.⁠ ⁠…”

Goldie was Chiara’s mocker, his only means of communication⁠—and there would be no way to tell him when they were turning back.

“Turn back today, Tony,” he said. “Steve and I will go on for a few days more.”

There was no answer and he said quickly, “Turn back⁠—turn back! Acknowledge that, Tony.”