ressure. He felt as if he would never be warm
again. When he moved sluggishly to the pit where they had kindled their
handful of fire the night before he realized that the wolverines were
missing.

"Taggi----?" His voice sounded rusty in his own ears, as if some of the
moisture thick in the air about them had affected his vocal cords.

"Hunting." Thorvald's answer was clipped. He was gathering a handful of
sticks from the back of their lean-to, where the protection of their own
bodies had kept that kindling dry. Shann snapped a length between his
hands, dropped it into the pit.

When they did coax a blaze into being they stripped, wringing out their
clothing, propping it piece by steaming piece on sticks by the warmth of
the flames. The moist air bit at their bodies and they moved briskly,
striving to keep warm by exercise. Still the fog curled, undisturbed by
any shaft of sun.

"Did you dream?" Thorvald asked abruptly.

"Yes." Shann did not elaborate. Disturbing as his dream had been, the
feeling that it was not to be shared was also strong, as strong as some
order.

"And so did I," Thorvald said bleakly. "You saw your skull-mountain?"

"I was climbing it when you awoke me," Shann returned unwillingly.

"And I was going through my green veil when Taggi took off and wakened
me. You are sure your skull exists?"

"Yes."

"And so am I that the cavern of the veil is somewhere on this world. But
why?" Thorvald stood up, the firelight marking plainly the lines between
his tanned arms, his brown face and throat, and the paleness of his lean
body. "Why do we dream those particular dreams?"

Shann tested the dryness of a shirt. He had no reason to try and explain
the wherefore of those dreams, only was he certain that he would
sometime, somewhere, find that skull, and that when he did he would
climb to the doorway of the snout, pass behind to depths where the
flying things might nest--not because he wanted to make such an
expedition, but because he must.

He drew his hands across his ribs, where pressure still brought an
aching reminder of the crushing force of the energy whip the Throgs had
wielded. There was no extra flesh on his body, yet muscles slid easily
under the skin, a darker skin than Thorvald's, deepening to a warm brown
where it had been weathered. His hair, unclipped now for a month, was
beginning to curl about his head in tight dark rings. Since he had
always been the youngest or the smallest or the