The plagues were gone. Now the strange commerce and industry
of this world were humming again. Those who had survived and those who
could be revived were busily rebuilding. Some were missing, of course.
Those who had risen and--hatched--were beyond recall, but no one spoke
of them. If any Sons of the Egg survived, they were quiet in their
defeat.
Hanson had been busy during most of the time. It had been taken for
granted that he would tend to the orrery, setting it for the most
favorable conditions when some special major work of magic required it,
and he had taken the orders and moved the controls as they wanted them.
The orrery was housed temporarily in the reconstituted hall of the
Satheri in the capital city. They were building a new hall for it, to be
constructed only of natural materials and hand labor, but that was a
project that would take long months still.
Now the immediate pressure was gone, and Hanson was relaxing with Bork
and Nema.
"Another week," Bork was saying. "Maybe less. And then gangs of the
warlocks can spread out to fix up all the rest of the world--and to take
over control of their slaves again. Are you happy with your victory,
Dave Hanson?"
Hanson shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure, now. There was something in
the looks of the Sather who gave him orders for new settings that
bothered him. And some of the developments he watched were hardly what
he would have preferred.
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