The days became weeks with dismaying swiftness as they penetrated farther into the north. The hills became more rugged and there were intrusions of granite and other formations to promise a chance of finding metal; a promise that urged them on faster as their time grew shorter. Twice he saw something white in the distance. Once it was the bones of another band of woods goats that had huddled together and frozen to death in some early blizzard of the past and once it was the bones of a dozen unicorns. The nights grew chillier and the suns moved faster and faster to the south. The animals began to migrate, an almost imperceptible movement in the beginning but one that increased each day. The first frost came and the migration began in earnest. By the third day it was a hurrying tide. Tip was strangely silent that day. He did not speak until the noon sun had cleared the cold, heavy mists of morning. When he spoke it was to give a message from Chiara: "Howard ... last report ... Goldie is dying ... pneumonia...." Goldie was Chiara's mocker, his only means of communication--and there would be no way to tell him when they were turning back. "Turn back today, Tony," he said. "Steve and I will go on for a few days more." There was no answer and he said quickly, "Turn back--turn back! Acknowledge that, Tony." "Turning back ..." the acknowledgment came. "... tried to save her...." The message stopped and there was a silence that Chiara's mocker would never break again. He walked on, with Tip sitting very small and quiet on his shoulder. He had crossed another hill before Tip moved, to press up close to him the way mockers did when they were lonely and to hold tightly to him. "What is it, Tip?" he asked. "Goldie is dying," Tip said. And then again, like a soft, sad whisper, "Goldie is dying...." "She was your mate.... I'm sorry." Tip made a little whimpering sound, and the man reached up to stroke his silky side. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry as hell, little fellow." * * * * * For two days Tip sat lonely and silent on his shoulder, no longer interested in the new scenes nor any longer relieving the monotony with his chatter. He refused to eat until the morning of the third day. By then the exodus of woods goats and unicorns had dwindled to almost nothing; the sky a leaden gray through which the sun could not be seen. That evening he saw what he was sure would be the last band of woods goats and shot one of them. When he went to it he was almost afraid to believe what he saw. The hair above its feet was red, discolored with the stain of iron-bearing clay. He examined it more closely and saw that the goat had apparently watered at a spring where the mud was material washed down from an iron-bearing vein or formation. It had done so fairly recently--there were still tiny particles of clay adhering to the hair.