Around Hanson, the magicians cried out in
shocked fear. Then old Sather Karf was dashing out from under the cover
of the building, brandishing a pole on which a drop of the sun-stuff was
glowing. His voice rose into a command that rang out over the cries of
the others.
Dave reached for a heavy hammer, meaning to follow. The old Sather
seemed to sense it without looking back. "Fix the engine, Dave Hanson,"
he called.
It made sense. The others could do the fighting, but only he had
training with such mechanisms. He turned back to his work, just as the
warlocks began rallying behind Sather Karf, grabbing up what weapons
they could find. There was no magic in this fight. Sticks, stones,
hammers and knives were all that remained workable.
Dave Hanson bent over the gears, cursing. Now there was another rumble
of thunder from the falling sky. The half-light from the reflected
sunlight dimmed, and the ground shook violently. Another set of gears
broke from the housing. Hanson caught up a bit of sun-stuff on the sharp
point of the awl and brought it closer, until it burned his hands. But
he had seen enough. The mechanism was ruined beyond his chance to repair
it in time.
He slapped the cover shut and stuck the sun-tipped awl where it would
light as much of the orrery as possible. As always, the skills of his
own world had failed. To the blazes with it, then--when in magic land,
magic had to do.
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