Out of the Silent Planet - C. S. Lewis [45]
"Yes," he said dully to the sorn. "That is my world." It was the bleakest moment in all his travels.
XVI
RANSOM AWOKE next morning with the vague feeling that a great weight had been taken off his mind. Then he remembered that he was the guest of a sorn and that the creature he had been avoiding ever since he landed had turned out to be as amicable as the hrossa, though he was far from feeling the same affection for it. Nothing then remained to be afraid of in Malacandra except Oyarsa. 'The last fence,' thought Ransom.
Augray gave him food and drink.
"And now," said Ransom, "how shall I find my way to Oyarsa ?"
"I will carry you," said the sorn. "You are too small a one to make the journey yourself and I will gladly go to Meldilorn. The hrossa should not have sent you this way. They do not seem to know from looking at an animal what sort of lungs it has and what it can do. It is just like a hross. If you died on the harandra they would have made a poem about the gallant hmân and how the sky grew black and the cold stars shone and he journeyed on and journeyed on; and they would have put in a fine speech for you to say as you were dying ... and all this would seem to them just as good as if they had used a little forethought and saved your life by sending you the easier way round."
"I like the hrossa," said Ransom a little stiffly. "And I think the way they talk about death is the right way."
"They are right not to fear it, Ren-soom, but they do not seem to look at it reasonably as part of the very nature of our bodies - and therefore often avoidable at times when they would never see how to avoid it. For example, this has saved the life of many a hross, but a hross would not have thought of it."
He showed Ransom a flask with a tube attached to it, and, at the end of the tube, a cup, obviously an apparatus for administering oxygen to oneself.
"Smell on it as you have need, Small One," said the sorn. "And close it up when you do not."
Augray fastened the thing on his back and gave the tube over his shoulder into his hand.
Ransom could not restrain a shudder at the touch of the sorn's hands upon his body; they were fan-shaped, seven-fingered, mere skin over bone like a bird's leg, and quite cold. To divert his mind from such reactions he asked where the apparatus was made, for he had as yet seen nothing remotely like a factory or a laboratory.
"We thought it," said the sorn, "and the pfifltriggi made it."
"Why do they make them?" said Ransom. He was trying once more, with his insufficient vocabulary, to find out the political and economic framework of Malacandrian life.
"They like making things," said