The mountain lifted higher and higher with each hour of Blade's steady march toward them. He could look deeper and deeper into the range, to see the patches of gray-green mountain pasture, thin silver lacings of streams flowing down over bare rock, the mist that rose where waterfalls plunged a thousand feet. He could now be certain that all the water a man might need was waiting for him there in the mountains. What else might be waiting for him he would find out when he got there.

With his early start, Blade covered two-thirds of the distance to the mountains by noon. Five miles from the foot of the nearest peak, he stopped to rest. The bushes seemed to grow thicker and greener here, and he no longer felt quite so nakedly visible to anyone who might be watching. He tested the edge of the knife on several branches, and found it cut easily and cleanly. He chewed some of the leaves to fight his thirst.

Barely a mile farther on he came to water. A shallow stream flowed over a gravel bed and plunged down a steep ravine to end in a broad muddy pool. The pool had no outlet that Blade could see-either the water evaporated or seeped away underground. The banks were thickly overgrown with bushes, coarse grass, and even a few pale red flowers. Small mouse-like things darted for cover as Blade approached, and somewhere in the bushes a bird squawked in surprise.

Two rocks stood out on either side of the stream where it flowed out of the ravine into the pool. Each showed the same sign that was on Blade's knife-the poppy-like flower. Each carved image was nearly four feet high, and they were identical except for one point. The carving on the rock to the right of the stream was worn and beginning to lose detail. Many years of wind had scoured it, many years of hot days and chilly nights had flaked away the rock around it.