making the colossus stagger. He righted it in a blaze of indicators and a howl of turbines and brought it gradually to a halt.
The other stopped breathing. Was it, then, after all, an echo from the machine wells of the Digla? Standing still, he cast his eye around and noticed, on the endless beds of snow, a black mark, an exclamation point drawn in India ink on the white horizon, though the illumination did not show whether the horizon was a bank of windblown drifts or a bank of clouds. Even though he had never seen a strider from a mile away in such a winter setting, the conviction seized him that this was Pirx. He headed for him, not caring about the increasing division of the signal in his earphones. He hurried. The black mark, moving along the same wall of white, was a figure now, and it, too, swayed in walking quickly. After about fifteen minutes its true proportions became evident. A half a mile separated them, perhaps a little more. Why didn't Parvis speak, call him on the transmitter? He didn't know why, but somehow didn't dare. Looking hard, he observed in the small glass window—the heart of the colossus—an extremely tiny man who, suspended, moved like a puppet on strings. Parvis kept after him, and both left long plumes of powder behind them, like ships in a channel pulling foaming furrows after themselves. Parvis rushed to overtake him, at the same time noting what was happening ahead of them—and something was indeed happening, because in the distance a thick white blizzard fluttered and rippled. Its curving arcs shone brighter than the snow. This was the region of the cold geysers. Parvis then called out, once, twice, three times, but the one he chased, instead of answering, increased the pace, as if to flee his rescuer; so Parvis did the same, rushing, with more and more swinging of the trunk and waving of the powerful arms, toward the nearing peril. The speedometer pointed, quivering, at the red limit: forty-eight miles an hour. Parvis yelled, his voice hoarse, but the yell died on his lips, because suddenly the black figure widened, swelled, lengthened, and its contours lost their sharpness. It was not a man in a Digla that he saw now, but a large shadow diffusing into an amorphous blotch. And then it was gone.
He was alone. He had been chasing himself. Not a common phenomenon, but known even on Earth. The Brocken Specter in the Alps, for example. One's own reflection, enlarged, against bright clouds. Not he—it was his body, shocked by the discovery, full of bitter disappointment, its muscles tight, breathless in a rush of rage and despair—it was his body that wanted to stop immediately, that instant, and then in the roar that burst from the bowels of the colossus he was pitched forward. The dials flared like severed veins spurting blood; the Digla shook like a vessel striking its hull against an underwater barrier. The trunk tilted with the momentum, and if Parvis had not supported it, had not pulled it out of its forward plunge with a series of gradually braking steps, it definitely would have crashed to the ground. The choral protest from the abruptly overburdened units quieted. Feeling tears of disappointment and anger running down his flushed face, he stood on spread legs, panting, as if he had run the last kilometers himself. He calmed down. With the soft inner lining of his glove he dabbed the sweat that hung on his eyebrows, and saw the giant paw of the strider, magnifying this involuntary gesture, lift, block the window of the cabin with the whole width of the forearm, and with a thud hit the radiator that was secured atop the headless shoulders. He had forgotten to disconnect the right Hand from the amplifier circuit! This additional stupidity sobered him completely. He turned to retrace his steps, because the tones of the directional signals were now totally out of key. He would have to return to the trail, then stay on it as long as possible, and in the event of zero visibility due to a
The other stopped breathing. Was it, then, after all, an echo from the machine wells of the Digla? Standing still, he cast his eye around and noticed, on the endless beds of snow, a black mark, an exclamation point drawn in India ink on the white horizon, though the illumination did not show whether the horizon was a bank of windblown drifts or a bank of clouds. Even though he had never seen a strider from a mile away in such a winter setting, the conviction seized him that this was Pirx. He headed for him, not caring about the increasing division of the signal in his earphones. He hurried. The black mark, moving along the same wall of white, was a figure now, and it, too, swayed in walking quickly. After about fifteen minutes its true proportions became evident. A half a mile separated them, perhaps a little more. Why didn't Parvis speak, call him on the transmitter? He didn't know why, but somehow didn't dare. Looking hard, he observed in the small glass window—the heart of the colossus—an extremely tiny man who, suspended, moved like a puppet on strings. Parvis kept after him, and both left long plumes of powder behind them, like ships in a channel pulling foaming furrows after themselves. Parvis rushed to overtake him, at the same time noting what was happening ahead of them—and something was indeed happening, because in the distance a thick white blizzard fluttered and rippled. Its curving arcs shone brighter than the snow. This was the region of the cold geysers. Parvis then called out, once, twice, three times, but the one he chased, instead of answering, increased the pace, as if to flee his rescuer; so Parvis did the same, rushing, with more and more swinging of the trunk and waving of the powerful arms, toward the nearing peril. The speedometer pointed, quivering, at the red limit: forty-eight miles an hour. Parvis yelled, his voice hoarse, but the yell died on his lips, because suddenly the black figure widened, swelled, lengthened, and its contours lost their sharpness. It was not a man in a Digla that he saw now, but a large shadow diffusing into an amorphous blotch. And then it was gone.
He was alone. He had been chasing himself. Not a common phenomenon, but known even on Earth. The Brocken Specter in the Alps, for example. One's own reflection, enlarged, against bright clouds. Not he—it was his body, shocked by the discovery, full of bitter disappointment, its muscles tight, breathless in a rush of rage and despair—it was his body that wanted to stop immediately, that instant, and then in the roar that burst from the bowels of the colossus he was pitched forward. The dials flared like severed veins spurting blood; the Digla shook like a vessel striking its hull against an underwater barrier. The trunk tilted with the momentum, and if Parvis had not supported it, had not pulled it out of its forward plunge with a series of gradually braking steps, it definitely would have crashed to the ground. The choral protest from the abruptly overburdened units quieted. Feeling tears of disappointment and anger running down his flushed face, he stood on spread legs, panting, as if he had run the last kilometers himself. He calmed down. With the soft inner lining of his glove he dabbed the sweat that hung on his eyebrows, and saw the giant paw of the strider, magnifying this involuntary gesture, lift, block the window of the cabin with the whole width of the forearm, and with a thud hit the radiator that was secured atop the headless shoulders. He had forgotten to disconnect the right Hand from the amplifier circuit! This additional stupidity sobered him completely. He turned to retrace his steps, because the tones of the directional signals were now totally out of key. He would have to return to the trail, then stay on it as long as possible, and in the event of zero visibility due to a
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