And so they came to Timberline Cabin, and Albert Edward
Cobbins was in the doorway. Heyl put her down gently on the
bench that ran alongside the table. The hospitable table
that bore two smoking cups of tea. Fanny's lips were
cracked, and the skin was peeled from her nose, and her hair
was straggling and her eyes red-rimmed. She drank the tea
in great gulps. And then she went into the tiny bunkroom,
and tumbled into one of the shelf-bunks, and slept.
When she awoke she sat up in terror, and bumped her head
against the bunk above, and called, "Clancy!"
"Yep!" from the next room. He came to the door. The acrid
smell of their pipes was incense in her nostrils. "Rested?"
"What time is it?"
"Seven o'clock. Dinner time. Ham and eggs."
She got up stiffly, and bathed her roughened face, and
produced a powder pad (they carry them in the face of
danger, death, and dissolution) and dusted it over her scaly
nose. She did her hair--her vigorous, abundant hair that
shone in the lamplight, pulled down her blouse, surveyed her
torn shoes ruefully, donned the khaki skirt that Albert
Edward had magically produced from somewhere to take the
place of her breeches.
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