Mists of Dawn (85 page)

Around
and
around
the
council
fire
the
debate
went, each
member
in
turn
repeating
the
same
arguments that
he
had
used
before.
But
Dranqan
would
not
move from
his
position,
and
it
became
clear
to
Mark
that the
social
organization
of
the
Danequa
was
in
some ways
an
ultimate
democracy;
it
was
not
enough
to have
a
clear
majority,
but
rather
every
decision
had to
be
unanimous.
This
system
had
its
drawbacks,
to be
sure,
and
one
of
them
was
readily
apparent
to
Mark. What
happened
if
one
member
held
out
indefinitely? Would
the
meeting
go
on
forever,
with
nothing
ever accomplished?

Clearly,
the
system
was
workable
or
it
would
not have
been
used.
Mark
saw
the
way
out
of
the
difficulty
in
the
early
hours
of
the
morning.
When
it
became
absolutely
clear
that
Dranqan
could
not
be
won over,
and
Dranqan
saw
that
he
could
not
change
the views
of
the
others,
Dranqan
simply
got
up
and
left, taking
with
him
those
of
the
Danequa
who
wished
to follow
him.
There
were
no
hard
feelings
on
either side,
each
had
its
way,
and
neither
group
was
hampered
by
having
members
who
were
reluctant
in
following
the
policies
set
forth
by
their
leaders.

Mark
breathed
a
sigh
of
relief
when
it
was
finally decided
that
a
raid
upon
the
Mroxor
was
in
order,
to take
place
as
soon
as
the
Danequa
could
make
ready. Mark
had
carefully
refrained
from
trying
to
influence the
decision
of
his
friends
one
way
or
the
other,
since he
did
not
want
to
be
in
any
way
responsible
for
the death
of
any
of
his
fellows.
But
it
was
obvious
to
him that
this
raid
upon
the
half-men
represented
his
one and
only
chance
to
ever
get
back
to
his
space-time machine.

Walking
back
through
the
valley
of
the
Danequa in
the
pale
light
of
early
morning,
with
the
roar
of the
friendly
waterfall
behind
him
and
the
voices
of his
adopted
people
around
him,
Mark
knew
that
he was
subtly
out
of
place.
He
had
won
a
position
in Danequa
society,
and
he
admired
them
as
much
as
any people
he
had
ever
known.
But
their
ways
were
not his
ways;
he
was
cut
off
from
them
by
customs
and culture
that
had
been
built
up
in
him
throughout
his life.
The
hard
winter
was
coming,
when
the
Danequa would
split
up
to
roam
across
the
snows
of
the
Ice Age
in
search
of
food,
and
Mark
was
by
no
means 
sure
that
he
could
survive
such
an
experience.
Twice, his
.45
had
saved
his
life,
and
now
he
had
but
one bullet
left.

Mark
had
found
new
friends,
and
wonderful
friends, but
he
missed
the
old
ones.
He
thought
of
his
uncle, and
the
little
lodge
in
New
Mexico
so
many
thousands
of
years
away.
He
thought
of
his
own
Fang,
so different
from
the
wolf-dog
that
he
had
found
in
the dawn
of
man.
No
matter
what
happened
here,
he
realized
now
that
his
life
and
his
future
were
forever
bound up
with
that
of
a
world
yet
unborn.

He
had
to
get
back.

A
raid
with
the
Danequa
would
take
him
back
to the
fearful
valley
of
the
Neanderthals,
and
thus
back into
the
vicinity
of
the
lead
sphere
of
the
space-time machine.
He
would
never
have
another
chance
as
good as
this
one;
quite
possibly
he
would
never
have
another
chance
of
any
kind.

If
he
failed
.
.
.