l them where it
is--you know the mockers can't transmit that far."

There was a short silence; then Schroeder said, "All right--I see. I'll
head south in the morning."

Lake took a route the next day that would most likely be the one the
woods goats had come down, stopping on each ridge top to study the
country ahead of him through his binoculars. It was cloudy all day but
at sunset the sun appeared very briefly, to send its last rays across
the hills and redden them in mockery of the iron he sought.

Far ahead of him, small even through the glasses and made visible only
because of the position of the sun, was a spot at the base of a hill
that was redder than the sunset had made the other hills.

He was confident it would be the red clay he was searching for and he
hurried on, not stopping until darkness made further progress
impossible.

Tip slept inside his jacket, curled up against his chest, while the wind
blew raw and cold all through the night. He was on his way again at the
first touch of daylight, the sky darker than ever and the wind spinning
random flakes of snow before him.

He stopped to look back to the south once, thinking, _If I turn back now
I might get out before the blizzard hits._

Then the other thought came: _These hills all look the same. It I don't
go to the iron while I'm this close and know where it is, it might be
years before I or anyone else could find it again._

He went on and did not look back again for the rest of the day.

By midafternoon the higher hills around him were hidden under the clouds
and the snow was coming harder and faster as the wind drove the flakes
against his face. It began to snow with a heaviness that brought a half
darkness when he came finally to the hill he had seen through the
glasses.

A spring was at the base of it, bubbling out of red clay. Above it the
red dirt led a hundred feet to a dike of granite and stopped. He hurried
up the hillside that was rapidly whitening with snow and saw the vein.

It set against the dike, short and narrow but red-black with the iron it
contained. He picked up a piece and felt the weight of it. It was
heavy--it was pure iron oxide.

He called Schroeder and asked, "Are you down out of the high hills,
Steve?"

"I'm in the lower ones," Schroeder answered, the words coming a little
muffled from where Tip lay inside his jacket. "It looks black as hell up
your way."

"I found the iron, Steve. Listen--these are the neare