"We'll be fine," said Buck, "I brought a book."

"I brought two," said Red, "Seriously, it'll be pretty dull waiting up
here for you for a year, but I think we can handle it.  We'll probably
take turns in coldsleep."

	*		*		*		*

Red's words were prophetic.  Even waiting the seventy-five days for
the planet to swing back around into the meteor field was awfully dull.
Each had brought reading materials and study materials, which helped
them pass the time, but they were all more than ready to launch
Turlon on the next phase of the journey.

Turlon suited up, and at the appointed time cycled through the
lock into the depressurized cargo hold where Red was waiting.
They did a final check off the equipment on the scooter, and
Red touched helmets to go over the final instructions.
"When we've got the scooter aligned, you fire this rocket.  You get
1G for 1 minute.  Then you just coast until you see your target.
Check?"

"Check," came the reply.

The two of them shifted the scooter out of the hold and aligned it
on a marker star that Red had chosen.  Then Turlon climbed aboard.
Red touched helmets again. "Good luck."

When Red was safely back in the hold.  Turlon thumbed the firing stud
on the jet.  He was off like the rocket he was.  He kept the scooter
aimed at the star as best he could for a long minute, then the jet
cut out and he hurtled toward the planet at over 2,000 kilometers/hour.

Turlon relaxed and fell asleep, there was nothing to do for a while now,
and he had the military habit of getting his rest when he could.  When
awoke, his scooter was just entering the atmosphere of the planet.  He
flipped the nose around to make sure the maximum shielding was in the 
direction of travel.  It would take him about thirty hours to bleed
off the needed velocity.  Checking his straps, he got some more sleep.

He awoke with hours to spare.  The planet was much closer now as
his decaying orbit brought him closer to his target, his velocity 
was dropping rapidly now as the friction from the atmosphere grew
greater. He watched the mountain range in front of him grow larger
by the minute.  He was still moving at over a thousand km/hour
and had an altitude of six klicks when he cut in the scooter's
engines, he had dropped to four klicks before he had negated the
effect of his downward velocity, and he flew rapidly toward the mountains,
still high enough to be undetected from the ground.  

Forty five minutes later he was over the foothills and able to start
scouting.  His inertial map told him that he was about 500 km north of
the coast, and that there nearest passes through the mountains
were just along the coast and another 1,000 km or so north of his current 
location.

Turlon stayed low and swept out over the area looking for an area that
looked accessible but remote.  He wanted to be able to return to the
scooter with relative ease but didn't want to park the thing in the middle
of a marketplace.   He decided to save a bit of walking and still remain on
the outskirts by buzzing roughly 100km closer to the coast and then started
descending once he found an especially craggy area in the mountains that
would prove perfect for storing the scooter.

He made several passes, keeping an eye out for signs of habitation
as well.  Seeing no indication of Taronians, he concentrated his
search on a hiding place.  After half an hour, he found something
that looked just about perfect; a ledge which was visible from the air
but almost completely hidden from the ground.  A closer pass showed
that there did seem to be a fairly accessible route down the cliff
face from the ledge.  Satisfied, Turlon landed the scooter on the
ledge, edging it as far back into the cleft as possible.

Turlon got out of his suit and changed into his Taronian armour.  After a
quick check of his equipment,  he packed away the future and entered into
the past.  Stepping carefully out into the Taronian day, Turlon punched in
the inertial map coordinates of this hideaway and began to trek down the
mountainside.  He turned to look back at ledge to make sure the scooter
wasn't visible, satisfied he headed south to the coastline.

Progress was slow the first day as he came down out of the mountains,
but his speed picked up as he entered the flatter lands below.  At
night he made a simple camp, built up a fire to keep away the native
predators that might prove dangerous, and slept lightly.  He began
to put the pieces together as he walked, matching things about which
he had read or learned with what he was seeing and touching.

On the eigth day, he saw the first signs of civilization -- tree stumps
which had obviously been felled and a rough path.  That afternoon,
he found a fallen cottage, abandoned for many years it seems.

Turlon approached the cottage and decided to take a look inside out of
curiosity.

It was a small one-room hut, framed and roofed out of native timber.
There was a pile of dead, dry wood in one corner, presumably the
bed. The bed had been thorougly scattered about, and Turlon
found a few bones and scraps of cloth in it.  There was a rude
table with a tree stump for a chair, although the stump had
been carefuly hollowed out to hold a person in some sort of comfort.
A few utensils were scattered about: a bucket, an earthenware jug,
and a rusty axe.

Outside, he found a depression that looked like a firepit grown
over with grasses and lichenlike plants.  A faint path continued to
the south and slightly east.

Turlon left the cottage like he found it and continued off to the
southeast.

The path was old and obviously disused, but even so it proved
easier going than forging through the wood relying on his
inertial map for guidance.  Shortly after noon, he broke from
the woods and found himself on what was clearly a road.  It ran
roughly north-south, and a quick consultation with the map convinced him
that it must head south to his destination and north to one of the smaller
city-states in the interior.

Turlon thought about his mission and looked south.  Then he felt a hunch to
go north, 'No time like the present to see just how good my Taron is,'  he
thought.  He turned north and decided to see the country side.

He calculated that he was probably 100km north of Varishanoor and nearly
1,000 south of Presda, where the Viskai river broke out of the foothills.
He started north, looking at the country as he did.

Along the road, this close to the city it was fairly well cultivated.
The sides of the road had been cleared, and food crops planted.  It
was spring, and so the fields were in the process of being prepared
for planting.  Some were plowed and others still untouched.  It
was not long before he saw his first Taronians, a group of three
peasants working their way down a furrow and planting something
in the track.  The lead Taronian would place something in the
row, and one of the others would carefully cover cover it.  The
third man would leapfrog the second and begin to cover the next
seedling or whatever the object was.

Turlon looked on in amusement at the show and thought about things on his
home planet among the nomads.  It was time to see just how good his
training had been, "Hey you," he pointed to the lead man, "where can a
warrior get something to eat?"

The man, or possibly woman -- without much in the way of identifying
secondary sexual characteristics it was hard to tell -- looked up
over and made a decision as to his status and wealth.  "Honoured
sir, the next Shrine of Waltiz is fifty kilometers to the north."
The units the man used were not kilometers, of course, but Turlon
translated.  "However, the house of Senator Tressus is but five or
six kilometers north, and you might be able to impose on their
hospitality." His voice dropped, "Their cook might also be presuaded
to part with a little something for a small consideration."

"Very good," Turlon said with what he hoped was in a sufficiently bold tone
for Taron.  Senator Tressus sounded like a nice place to stop by, so Turlon
continued north.

After tramping another hour and a half, he saw what he assumed to the
Senator's house.  It was a villa situated on a hill off to the
west with a commanding view of the surrounding country.  Between it and the
road were fields, well tended it would seem, and behind it Turlon
thought he saw a stand of Shrelom trees, whose sap could be concentrated
down and mixed with the juice of the Morless plant to cause a chemical
reaction and create Shress, the most common intoxicant on the planet.
The active ingredient of Shress had no intoxicating effect on either
human or Mek'Purr metabolisms, but would quite possible make them
irritable and flatulant.

Turlon made a mental note to get some Shress, 'That would make a great gift
for Buck,' he thought to himself with a smile.  Kicking the dust from his
feet, Turlon made his way to the villa.

Approaching the villa, several workers stopped and regarded him
as he progressed, responding to his gesture of greeting, then
returning to work.  By the time he reached last switchback to the
approach of the villa, a well-dressed Taronian was waiting for him
with a couple of muscular looking servants waiting not too far
away.  Although the servants were standing with eyes properly downcast
and in a posture of respect, Turlon noted that a pair of cudgels were
within easy reach.

"Welcome to the house of Senator Tressus, honoured sir. How may I serve
you?" asked the lead Taronian.

"I was passing through, " began Turlon, "and one of the Senator's
constituents told me that a good meal and hospitality could be found here."

The Taronian looked confused by Turlon's choice of the word constituent, but
then decided that it must have been a joke.  "The Senator is not in residence,
but we honour Waltiz here." He examined Turlon's equipment more closely
and came to some kind of decision, "Enter good sir and rest a while."
He called to one of the servants, "Bid Cook prepare a light meal for
our guest, I will join him."

He then led Turlon into a courtyard.  The structure of the villa was
a compromise between security and comfort.  The exterior walls
were windowless and about four meters tall, but the interior courtyard
was a large and well-tended garden.  The various rooms and chambers
were built into the walls, allowing a great deal of light to reach the
courtyard and even into those rooms with a proper exposure.  Turlon
also noted that there were covered guardposts at each corner of the
villa, and that the roofs of the interior chambers were roofed at about
the three meter level, which would allow someone to walk between the guard
posts and be at least partially undercover the whole way.

The host and his guest sat at a simple wooden table in the garden and
soon fruits and a filled pastry-like food were served with water
and a thin juice to drink.  "Whither come you and what news?" asked
the man.

Turlon took care to mimic his host's eating style, "I have been traveling
for several days on my way to Vrestnoor, taking a time to come here."
Turlon then made small talk choosing a small city-state in north eastern
Promon from which to hail and jumbled together several other locations to
appear to be well traveled.

As near as he could tell, Turlon fooled his host and made no major
missteps.  He also gleaned some useful cultural information and
a few tidbits of local gossip.

Turlon discussed his plans in a general way, and learned that the
steward's sister was cargomaster on a ship which travelled between
Varishanoor and Vrestnooram, the dependant city at the mouth of the Vrest 
river.  "They transfer their cargo there to riverboats which take it
upriver to Vrestnoor.  He went to Vrestnoor once," said the steward wistfully,
jarring Turlon with his use of the pronoun, until he remembered that
Taronian had no gender-specific pronouns. "He said it was amazing.
Varishanoor is a great city, but Vrestnoor is huge, though not as
pretty," he concluded loyally.

The steward had no information on local politics in Vrestnoor, but
gave a little bit of scandal about some of the ranking families in
Varishanoor.   He also mentioned that the temple of Marqiss in Varishanoor
was the greatest in the world and not to be missed, especially for
a warrior such as Turlon.

"That I will," Turlon assured the man rising.  "Thank you so much for the
food, I will miss its quality greatly on the long trip south," said Turlon
offering his compliments to the cook.  "Is there a place where I can buy
some equally good food for my trip?"

The steward put a a strange expression on his face, "Alas, if it were
only me, I would gladly load you with gifts and food, but I must make
an accounting to my master.  Would you believe that these pastries cost,"
he named a small number of the small coins, "apiece? But are they not
delicious, and they travel very well."

"I understand.  A loyal caretaker is to be valued more than gold,"
complimented Turlon.  Removing his purse Turlon jingled it slightly, before
reaching in for a modest amount of coins "Perhaps you could allow me some
fruit and a pastry?"

"Of course, it would be my humble, pleasure," came the reply.  The
transaction was quickly concluded and the steward conducte Turlon to
the gate.  "If you're as good as your gear suggests," said the steward
as a parting comment, "you could probably find more work to the north.
The caravans across the mountains are always looking for guards to
protect them against the hill raiders. It's not the quickest way to
Vrestnoor, but you could probably make some money on the way."

"To the north, you say?" repeated Turlon.  He thanked the man and bade him
farewell before heading back out onto the road.  Despite having come from
the north, Turlon inquried further.  "How far north?" he asked himself
and consulted his map.

Although he had come from the north, he had come through the woods
an not along the road, and had traversed only about 225 km.  The nearest
pass on his map was about 1,500 km north of the coast, or about 1,300
km north of his current position.

Turlon thought better about deviating too much from his plan and decided to
continue south.  He put another 10 km behind him before settling down to sleep
a short distance from the road.

The next day he made an extra effort, hoping to reach the 
Shrine of Waltiz before making camp.  By moving at a jog-trot
along the road, he was able to make good time. An hour
before sundown he was exhausted, but saw, as he topped a slight rise,
what looked like a small village perhaps two klicks away.

As he approached, he saw that the settlement had sprung up around
a central building simply but sturdily constructed of stone.
The outliers included what looked like the Taronian equivalent of
a livery stable, a blacksmith and a carpenter, and a few dwellings.

Turlon walked toward the building looking for someone to speak with.  As he
walked, he assessed this settlement in terms of usage, importance, and
wealth.

The settlement was clearly a way-station, a primitive version of the
Starports he was most familiar with.  The central building looked like
it had facilities for both rest and refreshment, and the various
support services had sprung up around it.  At the moment, it looked
to be little more than that -- a place for travellers to stop and
where they could replenish their supplies or mounts.  As such, though,
it appeared to be thriving.  There were no abandoned buildings, and
in fact, a new one was being constructed.  He also noticed a large
flattened area in front of the central building which gave him a
moment's pause until he realized it was probably cleared for
a temporary market of some kind that was not currently active.

'How quaint,' he said to himself before entering into the community.
Turlon walked up to the central building looking for any markings that
could confirm his suspicions.

The building had symbols etched into its face and after a moment
he deciphered them as the symbols of Waltiz.  Inside it looked
more like a dormitory and cafeteria than a shrine, although
there was a statue at the far end with a pot on either side,
and as Turlon watched a Taronian approached, genuflected and deposited
a few coins in one of the pots. 

A Taronian wearing a simple long robe with the same symbol of Waltiz
embroidered on it came up to Turlon as he stood in the doorway.
"Welcome Traveller, to this Shrine of Waltiz.  Enter in peace, bathe
in the goodwill of Waltiz and refresh yourself to his glory."  This was
delivered quickly and by rote.  The Taronian changed his tone, "As
you can see, we've lots of room at the moment.  Please enjoy the
repast that Waltiz has provided," he indicated a long table against
one wall.  "Should you wish to show your gratitude and respect to
Waltiz, the offering pots are there by the image of the god ." He pointed
down to the statue.

Turlon approached the idol and gave it a long stare. 
Waltiz, as represented by this image, took the form of a fat Taronian
with the head of some kind of herbivore.  His lower body was covered
with what looked fur at first glance, but which proved to be grain upon
inspection.

Mimicking the man he saw before, Turlon gave an awkward genuflexion and
tossed a few low denomination coins into the pot.  Then he stood aright and
made his way to the table.

The table was covered with palatable but simple fare: fruits, a dried
grain potage like rough bread, and a broth of some kind which served
as beverage, soup and something to soften the bread.   His fellow
farers at the shrine seemed to be a mixed bag, although all
of fairly low estate he guessed by their clothing and accoutrements.
As he ate, he noticed one old fellow stumble in.  The man was greeted as
Turlon had been, but was then guided gently to a bench and the greeter
went to fetch him some food.

Turlon wiped the crumbs from his mouth and turned to the man next to him.
"Who is that?" indicating the old man who entered.

"Who knows?  Some poor wretch throwing himself on the mercy of Waltiz,"
was the reply.  "Thankfully I am not in such dire straits."

"Where are you going?" asked Turlon, glancing over the man's attire.

The man was dressed cleanly if not richly, and he replied willingly
enough, "Back to the farm.  I brought a load of fruit to the
monks."

"Ah," replied Turlon in a disinterested sort of way.   "What about you?" he
openly questioned another man who appeared to be listening.

"North," said the scruffily dressed man, who bore a sword.  "Looking for
work as a caravan guard.  From the look of you, pickings are pretty good."

"A strong arm is always rewarded," replied Turlon.  "I'm heading south on
my way to Vrestnoor, to improve on my good fortune."

"The big city, eh?  Best of luck," said the man. "I hear it's nice if
you've got the coin to pay for it."

"Thanks, and good luck with the caravans."  Turlon finished his meal with
the usual small talk trying to contribute where he could without giving
himself away as an outsider.  Following his meal he approached the monk who
had welcomed him.

"Most hospitable of you," Turlon said respectfully.  "Do you have any words
for Vrestnoor?"

"It is gracious of you to offer, but no.  You travel all the way to Vrestnoor!
That is a great distance.  I have been to Varishanoor once, they say
Vrestnoor is even larger." The man shook his head, "It's hard to imagine."

"That it is," confirmed Turlon.  "I intend to see it all," he said with a
hearty laugh.

The Taronian pulled a face that Turlon decided must be a smile, "I wish
you well faring and the speed of the gods."

Turlon bowed in farewell and thought he could get used to this simple life,
but realized that this was exactly why he was here -- to preserve this and
all life from exploitation by those bent on oppression.  As he left the
temple he took a trip by the stable area hoping to see some of the strange
beasts he had only seen in his datachip lessons.

He was in luck, the stable was well provided with the beasts called Resgools.
The critters moved around in an open-air enclosure, lowing softly to
one another and trotting occasionaly around the pen.

Turlon approached the pen and tried to call a Resgool toward him by
mimicking their sounds and tossing in a few grunts like the beasts back on
Mordor for good measure.

He had only middling success for a moment, then a Taronian came out of the
stable and called a beast over to him with a low whistling sound.  Turlon
watched and made notes.  When the man dissappeared back into he building,
he gave it a try.  It took him a few attempts to get the sound right, but
when he did a Resgool came over fairly quickly and allowed itself to
be stroked the way Turlon had observed the other doing it.

"There, there," he said with a pat.  Turlon played with the Resgool for a
while talking to it in soothing tones and sprinkled in a few TUFP and
Mek'Purr words to entertain the beast.  Finally, he decided to make his
journey a bit easier and looked for the Taronian he had seen earlier.

Entering the building attached to the pen, he found the Taronian
just finishing up what looked like a little first aid on the
Resgool's leg. As he watched, the man finished cleaning the scratch
the sent the beast back out into the yard.  "Good afternoon, warrior,"
he said noticing Turlon as he turned back.

"Greetings," Turlon offered back.  "I am interested in a Resgool, I have a
long journey before me."

"Then you have assuredly come to the right place.  My remuda is the finest
for many miles.  Come and examine them."  He led the way out into the
corral and began pointing at the various beasts describing them
in glowing terms; such a one was strong, this one had great stamina,
this one was even tempered, this one fiery, that one a vicious fighter,
and so on.

Turlon smiled inwardly at the universality of salesmen.  "What about that
one?" he pointed to the Resgool he had befriended.

"A fine choice!  A little old, perhaps, but sturdy and friendly.  A
comfortable ride, but perhaps not the fighter that a warrior such
as yourself might desire ..." the man trailed off.

As the man spoke, Turlon focussed his Meowr'Hiss on him to verify
the truth of his statements.  That the beast was old and friendly
the man believed, Turlon was unable to get a reading on the rest.

Turlon decided to trust more in his sword arm over his backside and felt
that a comfortable ride outweighed the benefits of a fighting Resgool.
After asking further questions about the "premium" Resgools he kept coming
back to the reliable one.  "How much for the old one?"

The man named a figure, "a fair price", and Turlon's Meowr'Hiss
verified what he felt instinctively to be true, that the "fair price"
was an unmitigated falsehood.

Turlon straightened to his full stature and hiss with a tone of great
disdain.  "You dare to insult me? you think me a small boy who wields a
rake instead of a sword?"

"Of course not, sir, but surely you would not begrudge me a small profit?"
came the reply.  Now that the parameters had been established, the haggling
followed the usual pattern.  Eventually, Turlon came to a fair price
and got a little riding tack thrown in as well.  "Well bargained,
traveller," said the man with a smile.  "I enjoyed it."

"As did I," said Turlon with a smile which caused a look of worry on the
man's face before acceptance.  Facial expressions were going to be
difficult since he was only Taronian on the appearance and culture could
only be partially learned from datachips.  Turlon led the Resgool away from
the corral and grabbed ahold of the saddle to swing aboard.

Trying to remember the procedures he had learned from his AL&C he
swung himself into the saddle.  The animal stirred beneath him, then
settled down.

Turlon galloped around awkwardly for a while before pulling up to the man
and handing the reins back over for the night.  They would embark on their
journey in the morning.

Turlon returned to the Shrine to Waltiz just as the torches were being
lit.  Only a few were ignited, to provide enough dim illumination for
the visitors to get to their beds.  A few Taronians paused by the
tables to get a last bite before retiring.  Each stowed their gear,
if they had any beneath their beds and then settled in.

A few monks moved among the crowd distributing the blessings of Waltiz
and collecting offerings.

Turlon surveyed his surroundings performing a danger assessment of his
roommates and the layout of the shrine in case of a quick exit.  Old habits
died hard and he knew that his equipment had caught the eye of several of
the men.  Walitz may be understood to protect all who were there, but
Turlon was prepared to give the diety the night off if there was any
trouble.

He picked a bunk with a fairly clear run at the door and which had af ew
empty bunks between it and the nearest neighbor.  As he appraoched it,
he noticed a well-dressed Taronian enter and move quickly to the
image, he tossed in a few coins then moved toward a door in the back
wall.  The monk standing there moved aside as the man approached
and he swept into the back.

Intrigued by this preferential treatment, Turlon got up and walked over to
the monk.

THe monk watched him approach but showed no sign of moving.  Turlon could
see the glint of gold in the offering pot where the stranger had made his
offering.

'Walitz is a man with expensive tastes,' thought Turlon to himself.
Returning to his bunk Turlon dug around for a few gold coins from his
monies and returned to the pot.  Looking intently at the monk, Turlon
tossed them in.

The monk smiled at him and stepped aside.

Retrieving his wares, Turlon entered into what he presumed were the five
star accomodations.

There were individual chambers here, not large, but not small either.
Several chambers had the doors closed but there were several others
were open and when Turlon had selected one a monk arrived a moment
later with a pitcher of water and a tray of more delectable food
than could be found in the common room.

Turlon accepted the tray graciously and made himself at home.  "A
question," he said to the monk.  "Who was the man who came in earlier?"

"A traveler, much like yourself," said the man.

"Does the traveler have a name?  He looks familiar," Turlon lied.

"Presumably he does, but I do not know what it is, all are welcome
at the Shrine of Waltiz," the man concluded sententiously.

"Perhaps you can tell me which room he is in?" he asked.

"That is in the hands of Waltiz.  If the traveler wished converse, he
would rest in the common room."

Quickly losing his temper, Turlon snapped back "Begone, you tire me."

The man gave Taron a look, "Waltiz is generous and wise, do not mock
his generosity."  He bowed out of the room.

Turlon mimicked the monk's tone "Waltiz is generous and wise, do not mock
his generosity" under  his breath in Mek'Purr as he stretched out on the
cot and quickly fell asleep.