"But some of the older generation--I had a professor in training school,
funny old chap, bald as the hull of the Swiftwing. Taught us
cosmic-ray analysis, and what he didn't know about spiral nebulae could
be engraved on my fifth toe-claw, and he'd never been off the face of
the planet. Not even to one of the moons! He was the supervisor of my
student lodge, and oh, was he a--" The phrase Ringg used meant,
literally, a soft piece of cake.
"His feet may have been buried in mud, but his head was off in the Great
Nebula. We had some wild times," Ringg reminisced. "We'd slip away to
the city--strictly against rules, it was an old-style school--and draw
lots for one of us to stay home and sign in for all twelve. You see,
he'd sit there reading, and when one of us came in, just shove the wax
at us, with his nose in a text on cosmic dust, never looking up. So the
one who stayed home would scrawl a name on it, walk out the back door,
come around and sign in again. When there were twelve signed in, of
course, the old chap would go up to bed, and late that night the one who
stayed in would sneak down and let us in."
Ringg sat up suddenly, touching his cheek. "Was that a drop of rain? And
the sun's gone. I suppose we ought to start back, though I hate to leave
those caves unexplored."
Bart bent to gather up the debris of their meal. He flinched as
something hard struck his arm. "Ouch! What was that?"
Ringg cried out in pain. "It's hail!"
Sharp pieces of ice were suddenly pelting, raining down all around them,
splattering the ground with a harsh, bouncing clatter. Ringg yelled,
"Come on--it's big enough to flatten you!"
It looked to Bart as if it were at least golf-ball size, and seemed to
be getting bigger by the moment. Lightning flashed around them in sudden
glare. They ducked their heads and ran.
"Get in under the lee of the cliffs. We couldn't possibly make it back
to the Swift--" Ringg's voice broke off in a cry of pain; he slumped
forward, pitched to his knees, then slid down and lay still.
"What's the matter?" Bart, arm curved to protect his skull, bent over
the fallen Lhari, but Ringg, his forehead bleeding, lay insensible. Bart
felt sharp pain in his arm, felt the hail hard as thrown stones raining
on his head. Ringg was out cold. If they stayed in this, Bart thought
despairingly, they'd both be dead!