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tombstones: remnant holdovers from when man used to heap rocks on graves, to keep the spirit down and out of his hair.
    “The evil that men do lives long after them; the good is oft interred with the bones.” So said Shakespeare (if the quotation’s off, remember that I haven’t anything here to crib from), and so our remote ancestors believed—literally. “Rest in peace” means just that: rest in peace down there, don’t get restless and come back; leave us in peace, too! It’s a command, not a well-wishing sendoff.
    I Left Kro Kodres lying on his back in the cave. How many stiffs got a private sepulcher with running water?
    I left him there in his torn, blood-imbrued clothing but without his weapons and gear and his (torn) cloak—and his buskins. (He had six toes. On each foot.) I performed the necessary but worse-than-unpleasant task of accepting the legacy of his boots and weapons, which I had to remove. I worked hard at washing everything in that cold stream, but some bloodstains remained. The water didn’t do the leather baldric any good, either. His short, soft boots were a little wide in the feet and looser on my calves than his. I laced them tight and let my toes wander around in them.
    From his cloak I made a loin-and-rump cover, sort of like an overgrown and particularly loose diaper. A thin strop from the same cloak served to belt the makeshift thing about me, low on my hips, There was no reason for anything else, so I slung the ragged remnant of his cloak about my shoulders as a sort of short mantle; it could also be pulled up to cover my head, if that sun tried boiling my brain.
    I learned very soon what I should have done, and I expect you’ve already thought of it. I should have kept the cloak intact (expect for the bandage I’d sliced and ripped out of it). It was long, and voluminous, and would have made me a sort of Bedouin burnūs, and I could have used it a as cover at night. But we of Earth have this thing about undergarments, and binding up our groins—shorts and briefs and even undershirts, in addition to all the female stuff. All totally unnecessary, most of the time, but I’m a briefs fan; I don’t like swinging around loose.
    Too, I admit I was not thinking too coherently just then. I was on an alien planet, in a cave, with a dead body for company. I did the first thing I half-thought of, which turned out to be a mistake.
    Kro Kodres’ water had been in a canteen attached to the saddle of his stolen mount. A quick test told me that his knapsack, well-made of one piece of leather, was watertight. That became my water sack. I dropped in the ring for Jadiriyah; it seemed the safest place. The few silver coins I tucked into the warm nook of my homemade shorts. Sooner or later, I’d probably need money. The fork and other tools I discarded.
    He was chunkier, and I was taller.
    I had to bore a new hole in his baldric to cinch the belt lower. That way the sword swung low on my right hip, for a fast crossdraw.
    Perhaps I looked superbly exotic and heroic, like Frazetta or Jones artwork. Perhaps, in my black-and-white diaper made of a dead man’s cloak, I looked more like a desipient clown. But I had clothes, and weapons I understood, and a little meat and several days’ water, and a destination. I knew in which direction Kro Kodres’ city of Brynda lay, and I knew where he’d left the girl Jadiriyah. First (the) Jadiriyah, then Brynda. I set out across the plain in my secondhand boots, chin high and eyes clear. It was going to be a long hike. After parking the girl, Kro Kodres had ridden many miles at a gallop, leading his pursuers away from her.
    The orange alien sun beat down.

4. The girl I did not rescue
    I walked for three days, hoping I had things straight and was heading in the right direction. I still couldn’t see anything ahead but yellow plain becoming yellow sky, and I’m sure it was some sort of miracle that I found the pen. The gold Cross pen; Dr. Blakey’s. It was