The Forerunner Factor Read Free Page A

lost. Something within her resisted the thought of that. She draped the necklet across her knee, and as she turned the armlet around in her hands, she thought.
    There was one more thing—but that was her own find and she did not want to get rid of it. Also, it had come to her almost as a gift from Ferwar, though she was not silly enough to believe in such things. When she had gathered the rocks to pile over that thin and wasted body, she had seen a glint in the earth and scooped up what seemed to be a bit of metal, sticking it hurriedly in her belt pouch to be examined later.
    Now, she brought this out, laying the armlet aside. It was a ring—but not a broad band, gem set, such as she had seen commonly worn in the upper city. In its way, it was cumbersomely made and awkward to wear. Still, as she slipped it now over her thumb (for that was the only finger it would fit), she eyed it with a fond feeling of possession. The band was fashioned of a silver metal, which apparently neither age nor exposure could darken or erode. Its form, jutting well up above the round of her own dark flesh, was that of a towered building wrought with minute detail—showing even a tiny stair which led to a doorway in one of the two towers. The smaller of those towers had been used to form the setting for a white-gray opaque stone as its roof. There was a vague hint in its styling of one or two of the more imposing buildings of the upper hill. Still, Simsa decided the ring was much older and of a time when there was much danger from raiders perhaps, and such structures were meant as positions of defense.
    This was her own. It was not as beautiful as the other bits of jewelry, but something within her made her stare long each time she brought it forth. Sometimes, a queer idea crossed her mind that if she were able to lift the milky jewel which formed that roof on the second tower and peer within she would see—what? Strange forms of life busy about their own concerns? No, not this to be sold, she decided quickly as she rewrapped and returned it to her pouch.
    Even as she put out a hand for the bag of Ferwar’s fragments with the plan of going straightaway to Gathar’s, there was a roar. The ground under her shook slightly, small bits of broken stone and dust shifted from over her head.
    A starship had planeted.
    Ferwar had spoken now and again of the luck which fate might dispose, even on those as lowly and portionless as the Burrow folk. Was this her luck arriving—so that on the very day, the moment when she had made up her mind to part with that which held the greatest worth, a ship had landed to offer her the best customers? She mumbled petitions to no gods, as some of those about her might. Ferwar had at times crouched over the fire basin, tossed a handful of larweed into the coals to puff out sweet smoke while chanting a sentence or two. However, the Old One had never explained to Simsa why she did so or what ancient power she might think would stir carelessly, if at all, to bring her an answer to such petition. Simsa had no gods, and trusted in no one—save herself, and Zass—and perhaps somewhat Zass’s two offspring, who at least would answer her calls. But in herself first and most. If she were ever to achieve any rise above the Burrows, out of this constant state of having to be on guard, it would not be by the wave of any god’s hand, it would be by her own determined efforts.
    She slung the bag by its cord over one shoulder where the bones were sharply apparent and hissed gently at Zass, who made her crippled half-flight down to perch on the girl’s other shoulder. Then, after a quick look right and left at the opening of the Burrow, Simsa went out. It was still day, but she had taken the usual precaution of covering her hair and blacking her white brows. Her ragged clothing was drably brown-grey against the darkness of her skin and, as she went down the zigzag path to where the river water washed, she passed very light-footed