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turrets of many eight-sided cells.
    “They are preparing for the Mists,” observed Thrala. “We shall have company on our journey to the Caverns.”
    They passed the trees and reached the foot of the wax skyscrapers which towered dizzily above their heads. A great cloud of the Gibi hovered about them. Garin felt the soft brush of their wings against his body. And they crowded each other jealously to be near Thrala.
    The soft hush-hush of their wings filled the clearing as one large Gibe of outstanding beauty approached. The commoners fluttered off and Thrala greeted the Queen of the cells as an equal. Then she turned to her companions with the information the Gibi Queen had to offer.
    “We are just in time. Tomorrow the Gibi leave. The morgels have crossed the river and are out of control. Instead of hunting us they have gone to ravage the forest lands. All Tav has been warned against them. But they may be caught by the Mist and so destroyed. We are to rest in the cliff hollows, and one shall come for us when it is time to leave.”
    The Gibi withdrew to the cell-combs after conducting their guests to the rock-hollows.
    CHAPTER NINE
    Days of Preparation
    Garin was awakened by a loud murmuring. Dandtan knelt beside him.
    “We must go. Even now the Gibi seal the last of the cells.
    They ate hurriedly of cakes of grain and honey, and, as they feasted, the Queen again visited them. The first of the swarm were already winging eastward.
    With the Gibi nation hanging like a storm cloud above them, the three started off across the meadow. The purple-blue haze was thickening, and, here and there, curious formations, like the dust devils of the desert arose and danced and disappeared again. The tropic heat of Tav increased; it was as if the ground itself were steaming.
    “The Mists draw close; we must hurry,” panted Dandtan.
    They traversed the tongue of forest which bordered the meadow and came to the central plain of Tav. There was a brooding stillness there. The Ana, perched on Garin’s shoulder, shivered.
    Their walk became a trot; the Gibi bunched together. Once Thrala caught her breath in a half sob.
    “They are flying slowly because of us. And it’s so far—”
    “Look!” Dandtan pointed at the plain. “The morgels!”
    The morgel pack, driven by fear, ran in leaping bounds. They passed within a hundred yards of the three, yet did not turn from their course, though several snarled at them.
    “They are already dead,” observed Dandtan. “There is no time for them to reach the shelter of the Caves.”
    Splashing through a shallow brook, the three began to run. For the first time Thrala faltered and broke pace. Garin thrust the Ana into Dandtan’s arms and, before she could protest, swept the girl into his arms.
    The haze was denser now, settling upon them as a curtain. Black hair, finer than silk, whipped across Garin’s throat. Thrala’s head was on his shoulder, her heaving breasts arched as she gasped the sultry air.
    “They—keep—watch…!” shouted Dandtan.
    Piercing the gloom were pin-points of light. A dark shape grazed Garin’s head—one of the Gibi Queen’s guards.
    Then abruptly they stumbled into a throng of the Folk, one of whom reached for Thrala with a crooning cry. It was Sera welcoming her mistress.
    Thrala was borne away by the women, leaving Garin with a feeling of desolation.
    “The Mists, Outlander.” It was Urg, pointing toward the Cavern mouth. Two of the Folk swung their weight on a lever. Across the opening a sheet of crystal clicked into place. The Caverns were sealed.
    The haze was now inky black outside and billows of it beat against the protecting barrier. It might have been midnight of the blackest, starless night.
    “So will it be for forty days. What is without—dies,” said Urg.
    “Then we have forty days in which to prepare,” Garin spoke his thought aloud. Dandtan’s keen face lightened.
    “Well said, Garin. Forty days before Kepta may seek us. And we have much