The Capture

barely reached up to Soren's wing tips.

    "No, I'm not all right," Soren gasped. "Nothing is right. Don't you miss your parents? Don't you wonder what they think happened to you?"

    "Yes, yes. I just can't think about it," Gylfie replied. "Listen, pull yourself together. We have our Great Scheme, remember?"

    "What do you mean pull yourself together? Do you know what I just figured out about my brother?"

    "Look, we don't have much time," Gylfie said quickly. "Make sure you get assigned to the pelletorium."

    "The pelletorium?" Soren said blankly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    The Pelletorium

    Auntie Finny suddenly appeared. "Cricket hunter. You're perfect. You see, here in our lovely stone country the cricket season is much longer. They hide in the nooks and crannies and then come out in the sunshine to bask in the heat of the day."

    "Uh ..." Soren started to speak. "I'm feeling a little peckish, you know, Auntie. I think maybe the pelletorium would be better for me."

    "Oh, the pelletorium!" Auntie Finny looked slightly confused. She had never had an owlet suggest another workstation or training schedule. She looked at the Barn Owl. He didn't look well. And if he failed as a cricket hunter, it would reflect poorly on her. And then again, if she fulfilled this owl's request, it would perhaps put him in her debt. It was always good to have an owlet indebted to you. "Yes, yes. I suppose so." She gazed at the young owl. Soren felt the soft yellow glow of her eyes. "Now, remember, dear, what I've done for you and remember the little" --
    she beaked the word -- "'nap' I allowed you." The yellow light turned a bit hard like glinting gold. "Then follow that line over there into the pelletorium."

    "I am 47-2. I am to be your guide for the pelletorium. Follow me." The owlet spoke in a peculiar manner.
    Her sounds were clipped and hollow. It was not like the terrible thrum and clang of Jatt and Jutt, but it was like no owl sound Soren had ever heard.

    Soren and Gylfie followed number 47-2, who had begun to march. Soon, they heard the click of all the owlets' talons as they struck the ground, for they were once more marching in time. Now the strange hollow tone in which 47-2 had spoken seemed to hover over the vast rr\arching assembly of owlets.
    They were singing!

    Every pellet has a story all its own. Every pellet has a story all its own. With its fur and teeth and bones And one or two stones, Every pellet has a story all its own.

    We shall dissect every pellet with glee. Verhaps we'll find a rodent's knee. And never shall we tire In the sacred task that we conspire, Nor do our work less than perfectly And those bright flecks at the core, Which make our hearts soar, Shall forever remain the deepest mystery.

    Nothing could have prepared Soren and Gylfie for the shock of what met their eyes as they entered the pelletorium. They had been led into another box canyon, and on slabs of rock ledges hundreds of owls bobbed their heads up and down over thousands of pellets that had been yarped by owls. If either one of these two little owlets had known the meaning of the word "hell," they would have known that this was certainly the deepest and worst part of it. But neither Soren nor Gylfie in their short lives knew of such things as hell or the words that would describe such a place. Until their snatching, they really had only known what might be called heaven. Life high in a lovely tree hollow or cactus lined with the downy fluff of their parents, plump insects delivered several times a day, and then the first juicy mouse morsels. And besides all the delicious meals, there were stories -- stories of flight, of learning to fly, of the feeling that must be deep in their gizzards in order to rise on the wind.

    Number 47-2 stepped up to them and, in her weirdly
    hollow voice, she began to speak. "I am what is called a third-degree picker. I pick through the pellets for the larger objects -- pebbles, bone, and teeth mostly. Second- degree pickers pick for feathers and fur.
    First-degree pickers pick for flecks. This is a fleck." 47-2 pointed with her talon to the tiniest speck that glinted in an open pellet. "It is a kind of metal." She paused. "Or something," she added vaguely. "You need not know what they are. You need only know that flecks are precious, more precious than gold. To become a fleck picker is the highest level of skill in the pelletorium. Tomorrow I shall be advanced one level. I shall be a second-degree picker. Therefore, as