Demons' World

Начало книги

They found him sprawled on the edge of a projecting aerial platform, white, lax, unconscious and as helpless as a baby.

“Push him over the edge,” counseled Old Chronic, the veteran Forager. His pouchy eyes moved restlessly in the unceasing survey of all Foragers, his leathery neck creasing and uncreasing like an animated concertina.

“We-el,” said Thorburn, hesitantly. This was his first trip as lead Forager and the onus of responsibility had fallen on him with unwelcome surprise. Now he shook his massive head, trying to think and plan, conscious of the six others and contriving not to show the uncertainty he felt was a personal weakness. Tentatively he reached out for assurance from the others, and all the time his eyes moved up and down, left and right, around the back, searching, watching, apprehensive. A Forager out on a trip scarcely ever looked at his companions.

Old Chronic cackled, clicking his dentures, his eyes bright with gleeful malice. “What frightens you, Thorburn? He won’t step on you.”

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