Years later, Atalla could remember every moment of
the night he saw the ship that flew.
It was early, at least two hours before morningsinging.
The sky still held the pale yellow of dawn, though darker streaks showed where the deeper orange of full daylight was beginning to break through. Atalla had risen before sunrise because Father had promised he might ride his first jhovall, and the ten-year-old boy had been far too excited to sleep.
All through the dark hours, he lay on his pallet, staring into the blackness, listening to the soft breathing of
Mother and Father asleep in the adjoining bed. In the
stillness of the country night, he could hear the mournful cries of mating qomallen to the south, and when the hour was latest he heard the distant booming vibrations of
nightsinging from the city.
As the walls of the cottage slowly lightened, Atalla
rose. Carefully, to avoid waking his parents, he slipped out the door.
Before him the plains of the west stretched to a horizon that was still only a dim line between sky and earth. Atalla stood still, drinking in the rich, heady smells of the air; the faint odor of human habitation mixed with the scents of
farm animals and the wild creatures of the plains. Breezes tousled his black hair and riffled through his nightshirt. His heart thumped in his chest, and he felt deeply, warmly
