Mists of Dawn (39 page)

This
was
a
crucial
moment,
and
Mark
knew
it.
The friendship
or
the
hostility
of
this
fur-clad
man
might very
well
mean
the
difference
between
life
and
death to
him
in
this
strange
world.
Mark
hesitated
and
then placed
the
steak
on
a
rock
at
his
feet.
He
pointed
to it,
and
he
pointed
to
the
man.
Then
he
backed
slowly away,
leaving
the
meat
unprotected.

The
man
watched
him,
his
face
still
expressionless. A
long
minute
passed.
Neither
moved.
Finally,
with sudden
decision,
the
man
relaxed
his
bow.
He
took the
arrow
and
replaced
it
in
a
hide
quiver
on
his shoulder.
He
stepped
forward,
still
not
taking
his
eyes off
Mark,
and
picked
up
the
meat.
He
smiled,
showing fine
white
teeth.

Mark
smiled
back
and
holstered
his
gun.
He
realized that
the
man
was
not
placing
himself
in
Mark’s
power, at
least
not
to
his
way
of
thinking.
He
still
thought of
Mark
as
unarmed,
and
his
putting
aside
of
his
bow just
meant
that
he
had
abandoned
the
idea
of
killing Mark,
at
least
for
the
present.
No
doubt
he
figured that
he
could
handle
Mark
with
his
bare
hands
if
it came
to
that,
and
looking
at
the
man’s
bronzed
muscles Mark
did
not
question
his
ability
to
do
so.

The
man
evidently
did
not
eat
his
meat
raw.
He walked
over
to
the
ashes
of
the
fire
and
stirred
them up.
He
threw
some
shrubs
on,
and
kindled
a
new
blaze from
the
still-hot
coals
of
the
old.
Using
the
same
stick
Mark
had
used,
and
looking
with
interest
at
the sharpness
of
the
points
on
the
double
fork,
he
roasted his
steak.
Permitting
it
to
cool
only
slightly,
he
picked up
the
meat
in
his
hands
and
gnawed
at
it
with
great satisfaction.
Then
he
washed
off
his
hands
in
the
pool and
sat
down
a
short
distance
from
Mark,
looking
at him
curiously.

The
strange
man
did
not
try
to
speak,
clearly
having
proved
to
his
own
satisfaction
that
he
could
not make
himself
understood.
It
was
probably
no
novelty to
him,
Mark
thought,
to
run
across
a
man
like
himself
who
did
not
speak
his
language.
Doubtless
his people
were
not
organized
into
anything
larger
than extended
family
groups
or
bands,
and
each
group might
very
well
have
a
tongue
of
its
own.
It
was
possible,
however,
that
there
were
a
few
words
generally understood
by
several
local
groups,
of
which
the
term “orn”
was
no
doubt
one
example.
What
did
it
mean?

Mark
had
received
thorough
linguistic
training
from his
uncle,
but
his
training
was
of
little
help
to
him in
the
present
situation.
A
word
might
mean
anything, of
course.
A
word
was
not
a
thing.
A
word
was
a symbol
that
stood
for
whatever
a
group
of
people
had agreed
to
have
it
stand
for.
A
word
like
“orn”
might stand
for
literally
anything,
and
the
only
clue
that Mark
had
to
go
on
was
its
context,
the
situation
in which
it
was
used.
At
a
rough
guess,
he
figured
that the
word
probably
meant
“friend”
or
something
like that.
Used
as
a
question,
it
could
carry
the
notion
of asking
whether
Mark
was
hostile
or
peaceful,
friend or
enemy.
Following
that
line
of
reasoning,
Mark
could see
that
if
his
guesses
were
correct,
all
he
had
to
do was
answer
him
with
the
same
word,
inflected
as
a 
statement,
telling
the
man
that
he
was,
indeed,
a
friend. He
toyed
with
the
idea
of
doing
just
that,
but
decided against
it.
He
could
be
mistaken,
and
that
very
easily. For
example,
“orn”
might
well
mean
“enemy”
and
if Mark
replied
in
kind,
he
might
get
an
arrow
in
his chest
for
his
efforts.