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I murmured the trailman's name for the mountain, aloud, and translated it for the others: "The Wall Around the World."

We had to make our way through tangles of underbrush which would have been nothing to a trailman, but which made our ground-accustomed bodies ache with the effort of getting over or through them; and once the track was totally blocked by a barricade of tangled dead brushwood, borne down on floodwater after a sudden thaw or cloud-burst.

As I watched, a trailman—quite naked except for an ornate hat and a narrow binding around the loins—descended the trunk.

I tried to decide what I would have done, as a trailman, but my brain wouldn't run that way at the moment.

If we kill a single trailman, except in hand-to-hand fight in self-defense, we might as well pack up and go home.