Nothing comes to interrupt him, so long as he sits contemplating the moon.

Eventually, though, the damp gets to him. He stands, and for lack of any better idea, begins to walk.

He has never been the outdoorsy type. Nature seems, to him, so disorganized. Nonetheless, he recalls words he's read in too many self-indulgent adventure stories.

What is it? he thinks. Two minutes without shelter, two days without water, two weeks without food?

There's not much shelter in evidence. He is on top of a large, grass-covered hill. One of many, stretching away into the distance. To his left, the rough outline against the stars suggests a forest.

He knows he should stop and think of a strategy more well thought out than just following wherever his feet take him, but he doesn't.

In stories, the people who are carried away to different worlds are ready to go. They have no lives, or if they do they accept the loss of them in exchange for the promise of adventure.

But he wasn't ready to go. He didn't want to go.

The thought strikes him suddenly, like the answer to a math problem that has been eluding him for hours. Information doesn't come from nowhere. If he ended up here, then whatever force brought him here must be able to see Earth.

And that means he can go back. He knows what he has to do.

Well, as soon as he's not slowly freezing in the wilderness. He couldn't find another settlement at all at this point, let alone finding his way to a planet that doesn't have Haşar stalking him.

He freezes, suddenly aware of a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He pivots, scanning for anything other than the quiet, empty grass through which he has been trudging.

He doesn't see anything.

He runs.

They're not bothering to stay hidden now. Long, low shapes follow him, keeping to the corner of his eyes. If he were able to take a moment to think, rather than scrambling in blind panic down one steep hillside and up the next, driven on by hunting cries like a knife sharpener with a bugle every time he hesitates a moment too long, he might realize that they're herding him.

Eventually, the gas giant is low in the sky. He crests a hill and sees a farm laid out before him. A startled farmer is pushing a cart between some outbuildings, and spots him silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky.

"Gut qu warzat? Qu pihor gyenit!" they call, abandoning their cart and sprinting towards him. "Piyerçawqu qyanyrana," they elaborate, pointing at a line of tall metal poles that separate the farm from the hills.

Sable is, at this point, too tired to notice details like someone speaking a language he has never heard of. Nevertheless, he drags himself down the hill. He passes the line of poles and doesn't slow down.

Çet catches him and lower him gently to the ground. "Pihoror. Piyerçawqu nat yor qyanyarana," they say, patting him on the back.

"I," he manages to gasp out between breaths. "Have no idea what you're saying."

He flops over dramatically and looks up at the rapidly lightening sky.

"Zabarhagy qu zenterhegy?" they exclaim. "Naga Çet," they say, laying a hand on their forehead. They point their open palm towards Sable. "Qu?"

"Uh."

He pauses for a moment.

"Sable Wellington," he guesses, gesturing at himself. He points his palm at the farmer. "Kate?" he repeats.

"Sabuqy Weqyington", they repeat. Their attempt at an "l" sound comes out breathy and faint.

"I know you can't understand me," Sable says. "But thank you, for helping me escape whatever those were." He hopes the tone of voice makes his gratitude clear.

Once he's caught his breath, Çet helps him to his feet, gesturing towards their farmhouse. "Qu pihor gyenit," they repeat.

The farmhouse is unfinished timber with a thatched roof. Soft red lights glow from under the eaves, although they're quickly becoming less apparent as the sky lightens.

Sable rises, glancing warily behind him at the hills. Taking a stab in the linguistic darkness he points his palm out towards the hills and asks "Qu?"

Çet wrinkles their brow and stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"O! Ga? Haşarga. Gehot gut tesirorigy."

Sable lets himself be led into the farmhouse. If he were more aware, he might notice that the abandoned cart on the path to the barn seems to lack wheels.

As it is, he welcomes the dry warmth of the farmhouse, and lets himself be pushed into a chair at a large wooden table.

"Pihoror. Nat wapuş gyanarara," they explain, gesturing for Sable to remain in the chair, and then gesturing between themselves and the door.

After looking to see that Sable does not appear to be going anywhere, Çet leaves, their footsteps fading quickly as they move away from the house.

The inside of the farmhouse, now that Sable has time to examine it, more or less resembles the outside. The walls are also unfinished wood on the inside, although he doesn't know enough about wood to guess the type.

Surprising in its absence is a fireplace -- the role of stove seems to be played by a large, rounded block of stone emitting sourceless heat. A kettle sits on top of it.

Light is provided by several long, thin tubes that hang from beams down the length of the house. Right now, they are matching the sky outside and slowly brightening, tiny carvings on their surfaces flickering as they do.

Sable has had a long night. While he would normally be all over mysterious glowing tubes, right now the only thing he can bring himself to do is sleep.

"... norhe homdarna," Çet whispers, quietly opening the door and leading their companion in.