The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what might
have been parsecs in all directions. White; blinding; waterless; without feature save for the
faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves on the horizon and the devil-grass
which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death. An occasional tombstone sign pointed the way, for
once the drifted track that cut its way through the thick crust of alkali had been a highway and
coaches had followed it. The world had moved on since then. The world had emptied.
The gunslinger walked stolidly, not hurrying, not loafing. A hide waterbag was slung around his
middle like a bloated sausage. It was almost full. He had progressed through the khef over many
years, and had reached the fifth level. At the seventh or eighth, he would not have been thirsty;
he could have watched own body dehydrate with clinical, detached attention, watering its crevices
and dark inner hollows only when his logic told him it must be done. He was not seventh or eighth.
He was fifth. So he was thirsty, although he had no particular urge to drink. In a vague way, all
this pleased him. It was romantic.