Place-of-Toil - Part 4

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     They spent a week examining the shelter, sorting out all the bodies and preserving in crystal everything too fragile to survive casual handling. They discovered several other printed documents, which Saturn pounced upon in delight, and they also discovered a book of pictures. Scenes of the ancient world and the peoples it had contained. The images were so faded that only the palest shades of yellow had survived the ages but they still managed to convey something of the atmosphere of the time. A sense of confidence and optimism that shone through in every happy, smiling face and which Thomas found achingly poignant, knowing the disaster that had befallen the world so soon afterwards.

     The wizards were also fascinated by the quality of the pictures. There was no trace of any brushstrokes, nor any trace of sketch or scaffolding lines. The detail was so fine, no matter how closely they examined them, that it was almost like looking through a milky white window. A window so clouded that only the faintest traces of colour were able to penetrate.

     "They remind me of photographs," mused Saturn thoughtfully. "Elmias Pastin brought them back from another universe once. They had devices that could produce amazingly detailed pictures simply by pointing them at the scene." He pondered a moment longer. "I wonder whether Rhell's Restorative would restore some of the colour? He owes me a favour."

     They used the hanger deck of the Jules Verne as a temporary storage room for the artifacts and bodies, and when it was full the Ship of Space paid a quick visit back to its own universe to teleport it all back to Lexandria.

     When the Jules Verne returned they rotated the landing party so that everyone was able to enjoy some shore leave, even some of the moon trogs, whom the felisians were delighted to push around in their padded wheelchairs for as long as they were able to endure the gravity.

     "So this is the surface of a human world," said Prup Chull, staring about in wonder.

     He, Tassley Kimber and Timothy Birch had come down together as part of the second party, the cleric pushing the Dallakast's chair along the weed-lined street while the wizardess strutted beside him in her skimpiest dress, continuing her efforts to attract his romantic attention. She'd had no luck with him aboard the ship, although she could tell he'd been interested, but that had been with crewmen around them all the time. The cleric might have been worried about his reputation as a man of the Gods, although she knew some clerics of Caroli who had any number of lovers without apparently arousing the displeasure of their Goddess.

     Down here, though, it might be different. She might finally be able to trip him up, if only they could get rid of the moon trog. Her private places tingled with frustration. It had been weeks since she'd last had a man! Weeks! She hadn't gone that long without since the age of fourteen!

     "How are you feeling?" Timothy asked the moon trog, feeling some concern. His heart was a small, feeble thing, not used to pumping blood all the way up to his head against this much gravity, and he was worried he might suddenly collapse on them.

     Prup Chull grinned toothily back at him, though. "I feel very well," he said happily. "I am two hundred years old and I lived most of that time in the tunnels and caverns of Kronos, never dreaming that I might ever see anything else. And now I am here! Surrounded by wonders! If I died now, I would die happy." He stared up at the tall buildings, still having trouble grasping the great open spaces surrounding him. "Do you think it's possible it might rain while we're here? I would love to feel rain on my skin. And wind! And ice, snow! And rainbows! I would love to see a rainbow!"

     Timothy smiled, but if it was weather the moon trog wanted they'd picked the wrong day for it. It did indeed rain a lot at some times of the year, but they were currently in the middle of the dry season and the sun was shining down out of a cloudless blue sky.

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