Scrivener's Moon
“Each propped on its own big throne-like chair, and each unmistakably a Stalker, its head an outsize helmet, its face a metal mask, its eyes twin lamps. Most of the lamps were dead and blank, and some of the Stalkers had disintegrated with age into heaps of machinery and a scatter of dead-stick bones, but in the eyes of a few a faint green light still played, like wills-o’-the-wisp trapped in the armoured heads. From their metal skull-pieces tangles of wire trailed, plugged into sockets on the w...alls behind.
“I think it is all right,” Fever said, after a little time. “These are not Stalkerish Stalkers. . .”
If they had been Stalkerish Stalkers, she reasoned, she and Cluny and Marten would already be dead. But the figures all stayed seated, and the hands that clasped the armrests of their chairs were not gauntlets full of knives but more like mummies’ hands; brittle armatures of twigs papered in ancient skin.
Fever went into the room, and stopped as one of the Stalkers raised its head to focus on her.MoreLess
“I think it is all right,” Fever said, after a little time. “These are not Stalkerish Stalkers. . .”
If they had been Stalkerish Stalkers, she reasoned, she and Cluny and Marten would already be dead. But the figures all stayed seated, and the hands that clasped the armrests of their chairs were not gauntlets full of knives but more like mummies’ hands; brittle armatures of twigs papered in ancient skin.
Fever went into the room, and stopped as one of the Stalkers raised its head to focus on her.MoreLess
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