although it was still but midafternoon, Dalgard pointed the outrigger
into the promised shelter, the dip of his steering paddle swinging in
harmony with that wielded by Sssuri in the bow of their narrow,
wave-riding craft.

The two voyagers were neither of the same race nor of the same
species, yet they worked together without words, as if they had
established some bond which gave them a rapport transcending the need
for speech.

Dalgard Nordis was a son of the Colony; his kind had not originated on
this planet. He was not as tall nor as heavily built as those Terran
outlaw ancestors who had fled political enemies across the Galaxy to
establish a foothold on Astra, and there were other subtle differences
between his generation and the parent stock.

Thin and wiry, his skin was brown from the gentle toasting of the
summer sun, making the fairness of his closely cropped hair even more
noticeable. At his side was his long bow, carefully wrapped in
water-resistant flying-dragon skin, and from the belt which supported
his short breeches of tanned duocorn hide swung a two-foot blade--half
wood-knife, half sword. To the eyes of his Terran forefathers he would
have presented a barbaric picture. In his own mind he was amply clad
and armed for the man-journey which was both his duty and his
heritage to make before he took his place as a full adult in the
Council of Free Men.

In contrast to Dalgard's smooth skin, Sssuri was covered with a fluffy
pelt of rainbow-tipped gray fur. In place of the human's steel blade,
he wore one of bone, barbed and ugly, as menacing as the spear now