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yourself walking in circles, since most people have one leg slightly longer
than the other. There's always the Pole Star, assuming there's no cloud, but
it's not accurate enough in a blank landscape with no reference points.
"The Pole Star is almost half a degree away from true north. If the General's
compound were only a few miles away, that wouldn't be a problem, but a
positional error of half a degree or so would see us lost in the desert. With
the aid of the sun and a couple of sticks, I can ascertain our heading with
reasonable accuracy. As long as I check frequently, we should be able to find
our way well enough"
"Have you no lodestone? Grimm queried. What was all this talk about the sun
and sticks? Had the Technologists lost the secret of one of the oldest methods
of navigation the human race possessed?
Foster looked blank for a moment, but his expression soon brightened. Oh,
you mean a compass. Yes, I've got one here."
The Haven man produced a transparent, rectangular device with what looked
like a clock-face at its centre. There were two indicators: one was
pale-green, the other, more slender, needle was red. Which way do you think
we're going?"
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Grimm knew that a lodestone always orientated itself around a north-south
axis. The letters N, S, E and W made the device's operation clear.
"North half East, he said.
Then his brow furrowed in confusion: he realised the rising sun was over his
left shoulder, indicating that they were moving in asouth-westerly direction.
"You see? Foster said. The mountains have a lot of iron in them, so the
needle always points towards them, rather than to the north. A compass is
useless here."
Grimm found the pilot's perennial cheerfulness irritating, but he swallowed
his annoyance. Can we not use the position of the mountains as a nocturnal
referent?"
Foster shook his head. It's too big, mage; too vague. In a few days, we'll
have the General's compound in plain sight, and we'll be able to zero in on
that easily enough if we discipline ourselves. But we won't be able to see it
at night.
"Cheer up; it'll be uncomfortable and difficult, but we'll be all right if we
all exercise a littlediscipline! "
The Questor's felt his forbearance stretching to its limits.
"Look at Tordun! he snapped, indicating the heavily-attired, red-faced
albino.
"If he makes it through the day, I will be surprised; look at Drexelica's
bleeding feet.You may be comfortable enough, but what of the rest of us?"
"Feel free to ignore me if you want to die, mage, the pilot said. I've been
through survival training, and I know what I'm talking about. If you want to
strip off, go ahead, but don't say I never warned you. If you do that, I can
guarantee you'll be down from heat prostration in just a few hours. Sweat
soaking into clothes evaporates slowly, taking the heat from your body, but it
just drips off naked skin. It's gone in an instant, and it's wasted. You can
survive far longer in the desert if you're well-covered."
Grimm yearned to grab the self-assured, cocky little man around the throat
and throttle him.
"In case you failed to notice, Foster, he snapped, Tordun is an albino! The
least touch of this sun on his skin hurts him, and he looks to be going
through hell, even before we have even started our journey. Drexelica's arms
are bare, and she only has slippers on her feet to protect her from the sand."
"They haven't complained, the pilot protested.
"Of course they have not! Grimm snapped. We Northlanders regard admissions
of inability or discomfort as signs of weakness. I declare you to be a
selfish, self-possessed, smug bastard, Foster!You are comfortable enough, so
you assume everybody else is. Why do you not leave us here and go for help
while we protect ourselves from the sun as best we may?"
Foster blinked; an expression of utter confusion on his face. Grimm guessed
the pilot had never been in the desert, except in the company of others
well-trained in survival techniques.
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"I'm sorry you feel that way, the pilot said, his lower lip obtruding a
little. Nonetheless, consider the situation. If I leave you here, it will be
five or six days at best before help arrives; five or six days without food,
with little protection from the sun except thin tents. In any case, we'd be
pretty lucky to find you here at all without some sort of navigational fix;
this is a big place. We're better off moving on, believe me."
"Youseem to have made yourself pretty comfortable, Grimm said. Idemand we
stop here, and that you use yourmarvellous training to find a way for all of
the party to travel with ease. None ofus has been trained in desert survival,
to my knowledge, so we may all be in danger."
Foster shrugged. All right, troop, we'll be holding things up for a little
while, courtesy of our good friend, Grimm. Let's get the tents up."
* * * *
An hour passed and, even with the tents welcome shelter, the temperature
reached an almost unbearable pitch of severity. Foster grubbed among the
various packs in the small cart, and did his best to outfit the members of the
party with more suitable attire. At last, he found another pair of the
darkened spectacles, which, by unanimous accord, Foster gave to the pink-eyed
albino. With some misgivings, Tordun surrendered his leather armour and his
sword to the cart, but he now wore similar attire to Foster's: a white
burnoose now protected his head and neck, and a flowing, silk serape covered
his sensitive skin, without restricting the free flow of air around his body.
Crest's loose, dark clothes seemed suitable enough for the desert, but he
added a light hood, cut from the strange packages of silk and string Foster
had found within the bowels of the shattered helicopter, and he had fashioned
an eyeshade from stiff, thin pieces of white card he found in the packages.
After all the members of the party had been provided more suitable, if
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