Mists of Dawn (20 page)

Mark
kept
going,
on
into
the
strange
new
world.
He realized
that
it
was
funny
he
should
think
of
it
that way.
This
world
was
old,
lost
in
the
past
byways
of
an almost
forgotten
history.
And
yet
it
was
new
too—new and
fresh
and
clean
with
the
scent
of
millions
of
wild flowers.
Some
of
Mark’s
natural
fear
left
him.
If
only he
could
find
some
food,
it
might
not
be
so
bad
.
.
.

It
was
quiet
save
for
the
sighing
of
the
grasses.
Mark had
never
heard
such
silence
before.
Always,
in
his own
time,
there
had
been
the
mechanical
noises
of civilization
all
around
him.
The
great
cities
clattered and
banged
in
their
dirt
and
grime,
and
in
the
green countryside
the
cars
and
tractors
hummed
and chugged.
No
matter
where
you
went,
the
buzz
of
civilization
went
with
you.
Even
far
out
on
a
mountain stream,
alone,
you
would
be
startled
by
the
thunder of
airplanes
or
the
whistling
scream
of
jets.
The
silence now
was
uncanny—and
somehow
it
seemed
choked with
life,
invisible
life
that
hid
itself
from
his
eyes.

Mark
walked
on,
feeling
his
way,
every
sense
alert. He
had
himself
under
control,
and
steadfastly
refused to
think
of
the
terrors
and
the
horrors
which
might confront
him
at
any
moment.
He
concentrated
on
the objective
at
hand,
and
did
not
think
about
the
dangers and
the
coming
cold
and
the
loneliness.
What
he
could not
change
could
not
be
helped.

On
he
went,
through
the
grasses
and
the
flowers, with
the
red
sun
fading
into
dull
orange
and
sinking lower
and
lower
in
the
west.
Soon,
he
knew,
he
would have
to
start
back
or
else
run
the
risk
of
getting
caught out
at
night
away
from
the
space-time
machine,
his only
refuge—a
prospect
that
was
far
from
pleasant. But
hunger
urged
him
on.

Mark
began
to
grow
uneasy
as
the
long
shadows walked
along
beside
him
and
the
cold
breeze
strengthened
into
a
forcible
wind.
He
hesitated
and
was
almost ready
to
give
up
and
spend
the
night
hungry
when
he spotted
movement
ahead.
Mark
instantly
dropped
to one
knee.
Holding
his
breath,
he
peered
ahead
through the
grass.

There
was
still
enough
light
to
see
by,
and
he
could make
out
dark
patches
not
far
away.
They
moved slightly
as
he
watched,
evidently
grazing.
Mark wormed
his
way
forward
through
the
grass,
scratching himself
slightly
on
small
shrubs
but
not
noticing
the pain.
He
crept
closer
and
closer,
stalking
the
black shadows.
They
were
just
ahead
of
him
now.
Holding his
breath
again
so
that
he
made
no
sound,
he
carefully
parted
the
grass
and
looked
out.

There
they
were,
five
of
them.
Mark
examined
them intently.
They
were
fairly
large
animals
with
shaggy manes.
They
had
short
legs
and
two
small
horns.
They had
a
distinct
hump
on
their
front
shoulders
and
they were
heavy
and
bulky.
For
a
moment,
Mark
was haunted
by
a
distinct
sense
of
familiarity.
Where
had he
seen
animals
like
these
before?
Then
he
had
it.
They were
bison,
buffalo,
much
like
those
which
had
once roamed
the
plains
of
America
before
their
virtual
extermination
by
white
hunters
like
Buffalo
Bill.
There were
four
adults
and
one
smaller
calf,
and
they
obviously
suspected
nothing.