Several rodents crossed the gravel street. I said, "These toothies are
a problem, aren't they?"
Rasmussen wore a mottled green and brown sack and stockings gartered
above his knees. An eyeshade projected from his forehead. "Not so many
as once," he panted. "Sometimes gnawed down houses."
Rasmussen carried a firearm on a strap over his shoulder. I carried the
hisser, the robotic, and a pack containing many items often useless but
sometimes essential. Joe's Sun glinted into our eyes through cracks in
the wall ahead and sparkled on puddles of rainwater.
"Betty Toal lives here," Rasmussen said. He struck his stick against a
door in a long, log structure with identical doors spaced at ten-meter
intervals. He tried the handle and said, "Not home. Probably has gone
to her garden."
We walked on down the street. I said, "An air hunt will be best. It's
a good way with large animals."
Rasmussen said, "Saw the wrecked jetcopter at the field? The shuttle
would be a poor way to hunt."
"No aircraft on the whole planet? Well, then, a car."
Rasmussen pointed to a man passing on a muscle-powered vehicle. "Have
tricycles, but am too old to pedal. Ride a tractor to likely places.
Then will be afoot. Mine are flat."
"On foot!"
An uncanny contrivance, such as I had never imagined possible, waited
near a wide gate. It had twelve wheels, four small ones in front and in
back, and four large, lugged ones in the center. A confusion of rods
and bars connected the lugged wheels to double cylinders on either
side. Smoke puffed from a pipe atop the round body of the vehicle.
A tired, worried, red-haired man stood on a rear platform and adjusted
levers. Although he contrasted completely with the standard Maggiese,
he seemed familiar, I then realized that here was a man resembling me.
A woman, dressed in a costume like Rasmussen's, sat in one of the front
seats. The old hunter sighed and said, "Fine weather, Betty Toal."