The Burning Tower by Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle

Author:Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle [Niven, Larry & Pournelle, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fiction
Published: 2011-01-09T06:00:00+00:00

They were directed to a shaman, a woman who reminded Tower of Twisted Cloud. Her name was Fur Slipper. Clever Squirrel told the shaman as much as she thought she needed to know of the dream in the sweatbath. "Fur Slipper, what else might we use to see our fate?" "Augury is my specialty," Fur Slipper said, "but I know some other work. Have you seen the Cliff Writings?"

The Rainbow River split into a thousand streams where it fanned out into the Salty Sea. A few of the streams had names. This stream, bigger than others, was named Messenger. A tumble of dark rock spilled down to a narrow beach. The slope ran to north and south as far as the eye could see. There were white scrawls on some of the granite blocks. Three women and Lord Sandry stood on the beach. The women were looking up. "I only say that you should have taken guards when you went bathing," Sandry said coldly. "And shopping, and sightseeing. You should be guarded at all times. Curse, woman, if you're shopping, it's clear you've got money! Bait for gatherers! And if you're bathing�" Clever Squirrel seemed hypnotized, her mouth slightly open, her eyes fixed. Burning Tower turned to Fur Slipper and pointed, showing Sandry her back. "These are writings? I can't make them out." "They're beautiful!" Clever Squirrel said. "All the mountain sheep run�ning, spears flying ..." There were rows of vertical lines and dots. There were straight lines with hooks at both ends, lots of those, and vertical lines each with a small circle at the top. There was cross-hatching. There were sketches of sheep and deer. No dye had been used. Scrape away the weathered black sur�face, and the exposed rock was white, until it weathered and faded under a dark desert patina. You could tell a drawing's age at a glance. "Where do you see spears?" Tower asked. "Oh, here, let me," said Fur Slipper. She touched Burning Tower's eye�lids, then Sandry's. Now the drawings moved. Sandry gaped. On a face of black rock, sketchy big-horned sheep ran from sketchy men. The men hurled a kind of hooked stick with a spear caught in the far end. The spears flew fast, thudded deep into flesh. Rams fell, got up, ran again, the men threw again, round and round, while tor�rents of rain fell and slacked and fell. Burning Tower was climbing. "Watch it!" Fur Slipper called. "These rocks roll. You too, Lord Sandry�don't stand below." "What are these?" Sandry climbed toward a faded row of hooked sticks several paces high. When he got close, they swung like whips, somehow hurling ghostly spears. "Wait, I think I see. With the stick in your hand, it's like your arm is longer. You throw harder. Tower, this is how they killed those birds we found at the last camping ground." "Show you something," Fur Slipper said. "This boulder split under its own weight, and this side slid, and it split a drawing in half.

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