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twinkling in the dust, and it had his initials on it—sort of: BDF
    Reversed, just like me. Why?

    I slung it around my neck on one of several rawhide thongs from Kro Kodres’ pack. I plodded on. No, I’ll relieve you of wondering; I didn’t see that stupid parrot—then. All I found was yellow plain streaming out to merge into yellow sky, with boulders and clouds scattered here and there. I ate the last collop of my meat the evening of the second day, and by the following noon I was beginning to think of Kro Kodres. I hadn’t buried him—why hadn’t I broken another taboo and brought him along?
    —Or part of him?
    That charming and unwonted thought made me sick, and I dry-heaved for awhile, trudging on, deciding I wouldn’t have been able to eat the poor bugger anyhow.
    The short sword had gotten a good deal heavier. So had the knapsack containing my water supply, although it was only half-full now. I learned my first lesson about what I should have done with that cloak very quickly: the baldric chafed my bare skin. I made some adjustments, to pad the strap, looking even more makeshift and clownish. Lesson number two I learned that first night: I longed for the whole cloak to cover up with. I’d have been better off traveling at night and sleeping by day, stopping to curl up in the shadow of some big rock. There were quite a few, and some where house-size. I know and admit now what I should have done, about several matters. I just didn’t think about them at the time. I’m afraid I’m just not John Carter.
    You have a choice: you can stick with me, a reasonably tough incompetent, with admittedly more pluck than sense, or you can just forget it and go back to the supermen-heroes. I’m not an antihero, at least.
    For three days I saw no sigh of life. For three nights I slept in the dust—it wasn’t quite as cold as the cave, but it tried.
    Late in the second day I learned why a plain like this is called a “trackless” waste; lord knows I was leaving tracks your Aunt Nellie could follow, by touch. But that afternoon a breeze came up. It was lovely—for awhile. Then it gained strength, and next I knew I could see absolutely nothing in the insane swirl of choking yellow dust. Squatting down right in the middle of it, I soaked my torn “mantle” with water and tied it around my face. Then I staggered on, remembering I’d been heading directly for a collection of sever close-set boulders. I kept my eyes closed; they were no good in that dust storm anyhow, except for collecting dust.
    I ran into the boulders—literally—and fell among them, again, literally. I lay there and kept my eyes shut and tried to keep breathing we, used air. It lasted a long time. Perhaps two or three hours; I had no watch; then.
    It died, fortunately, before I did, leaving me covered with dust. Covered. I spanked off about a ton of it, leaving only a truckload or so. I considered washing it off, but I was afraid to. I might have a far more pressing need for my scantling supply of water, and if I found Jadiriyah I’d have to share it. I walked on, ignoring the sun’s bloody setting, and kept on through the cooler night until I collapsed. I slept until the sun nudged me awake.
    That third evening I found Jadiriyah.
    But the Vardors found her first.
    Toward sunset I was plodding hungrily along, and for fully an hour I watched a moving dust cloud. I had no idea how far away it was, or what was causing it. It had a definite matrix, and trailed only a slowly-settling wake. That made me decide it was a moving something or someone, rather than another big wind. After an hour or so (?) it seemed to serve toward me. I measured the distance to my goal: a collection of rocks marked by a couple of Cadillac-sized boulders set close together like stone lovers. I speeded up. They were hours away. Then I realized the dust cloud and I shared the same goal.
    The dust cloud kept rolling, ghostlike. I could hear the pounding of hooves. Then the cloud