On the third circad since the morning he had set off (the Epaphians divided their long-day into eight 24 hour periods called “circads”) Darian came across a small ranch, the sun now sinking in the west and Thoriam growing once more into a thin crescent, and thanked the heavens, for he was all out of cattail roots and, as far as he knew, the ranchers on this part of Epaphus were generous to strangers. There were fields with horses and cattle grazing on the grasslands, sparse still but much thicker than the shrublands he had just come from. There was a row of a few round cement granaries, a large, square barn and, right close at hand, a small plaster house with an old truck parked in front. Hungry as he was, Darian could hardly contain himself. He ran up to the door and gave a loud knock, remembering only too soon to hide Alaliaq in the bushes.
         ‘Who there!?’ yelled the rancher from inside the house.
         ‘It is just I,’ Darian yelled back, up through the window, ‘a lowly wanderer.’ Steps rattled down the stairs and the door was opened up by a haggard, old man.
         ‘Say who now?’ he spat out. Darian replied, almost panting with hunger.
         ‘My name is Darian,’ he said, ‘since the last sunrise I have been making my way across this harsh land on foot with very little to eat and less to drink. Please sir, if you could- ’
         ‘LAST SUNRISE?!!’ the rancher shouted, ‘And you ain’t got nothin’ to eat?’
         ‘Well, uh, I had some cattail roots awhile back and there was this lizard- ’
         ‘Well, what’re ya standin’ there for?’ spat the man, ‘C’mon in, le’me get some food in that belly o’ yer’s.’
         Darian stepped inside. The kindly old rancher served him a hot meal of beef stew and rice and brewed up hot drinks for the both of them and sat down.
         ‘So, wha’s yer story, son?’ he asked, and Darian told him all about the fire, the mass suicide, everything. Everything, that is, except the jarred head and the mysterious quest it was leading him on. When he was finished, the rancher mused for a while.
         ‘Doctor Waeko, eh?’ he said, ‘If I’m a’thinkin’ about the same Waeko as ya’re, then me n’ him go way back. Grew up togetter, we did. He was a queer one, that one. Ran off ta git his doct’rate - ah, shoot, must’ve been a hundird years ago. Never saw him again.
         Last I heard, he found some ancient artifact somewhere in ’round the Sitnalta Desert. That’s when he broke off from the Holy Doctrine Order and started his own weirdo cult. The one ya jist ran away from, the Paytho Kefolly or whatever-the-hell it’s called. Shame it had to end like that. Damn shame.’ They sat for a while sipping at their hot drinks before he got up from the table.
         ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m ’bout ready to hit the sack. Ya feel free to sleep in the guest room if ya like. Come wakin’ time I can give ya a ride to town or whatever ya like.’ And with that he exited for his room and Darian got up to go to his guest room, all too happy to finally sleep in a soft bed.
         But no sooner had he laid down then a high-pitched whirring sound grabbed his attention.
         ‘Darian.’ came the robotic voice from outside his window, ‘Darian, get up.’ Darian rose from the bed and went to the window to speak to the head-in-a-jar that was still hidden in the bushes outside where he had left it.
         ‘Yes, master, what is it?’ he asked.
         ‘Darian, is the old man retired?’ replied the pickled head.
         ‘He must be. Why?’ asked Darian.
         ‘Then it is time to leave, we must take his truck.’
         ‘What? No.’ said Darian, ‘He is a kind man, I can’t steal a truck from such a generous host.’