October--month of falling leaves and dying dreams, month of fragrant beauties gone to dust, the month of the last, failing fight against the clutch of grim, all-destroying winter.

And Fairchild was sagging in defeat just as the leaves were falling from the shaking aspens, as the moss tendrils were curling into brittle, brown things of death.

October! For a long moment, Fairchild said nothing, then as Harry came from the staging, he moved to the older man's side.
"I--I did n't quite catch the idea," came at last.

Harry pointed with his sledge.
"I 've been noticing the vein.

It keeps turning to the left.