'Where?' said Masklin.

'Wherever we're going.' 'I don't know.' 'They're hungry, you see.' They always were. Masklin looked hopelessly at the huddle of old ones. One or two of them were watching him expectantly.

'There isn't anything I can do,' he said. 'I'm hungry too, but there's nothing here. It's empty.' 'Granny Morkie gets very upset when she's missed a meal,' said Grimma.

Masklin gave her a long, blank stare. Then he crawled his way to the group and sat down between Torrit and the old woman.

He'd never really talked to them, he realized. When he was small they were giants who were no concern of his, and then he'd been a hunter among hunters, and this year he'd either been out looking for food or deep in an exhausted sleep. But he knew why Torrit was the leader of the tribe. It stood to reason, he was the oldest nome. The oldest was always leader, that way there couldn't be any arguments. Not the oldest woman, of course, because everyone knew this was unthinkable; even Granny Morkie was quite firm about that. Which was a bit odd, because she treated him like an idiot and Torrit never made a decision without looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Masklin sighed. He stared at his knees.

'Look, I don't know how long-' he began.

'Don't you worry about me, boy,' said Granny Morkie, who seemed to have quite recovered. 'This is all rather excitin', ain't it?' 'But it might take ages,' said Masklin, 'I didn't know it was going to take this long. It was just a mad idea...' She poked him with a bony finger. 'Young man,' she said, 'I was alive in the Great Winter of 1986. Terrible, that was. You can't tell me anything about going hungry. Grimma's a good girl, but she worries.' 'But I don't even know where we're going!' Masklin burst out. 'I'm sorry!' Torrit, who was sitting with the Thing on his skinny knees, peered shortsightedly at him.