"Can you be sure?" thundered the blue-robed giant as he reared onto elephantine hinds, straining against the iron chains of gravity. Jook the First, Emperor-General of the Northern Hegemony, was famous for his prodigious strength, infamous for his intolerance, and notorious for his ruthless disregard for life.
"Begging forgiveness, Supreme Leader, I cannot," Scientist Director Moth whimpered. The astronomer's anxiety glands burped yet again, audibly this time. Moth could smell his own fear-scent rising in clouds. He stared at the floor, his broad-nosed, pebbly-skinned image reflected in polished onyx, his muddy brown eyes wide with terror under painfully rigid brow tuffs. Why had he been so rash?
"Could it have been but a clever ruse?" Jook asked, dropping back into his hydrostasis throne. The ruler's ponderous form moved leadenly, searching for comfort on the midnight-blue pneumopillows. "Their communication signals could have been made deceptively simple for the very purpose of making us curious."
"Yes, Exalted One," Moth replied, trying desperately to anticipate correct answers. Surely his career, if not his life, was in the balance. "Communication signals were of remedial simplicity. I tendered the hypothesis of peaceful contact because of the nature of the intercepts. Simple patterns and numerics, music, geometrical formulae would all be typical of such an attempt, Exalted One." Moth displayed his most obsequious posture and awaited his fate, a trembling mountain of misery alone on the center of the imperial court.
"General Gorruk, your opinion," the Supreme Leader barked at a stern visage sitting on a lower level of the black marble throne. Gorruk, commander of the imperial armies, clad in belted khaki with red trim, lifted his gigantic body erect. Gorruk, easily three times the mass of a human being, was even larger than the Supreme Leader. On his epaulets sparkled the silver starbursts of the Planetary Defense Command. Moth was amazed at the time the barrel-chested, slab-faced general took to formulate his response. Such blatant hubris.
"I think," General Gorruk rumbled, luxuriant black brow tufts stiffening and vibrating with concentration, "that this is a waste of the emperor's time. It is transparent. The invaders were closing on our planet to attack, as they did during the reign of Ollant. Trickery."
Gorruk stood over Moth; the prone scientist sensed the general's pulsating body heat and smelled his irritation. Moth clinched shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to the floor.
"Why?" Gorruk queried. "Why does this worthless heap of intellectual offal pretend to your precious attention? The Supreme Leader has greater concerns. Our race is saved from another invasion, the enemy routed, chased from our system—again! Planetary Defense Command, with overwhelming assistance from the Northern Hegemony's strategic rockets, vanquished the intruders. What more news can this worm provide? You, Supreme Leader, taking advice from a petty bureaucrat, a so-called scientist. A sniveling coward. Smell him! Why is he even here?"
"Because I directed him to appear, General!" Jook growled darkly.
"Yes," Gorruk sneered. "Only remember your solemn vows to—"
"General Gorruk!" Jook roared, bolting upright. "Remind me not of the Vows of Protection! We shall never be surprised again!" "You! Scientist!" Gorruk shouted, adroitly changing the point of attack. Gorruk, a behemoth among behemoths, always attacked. "Yes, great general," Moth said tremulously.
"How?" Gorruk asked, hot poison in his voice. "How is it that our enemies fly to our solar system at will, and we are unable to leave? They have come again, penetrated our planetary system, from somewhere, somewhere out in the deep universe. They bridge the distances. Why is that? What physics do they have that we do not?"
Moth remained silent, too frightened to speak.
"Speak you, worm!" General Gorruk screamed at the prostrate figure.
Moth raised his face. "I beg mercy, General. I am but an astronomer. It is not for me to speak about things I know not."
"General Gorruk!" Jook commanded. "Return to your court station. You are aggravatingly correct. We will never again permit alien battle forces to attack first. But that is not the issue." The ruler glared down at his general officer. Gorruk stood tall, immobile, resolute.
"Kneel, Gorruk!" Jook bellowed, veins bulging across temples and thick neck, brow tufts fanning apart. "These are my chambers. Down, Gorruk. Now!" A harbinger of doom, the sour odor of imperial anger wafted across the court. The palace guard shifted nervously. Hulking forms, blasters ready, moved inward from shadowed alcoves.
Gorruk, in slow motion, momentarily leaned his bulk onto callused hands and padded forearms in subservience, his own anger-scent commingling dangerously with that of the emperor. Rising from the bow, and remaining naturally on all fours, he marched back to his position.
Air circulators hummed into high-volume mode.
"With utmost respect, Great Leader," interjected another court official, a slighter figure robed in brilliant, black-trimmed white. It was the delicate, golden-skinned noblekone, Et Kalass, Minister of Internal Affairs, standing easily to his hinds. "I must agree with our courageous commanding general," he said, his voice soothing and calm. "The aliens, regardless of intent, have been repulsed. Let us focus on the all too familiar problems of government."
The minister signaled with a languid wave. Moth felt a slight tug on his cloak and then a sharper one. The scientist turned to see an attendant of the chamber motioning for him to follow, which he gladly did, crawling on all fours, as even the exalted general had finally done. Clear of the chambers, the blue-liveried attendant turned and addressed Moth with condescension. "Minister Et Kalass is interested. You will be contacted on the morrow."
Moth watched the attendant lumber away, his gravity-distended belly dusting the floor. The scientist was awestruck to be in the imperial palace, but he was even more anxious to return to his normal milieu. A crawling lackey provided escort down the crystal hall and through the low-domed, thickly columned rotunda,where a pantheon of prior emperor-generals, many removed from power in small pieces, stared down with malevolent glares from gilded frames. A bronze of Jook I stood atop a pedestal in the center of the sunburst emblazoned chamber floor.
They passed security positions, weaving through magnetic field detectors, chemical sniffers, and ultra-sonic inspection cages, where heavily armed guards monitored information consoles. Once through the rotunda his escort departed, and Moth continued on all fours through the heavily buttressed entryway and down the parade ramp. He crossed Imperial Square, circumventing the gardens, and trundled out the intensely guarded front gate, joining the murmuring crowds of crawling kones moving thickly along the cracked sidewalks of the wide avenue. Work shifts were changing, and the faces of the milling workers and laborers—trods—ranged from sullen to stoic. Moth was relieved to be out of the tense environment, even if it meant having to mingle with mobs of tight-jawed proles.
It was an unusual day, cloudless, the air clearer than usual. Even the smooth hills rimming the capital to the south and west were visible—if just barely—adding vertical dimension to the squat skyline of the capital. An adobe-colored ocean to the northeast disappeared into thick smog, revealing no horizons. Overhead a haze ring encircled the low mid-day sun, the sky a peaceful cream color with tints of yellow and rust. Victory Tower, five times higher than any other municipal structure, jutted dimly into the sky, a vague stiletto pointing at the bright bull's-eye of the sun.
Very pretty, thought Moth, ambling along at an uneasy canter, jostled frequently by the passing multitudes. He made a direct path to the transit tube and stood in line at the identification gates. It took only fifteen minutes to get onto the boarding platforms—over half the gates were working. It took twice that long to catch a car; the first two trains to pass were appropriated by the Public Safety Militia and did not stop, their long cars whisking through the station, helmets and weapons discernible in the blurring movement.
An hour later he debarked at an outpost where the station master recognized him and called for transportation. Minutes later Director Moth trotted through the main entrance of the Imperial Astronomical Institute and was once again an important kone.
"I hope it went well, Director," said Scientist Dowornobb, his prodigious and brilliant young assistant, an astrophysicist as well as an accomplished astronomer. Together they crawled toward the administrative offices, passing the commodious operations center. Director Moth noted with satisfaction the programmers gawking as he went by. Some of the females were so brazen as to lift their eyes. He would have to crack down on such behavior, but for now he enjoyed the rare fame associated with being called before the Supreme Leader—and living to tell about it.
"Quite well," Moth replied arrogantly. "Have you finished the trajectory mapping? I am told we may have to provide additional information as soon as tomorrow." The director crawled into his suite of offices, going to the terminal to read his mail. Dowornobb followed, making silly faces.
"The mapping is finished, Director, but the results are indeterminate," Dowornobb answered, recoiling in mock anticipation of his master's anger.
"Indeterminate? Indeterminate!" Moth shouted, glaring at the clowning assistant. "Why indeterminate? Pay attention. Say something!"
"Yes, Director," Dowornobb raised downcast eyes and irreverently looked skyward. "The largest alien ships just, eh…disappeared. Gone. Magic. Indeterminate. Poof! There is no evidence that any were destroyed or even damaged, though our interceptors engaged within lethal range. They just vanished—the large contacts, that is." Dowornobb moved to a terminal. Dowornobb was a genius. His lack of manners and insensitivity to decorum were usually overlooked.
"We were able to track one small contact after the disappearance of the primary units." Absorbed in his data, Dowornobb dropped all deference to Director Moth. "The aliens apparently left one functioning ship behind. This corresponds to the military debriefs." He stared at a report, all but ignoring the director.
"And…?" Moth asked impatiently. "And?"
"Huh… oh," Dowornobb looked up. "All engagements have outcomes, but one."
"And…?" Moth struggled to contain himself. His theories, such as they were, came from Dowornobb's analysis. Moth was dependent upon his assistant, particularly now that the emperor was interested.
"Some of our ships never came back…" Dowornobb started.
"I know that! Many were never intended to return. They were ordered to intercept quickly, beyond operational ranges at peak intercept speeds. We knew some would run out of fuel. They blew themselves up rather than be captured." Moth was not supposed to reveal that.
"Oh!" Dowornobb said, in quiet shock. "That explains much…."
"Yes, kone! On with it!" Moth insisted.
"Well," the assistant continued. "Our ships all sent back successful reports, claiming to have eliminated the enemy. But trajectory analysis does not bear that out. One alien ship, I am certain, was still moving after our interceptors were recalled or destroyed. Er, perhaps destroyed is not the correct term."
"What? Are you sure? Where did it go?" Moth blurted in a most undignified manner. "It has been days. They will ask why it has taken so long for us to report this."
Dowornobb smiled his irritating little smile. "Well, there really is no good excuse, of course, but you could explain it by telling our illustrious leaders the ancient data processors they make us use are just too slow. Our telemetry links are serialized and the trajectory data file is quite large. Now, if we had the hardware those Public Safety vultures have to keep track of the dissidents, we could—"
"Stop, Scientist Dowornobb!" Moth exclaimed, panic in his voice; he looked about with darting glances. "I will not tolerate seditious talk. You have demonstrated your technical competence, but please do not test my loyalty."
"Genellan," Dowornobb said matter-of-factly.
"What? Genellan?" Moth asked.
"It went into orbit around Genellan," Dowornobb soberly replied. "A very low orbit, barely resolvable. It has disappeared since."
Brappa paddled languorously underwater, fishing patiently. The food chain was well served in the warm waters near the spring, where the cliff dweller stalked a cluster of fat fish swimming near the sandy bottom. Expelling air, the hunter struck with blurring speed. Teeth-lined jaws seized an unsuspecting member of the school.
As the hunter smoothly surfaced, fish in his teeth, he simultaneously glimpsed the raft and heard Craag's warning whistle. The raft of the long-legs was between him and the island. Brappa slipped silently beneath the surface, the fish preventing him from taking a deep breath. Submerged, he kicked frantically for the rocky mainland and the protection of its boulders. He waded ashore and peeked across the lake in time to see the raft slide onto the beach.
Inconvenient, but at least it was a change. The weather had kept the long-legs in their cave. With the cessation of rain and the arrival of morning skies swept clear by strong north winds, the morning had been busy. Descending from their camp in noisy groups, the long-legs had washed themselves at the shore, splashing and paddling. They were raucous and incautious beasts. And now they were out on the lake in raft.
Brappa moved bravely up on shore among the rocks to eat the fish; the hunter's fear had lost its edge. His appetite on the other hand was quite sharp.
"The water's much warmer!" Goldberg exclaimed, cupping her hand in the lake. "The hot spring must be coming from the island."
Tatum pulled easily as Goldberg dragged her fingers in the lake.
"Sandy, row us over to the island," Dawson directed.
Tatum complied with strong, full strokes. Goldberg sat in the stern and flirted with the lanky Marine, watching his powerful shoulders and arms move the unwieldy craft. Tatum smiled at her and winked. Goldberg turned her head. When the raft lurched onto the sandy beach, Dawson jumped into the water. She grunted and huffed, hauling on the steel ring in the raft's nose.
"Wait a second, Nance," Tatum said. "You ain't hauling this boat with me sitting in it."
"The water's so warm," Dawson shouted. "Pepper, you have to feel it!"
Goldberg moved from the stern, leaning against Tatum as she slid slowly around him. She jumped to the beach, splashing water with a conspiratorial squeal while Tatum hauled the raft up on the beach. The women removed their boots and thermal leggings, rolled up their jumpsuits, and waded into the water. Both were soon falling and splashing, their jumpsuits drenched. Tatum briefly watched their antics but then started looking around.
"Sandy! Come on," Goldberg called out. "You need a bath. You stink!"
Tatum walked to the shore, hands on narrow hips.
"My clothes are finally dry. I ain't getting them wet, and you ain't prepared to see me without," he lectured. "Sarge said I wasn't to let you ladies get scared."
They hooted, and Dawson splashed water. Tatum moved out of range.
"Hold it down. I'm going to look this island over." He disappeared into the bushes.
Brappa watched and listened to the activity. The long-legs with the sand-colored clothing were playing in the water. They did not look dangerous. The tall, wide-shouldered one with the green covering looked powerful—a giant. His strides were large and quick, and he was alert. Brappa became concerned for Craag, but the giant eventually reappeared, looking over his shoulder.
Brappa heard a rumbling sound. Deep within the ground, a fault slipped and a clutch of tremors jolted the ground. The rigid plateau jiggled; shock waves rippled the granite as a quake rolled across the land, moving rock laterally and displacing lake water. The disturbed, pulsing fluid bunched at the margin of the lake, gathered energy, and rebounded from the southern shore, accelerating and amplifying as it approached the channels between the islands at the northern end. The lake erupted with tall, choppy waves that swept across islands and northern beaches, propelling the long-legs' raft onto the island, over the tops of small thickets, striking the base of the granite hillock.
Brappa was less fortunate. Quakes were common, and the hunter knew what was happening but could do nothing about it. Waves struck Brappa full force, casting his small body violently onto the rocks, knocking him unconscious and breaking his forearm. The waters receded noisily from the stony shore and within minutes the lake stood calm, stirred only by the breeze.
"Wow! Tidal wave!" Fenstermacher yelled.
Buccari heard the boatswain shouting as she ran down the hill. Fenstermacher and Gordon stumbled among the wet fir needles collecting their fishing gear. A nearby patch of moaning glories began hooting with increased frequency, as if shaking off the wetness of the lake's surge.
"You guys okay?" Buccari asked.
"Yeah," Fenstermacher said. "No problem. It was kinda fun." Shannon was right behind her. "Where's Tatum?" he asked. "Where's the raft?"
A hailing came from across the lake. Tatum, Dawson, and Goldberg stood on the beach, the partially deflated raft just visible, high on the rocks.
"There!" Buccari shouted, pointing toward the island. "Everyone all right, Sergeant?" Quinn asked, joining the cluster.
"What're they doing over there?" Buccari asked.
"Tatum asked to use the raft to check out the hot springs, Lieutenant. I said it was okay," Shannon replied. "O'Toole, Gordon! Swim over to the island and help Tatum salvage the raft." The two Marines stripped to their long underwear and waded in. Dawson and Goldberg were already swimming back. Presently the women, heavy in sodden jumpsuits, slogged from the lake and excitedly described the hot springs. Buccari watched the raft recovery and half listened to their narrative. The growing crowd buzzed with excitement. To add to their enticement the raft was dragged out of the lake at their feet, and Tatum and his helpers all enthusiastically echoed how hot the water was out by the island. Everyone was about to break ranks and go swimming.
"Sarge," Tatum said, "we should check out the island."
"What did you see, Sandy?" Shannon asked, holding up his hand.
"Nothing I could put my finger on," Tatum answered. "It just looks like, well, it's been used. Might be some paths, and I thought I heard some, eh…whistling."
"Whistling?" Quinn said dully.
"Okay, Sandy," Shannon snapped. "Scout the island. Take three men and check it out. Float weapons over on a pack shell." Shannon turned from Tatum and looked around at the assembled group. "No swimming until the raft is repaired," he ordered bluntly. The crowd grumbled their disappointment. Shannon's face reddened.
"Shut up and listen to me! This ain't no goddamn, son-of-abitching beach resort," Shannon shouted. "There will be no—I repeat—no daylight swimming. Assuming the island's clear, we'll organize swim parties, but only when the sun is down." Shannon glanced at Quinn but continued.
"All swim parties will have an armed sentry on watch. I'll say this again, and I want everyone to remember—we're strangers here. We don't know what's out there. We were shot down by hostile fire, and we're in their territory. We will stay hidden. Does everybody understand?"
Quinn nodded. "Well said, Sergeant. Let's get back to our watches. Now that we have found the hot spring we'll figure out a way to use it. Break it up."
The group dutifully made their way along the shore back to camp. Buccari drifted away, listening to the flowers moan, feeling apart from the chain of command. Hudson joined her.
"That was quite an earthquake," Buccari said.
"You mean an R-K Three quake," Hudson replied.
"Yeah," Buccari said, "That's what I meant to say. An R-K Three quake. Real poetic!" Buccari walked to the water's edge while Hudson wandered down the shoreline.
"Look, a dead fish!" Hudson shouted, jumping onto the rocks where the sandy beach ended. "The wave must've washed it ashore. If it's fresh, we can take it back for food." Hudson worked his way over the rocks to the fish and gingerly picked it up by the tail, hoisting it to eye level. "Hey, look!" he said suddenly, bending down, his new crop of blonde hair flashing in the bright morning sun.
"Jeepers! Sharl, come look!" he whispered. "First class ugly!" Hudson drew his pistol.
Alarmed, Buccari stepped across the rocks to where Hudson was stooping. Something was slumped deep in the rocky puddles. A leather membrane had unfurled and lay partially spread, and a leg equipped with ominous talons pointed into the air. Dark red blood oozed from where its ear should have been. Its mouth lay agape and a gleaming line of serrated teeth glinted in the bright sun. It was obscenely ugly. Buccari stared in disgust. Suddenly the animal's torso moved, the lung cavity slowly expanded and contracted—it breathed.
"It's alive!" she shouted, taking a stumbling step backwards. The animal remained unconscious. Buccari looked at Hudson, wondering what they should do. She moved closer, knelt down, and tentatively touched the extended membrane.
"It's covered with fur—soft fur," she said, examining it. "Look at those talons! Maybe we should shoot it and put it out of its misery. Wing looks broken. Huh! That's…not just a wing. It's an arm and a hand! This must be like the big bat that Dawson saw."
"What'll we do, Sharl?" Hudson asked, tentatively touching the wing.
"Don't know," she answered. "I don't know how badly it's hurt. If we just leave it, it may come to enough to crawl away and die in pain. Let's take it back to the cave and see if Lee can do anything." She jumped down and gently lifted the animal's head.
"How do you propose we do that?" Hudson asked.
"Take off your butt bag," she directed.
"What?"
She smiled sweetly. "That's an order, Ensign."
"Pulling rank. What if I didn't have on any underwear?" he asked, shedding his flight suit.
"You think I care? Hurry!"
Hudson did as he was told. "B-r-r-r! It's chilly," he said, looking undignified in green space thermals and boots.
Buccari spread the flight suit on the sand, and they gingerly lifted the limp animal from the rocky puddles. The creature was surprisingly light. Grasping the ropy sinews of its legs and arms, they positioned the animal's limbs within the suit and zipped it up. Buccari wrapped the arms and legs tightly, forming a strait jacket.
"That should hold it," she said. "If it starts thrashing, set it down. Watch out for the mouth."
Braan, returning from the cliffs, circled overhead, observing the events unfolding on the ground. He watched helplessly as the long-legs carried away the limp form. Craag' s «all-clear» lifted into the air, and the hunters recklessly descended. Craag stoically related the tragic events to Braan. Upon completion of his report, the warrior demanded to be blamed for Brappa' s capture, demonstrating abject sorrow to his leader. The sentries were embarrassed for the esteemed hunter.
"Craag, son-of-Veera," Braan said, the loss of his only surviving son weighing heavily on his soul. "Craag, my comrade in battle and life, despair not. The quake put the sentry Brappa down. It was not in thy power to control. The rocks trembled; the gods exhaled. To accept blame for such power is a conceit, my brave and faithful stalwart. Thou were but doing thy duty. That is all a leader can expect."
The sentries nodded approval, but Craag's despair was immense.
"Yep, same beast," Dawson said. "Only the one I saw was carrying a bow and wearing leather."
"Sure, Dawson!" Fenstermacher needled. "An Indian with a little bow and arrow. We'll call him Tonto."
"Get off my back, midget," Dawson snarled, "before I pop you."
"You haven't popped anything since you were twelve!" Fenstermacher replied, wisely moving out of arm's reach. "Enough!" snapped Buccari. "Sarge, move 'em out of here."
"Okay, you heard the lieutenant," Shannon said, physically pushing people from the cave. "Everybody back to the tents. We'll open the zoo later. Lee needs space to work."
"Can you do anything, Leslie?" Buccari asked.
"I don't know, sir. It all depends on how wild, ah…Tonto gets if and when he comes to," Lee said as she gingerly moved the leathery skin from around the lipless mouth, revealing razor sharp teeth. "This little bugger could do some damage."
"Can't you sedate it, tie the mouth shut, and feed it intravenously?" Hudson asked.
"It's dangerous giving drugs to animals," Lee answered. "It could die before we knew what happened. The only thing I can do for sure is set the bone and keep it immobile. Maybe try an analgesic, but even that's risky. Let's tie Tonto up and keep those wings from flailing. We'll keep his mouth free so he can eat. Everyone be careful."
Braan and Craag moved silently through the woods below the cave, their night vision sharply adapted, although night vision was almost unnecessary. The long-legs made it easy; a large campfire burned in the center of the tents, casting its yellow light broadly. The alien beings had finished cooking and eating, but the flames were kept high.
Stalking through the thickets of the small forest, Braan heard curious noises. They moved cautiously toward the disturbance, listening. A rhythmic rustling of the leaves and branches accompanied by quiet moans and heavy breathing greeted their advance through the underbrush. The hunters halted and looked at each other in the dim firelight. The noises increased in intensity and the moaning became insistent. The cliff dwellers were amazed the long-legs around the campfire, less than a fifty spans away, paid no attention to the mysterious noises. Intrigued, the hunters moved closer, arrows nocked. The noises increased to even higher levels of intensity. The hunters crept still closer. Braan detected movement through the shadows and pointed. They peered through the boughs, and it dawned on them. Craag squeaked a stifled giggle—dwellers enjoyed similar pleasures. Braan moved stealthily away from the insistent noises, while Craag lingered for several moments. They would have much to report.
Buccari stared at Tonto. Tonto stared back, blinking frequently, immense eyes the darkest brown, almost black, with catlike pupils. Eyelids serviced the eyeball from top and bottom, giving the eyes a sinister quality. Fenstermacher had just finished changing the blanket beneath the animal after the creature had fouled it.
"He was trying to tell us," Buccari said, putting her face close to the animal's. "That's why he was looking so panicky and squirming around. We should untie him. Next time he acts like that we should take him outside. Look at those eyes!"
"Don't get too close, Lieutenant," Lee cautioned from her sleeping bag.
"Hush, Les, and go to sleep," Fenstermacher said. "I'm on watch."
"That sure makes me feel better," Lee responded, turning her back.
Buccari was fascinated with the creature. She insisted on helping care for it, feeling responsible for bringing it to camp. She was pleased when it began drinking and eating small amounts of fish. Everyone was amazed at how docile it was. Lee suggested that the head injury had rendered it senseless and unaware, no longer capable of survival in the wild, but Buccari was certain the creature realized it was being helped.
Buccari reached down and touched the callused finger tips at the end of the beast's good arm. The spidery fingers immediately closed on her extended finger, but not tightly. She left it there momentarily and then pulled gently away. She wrapped her hand around the animal's closed fist and pressed softly. The animal watched her intently, blinking, seemingly content with unspoken reassurance.
Suddenly, the creature's head jerked to the side and it struggled against its bindings.
"What's wrong, fellow?" Buccari asked, recoiling in alarm.
Tonto squeaked loudly, a broken high-pitched trill. His mouth and throat worked vigorously but emitted only intermittent chirps. Fenstermacher joined Buccari at the animal's bedside, staring down at their agitated patient. Lee threw off her sleeping bag and came over. Dawson looked up from the radio but stayed where she was.
The sentry had been the only obstacle. Craag had distracted it by rolling rocks down the incline. Braan easily moved past the perplexed guard, silently hopping along the large boulders before the cave mouth. The hunter leader looked at the long-leg camp spread beneath him; he was in full view, darkness his only shield. Braan whistled softly. Brappa responded, too loudly.
"Hush!" Braan answered. "I hear. Art thou well? Art thou in danger?"
"I am injured, my father," Brappa replied. "I was foolishly injured."
"The nature of thy injuries? Canst thou escape?"
"My arm is broken. I cannot fly. Also, I am bound." "Art thou in danger?"
"I think not, my father. The long-legs seem interested in my well-being. They have made efforts to repair my arm, and I am encouraged. They feed me, and the pain lessens."
Their activity was attracting attention. The long-legs below stirred, and shouts went up to sentries on both sides of the cave.
"Thy news is good, my son. I am encouraged. Make no effort to escape unless thou perceive danger. We will make a plan," Braan said. "Be of stout heart. Our sentry post is moved to the middle island." Harsh beams of light played against the cliff face. Killing sticks were visible.
"I understand. Please go now, my father!" Brappa pleaded.
The sentry moved closer to Braan's position. The hunter leader furtively shrilled the signal to take flight, and Craag, higher on the rock face, leapt into the night, attracting the attention of the searchers. Braan launched from his position next to the cave, exploding the air with his wings, pushing his body over the longlegs' camp and struggling mightily to gain altitude. Light beams jerked into the blackness, following the noise, and the white rays found Braan as he flailed desperately for clear air. Screams of longlegs increased, and killing sticks were raised.
Buccari's voice rose above the crowd, "Hold your fire?" I'll shoot anyone that discharges a weapon. Hold your fire." She stood silhouetted at the mouth of the cave, pistol in the air. Shannon towered at her side. Flashlight beams held the airborne beast captive in midflight, its wings beating slowly and evenly, ratcheting it higher into starlit skies. Finally it made the limit of the man-made light, wings set, gliding into the night. The spacers, sober after Buccari's threatening order, burst into excited discussions. Their injured guest had had visitors of its own kind.
"There were four of them!" Petit shouted from his sentry post.
"How the hell did four of them get that close? They were practically inside the cave! You awake, Petit?" Shannon excoriated the sentry.
"They musta flown in, Sarge," he replied weakly.
"Flown in, my ass!" Shannon snarled. "I'll talk to you later."
The big Marine stared with disgust into the night skies. Buccari left him on the cave terrace and walked back to the side of the injured animal. Tonto rested quietly on his back, large eyes fully open in the dimness, glinting softly, reflecting light from the lamp across the cave.
"So you had visitors, eh, little buddy?" said Buccari, untying the bindings. "Tell 'em to stick around next time. We could use the company."
The Public Safety truck skidded to a halt inside the front gate of the Imperial Astronomical Institute; a squad of militia troopers spewed forth, securing the gate. Scientist Dowornobb was with Director Moth when they received word that all gates had been similarly impounded.
"They are going to take me away!" Moth whined. "Charged with incompetence and seditious behavior. They will shut down the institute."
"Surely, Director," Dowornobb said, "our work is too important." Yet Dowornobb's fear also expanded. The director had been permissive with the freethinking scientists, largely at Dowornobb's instigation. Perhaps Director Moth was correct; repressive disasters had happened at other institutions. Not knowing what else to do, Dowornobb watched the soldiers deploy throughout the grounds. He could smell the director's fear—and his own.
A second motorcade rumbled through the institute's main gate. An escorted convoy of Internal Affairs vehicles moved expeditiously into the courtyard of the main compound, and a contingent of officials and their bodyguards were disgorged. Dowornobb stared in disbelief as Et Kalass, the Minister of Internal Affairs, garbed in luminous black and white, moved from an armored car. The slight noblekone stood on his hind legs and transported himself thus through the main doors. Dowornobb and Moth hastened to the lifts. Grim-faced guards intercepted them en route and provided a silent escort to the main reference room, where the minister and his party awaited.
"Honored, my Lord," Director Moth fawned, bowing prone before the minister. Dowornobb attempted to slink against the wall, but a guard muscled him to room center.
Et Kalass ignored them, studying instead an expansive mural, a rendering of the night sky as seen from above the planet's milky atmosphere. Minutes dragged by in silence.
The minister at last broke the spell. "Quite nice. Determine who commissioned it. I would have a similar production in my home." An aide acknowledged the command. The minister turned to face the scientists, and Dowornobb could hear and smell Director Moth's fear glands exploding into action. His own immediately followed.
"Be at ease, scientists," Et Kalass commanded as he reclined on a reading couch. "There is no need of apprehension. Relax! Control your temperatures." A powerfully built noblekone, dressed in militia garb and standing on his hind legs, leaned presumptuously against the back of the minister's couch.
"Sit," the minister commanded as lounges were brought forward. "May I introduce you to Et Avian, my nephew," he went on, indicating the noblekone, "and to Chief Scientist Samamkook, my science advisor." Et Kalass bowed graciously to an ancient commoner standing on all fours. Moth and Dowornobb politely leaned onto their hands. Samamkook reciprocated, and pleasantries were exchanged. Dowornobb was honored to meet the great astronomer, whose published works in their field constituted the final authority. The minister allowed social niceties to run their full course, which Dowornobb determined to be most peculiar if they were being arrested. And why bring along the venerable scientist?
"I come on behalf of the Supreme Leader.. and of the royal families," the minister said, going immediately to the point. "Your report on the nature of the signals intercepted during the invasion piques our interest. It is quite easy to conclude that we repulsed a nonaggressive force. That, in itself, does not concern us overmuch. The horrible events marking the end of the Rule of Ollant will not be repeated. We have acted in the best interests of our race. Nevertheless, we want to know what happened, and you of the Imperial Astronomical Institute have a unique perspective. There are rumors you have uncovered additional intelligence of interest." Et Kalass gave Dowornobb a pointed look.
"Yes, my Lord," Director Moth nervously volunteered. "We have completed an exhaustive analysis of all radar trajectory information recorded during the engagements—massive data accumulations. We started the first iterations several days ago, and the results have only just today become, eh…publishable. Scientist Dowornobb has finished the compilation and will have his final report ready by, er.. soon."
Dowornobb looked nervously to Samamkook, who stared impassively at the wall.
"Scientist Dowornobb," commanded Et Kalass. "Please summarize your report. I am told you have interesting conclusions. I could never read through scientific journals. Some reference to Genellan, I believe."
Dowornobb glanced nervously at Moth and proceeded to give a detailed synopsis of his findings. He was allowed to finish without interruption.
"A compelling set of deductions," Samamkook said. "According to your theory, the alien vessels entered our system, loudly announcing their presence with electromagnetic emissions on all frequencies. These signals were overtures—attempts to establish communications." Dowornobb nodded his agreement.
"We reacted quickly," continued the old scientist, "too quickly to realize the nature of the visitors. Or perhaps we did not fall into their trap—a possibility that cannot be discounted. Though I am inclined to do just that, given subsequent events. We attacked! The aliens barely defended themselves, choosing to retreat, somehow to, uh.. disappear, leaving behind a few smaller vessels. These unfortunate vessels were destroyed during the engagements, except for a mysterious ship that managed to elude our interceptors. That single visitor may have found refuge." Samamkook held his wide jaw in a massive hand.
"Genellan is no place for higher orders of civilization!" Moth blurted. "They may have gone into orbit, but to what purpose? The planet is bitterly cold and noxious—hopeless!" He sat back and looked about.
"Hopeless for us, Director," Samamkook said. "Yet life abounds on that cruel planet. Assuming they had the means to leave orbit—a large assumption—then it is no less likely they could endure."
Dowornobb could not imagine living on Genellan. He had seen the queer fur-covered animals brought back for the zoos, but the conditions on the surface seemed so adverse. The miserable landscapes and weather were beyond even his fertile imagination. The sulfurous atmosphere—
"…nobb. Scientist Dowornobb!" The minister was calling his name.
"Ah, yes m-m-my Lord," Dowornobb sputtered.
"You have made progress on their language?" Et Kalass returned to stare at the star mural.
"Well, m-my l-lord," the young scientist replied. "Their language is not yet revealed. I have run the signals through language programs, but it has not given us much to work on. It has provided symbology that might be useful—pictographs and signs. We could establish some communication, somewhat like children talking."
"Excellent. We can help you improve on that." The minister exchanged a meaningful glance with the young noblekone and then stood and walked out, his entourage following. Moth and Dowornobb assumed positions of respectful farewell and were soon alone.
The door to Dowornobb' s apartment crashed open in the early hours of the morning. The kone, reluctantly awake, sat up in his bed.
"Who's there?"
A dark form shifted silently in the bedroom entryway. Other hulking shadows followed, filling the short corridor leading to his small sitting room.
"Who's there?" pleaded Dowornobb, now fully awake. Fear swelled within his great breast. He prayed for the intruders to be robbers or thugs—criminals. For if they were not outlaws, then that could only mean they were government agents.
"Sergeant Shannon sure was tight-jawed," Petit said as they left the tundra of the central plateau; the granite slabs and rocky scrabble of the higher elevation made for easier hiking. "I thought sure he was going to ream me for letting those critters get close to the cave. He didn't say nothing about it."
"Good thing, too," Tatum said. "The mood Sarge was in, once he started chewing tail, he wouldn't have never stopped." "So, what's up his butt?" Petit asked.
"Commander Quinn didn't want to send out a search party," Tatum replied. "I don't think the commander wants anyone to move out of sight of camp."
"Why?" Petit asked. "He afraid we'll get lost, like Mac and Jocko?"
"Who knows? Maybe," Tatum said, looking around; no cover was afforded by the flat, featureless terrain.
"Wouldn't none of us be on patrol if the lieutenant hadn't waded in," Jones added. "Heard 'em talking. Lieutenant Buccari wouldn't take no for an answer."
"She said we should also be looking for a better place to settle. She says winter on the plateau is going to be miserable," Tatum said.
"She's something else, ain't she?" Jones replied. "Best damn officer in the whole damn fleet."
"So why's Shannon so jacked?" Petit persisted. "He got his patrol."
"Yeah," Tatum said, "but he wanted to go himself. He's worried about MacArthur and Chastain. And he needs a break from old mother Quinn."
The patrol headed east, arriving at the plateau's edge early in the afternoon. Tatum was uncomfortable. A noxious sulfur odor bit at their sinuses, and the raw height of the plateau was intimidating. The brink was not sharp, but curved gently away from his feet, rapidly gaining in pitch with each advancing step. The rolling plains far to the east, hazy in the distance, were part of some other world. Their world was flat, and it ended, abruptly, only paces away. Petit and Jones stayed clear of the edge. Tatum shuffled backward to join them.
With no apparent way down, Tatum hiked along the meandering brink of the precipice, hoping a navigable cleft or rift would show itself, enabling them to descend and backtrack along their original parafoil flight path. They found nothing.
Sentries sounded the alarm. Strange beings were reported on the salt trail. Kuudor sent for Braan, and the leader of hunters quickly arrived, Craag at his side. The hunters studied the long-legs struggling up the steep path traversing the cliff face. One had his arm around the neck of the other, being half-carried along.
"The smaller one is damaged," Kuudor observed.
"The larger one is deeply fatigued, but thou art right, captainof-the-sentry, the smaller long-legs is near death," Craag agreed, impressed with the efforts of the big creature.
"They are not gods," Braan said.
"But they are compassionate," Craag added.
"Also unlike the gods." Old Kuudor spoke with sacrilegious candor.
"We are in their debt," Braan said.
"Thy son is not free, leader-of-hunters," Kuudor said. "Be wary of paying debts not owed."
The sun was high in the cobalt sky and gaining intensity. The cliff face doubled the sun's intensity, reflecting it on the struggling long-legs and blocking the cool northwest wind.
"Almost there, Mac," Chastain huffed. "Keep moving; we can make it."
The trail narrowed and climbed vertically; the river chasm yawned to their right. Flowers, purple and yellow, grew in abundance and thick-stemmed thistles with white spiked blossoms lined the dusty path, providing psychological relief from the precipitous drop. It was hot. Chastain plodded upward, hoping for a switchback to take them from the perilous cliff face.
"You okay, Mac?" Chastain sucked air. "Say something, Mac. What're we going to do when we get to the top? Mac!" MacArthur gasped. Chastain was thankful for the gasps—signals that MacArthur was still alive. Doggedly, the big Marine trudged the endless slope, his swollen tongue constricting his throat and mouth. They desperately needed water—the irony of the large river that had nearly drowned them flowing so abundantly a thousand meters below. And in the near distance ahead, pulling Chastain forward— teasing him—a waterfall plunged from the cliff top, its white sheet of water atomizing into angel hair mists.
"Almost there, Mac. Almost…there. The path is…flattening…out," Chastain wheezed dizzily. The big Marine fainted.
Braan and Craag glided above the fallen long-legs. The creatures, lying like death in the dust, stank, a bitter smell, the malodor of putrescence mingled with animal scent. The cliff dwellers landed above the path and analyzed the still forms. Nothing moved. Braan whistled and a dozen hunters appeared over the edge, cautiously approaching the still forms. They carried bowls, vials, and an animal skin litter. They obeyed Braan's instructions. Craag hopped down to assist, using his wings as a parachute.
The smaller long-legs was rolled onto the litter and carried away. Its body was deteriorating rapidly, maybe too rapidly. Its life was now in the hands of the gardeners. The other creature was immense. Braan marveled at its physique—a rival to the mythical bear people. It was dehydrated, but that could be remedied. Other frightened sentries deposited bowls of water and vials of honey next to the fallen giant and departed quickly. Braan and Craag moved beside the stricken alien, each dumping a bowl of water on its head. The giant stirred and the hunters silently pushed from the cliff, swooping out of sight.
Chastain' s ragged, thirsty dreams splashed wetly to an end. He awoke blurry-eyed, with a terrific headache. Water! He licked at the liquid running from his hat. He snatched the hat from his head and squeezed salty moisture into his mouth.
Where had it come from? MacArthur? No, Mac was hurt! Where was Mac? Chastain panicked, thinking MacArthur had gone over the edge. His brain clearing, he noticed the thistles were not trampled. He also noticed the bowls, two empty and two brimming with clear liquid. And vials. He sat in the dust, perplexed, shading his eyes. He yelled MacArthur' s name, his voice croaking as it escaped his dry throat. He looked at the small bowls of tempting liquid and touched one. His thirst took charge and he unsteadily and greedily brought the laden bowl to his lips and drank deeply— too deeply—choking on the life-giving fluid. Coughing and hacking, he stopped to clear his lungs and then drained the bowl. He looked at the plain crockery, no more than a cup in his huge hands, curiously turning it over and around, looking for a clue. Nothing.
He picked up the other vessel and drank more cautiously. He sniffed the water as he drained the dregs. Once done, he was embarrassed and guilty for having drank both bowls. Confused, he looked down at the vials and picked one up. It had a stopper made of soft, pulpy wood. He pulled the cork from the vial and sniffed its contents. He could not figure the smell. He tipped the vial, and a clear amber fluid oozed thickly onto his finger. He touched the dollop to his tongue. Sweetness! Liquid energy! Chastain held the vial over his throat and let the wonderful, viscous substance run into his mouth, licking and sucking at the container. He looked at the second vial, sorely tempted, but placed it the zippered pocket of his jumpsuit. Evidence.
Recharged, he stood and yelled MacArthur' s name, a full-throated bellow echoing across the face of the cliff. And again he yelled, less loudly, and a third time, but to himself, softly. He looked up the trail; he looked down the trail, taking indecisive steps. Silence. He sat heavily and looked around, wringing his hands. The sun cooking his sweaty head stirred him to action. Chastain put on his hat and rose to his feet, stooping to pick up an empty bowl. He hiked to the top of the cliffs and found, prominently positioned atop a flat rock, another vial of honey. Chastain consumed it without guilt; he did not require two vials of proof.
He was on the plateau. Wracking his sun-dulled and food-starved memory, he recalled his injection briefing. Still uncertain, he headed over the rolling terrain of the plateau, sadly glancing over his shoulder, hoping to see his friend.
The unconscious one was carried under the misty waterfall and down the bore. At the tunnel's end the rough-hewn chamber turned sharply and opened abruptly on a terrace lodged in a deep vertical fissure. A pentagonal platform, supported by a network of pulleys and blocks, filled the lateral space within the fissure—an elevator.
The hunters bundled the limp creature onto the platform, and the elevator dropped smoothly to the next level where a soft-wheeled cart was waiting to receive the burden. An elder wearing the emeralds and garnets of the gardener guild supervised the loading. Guilder apprentices relieved the hunters and wheeled the cart away. The curious sentries chirped excitedly and jumped from the terrace into the void, their wings unfurling and grabbing the strong updrafts.
The cart trundled down a smooth-surfaced, slanting corridor lit by flickering spirit lamps. A runnel of water gurgled down a bermed gutter against one polished wall. The corridor ended in a high-ceilinged cavern partially open to the sky. Two other caves converged on the opening, revealing a panorama of blue sky and river valley, as well as another lift platform cantilevered out over the abyss. Support cables for the lift, made from chains, angled back sharply, running through a hole cut high in the rock wall. Mechanical noises and the hissing of steam emanated from a chiseled window halfway up the stone wall. Guilders were visible; one commanded the mouth of the opening, monitoring the movements below. The cart rolled out into sunlight, and the gardener waved his hand at the lift supervisor. The platform dropped smoothly.
The elevator passed intermediate landing points before it stopped at a cabling terminus, the river still far below. The cart was pushed from the platform and navigated through a level, if sinuous, corridor, a tunnel in which curious cliff dwellers stood to watch the procession. Another lift station received them, and the process was repeated, continuing the ride down the face of the cliff. When they debarked, the steam was thick and warm, and the unseen river rumbled nearby.
Buccari awoke in the dark hours and could not go back to sleep. She slipped from her sleeping bag, grabbed boots and clothes, and crawled from the tent she shared with Lee. The wet chill of early morning seeped through her thermal underwear and made her shiver. She squatted next to the campfire embers and kindled a handful of tinder. Wood chips sputtered and ignited, flowering into warm tongues of flame. She added two logs. The banked ashes provided a foundation of heat, and larger flames soon curled about the logs. Buccari stood over the flourishing pyre and pivoted, warming herself in stages. With her back to the fire she looked into moonless skies, at the glory of the morning constellations, stars sparkling and dancing, great slashes of crystalline points of light, so dense as to make the black velvet skies appear textured with sharp shards of broken diamonds. Young stars, they seemed newly minted.
Adequately warmed, she sat down on a log, back to the fire. As she laced her boots something caught her attention—the flap on Shannon's tent was slowly folding back. An arm protruded and then a back; an entire person cleared the tent entrance and stood erect, looking about surreptitiously—Dawson. The tall petty officer pulled her hood over her head and cinched it tight as she walked. Her path took her by the campfire. Buccari turned to the fire, but Dawson had noticed her. The communications technician walked up without hesitation.
"Morning, Lieutenant," she whispered and sat down, leaning close to the flames, her countenance tired but peculiarly fulfilled.
"Good morning, Dawson," Buccari replied, uncertain whether to be angry or indifferent—or envious.
Morning broke cold and still; a thin crust of frost covered the patrol's exposed camp. Tatum rolled out of his bag expecting to see the plateau's edge and the eastern horizon beyond. Instead, a thin wall of foggy vapors, slow streamers of misty steam, rose delicately into the sky—a curtain of steam, held together in the cool, stable air, curling in laminar wisps high over their heads, there to magically dissipate. Petit was posting the morning watch, his burly form silhouetted against the steamy white veil. Through the curtain an eerie orange sun broke from the horizon, its cold rays attacking the curtain of mist. Tatum turned to see Jones straggle from his sleeping bag.
"Gawd!" Jones said, ogling the veiled sunrise. "Like a fairy tale."
"Fairy tale!" Petit said, turning to face the other two. "Too damn cold for a fairy tale. Get that fire going and cook some breakfast."
"Make it quick," Tatum said. "Shannon wants us back by sunset tomorrow, and I want to cover as much of the rim as we can. There's got to be a way down."
As they ate, the sun's warmth forced the steam from the cliffs and down the vertical walls. By the time the spacers started hiking, only an occasional wisp crept over the edge. Tatum was relieved to be moving; standing next to the cliff edge induced vertigo, a dizziness of altitude and insecurity.
Late in the morning Tatum noticed the soaring creatures, minute specks of black against an infinitely deep blue. By then the Marines were tending to the west of south, the curve of the plateau rounding away from their intended track. Higher ground lay ahead.
"Not going to see much on this patrol," Tatum said, checking the sun.
"Beats sitting around the camp twiddling our thumbs," Jones said. "I'm going to volunteer for more of these scouting trips."
Tatum laughed. "Wait until it rains, or you can't find food or water."
"I can take it," Jones said. "I should've been a Marine. I'm tough."
"You'd never pass the physical, Boats," Tatum kidded. "What the.. What' s that supposed to mean?" Jones replied.
"You can tie your shoelaces, and technical stuff like that. Too many brains," Tatum said as he scanned the distant plains with binoculars.
"Didn't notice you have any problem with your laces," Jones said.
"Never untie 'em. Sarge ties 'em for me. That's why he's a sarge. Took him near twenty years to learn." Petit heehawed like a jackass.
They hiked on, rarely silent, frequently raucous.
"A river!" Petit shouted, pointing ahead. "It runs over the edge!" The men advanced on the small stream, climbing a modest elevation. The terrain had changed; the land bordering the cliffs was broken with abrupt rises and outcroppings jutting from the flat rock. The plateau rim descended and tundra grasses resumed in desultory patches. The stream, swollen with recent rains, gurgled over the cliff and launched into wind-whipped spray.
The bank was steep, the waters deep and fast. Tatum swung his vision upstream, searching for a convenient ford. He followed the river into the distance and saw movement. He put the field glasses to his eyes.
"Something—someone's foraging out there. Along the river! Way out!" Tatum said, alerting his comrades. He handed the glasses to Petit. After only a brief moment Petit lowered the glasses. Tatum asked, "Is that who I think it is?"
"Chastain," Petit answered. "He's limping, but I recognize his walk."
They took off at double time, but it took an hour to get within shouting range of the wandering Marine. Tatum debated firing off a round, but Chastain was already heading toward the main camp. It would have been a waste of a bullet. Eventually Chastain responded to their hails, turning and crouching in alarm. Chastain' s fear turned to recognition, and he ran toward them, stumbling and falling.
"Where's MacArthur?" Tatum shouted.
Chastain, displaying a painfully radiant sunburn, staggered to his feet, mouth and hands stained purple from berry juice. "Don't know," he mumbled, shoulders slumped. "I lost him."
"What d'ya mean, you lost him?" Petit snapped. "You big—" "Shut up, Petit!" Tatum shouted. "Jocko, you're back with us. You're okay. But where's Mac? Where did you see him last?"
Chastain, tears streaming down his cheeks, babbled apologetically, with confused references to big rivers and bears and beautiful valleys. They listened; Tatum asked questions whenever Chastain's explanation became too cryptic, but the day was fading into afternoon. If they searched for MacArthur, they would be overdue, and that would get Shannon highly exercised. Chastain needed food and medical attention. Frustrated, Tatum scanned the skies and saw more of the winging creatures. The large birds were soaring westward.
MacArthur awoke, blindfolded. His head and his extremities were immobile. He felt naked, yet warm and comfortable. His last memories were of a profound and desperate need for water and of excruciating pain in his infected shoulder. He was no longer thirsty and his shoulder no longer pained him. Panic lurked, but he felt too relaxed. A mild odor permeated the air—sulfurous. His stomach growled.
"Hello," he whispered hoarsely. "Anyone there?"
He heard movement, quiet and unobtrusive, a presence.
"I know you're there," he croaked. He listened. Hours went by. He slept. He awoke and listened and fell asleep again, certain that he was being drugged.
He awoke again. There was movement in the room. MacArthur waited and listened, his hearing grown acute in the stillness. A noise impinged on his awareness, a whistling fading in and out of frequencies higher than he was capable of following. Out of boredom MacArthur whistled a few notes. The high-pitched noises stopped with alarming abruptness. He tried whistling more notes. Nothing. He whistled, "a shave and a haircut—two bits," the familiar "long-short-short-long-long" pause «short-short» sing-song. He whistled the ditty several times. At least he had precipitated a reaction. Even if it was silence.
Suddenly high-pitched noises answered—a soft trilling, almost too highly pitched to perceive rhythm: "a shave and a haircut—two bits." Someone was there! They had answered. He whistled again. They reciprocated, this time in lower pitch. He heard them communicating. They sounded excited. They whistled the ditty; he returned it. More noises with arrhythmic gaps. Much of the communication was beyond his hearing range, few of their sounds below a soprano's highest notes. He whistled only the first part, the first five notes, and stopped. Nothing. He repeated the first five notes, and waited. And again. And then the two short notes came back from his unknown hosts. He did it again, and they quickly answered. He waited. Something whistled the first five notes and stopped. He supplied the ending. They did it again. He whistled his part and then started to laugh. It was ludicrous. He lay on his back, buck-naked, whistling a mindless ditty. And someone or something was answering him. His laughter was hearty, uncontrolled; tears rolled from his eyes. Something touched his face. He tried to flinch away, but his head was tightly bound. His tears were gently wiped away.
"Elder, may I ask the status of the injured long-legs?" Muube asked.
"A most resilient creature," Koop-the-facilitator replied. "A serious infection and malnourishment, but it responds well."
"Very good. What happens now?" the herb master asked.
"The council is considering options, master Muube," Koop said. "Though I am told the leader-of-the-hunters wishes to release it."
The ancients waddled past mist-drenched planters. The orchids were of all shapes, sizes, and colors, rigorously organized.
"Impressive, herb master," said Koop, moving from blossom to blossom, much like the honeybees buzzing about their heads.
"I am grateful, elder," Muube replied. "A bountiful year for our medicines."
"Were it so for all our resources," Koop bemoaned, stopping before a colossal yellow and black orchid, staring reverently at the variegated blossom.
"Beautiful!" the elder whispered reverently.
The guilders ambled down the endless line of planters, steam welling up the cliff face, sunshine sparkling through spectral mists, the buzzing of honeybees melding with the muted roar of the river far below.
Braan, accompanied by the relief sentries, returned to the lake, landing on the second island. The watch captain briefed the hunter leader. The long-legs' watercraft had been repaired. Twice daily, just before sunrise and just after sunset, the ungainly craft made the round trip, escorting splashing long-legs as they swam to the hot springs. The green-clothed ones spent large amounts of time exploring; the raft had approached their new position on two occasions.
"The long-legs will soon explore this island," the watch captain said. "Perhaps it is time to move to a safer location."
"Safer? We can only move so many times," Braan responded, "before we are forced to move from even our homes."
"What now, leader-of-hunters?" the off-going watch captain asked.
"Return to clan and cliff. Await thy next duty, warrior. But caution, a patrol of long-legs comes," Braan warned. "Avoid them. Thou art relieved."
The weary off-going watch departed on favorable winds. Braan, satisfied the watch was in place, soared over the lake on a fresh updraft. Rising through a caravan of puffy clouds, Braan glided along the ridges. Wary of rockdogs and mindful of the long-leg sentries, Braan landed and established an austere camp. And waited.
The sun set, evening dusk grew thick, and the campfire cast a flickering glow among the tents. The returning long-legs patrol walked up the hill. A sentry shouted and the camp emptied into the tent area, surrounding the returned Giant-one. Sentries moved from their posts, closer to the welcoming din. Taking advantage of the distraction, Braan pushed from the high rock and silently glided to the cave terrace. His luck held—the cave was empty of tall ones. Brappa lay unattended, torso and wings wrapped with soft cloth, but he was not bound to his crib. Braan moved close and softly alerted his son to his presence. Brappa acknowledged and listened carefully to his beloved father.
MacArthur awoke on the hard granite of the high plateau, the morning sun already tall in the eastern sky. He shivered. Shaking dullness from his brain, he stiffly gained his feet. It was a crazy dream. His shoulder? It ached, but he remembered how much worse the pain had been. He peeled back his clothes and looked in amazement at his bare shoulder. The wound was closed and the ugly gray and yellow streaks running down his arm were gone. He owed his arm, if not his life, to someone. But to whom? To what? And Chastain? Where the dickens was Chastain?
He took inventory. His clothes were clean and dry, but his knife and pistol were gone. He crouched and checked his surroundings. Nothing moved. He searched for clues—tracks or broken ground—but saw only inscrutable granite. With one last look around he stumbled off at a trot, feeling peculiarly fit. After a hundred paces the reality of inactivity overcame him and he slowed his pace. He was on the plateau; the landing site could be no more than a day's march.
He was exhausted and famished when he finally arrived at the landmark lake with the islands. The sun was an hour set, and clouds, pushed along by a cold wind, obscured the stars and moons. The lithe Marine yawned and blinked watery eyes. Through the bleariness he detected a glow against the hills, a hint of light. A campfire? The Marine shook off the chill and stepped out toward the beacon. As he rounded the perimeter of the lake, the soft spray of campfire light disappeared. A ridge of rugged karsts rose before him, and the smell of spruce grew stronger—and burning wood. MacArthur stalked the hillside. He detected a sentry leaning against a tree and recognized Mendoza, the propulsion technician. His relief was overwhelming; trembling, he wiped tears from his eyes. But a feeling of perverse pleasure displaced his joy. MacArthur stole silently by the unaware sentry.
The camp was settled in for the night. A meager fire burned in the tent circle, near which sat Ensign Hudson and Chief Wilson. Gunner Wilson was telling space stories. MacArthur crawled close and listened to the ridiculous old saws, enjoying Hudson's affected gullibility. O'Toole walked down from the rocks, and MacArthur detected another soft glow emanating from the cave. O'Toole threw a log on the campfire and joined in with a yarn of his own. MacArthur lay in the needles and listened for a languid minute, enjoying the embrace of the quiet evening. But his stomach growled. Hunger rampant, he rose to his feet and shuffled into the dim circle of light, hat low over his eyes. Sitting down on the far side of the fire, he held his elbows high and put his hands on his face, stretching and yawning. The warmth of the fire was delicious.
"Gunner—" MacArthur spoke softly. "You're so full of crap. That young officer is never going to respect you, you keep lying to him like that." The story tellers looked up. Wilson opened his mouth to retort and recognition froze his tongue. All eyes simultaneously opened full wide.
"Sheee-it," Wilson sniveled, recovering. "What a pure asshole, MacArthur. Well, I'm the only one's glad to see you, but only because you owe me money."
Hudson and O'Toole shouted at the top of their lungs, emptying the tents and cave. The campfire was overwhelmed with the crew of Harrier One. Chastain burst from a tent, dragging it with him. Staring in tousled disbelief, he grabbed MacArthur in a bear hug and lifted him into the air.
"How long you been back, Jocko?" the smaller man shouted above the din, feeling a twinge of pain in his shoulder but too happy to complain.
"Over a week!" the big man answered. "We sent patrols out looking for you, Mac, but they came back empty. I told Sergeant Shannon I was heading out tomorrow to look for you myself. This is home, Mac. I told them about the valley, Mac, but this here's a good camp. We got a cave and beds and hot water and—"
MacArthur laughed despite the pain to his shoulder and begged to be put down. "If it's so great, get me some food!" he shouted.
"Is he okay?" Shannon shouted as he sprinted down from the cave with Quinn, Buccari, and the rest of the cave's occupants close behind. They arrived as Wilson was rescuing MacArthur from Chastain' s embrace.
"He's not dead or injured," Wilson said. "Maybe brain dead. 'You okay, Mac?"
"Just sick to my stomach 'cause of your ugly face, Gunner," MacArthur said. Shannon muscled his way through the crowd, Quinn on his heels.
"Where the hell you been, Mac?" Shannon blurted.
"You sure you're all right, Corporal?" Quinn asked. "Private Chastain said you had a badly infected shoulder. He thought you were dead."
"Thought I was dead, too" MacArthur said, rubbing his shoulder.
Quinn turned to the crowd and shouted, "Everybody back to bed or to their post—right now! MacArthur'll be here in the morning. Break it up. Lee, take him up to the cave and have a look at his shoulder." The crowd fell away, but not before they had all hugged the corporal or at least slapped him on the back. MacArthur climbed to the cave, following Lee to her sickbay. Shannon followed, firing questions, but Quinn interceded and suggested questions wait until morning. Shannon and Quinn stayed on the terrace and conferred in low but obviously heated tones. Rennault, injuries on the mend, walked by MacArthur on his way to his sleeping bag. They exchanged greetings. That is when MacArthur noticed the other patient.
"What in the—what's that?" MacArthur asked, peering into the shadows. Lee had set Tonto off by himself. Fenstermacher walked up to the animal, smiling stupidly.
"Leslie had my baby," Fenstermacher yawned.
"Joke's getting old, Winfried!" Lee said with great suffering. "It's an animal we found next to the lake after the earthquake. We had a tidal wave. It washed onto the rocks and broke its arm. Did you feel the earthquake, Mac?"
MacArthur walked slowly over to the creature's bed. "Yeah," he said, studying the beast. It blatantly returned his stare, blinking rhythmically.
"Why didn't you let it go?" MacArthur asked, looking down at Lee.
"It's an animal. It's got a broken arm. It would have rebroken the bone and probably died," she answered. "It's done real well, and it can leave if it wants to. It stays here, almost as if it knows we're helping it. We named him Tonto."
MacArthur returned his attention to the ugly animal and gave it a wink. The animal stared back impassively. MacArthur scratched his sunburned nose and walked over to where Lee had laid out a sleeping bag. A night's sleep sounded inviting, maybe more so than food. Lee followed him, brandishing a flashlight. MacArthur looked up to see the animal intently observing. Fenstermacher grumbled something, and the creature shifted its gaze.
"Lee called you Winfried!" MacArthur suddenly said, watching the animal. "Nah, Fenstermacher, your name ain't really Winfried, is it?"
Lee said, "Oops," and started peeling back MacArthur's jumpsuit.
Fenstermacher sat up in his sleeping bag and glared. "Thanks, Les," he grumbled. "Yeah. Winfried. So what?" he challenged.
"Nice name," MacArthur replied. The animal followed the conversation. "Goes with Fenstermacher." Fenstermacher snarled a superb string of expletives and rolled over, his back to the others.
"Looks good. You look real…" Lee said, strong hands working the muscles around the wound.
"She says that to everyone," Fenstermacher mumbled from the corner.
Lee was quiet, looking at his shoulder from several angles.
"Sutures!" Lee said loudly and abruptly. "What happened to you?" she asked. "Who took care of you? These sutures are professional."
MacArthur looked at his shoulder. Their curiosity piqued by Lee's outburst, Quinn and Shannon also walked over.
"Don't know," he said. "One minute Chastain's carrying me, and the next I wake up blindfolded, in a warm place. Couple of days later—who knows—I wake up again. My pistol and knife are gone, but I'm alive, and my infected shoulder is almost healed." MacArthur stopped and looked from face to face.
"That's the story," he continued. "That's all there is. Chastain should have told you about everything else. I nearly got us killed in the river. Oh—and the valley! The valley! We found a valley with a big lake full of fish and ducks and big otters. We saw little deer and bears and something that looked like an elk—"
Quinn picked up a bowl. "We were going to wait until tomorrow to show you these," he said soberly. "Someone gave water and honey, real honey, to Chastain the day he lost you. "Lee, give him the vial."
Lee handed MacArthur a glazed ceramic tube.
"Taste it!" Quinn ordered.
"Honey? I've heard of honey, I think. What is it?" MacArthur asked.
"A food made by bugs—real bugs—honeybees," Lee said. "There used to be a lot of them on Earth. Still have bees, I guess, but no honeybees."
"There're still some left," Quinn said. "A luxury of the rich."
MacArthur pulled out the stopper and tentatively tipped the container over. A drop oozed onto his finger. He touched it to his mouth and immediately knew he wanted more. His saliva glands welled warmly around his tongue. Quinn took the vial and handed him a chipped bowl.
"Is this familiar?" Quinn asked.
MacArthur felt a wave of fatigue wash over him.
"Sorry, Commander," MacArthur replied. "Nothing. I don't recall being fed or drinking anything. They kept me blindfolded and, uh…drugged, I think. I slept a lot—almost the whole time. I remember whistling."
"Whistling!" Shannon exclaimed.
"Yeah," MacArthur replied. He sat erect, his memories holding fatigue at bay. "Funny thing. After I laid there for a long time I thought I could hear them talking, only their talking was real high-pitched, like whistling, only higher even. I, ah…started whistling at them. They whistled back."
"Whistling!" Quinn said, looking at Shannon and Lee. "Whistling! Seems we've heard whistling around here, too."
MacArthur looked at the animal. It stared back. Quinn related the events of the night they were visited by Tonto' s friends and of the whistling sounds thought to be communication. MacArthur listened to the story and pondered. Then he stood and walked over to the animal. The ugly beast stared up fearlessly. MacArthur licked his lips and softly whistled the first five notes of the sing-song ditty: "shave and a haircut." The animal registered the sounds with a start, its expression clearly revealing it was analyzing the sounds. MacArthur whistled the same five notes. Fenstermacher moved, standing as if to provide the answer. MacArthur waved him down. The animal watched the movements and gestures, glancing briefly at Fenstermacher. It returned its unwavering attention to the man standing over him, and MacArthur whistled the ditty again and waited. He was about to do it again, when the animal opened its mouth just enough to show a jagged line of teeth. It shrilled sharply—two short notes.
"Two bits!" Fenstermacher shouted.
MacArthur awoke and could not remember. He looked about the cave and saw Fenstermacher sitting next to the fire. A murky grayness filtered into the cave.
"Fensterma—Winfried! What time is it?" he groaned, forcing open sleep-crusted eyes. He remembered the animal and turned to look at it. It was staring at him.
Fenstermacher glanced out at the foggy morning. "About a half hour to sunrise, gruntface. It's hard to tell, it's so foggy out," he replied.
MacArthur stretched. "Then I haven't been asleep very long."
Fenstermacher laughed. "You lost a whole day, jarbrains. You've been asleep through all four watches and then some."
MacArthur shook the stiffness from his good shoulder; he must have lain on it the whole night. He coughed, trying to wet his cotton-dry mouth. "I believe you," he mumbled as he rolled out of his bag, unsteadily putting his legs beneath him. His body ached with the accumulation of abuse.
"Quinn and Shannon want to see you. I'm supposed to go get 'em," Fenstermacher said. MacArthur heard footsteps and turned to see Lieutenant Buccari materialize from the mists.
"Well…go get them," Buccari ordered. Fenstermacher smiled and flipped an exaggerated salute as he trotted into the fog.
"Good morning, Corporal," Buccari said. "You've had a good sleep." She walked to the animal and held out a finger. The beast reached out and eagerly clasped it, emitting a delighted squeak. Buccari smiled, her green eyes sparkled. Her perfect features were framed by a five-day auburn stubble. MacArthur was enchanted.
"Eh, good morning, Lieutenant. Don't be too hard on Fenstermacher. He just wanted to give me a chance to, eh.. take care of, uh.. nature' s call." MacArthur self-consciously pulled on his jumpsuit and sat down to pull on his boots.
"Of course! I'm sorry," she said, blushing. "I'll watch Tonto."
"Tonto seems to know who you are, sir," he said. "He likes you." MacArthur held her eyes with his and smiled happily. She remained outwardly impassive, but her eyes brightened.
"I brought him in," she said, staring him squarely in the face. "We're going to take Tonto back to where you woke up. Go take care of whatever you need to do. I'll let Commander Quinn know."
"Yes, sir. And thank you," he said. MacArthur passed the returning Fenstermacher and received directions to the latrine. Fenstermacher told him about the hot springs and highly recommended he take a dip.
"You stink bad," was the way Fenstermacher put it. MacArthur laughed heartily and slapped the boatswain's hat from his head, sailing it off into the rocks. MacArthur stumbled stiffly down the hill, leaving Fenstermacher swearing with his usual surpassing skill.
They approached the cliff edge. Buccari marched at a hard pace behind MacArthur, frequently making eye contact with the injured creature carried papoose-style on the corporal's broad back. Quinn and Shannon came after her. Tatum brought up the rear. Tonto stared into the air. Buccari looked up and was not surprised to see soaring black specks.
"Sarge," MacArthur said, stopping, the cliff only paces away. "This is where I woke up. Maybe we should make camp and see what happens."
"Why don't we just put it down and back away?" Shannon asked.
"Tonto might run off," MacArthur said. "That won't prove anything."
"What are we trying to prove?" Shannon asked.
"Good question, Sergeant," Quinn replied. "I guess we'd like them to understand what we're doing—that we're returning a favor." The commander walked toward the edge of the cliff, remaining comfortably removed from the lip. He looked along the precipice and then back into the skies. "I agree with Corporal MacArthur. Let's make camp," he said.
Buccari shucked off her heavy pack, went up to MacArthur, and unstrapped the injured creature. Its body was passively limp. It intently watched the skies.
"Why don't I take Tonto away from the group and sit with him," she said. "Maybe something will happen if they see him walking around."
She carried the animal on her hip toward the edge of the cliff and sat down on warm granite. Carefully unwinding the cloth swaddling, Buccari unbound the creature's wings and legs and stood him erect. She held him by a light leash. Tonto stood calmly, staring into her eyes or glancing past her into the skies. Buccari was absorbed with clearing the animal's bindings and dressings. Occasionally she lifted her gaze, but she mainly focused on the creature in front of her. The others busied themselves setting up camp.
Tonto stood erect, taller than Buccari in her sitting position. She leaned back and watched the hunter hop about, never putting tension on his leash. He whistled and clicked and stretched his good arm, extending the membrane and allowing it to flutter in the wind, all the while keeping the broken arm close to his body. Buccari was intrigued with the mechanics of the wing. A bony appendage emanating from the animal's forearm extended the wingspan past the wrist and hand for almost a meter. At full extension the wrist and hand acted like an overcenter lock, holding the wing rigid on the down beat. When the wing was stowed, the arm rotated and the appendage folded back on the forearm, arranging the excess webbing around the creature's lower back in a smooth fold. She watched the creature as it gracefully stowed the good wing.
Buccari also marveled at the animal's fine fur. She reached out to the silky pelt. The animal watched her hand stroke its fur and, after several strokes, leaned against the pressure, its eyes closing to slits. Suddenly the creature's pliable muscles hardened into iron; its eyes opened wide and stared directly over her shoulder, toward the cliff. Buccari looked up to see Quinn, MacArthur, and Tatum frozen in action poses. Shannon had a pistol in his hand, and Tatum had grabbed a rifle. Buccari rolled to her knees and slowly turned her head.
Two hopelessly ugly animals, generously scarred, stood between her and the precipice. Like the humans behind her, they were postured dynamically, eyes slit to combative intensity. The newcomers wore thick leather chest and groin protectors, and one carried a pike that was half again as long as the creature was tall. Involuntarily Buccari cleared her throat. The fierce creatures' eyes darted to her, registered no threat, and snapped back to the men. She moved onto unsteady legs and found herself to be a head taller than the newcomers. She reached down and disengaged the clip holding Tonto' s harness and leash. With a slight shake of her hand the harness came loose. She stood up and pushed the injured creature toward the newcomers.
Tonto grabbed her finger.
Buccari looked down at the clinging animal and tried to smile. She gently broke loose, took three steps backward, and waited. Tonto hopped over to his comrades, while the creature with the pike waddled forward and placed the weapon at Buccari's feet. Uncertain what to do, she turned and looked at the men. She sighed with relief as Tatum and Shannon put their weapons on the ground. MacArthur, finger to his lips, walked over to Tatum and pulled Tatum' s knife from its calf scabbard. He moved past Buccari and laid the knife at the feet of the foremost animal. MacArthur stepped next to Buccari and picked up the pike at her feet. The animal bent easily and picked up the knife. And then it bowed, elegantly. MacArthur bowed in return. Standing erect, MacArthur startled everybody, including the beasts, by cheerfully whistling the seven-note ditty. As if rehearsed, Tonto, standing close to his fellows, whistled the same notes in return but stopped short of the last two. MacArthur firmly whistled the two final short notes.
Tension palpably lessened, but movements were still guarded, nerves taut. The newcomers grabbed their injured comrade and hopped to the cliff's edge. Without looking back, they pushed off and dropped from sight. Piercing screams shattered the silence.
"They deserved to die," Gorruk snapped, his huge body trembling, his brow tufts oscillating like tuning forks.
"You are hopeless," Jook rumbled. "Why do you act so? You represent my regime. Executing an entire regional government was stupid!" They lounged in Jook's private chambers, drinking kotta wine and smoking precious wahocca cigars. The imperial entourage had been dismissed.
"Regional bureaucrats!" Gorruk roared, surprised, and growing angry. He expected commendation for his decisiveness. "They would not obey procurement orders. My armies must be fed."
"Yes, yes, it is critical that your forces be provided for—their moment draws near—but even useless bureaucrats have purpose," Jook lectured. "There will be utter chaos until they are replaced. Tax revenues will disappear."
Gorruk glared sulkily at the Supreme Leader. The politics of government were too much for his direct mentality. He struggled, resisting mightily the urge to throw the emperor-general's own past back in his face. General Jook' s history—the scourge of the unification wars—was replete with mayhem and terror.
"You cannot threaten death whenever someone disagrees with you," the ruler preached. "I have learned this the hard way. Too much fear can be counter-productive. You create only martyrs."
"Yes, Jook," Gorruk replied. "But—"
"You will address me in the proper manner!" Jook bellowed. Both giants, staggered by drink, lurched to their hinds; the yellow scent of their mutual anger exploded into the air. Subtly concealed doors burst open, and a dozen armed members of the palace guard burst into the chamber, powerful snub-blasters aimed to kill. Air circulators kicked in.
Gorruk, exceedingly clever, was also extraordinarily courageous. The general, standing erect, deigned not to look at the guards.
"You will address me in the proper manner," Jook said smoothly, an imperious smile creeping over the wide expanse of his grainy features.
"Yes, Exalted One," Gorruk said at last, smiling only with his mouth.
Jook laughed, a ground-shaking rumble. He dismissed the guards with an impatient jerk of his beaker, splashing wine. "Oh, too well do I understand you," he sneered, nodding his monstrous head. "Yes, it is difficult being the general, my comrade; but it is far more difficult being the emperor-general."
"I must defer," the surly general snarled without sincerity.
Jook poured another great vessel of wine. "Tell me, General Gorruk, what is your opinion on this matter of the aliens?"
Gorruk' s intellect struggled to rein in his fury. With effort he suppressed his bile and focused on the new subject, little improving his temperament. "The aliens…my leader?" he snorted. "Routed into space for another four hundred years, perhaps forever. History taught us well."
"Hmm, I wonder," Jook replied. "What have we really learned?"
"Your Excellency?"
"Who knows what really happened four hundred years ago?" Jook asked.
"We were attacked from space, and the decadent governments of the nobility were destroyed. The generals defended the planet."
"And ruled with wisdom and perfection ever since. You have read too much official history, General," Jook said, growing introspective. "Our planet was attacked, but by whom, by what? The generals did not defend the planet—the attackers just went away. They just went away."
"But the Rule of Generals was established all the same," Gorruk said. "The noble houses lost their hold on power, and—"
"And our planet has never been the same," Jook interrupted. "The global trade networks and economic exchange agreements that were natural extensions of the noble houses were never reimplemented. The hemispheres became separated by more than just the equatorial deserts."
"But we have solved our problems," Gorruk said, amazed at Jook' s revisionism. "Our populations no longer overwhelm our resources. We have not suffered famine in over two hundred years, and crime is all but eliminated."
"True," Jook agreed. "Famine has been superseded; it is a poor government that allows its soldiers to die of starvation."
"Our armies have united the entire northern hemisphere," Gorruk said. "Given the right conditions we will reunite the planet. We will make possible a global prosperity and security that never before existed, even under the nobility."
"So says the history written by our militant ancestors," Jook said. "I am told the nobility read from different volumes."
"Bah," Gorruk said. "Their version of history is irrelevant."
"And yet our noble friends are not so helpless," Jook said. "They have assumed positions of responsibility and power in all the technologies and sciences—and even the military. And they have regained power in five southern hemisphere countries. Perhaps they are trying to rewrite history, eh, General?"
"Perhaps. And perhaps after we have conquered those renegade southern nations we should clean the vermin out of all houses."
"Hmm, it has been considered," Jook mused. "But no one has yet figured out how to make the economy run without our noble friends. The global economy has never been as robust as it was before the Rule of Generals. Even without kingdoms to rule, the nobility control the purses of the world."
"Our world has changed, Your Excellency," Gorruk responded. "Do not forget, during the Reign of Ollant the nobility directly controlled both the northern and southern prosperity spheres—a significant advantage."
"True," Jook said. "The southern tribes are spiteful and noncooperative. The deserts have given them false security for too long.
"We shall fix that!" Gorruk exclaimed. "My armies will be ready."
"Yes," Jook said, "but in the meantime, we should not overlook other opportunities. Let us return to this matter of the aliens. Our Minister of Internal Affairs believes the second invasion was different—"
"Yes, we were prepared," Gorruk interrupted. "We intercepted and destroyed the alien invaders before they came close enough to attack."
"But who were they, General?" Jook asked. "How come they to fly between the stars? Were they the same race that attacked out planet four hundred years ago? Who knows? But we should pay heed to Et Kalass' s activities. Our noble friends have even gone to the expense of funding a expedition to Genellan."
"I have heard of this alien mystery ship!" Gorruk said. "A waste of time and money. Even if true—which I doubt—any alien ship-wrecked on that ice planet is long dead. We can ill afford to expend energy sniffing about for alien bones. We have a war to plan and execute."
"Where is your curiosity, General?" Jook asked.
"I am a soldier.. not a scientist," Gorruk answered.
"Nevertheless, General," Jook said, "Old Kalass is up to something. I desire you to watch our good minister's actions. Let us not discount Genellan too readily. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is something there. It would be wise to have an agent on the scene. You can do something, can you not?"
"I always send the best," Gorruk snarled.
"Everyone's talking about your argument, Sharl," Hudson said, plopping down next to her on the lake beach. "You went thermal."
"Damned difficult to have a confidential discussion around here," she replied.
"Sorry I butted in, but we heard you yelling and thought you were in trouble. You were about as confidential as a collision alarm."
"Sound carries up in those rocks," she said.
"Particularly swear words," Hudson mumbled.
"I got pretty cranked up, eh?" She laughed. "Well, I'm not sorry."
"The commander looked angry. Very angry."
"He'll get over it," she said, her smile fading. "I had to get him to stop moping about his wife. To start making decisions. And if he wasn't going to start exploring for a better place to settle, then I sure as shit was. MacArthur says there's a valley down the river that has everything we need, and MacArthur knows what he's talking about. This plateau is going to be frozen hell in less than three months."
"Everyone's with you, Sharl. They know you're right," Hudson said, "but nuking the commander sure made them nervous. Thought Shannon was going to wet his skivvies when you ordered both of them on patrol."
She chuckled and lay backwards, stretching out in the firm sand. A fleet of wooly clouds passed in review, highlighting the dark clarity of the stark blueness. Two stars twinkled dimly at the zenith. Unseen, a jumping fish made a noise like a hollow barrel being thumped. A flock of tiny gray birds, common now with the maturing summer, flitted low over the shore, swerving to avoid the earthlings. A flower moaned somewhere.
"I wonder if it will make any difference?" she said presently. "What? Shannon wetting his—?" Hudson turned to face her. "This planet's longer day and year. Will we live longer, too?" "Why should that make any difference?" Hudson answered, bending over to pick up another rock.
"Why not?" Buccari mused. "Our bodies might adjust to the daily and annual cycles. Our bodies may choose to live the same number of days, or maybe the same number of winters. That could mean we might live ten or twenty percent longer in absolute time."
"Nice dream, but I don't think so," Hudson replied, walking to the water's edge. "The body won't know the difference."
"I'm not so sure. It may take a few generations to make a difference. If nothing else, we're sleeping the same six to eight hours every day, so we get an extra two point two three hours of waking time. The percentage of time we sleep has gone down."
Hudson contemplated her logic. "You might have a point, Sharl. But I bet we have to pay it back somehow. You don't get something for nothing."
"Even the months are longer," Buccari remarked, "assuming you use the big moon as the reference. It takes thirty-two days between full moons."
"Actually the little moon might be more convenient," Hudson said, throwing the rock into the lake. "Takes fourteen days to cycle. We double the period and have a twenty-eight day moon month just like on Earth. Whatever, it's sure nice to have long summer days."
"Let's see how we feel after spending a winter here. A winter like we've never seen. We need to get off this plateau."
The patrol halted at the rise next to the cliff edge. MacArthur wiped perspiration from his forehead and looked up to see cliff dwellers soaring across the cloudless sky. Two creatures glided much lower than the others. He slipped off his pack, unzipped a side pocket, and pulled out a small notebook.
"Now what do we do?" Petit asked.
"We leave this," MacArthur said. "Gotta' find the mailbox." "Let me see the book, corporal," Quinn ordered.
"Yes, sir," MacArthur said as he handed it over. He watched the commander carefully. The skipper had been moody since leaving the camp. "Lieutenant Buccari and Mr. Hudson did a really good job, sir."
"Looks like a comic book," Petit said, looking over Quinn's shoulder.
"From the mouth of an expert." MacArthur laughed. "What's that supposed to mean?" Petit snarled.
"Just a joke," MacArthur said, smiling.
"Why ain't I laugh—?"
"Cut it out, you two," Shannon ordered, walking back from the plateau's edge. Shannon's moodiness since leaving camp had been no less heavy than the commander's.
"That's about what it is—a comic book," Quinn said, breaking the tension. "Lieutenant Buccari doesn't think we'll ever be able to speak their language, or they ours, so she prepared this notebook of icons and cartoons as a first step in communications."
"It looks like they aren't accepting deliveries," Shannon remarked.
"Lieutenant Buccari said we should put up a cairn of rocks, seal the book in a utility pouch, and leave it," MacArthur said. "What do you think, Commander?"
"Do it," Quinn replied, handing the book back. "Let's get going. I'm anxious to see this valley you and Chastain keep talking about."
Their task completed, the patrol moved along the jumbled cliffside, stopping to fill their canteens in the river.
"Trail starts over here," MacArthur said, looking out over the dizzy traverse. The river crashed over the precipice behind them. They descended the narrow ledge, hugging the cliff wall for the rest of the day. At last the trail flattened and mercifully turned away from the river gorge, providing a place to make camp. In the twilight MacArthur looked out across the plains to the twin volcanoes in the distance, still far below his elevation.
Morning came quickly and was pleasantly warmer than the frosty plateau mornings, promising a hot day. After a long morning of dusty, downhill hiking, the patrol came to a thinly forested tree line; there the trail switched back to the northwest, descending sharply to the river. MacArthur noticed a narrow valley on the opposite bank. Below them the powerful watercourse jogged sharply to the north, necking down to a turbulent constriction.
"Chastain and I intercepted the trail up higher," he said, relaxing in the sparse shade of some firs. "I haven't seen any of this."
"Options?" Quinn asked, looking down the steep trail.
"The valley is three days from here, downstream," MacArthur said. "If we stay high, it's downhill all the way. If we go down this trail to the river, we'll have some serious climbing later on."
"What do you think, Sergeant?" Quinn asked. "Do we follow this path and see if it tells us anything, or do we head for MacArthur' s valley?"
"We should check out the neighborhood," Shannon said.
Quinn pointed downhill. MacArthur pushed off without further discussion. As he made his way down the steep path the corporal glanced into the blue skies and saw two motes circling high overhead.
"We're being watched," he said, pointing out the flyers.
"You think they got Lieutenant Buccari's book?" Shannon asked.
"You think they can really read?" Petit asked. "They're stupid animals."
"You can read, can't you?" MacArthur chuckled. "Sort of?" "Bite my—"
"I told you to cut it out," Shannon snapped. "Especially you, Mac."
"Sorry, Petit," MacArthur apologized. "But someone patched me up, and if it ain't those ugly buggers, then something else lives up there."
Petit grumbled an acknowledgment.
"Let's move," Quinn ordered, taking the lead.
The rocky trail fell precipitously as it reached toward the river, switching back and forth across the face of the gorge. MacArthur saw the bridge long before the patrol reached it. Shrouded in river mist, the bridge spanned the river at its darkest and narrowest point, reaching almost two hundred meters in length. At its lowest point the bridge was fifty meters above the frothing white torrent. Upstream, at a level higher than the bridge, the river crashed over tall cataracts, throwing thick mists into the air, obscuring the view and making conversation impossible. Downstream, swirling waters careened between the gorge walls, swinging to the north and out of sight.
The immensity of the plateau was even more spectacular from this lowest of vantage points. Rock walls mounted vertically, their imperceptible slant exaggerating a sense of infinity with incredible perspectives. The sun, just past its zenith, was already setting behind towering cliffs, and river mists fractured the rays of light, sending improbable rainbows across the chasm.
MacArthur again detected two cliff dwellers gliding through the mists, heading for wet rocks above the bridgehead on the opposite side.
"Suspension…chain link…!" shouted Quinn over the river's roar.
MacArthur examined the fist-sized links and followed the converging and diverging catenaries of the support cables as they swooped down from the cliffs on either side of the river. Parallel chains came out of the bedrock at his feet, forming a narrow bridge bed. Wooden treads, slick with moisture, were firmly attached at half-pace intervals, presenting more open space then floor. The view of the roiled water through the bottom of the bridge was unnerving.
MacArthur checked the chain cables for corrosion but found only traces of oxidation. Some of the mist-chilled and dripping links appeared newer than their neighbors, as if they had been replaced. The workmanship was rough and unpolished, but the individual links were well forged and continuous. He placed a foot on the first tread and tentatively tested his weight. The bridge was solid. MacArthur walked across, gingerly avoiding a misstep into the tread gaps. The others followed, one at a time. The river below served notice of its power, not that MacArthur needed reminding.
Once across there was no place to go but to follow the trail. It tracked upstream along the steep cliffside of the opposite bank for a hundred paces and then climbed sharply to a point where the rock wall of cliff plunged sharply to meet it. Reaching the bottom of the vee, they found themselves in the narrow valley observed from the heights of opposite bank. The trail leveled and meandered upward, traversing the valley's steeply sloping sides, making for a distant point at the head of the valley. Small stands of yellow-barked fir sprinkled the vale, but for the most part, the rock-strewn valley was devoid of vegetation.
They walked through the afternoon, stopping next to a rock-bottomed brook that defined the fall line. The trail leveled, and intermittent patches of taiga prairie grew larger and more continuous. Behind them the plateau was undiminished—a ziggurat hanging high over their heads. Craning his neck, MacArthur turned to scan the massif, subconsciously taking a step rearward. Upstream, the face of the plateau curved gracefully away until it presented its profile, revealing the irregularity of its surface. Terraces, overhangs, prominences and craggy pinnacles ranged along the silhouetted granite.
Flows of steam emanated from the river, climbing in snaky streamers from the base of the cliff. The thick tendrils ascended on humid air currents and merged with other wisps and vapors appearing to vent from the cliffs themselves. As the afternoon breezes died and the temperatures dropped, the veils of steam visibly thickened and grew more persistent, approaching and occasionally ascending past the crest of the cliffs—thin, black wisps against the yellow gold of the evening sky. The shadowed cliff face turned gray and flowed upwards.
MacArthur forced his gaze from the steam-faced colossus. The rivulet they had been following had diminished to a trickling, flower-shrouded seep. MacArthur stood erect and sniffed. "You smell it?"
"Smell what?" Petit asked. "All I can smell are my own armpits."
"Animals, millions of them," MacArthur replied. "Musk oxen or buffalo, or something. When we get to the top you'll see them, and, man, will you ever smell them."
"Commander," Shannon said, biting at the air like a big dog. "We should make camp for the night as soon as we get to the top. I don't see much benefit in hiking out on the plains. We're totally exposed. No campfires tonight."
"You call the shots out here, Sergeant," Quinn answered.
Daylight retreated. The insidious pressures of the spreading openness nagged at the men, their discomfiture exacerbated by the looming presence of the plateau at their backs. They finally walked upon the spreading prairie, and as they walked the smell took on a metallic palpability, a foreboding essence. The patrol topped a tundra-covered hillock and the distant herd of musk-buffalo came dimly into view. The humans studied the serenely grazing animals.
"Phew!" Petit moaned. "We ain't going to camp in the middle of this shit stink are we?"
"Stow it, Petit," Shannon said.
"I gotta' agree with Petit on this one, Sarge," MacArthur said. "Why don't we head back to the spring and make camp. The smell wasn't too bad back there. Shouldn't take us more than a half hour. Tomorrow we go back and pick up the trail to the valley."
"Sounds good to me," Quinn agreed. "What do you think, Sarge?"
"I just want to get off this open ground," Shannon said. He took one last look at the musk-buffalo, turned about, and started walking toward the river; the others followed. The horizon line formed by the plateau was high above them, a starkly black silhouette against the last deep red tints of twilight. A thick flight of first magnitude stars already sparkled overhead. Darkness descended, and the rolling hills of the taiga plains lost their definition in the dusk.
"What's that?" Shannon gasped. "Look! Up there! And there—"
"Yeah!" Petit whispered. "I see 'em. Lights, all over the cliff."
The men stood as statues, staring at the solid blackness rising before them. Faint lights, subdued glows, flickered intermittently along the face of the cliff. The yellow-tinted emanations faded and returned, screened by the currents of steam wafting vertically. Faint, almost imperceptible lights, were sprinkled across the face of the plateau, lending it a magical, ephemeral quality. The face of the plateau ceased to be rock but instead became a galaxy of stars, embedded with shifting constellations.
"That's worth the walk," Quinn whispered.
Braan listened to the long-legs' exclamations and understood their awe. The lights of the cliff had been a source of strength and a beacon of safety for countless hunters returning from the limitless plains.
"What are you thinking?" Craag asked.
"They have seen our homes," Braan said. "We have little left to hide."
"Goldberg's pregnant," Lee said quietly, matter-of-factly. "She's what?" Buccari asked, a little too loudly. "Pregnant, sir."
Buccari looked at Lee with wonderment, as if the medic had two heads. "But, how?" she blurted, immediately feeling as stupid as her question.
"Cruise implants don't last forever, sir," Lee sighed patiently, "especially in full planetary gravity. Goldberg was due for overhaul last month. Mine's due in six months, Dawson in about three. If memory serves, yours is due in less than a year. With this much gravity, who knows?"
"Damn!" Buccari whispered. "Who's the father?"
Lee glanced into the bright blue skies and rolled her large almond eyes back into her head. The cool breeze teased her growth of shiny black hair. "Might be easier to say who isn't," she replied, raising well-formed eyebrows. "We'll have to wait for family resemblances to tell us, or a DNA test if we ever get back to civilization. She thinks Tatum."
"Good grief!" Buccari said. "Commander Quinn will be pissed…when and if his damn patrol ever returns." She looked up and scanned the rim of the plateau. The men were three days overdue.
"Well, I wouldn't be too hard on her," Lee said meekly.
"What? I'd think you'd be the angriest," Buccari responded. "Or at least the most worried. You're the one that has to deliver the baby. Or can you…"
"An abortion?" Lee asked, as if she had not even considered the option. "Too risky. I wouldn't know what to do. Too risky." "What will Commander Quinn say?"
"Does it matter? Goldberg's still pregnant. I'm not worried," Lee said. "Goldberg's young and healthy. The woman does the work, not the doctor."
"It'll be delivered in winter, for goodness sakes! Who knows how bad the winter will be? What a time to be having a baby! How thoughtless."
"We should probably thank her," Lee persisted, her meekness fading.
"Thank her?" Buccari half shouted.
Lee nodded. Buccari turned and noticed Rennault walking toward them.
"That's what Nancy says," Lee whispered. She stopped talking as the Marine came within hearing. Rennault nodded as he walked by.
"Dawson knows?" Buccari asked as soon as Rennault was out of earshot.
"That's how I found out," Lee said firmly. "Yes, sir, we should thank her. Nancy says that Pepper's, ahem…activities have taken, uh. a lot of pressure off the rest of us. From the rest of the females."
"That's not supposed to be a joke is it?" Buccari asked. "You're serious! I'll say she's taken a lot of pressure." It was not funny, but she started laughing. The mental images generated by Lee's statement overcame her sense of propriety, and the laughter built upon itself. Lee also started to giggle. Their laughter was interrupted by a commotion from the sentry station above the cave.
"The patrol!" O'Toole shouted. "Across the lake. They look whipped."
Buccari ordered Tatum, O'Toole, and Chastain to come with her; perhaps someone was hurt. She set out at a trot but soon slowed to an even hiking rhythm. As she neared the patrol, she could tell the men were no worse than exhausted.
"Are we glad to see you," Quinn mumbled. He was sapped. Fatigue insinuated into every level of his being, his eyelids drooped, and his mouth moved disjointedly.
"Welcome home," Buccari said. "Tatum, take Commander Quinn's pack. Everyone grab a pack. These boys need some help." She went up to MacArthur and started to undo his pack straps. The Marine laughed as he shucked off his pack and swung it onto her shoulders. His hand brushed her neck as he moved a shock of her short hair so it would not get pinched by the wide straps. Standing sideways to MacArthur, Buccari pulled in the hip belt to the limit, likewise with the sweaty shoulder straps. Chatter abruptly ceased, and the men all tried, unsuccessfully, not to stare; she realized her physical movements had accentuated her femininity—the smallness of her waist, the flaring of her hips, and the swell of her breasts. Suddenly and uncharacteristically she grew hot and red-faced with embarrassment. She turned her back on the men and stepped out toward camp.
She had been gawked at before, but MacArthur' s laughter seemed very personal, and his touch had ignited a subtle chemistry. Now was not the time to tell the commander about Goldberg's pregnancy. Buccari hearkened back to Lee's words and why they should not be too hard on Goldberg, and suddenly she understood the insidious pressures to which Goldberg had succumbed. Their lives were uncertain, and physical attachments were islands of hope. Danger was near, apparent to the consciousness, but deeper, from deep in the racial memories of the subconscious, another awareness was surfacing: the species was threatened; lust was both an escape and a solution.
"Commander Quinn, the message!" MacArthur blurted, breaking the silence.
"Oh," Quinn mumbled. "Almost forgot. We got a letter in the mail. It was on the same cairn where Corporal MacArthur left your icon book. It's written in similar form, so I guess it's for you." Quinn walked over to his pack, unzipped a pocket, and pulled out a swatch of folded material. He carefully unfolded it and handed it to Buccari. The material was of heavy stock, a stiff cloth or linen. A stick figure of a man, identical to the icon she had used, was precisely drawn. Beneath the icon the letters «M-A-N» were printed with a draftsman's skill, just as she had presented the icon in her book. Next to the pictograph for a man were drawn two other figures, stick figures stylistically representing another race. One was much shorter than a man, an acute, inverted isosceles triangle for the head, short-legged, and arms extended with membrane wings opened, obviously a representation of a being like Tonto. The other was taller, although still shorter than the man, winged but less apparently different than a human. Beneath the winged icons were markings, evidently letters in the alien language signifying the creatures' name.
Buccari stared, fascinated. Her drawings, done with pen and straight-edge, seemed awkward and hurried in comparison to the precision of the drawings held in her hand.
"There's two different types!" she whispered.
"Male and female?" MacArthur ventured.
"Wonderful!" she said. "This is history! The first contact with high order extraterrestrial intelligence!"
"Actually the third contact," Quinn yawned. "The massacre at Shaula was the first; the second was our fleet getting blown back into hyperlight. This is the third."
"First peaceful contact, then," she corrected, her excitement unabated.
"But that's not all," Quinn said. The commander's energy seemed to increase as his memory replayed the events of their patrol. "At night the plateau…the cliff face is covered with lights. Amazing! And there's a bridge over the river. And MacArthur's valley is an ideal place to build our settlement when the time is right to move." He was babbling in his fatigue.
Buccari looked up at the commander thinking he was delirious, but she noted all four of the patrol members nodding their heads in affirmation, a far-off look in their eyes.
"We land at Goldmine Station, on the continent of Imperia," Et Avian said. His demeanor had transformed with his departure from Kon, and he wore simple working clothes devoid of badge. Only the golden complexion reminded Dowornobb of the noblekone's untouchable rank. "Goldmine is the only permanent facility on Genellan. Gold is no longer mined, of course, only rare metals."
"Are there no other inhabited sites?" Dowornobb asked.
"There is one, opened only during the summer—a small science station," Et Avian continued, "on Corlia, the other major continent, eh. here. It is called Ocean Station." The noblekone pointed at the chart on the computer terminal. "For the study of planetary science. The other sites were shut down decades, or even centuries ago. The cost to run them was exorbitant. I worked as an engineer at the last industrial site, an offshore platinum extraction facility." He shook his considerable bulk. Et Avian was large for a noblekone. "I was hoping never to be that cold again," he lamented.
Dowornobb was surprised that a noblekone would consent to travel to the frozen planet, much less work there. Prisoners had been sent to die on cruel Genellan in the ancient days, when the ore and fur trades had been profitable. Population pressures on Kon had been eased by the massacre of the Invasion and subsequently held under control by rigid breeding laws. As a consequence the planet was self-supporting. Mining the ores and minerals of Genellan had become uneconomical. Other industries, such as fur trapping, had atrophied as a result.
Dowornobb, once he realized that he was going to Genellan, had researched the third planet. Kones, under the auspices of the Imperial Northern Hegemony, maintained a scientific presence on Genellan. It was underfunded and begrudgingly maintained—just enough to protect the imperial property claim from poaching by other, less powerful nations of Kon. Not that any other nation was interested in or capable of doing so.
Three months had elapsed since Dowornobb' s impressments, surprisingly enjoyable. The young scientist ate well, which was important; he no longer had to put up with Director Moth's harangues; and he was able to use the high-performance computers of the Public Safety data network to link with his orbiting telescopes.
Dowornobb looked about the ship cabin. He was one of four specialists on Et Avian's science team charged with searching out the nature of the aliens. Scientist H'Aare, the renowned physicist, and Scientist Mirrtis, a metallurgist, were assigned to learn what they could of the technologies and propulsion systems that allowed the aliens to bridge the stars. Scientist Kateos was a linguist—and a female, which made things difficult. Common females were forbidden to speak publicly. Librarians, medical doctors, and linguists acting as translators were the notable exceptions; research, medicine, language, and translating had become by tradition exclusively female occupations. Other than those specific duties, females were expected to listen and obey. Dowornobb condoned breaches to that convention but only with females he knew well, and only when he was certain no one would be punished. Et Avian insisted gender differences be ignored, as they were among the nobility, which was fine with Dowornobb but not so with the others, particularly the four militia soldiers assigned to protect the team—hard cases all. The transit to Genellan had passed slowly, and the female had been predictably ignored.
Their trip had commenced with a gut-crunching blastoff from Kon to a Planetary Defense orbiting station. After a two-day layover, a constant-acceleration shuttle had boosted them on a direct flight to the third planet. Fortunately, Genellan was in optimal position. After depositing their landing module in orbit, the shuttle picked up fuel and a return cargo on the back side of the planet and, using the gravity of Genellan for an energy sling, was already whipping back on its return to Kon.
Reentry to Genellan was nominal. Their module settled onto the station platform, and turbulent deceleration was replaced by the planet's comfortably low gravity. Lander systems whined down; pressurization systems surged and pulsed, causing Dowornobb's sinus passages to flutter. A loud thunk signaled the attachment of the umbilical tower, and soon the warmth of the station's environment flowed into the passenger spaces. Dowornobb luxuriated in the satisfying lungfuls of full-pressure air. A crewman signaled to debark.
As the team crawled down a telescoping access trunk, Dowornobb gawked through a window. Immense distances! Uncomfortable distances! His eyes struggled to focus on faraway images. The air was so clear. The fables were true. Dowornobb felt as if he had magnifying lens over his eyes. He could see forever. "The air is invisible!" he said to no one in particular.
"Because there is almost no air there," Et Avian said.
The newcomers clung to the ports, staring at the magnificent landscape. The colors were starkly defined: a vivid cobalt sky spotted with luminescent clouds. Verdant grasses swept to ivory-tipped mountains on one side and to the scintillating oceans on the other. Translucent domes arched over their heads, refracting the solar radiance and generating prism images that shifted slowly with the sun, and more rapidly with the position of the viewer.
"Oh, it is so very, very beautiful!" Mistress Kateos gushed. The female immediately realized her error and dropped her head in abject subservience. Everyone stared. There was no excuse for such gross behavior. Mirrtis turned pale and coughed. Even Dowornobb was appalled. H'Aare, standing next to the hapless linguist, crawled quickly away.
"We will have time for sight-seeing later. Let us move on," Et Avian ordered. Luckily, the soldiers were already down the ramp and had not heard the outburst. The noblekone went to the female, picked up one of her bags, and headed down the ramp. Dowornobb watched the unexpected act of forgiveness and impulsively went over and picked up her other bag. He smiled sympathetically at the cowering female and walked off, pretentiously still on his hinds, just as the noblekone had done; adding the extra burden of Mistress Kateos's bag to his own luggage required the full use of his arms, and it was more convenient to remain erect. It felt natural in the light gravity. Dowornobb self-consciously looked backward and noticed the others had fallen back on habit, crawling down the ramp on all fours, their bags carried over their backs or suspended from hooks and pouches at their midsections.
"Solar flares," insisted the managing director of Goldmine. "Solar flares blinded our network during the period. A tenuous object was reported, but we attributed it to solar flares."
Dowornobb looked at Et Avian and received a look in return communicating the noblekone' s opinion of the managing director: a total incompetent.
"Let us move forward," Et Avian continued. "Do you have any data that suggests a landing or an impact with the ground?"
"Or," Dowornobb interrupted, "can you provide orbital parameters?" He turned to Et Avian. "I can do a simulation and run a distribution pattern of most probable impact areas. The orbit would also define areas the aliens would have viewed as likely landing sites." Et Avian cast him a quick glance, at once a reprimand and a thoughtful stare.
"Aliens?" the director asked. "Are you saying aliens landed on Genellan?"
"Of course not!" the noblekone replied. "Scientist Dowornobb uses his own vocabulary. The object of our search is a suspected probe launched by southern mineral poachers. We have been tasked to determine the nature of that probe. Scientist Dowornobb's selection of words runs to the dramatic. Ha-ha-ha."
The director laughed politely. Dowornobb attempted to appear contrite, which he was. He had forgotten the noblekone's instructions. Dowornobb looked around the room, and his eyes were caught by Mistress Kateos. She stared audaciously at him, and he returned the stare, unable to help himself. She slowly averted her eyes, but she had looked into his soul.
The orbital simulation took only a week. A tremendous swathe of debris had been deposited across the lake-pocked terrain of western Corlia. Dowornobb ran the results to Et Avian, who was impatient for action. Summer had only one full month remaining. The weather would quickly become unpredictable after that time, except in one dimension: it would get cruelly colder.
Et Avian received permission for a suborbital launch to Ocean Station, the science facility on Corlia. He transmitted search coordinates and ordered fuel-staging to commence immediately.
The science station was located on the delta of a major river that met the northern shore of a fertile and nearly landlocked equatorial sea—the most temperate area on the planet. On rare occasions in the summer courageous kones even dared to touch bare toes to the frigid ocean waters.
Their suborbital module landed on a wide steel platform without a closed debarkation tower. The travelers were issued rugged suits with pressurized helmets. Fuel tanks carried on their backs were bulky, but the gentle gravity made them manageable. Once attired, the science team clambered down a ladder to a portable platform. From there they descended to the planet's surface. Suited scientists escorted them to a waiting tracked vehicle. After a short, bumpy ride the truck ramp opened to grass and sunshine. A smallish scientist awaited—without a helmet—his complexion swarthy, his posture erect. The scientist smiled largely at Et Avian and even dared to shake the noblekone' s hand. The visitors were escorted through a sturdy airlock, at which time they removed their helmets and talked excitedly. Mistress Kateos remained quietly apart, but Dowornobb, fervent with adventure, flashed her a spontaneous smile. She glowed enchantingly with embarrassment.
"Take care of your breathing units," the bareheaded scientist said, his demeanor ebullient and infectious. "We have few spares, and I guarantee you will be uncomfortable without one.
"Welcome to Ocean Station. My name is Et Silmarn. I am Chief Scientist here," he continued. "It is a pleasure to have visitors. Particularly old friends." He nodded fraternally to Et Avian and picked up a breathing unit. So he was also a noblekone. But his complexion was so dark, not the soft gold of the high families. The other scientists displayed the same swarthy coloring.
"Et Avian has briefed me," Et Silmarn continued, "on our mission. I will be accompanying you to the lakes as one of your pilots. We leave at first light. There is insufficient room inside the station for everyone to eat and sleep, so for tonight you will be camping out. The sooner you acclimate, the better. I mentioned the breathing units. You can breathe the air—what there is of it. A caution: even though the atmosphere is thin, there are high levels of poisonous gases that can make you sick or even kill you, particularly in the seismically active areas or near the great northern herds.
"But it is not the toxic gases that will cause you the greatest risk, it is the absence of air pressure. The low gravity that some of you are obviously enjoying" — he glanced at Dowornobb who still stood upon his hinds—"results in a low-pressure atmosphere, less than half of what you are used to. There are mountains here of sufficient height that will cause your blood to boil."
He glanced about. "That, of course, would be quite high, but it is theoretically possible. The point is: wear your breathing unit and take care of it. You cannot run out of air, but you can exhaust the fuel for the compressor. A fuel load should last a person in reasonable shape over a week. However, none of you is in decent shape, including your mission leader," he added good-naturedly.
"We will be heading outside. After you put your helmets on, I want you to find the regulation controls on the right side. These buttons and dials will control the richness, the pressure, and the temperature of the air. You will also find controls for your helmet speaker, head-up display, and headlamp.
"The next point: it is a very cold place. You have been provided an insulated suit with your breathing unit—a Genellan suit. The breathing unit bleeds heated air into the suit's insulation…the difference between life and death. When we go north, the temperature will drop far below the very coldest spot on Kon. And that is during the day. At night and the farther north we go, the more miserable it will get, and it will get more miserable than your worst nightmare." Et Silmarn scanned his nervous audience.
"Enough bad news. Time for good news. The science and the scenery are why we are here. I want half of you to put on your breathing units. After we have been outside for a few minutes those without units will put them on. Once they have successfully donned their units the others may remove theirs so they may sample the unfiltered and unpressurized air. The lesson: always make sure at least half the group is wearing breathing units. You can share breathing units."
They were herded into the airlock, and its door slid noiselessly shut. H'Aare immediately put on his helmet as did Mirrtis and two of the sullen soldiers. Dowornobb tried to avoid looking at Mistress Kateos, but his eyes disobeyed. She caught his gaze and smiled. Dowornobb felt peculiarly happy to share his adventure on the new planet. He nodded, and neither donned their helmet.
The outer door whooshed open. The airlock flooded with sunlight and sound. Dowornobb swallowed hard to equalize pressures as a chilly blast of air made his eyes water, but his discomfort was eclipsed by the unadulterated freshness and clearness of native sounds and smells. Oh, the smells! Dowornobb's olfactory glands overloaded with a symphony of fragrance. Such sweetness and body—a cloying sensation surged through his extensive sinus network. He sniffled. Such sights! They were surrounded by verdant forests domed with bright blue skies; and tall on the northern horizon, razor sharp in the clear air, a jagged line of snowcapped mountains rambled into the distance.
The kones milled onto the tree-dotted sward surrounding the station. Red birds and yellow hopped and fluttered on an emerald lawn, chittering and warbling. A bareheaded scientist scattered seeds and crumbs across the grass, and dozens of other birds converged, dropping from the trees. Mistress Kateos moved quickly to the activity and stared, enraptured at the abundance of color and sound. She glanced at Dowornobb and smiled like a child. Dowornobb could not help himself and returned the innocent expression. He felt light-headed but was not certain that it was due to lack of carbon-oxygen compounds.
Et Silmarn continued his lecture. The newcomers listened, the distractions of the scenery albeit difficult to overcome. Dowornobb, disquietingly happy with the attentions of Mistress Kateos, tried to inhale the whole world, take in the bright colors, and hear the shifting blend of gentle sounds, but after several minutes another sensation overflowed the others. It started as a tickling between his eyes and quickly became an irrepressible imperative welling up from the back of his head. To no avail, he tried to stifle the explosions. One after another, colossal sneezes erupted from deep within his massive body. Embarrassed, he realized others were also sneezing.
"A signal to put on your breathing unit," Et Silmarn advised. "Pollen. You will get used to it."
Dowornobb looked at Kateos, her face flushed and wide-eyed. She returned his glance, eyes laughing. As they put their helmets on they took a lasting look at each other, excited with the delightful experience they had shared.
No one slept well, wearing a helmet. Haggard and weary as they were in the predawn, they were all enchanted with the vast array of luminous patches and extremely bright individual stars pulsing from moonless morning skies, so different from the muddy nights of Kon. Their revelry was brief, the bracing chill of the air all too real. Headlamps were pointed to the job at hand, and the explorers-to-be broke down tents and packed up camp gear. The end of summer was nearly upon them.
As the sleepy scientists stumbled and shivered down the dark pathway toward the station, brilliant banks of arc lights rippled on, spreading a stark glare. A pair of aircraft sat at on the matting, reflecting the artificial light from their polished, white-painted flanks. Squatting on low-pressure tires, the sturdy craft had stubby fuselages and drooping wings mounted high to facilitate downward surveillance. The aft portion of each fuselage split and tapered into twin booms with a connecting elevator mounted high above the ground. A single large engine nacelle with vectorable ducting was mounted over the wing spars.
"Stow your gear in the aircraft," Et Silmarn ordered. "We call them abats."
After a startlingly animated discussion between Et Avian and the corporal of the militia guard, the team was split, with Et Avian, Kateos, Dowornobb, and two soldiers in one of the craft and the rest of the team in the other. Et Silmarn was to pilot Et Avian's plane, and Scientist Lollee, another station engineer, was assigned to pilot the other craft.
"Abats?" Dowornobb asked Et Avian. "Is that not a mythical bird of prey?"
The noblekone nodded. "It also is the name we have given to a bird species on this planet. We will talk about real abats later. See, the sun rises." The sunrise, through layers of clouds, was extravagant; golden rays spiked with orange and coral forged unevenly into the eroding deep blues and purples of the retreating night.
With the glorious sunrise at their back, the loaded aircraft revved engines to high rpm and released brakes. Each sprang forward, rolling from the matting and onto a grassy strip before lifting clumsily into the air. The second plane fell into trail position, and both planes banked sharply to the north, toward the mountain passes. Dowornobb sat, glued to the window, watching the jagged, snowcapped peaks drift by, some just off their wing tips.
"I want you to work together," Et Avian said, interrupting Dowornobb from his sight-seeing trance. Mistress Kateos sat to his left. Dowornobb avoided looking at the female, for she was constantly staring at him. He noticed the soldiers listening, their contempt clearly evident.
"Yes, Your Excellency," Dowornobb said.
"This will require you to communicate," Et Avian continued, looking intently into each of their helmet-shrouded faces. "Yes, Your Excellency," Dowornobb repeated. "Communicating means two-way communications, talking and listening, each in their proper turn," Et Avian said.
The noblekone was certainly driving his point. Dowornobb wondered how to respond. "Yes, Your Excellency," was the best he could do. The noblekone glared at Dowornobb. He looked over to the female and then back to Dowornobb. His huge eyes rolled in his great head.
"Mistress Kateos," he said firmly, still looking at Dowornobb. "I am sorry. I had hoped we might surmount this situation with our departure from Kon. Konish males seem incapable of breaking our mindless conventions. You must help them. Introduce yourself to Master Dowornobb. Inform him of your needs and skills. We will be flying to the search area for the next two days, and it would be time better spent if you were to develop an understanding of each other's mission."
"Yes, Your Excellency," Kateos said, chin up. "I understand. I will endeavor to make Master Dowornobb appreciate my contribution to the team."
"Very good," Et Avian said, turning his attention to the soldiers. "I will leave you alone, for I have business with Corporal Longo." The noblekone moved across the narrow aisle to engage the lead corporal. Dowornobb knew that Et Avian had wanted all the guards on one plane and the technical team on the other. The lead corporal, Longo by name, had bluntly refused, maintaining his orders were to watch over everyone; separating the groups would make it impossible for him to carry out his orders. Dowornobb had to agree with the logic, but something was amiss.
"I speak eight languages, Master Dowornobb," Kateos said proudly.
Such vanity, Dowornobb thought. "I did not know there were that many different tongues on Kon," he replied awkwardly.
"Oh, there are at least twenty modern languages and ten times as many dialects. The north is more homogeneous, because of its history of totalitarian regimes. After the Great Massacre the rulers of the north consolidated many isolated tribes and suppressed their languages. Some were simply killed off. The southern regions never succumbed to the genocidal tyranny of the north."
Dowornobb looked up anxiously. The scientist was himself inclined to talk obliquely about the inadequacies of government, but he knew where to draw the line, particularly when talking to strangers. The female was talking treason.
"I have been all over the planet working as a translator for the Minister of Internal Affairs. Ironically, as long as I am translating the silly words of some pompous official, my voice is received and welcomed. I am frequently requested by name to act as the official interpreter for opposing leaders." She talked rapidly, as if unburdening herself, a dam broken.
"Oh," Dowornobb ventured nervously.
"I have heard the alien tapes," she blurted conspiratorially. That reached past Dowornobb's discomfiture.
"The tapes from the Astronomical Institute? But most of it is not spoken communication," he replied. "The transmissions are all over the spectrum."
"Oh, I have listened to only the audio range," she said. "His Excellency wants us to work together, so you can explain to me what else is on the tapes."
"Hmm," Dowornobb pondered. "We cannot do much without a data link."
"No, His Excellency is not expecting that on this trip. Our objective is to examine the wreckage. Master Mirrtis and Master H'Aare are rocket propulsion and technology experts. I am to look for artifacts and documentation which might help to reconcile the language. I am also an accredited archaeologist."
Dowornobb' s respect for Kateos was growing, not so much from her words, but from her demeanor, the strength of her personality. "Mistress Kateos," he said. "Your credentials are impressive, but please…" and he moved closer. "Control your opinions. The Supreme Leader has ears everywhere." He signaled with his eyes.
She gulped, features firming. She peeked at the soldiers.
"Master Dowornobb," she said quietly, squeezing the corners of her mouth. "I am sorry. Of course, my opinions deserve not the light of day. It is just that I am so excited with the prospect of working with you."
"You are excited…by working with me?" he asked.
"Oh, yes!" Her deep brown eyes stared brazenly through her visor. "You have been most kind. You helped me with my bag, the day we landed, after I shamelessly blurted out my feelings. That took courage. You seem interested in my well-being, unlike the others. I have never been treated thus. You even smiled at me—in a public place! You are most kind."
Dowornobb blushed. Kones did not often give or receive complements, except empty, formal ones. He was confused. The warm feeling on his face spread to his heart, and—alarmingly—to his gland bladder.
"And you are so intelligent," she continued, moving closer. She touched his arm. "Et Avian said you have risen rapidly in your science. You are considered among the most elite astrophysicists and astronomers. He called you a genius."
Dowornobb was becoming infatuated. He had never received such praise. He was aware that the institute published reports under Director Moth's name, occasionally with credits to his research, but he did not know the authorities recognized his primary role in their authorship. He was immensely gratified.
"And you are so bold!" She would not stop, nor would Dowornobb dream of stopping her. "His Excellency was appreciative of your initiatives in discovering the crash site."
Kateos stopped talking. She stared fully into Dowornobb's face, and her gaze was far more compelling than any words. Dowornobb gave thanks that he was wearing a sealed suit and that everyone was wearing helmets and air filters, for his gland bladder at that moment erupted, the essence of his emotions literally exploding from his body. Dowornobb was in love.
"We are landing for the night," Et Avian said. They had spent hours covering a multitude of topics and issues. Dowornobb could tell that Et Avian was impressed with his and Mistress Kateos's depth and breadth of knowledge, and their budding cooperation.
"We are descending quite low," Dowornobb indicated, his helmet pressed to the thick window, feeling the vibrations of the powerful engine. The terrain was mountainous, although the peaks were less numerous. Pockets of snow and grimy glaciers clung to the mostly dry and barren slopes, and hazy cloud formations shrouded the lower ranges. The pulsating glow of fiery-red lava peeking through the haze made Dowornobb soberly conclude the clouds were steam and ash spewing from a chain of volcanoes. Calderas marched across his view, the terrain tortured and broken with faults and ejecta.
"It is most spectacular at night," Et Avian said from the window seat behind Dowornobb. "At night the landscape is traced with intertwining ribbons of hot red, and the magma ejections are beyond words."
"Must we land so close?" Dowornobb gulped.
"We will not land so close as it seems." The noblekone laughed. "You may wish we had landed closer, for it is warmer near those infernal rocks."
The landscape transformed abruptly from ash-colored lava flows to flowing fields of grass. Knife-edge ridges lifted high into the air, enclosing the grasses and the low-flying airplanes in a steep-sided valley. A scintillating stream ran parallel with their flight path. The aircraft banked sharply into the brisk afternoon wind, and as the abat leveled its wings it seemed to stand still. The pilot applied heavy power, the engine overhead vibrated strongly, and the ground floated up to join the wheels. The abat bounced slightly and rolled to a stop.
It was bright and sunny, the sun still high in the west, yet ice-cold air rushed in when the doors were opened. Though the kones were forewarned, the temperature plunge took their breath away. In near panic, they adjusted their temperature settings higher. Power units consumed fuel faster. The suddenly dismal scientists realized they were going to be outside in these conditions for over a week— a prison sentence! Et Silmarn and Et Avian herded their charges into action. The other pilot, Lollee, industriously drove stakes into the ground to use as tie-downs for the airplanes. The ground trembled and swayed beneath their feet.
"Do not worry about the seismic tremors. It is a permanent condition at this site. The sooner you get your tents up, the sooner you get out of this wind," Et Silmarn shouted, the gale whipping his words away. Using the airplanes as windbreaks, they erected and securely anchored three tents. Et Avian and the pilots claimed one tent, the four soldiers quickly disappeared in another, and the four scientists occupied the third. The conditions were crowded, but everyone appreciated the additive nature of body heat.
"Beautiful, is it not?" Et Silmarn asked as he came through the thermal lock. The four scientists huddled in their Genellan suits and dolefully watched him. "It is unseasonably moderate," Et Silmarn continued. "The air in the tents is warming quite nicely. Turn off your breathing units. You cannot eat with helmets on. The first thing we are going to do is prepare a meal, so watch carefully and learn. You must know how to cook for yourself."
Et Silmarn organized the cooking equipment, setting up a stove in a vented alcove, despite the rolling tremors. The meal was quickly prepared and consumed. The air in the tent warmed, the scientists grew relatively comfortable, and, with hunger quelled, their anxieties diminished. A conspiratorial conversation common to shared adventure erupted spontaneously. Scientist H'Aare allowed himself to converse with Mistress Kateos. Scientist Mirrtis talked with animation, still only to the males; however he did not object or react with even a hint of revulsion when Mistress Kateos cautiously participated.
"We have a chore: we must refuel our abat," the noblekone announced. "We do this every day, so the better we get at it, the less time it will take. Listen carefully!" Et Silmarn explained tasks and assigned duties. They listened to the instructions, put on helmets and suits, and followed the pilot into the cold. Although it hadgrown cooler, the kones were able to anticipate the breath-stealing temperature drop. With only a few well-intentioned shoves and shouts, barrels of fuel were rolled from staging areas and their contents pumped into wing bladders. Their job done, the scientists piled good-naturedly into their warm tent, feeling a sense of teamwork that heretofore had been missing. They resumed their conversation, and all four participated as equals.
"You will post guard around the clock," Et Avian ordered, his regal patience wearing thin with Corporal Longo. He removed his helmet to scratch his broad nose.
"It is too cold, Your Excellency," Longo whined. "We cannot withstand these conditions. We were not told—"
"Your mission is to protect us," the noblekone continued. "What are you going to do, hide in your tents? Who is going to protect you?"
"From what is there to be protected—besides the cold?" Longo asked impudently.
"You have Genellan experience," Et Avian said, his exasperation surfacing. "Surely you know the dangers. This continent has bears and predator lizards, pack scavengers and abats, catamounts and blackdogs. The cold is the least of your worries."
"P-predator lizards, Your Excellency?" Longo swallowed.
"Yes, predator lizards. What field experience have your men had?"
"We were facility guards at Goldmine Station, my lord, nothing more."
"What?" Et Avian said.
"That is all, Your Excellency," replied the lead corporal. "None of us has spent more than a few nights in the field, Your Excellency."
Et Avian stared at the soldier. "Post a guard," the noblekone commanded. "I will check on it. Be prepared, but do not be afraid. It is unlikely anything will come close to our tents. The animals are wary. If something comes snooping, fire your weapon into the air. That will scare anything that lives on this planet." Et Avian turned, stooped, and crawled from the tent, not bothering to put on his helmet, anger providing sufficient heat to get him to his own tent.
Longo knelt in the tent's center. The wind fluttered its thick walls.
"Do you think he suspects, Colonel?" one of the black-clad soldiers asked.
"Corporal, you idiot!" Longo snarled. The soldier dropped his head. "Perhaps," Longo replied. "B'Aane, you have the first watch. Two hours. Lootee will be next, and then Rinnk. What he said is true—they are just animals. Loud noises will scare them."
"Only if you see them," Lootee said.
"Shut up and obey!" Longo snapped.
The scientists of Ocean Station made a weekly fishing trip up the wide river. The ocean shore teemed with fish, crustaceans, and sea mammals, but one particular fish, called a speckle fish, was everyone's favorite. It was caught only in the fresh water of the great river. Scientist Kot and Technician Suppree had been assigned the duty of taking the motorized skiff upriver to replenish the supply of that fish. It was pleasurable duty, a day off from the monotonous data checking and compiling that characterized their research work. Officially, they were to take meteorological readings and collect biological samples.
With the sun still below the horizon, Kot and Suppree loaded the skiff and headed up the slack current of the great river, aided greatly by the first stages of a flood tide. Their destination was far upriver, to a place where the great ribbon of water took its last wide meanders before splitting into the sloughs and marshes of the brackish delta. The long ride in the frigid morning air was punctuated by sunrise—a stately metamorphosis of night into day— and a welcome rise in temperature. The river banks came alive with the morning; herds of long-legged gazelles grazed placidly in the frequent clearings, multitudes of river birds screeched at the passing skiff, and aquatic animals splashed in and out of the water, seeking refuge in all directions. They came upon two schools of round-backed river monsters. The broad white dorsals rolling gently across their path were the only impediment to their speedy trip north.
The kones finally beached their skiff on a familiar islet; its crescent beach, a favorite place, was swept by the direct rays of the sun throughout most of the day and shielded from the northerly breezes by a low bluff. The river ran wide and deep to both sides, providing ample protection from field predators, although a clutch of furry, flat-tailed animals had taken up recent residence.
While Technician Suppree shooed away the varmints, Scientist Kot unloaded the equipment and set up fish traps. Once the nets and traps were set, the kones took fishing poles and cast their lines out into the current. The hard work done, they commenced to relax. With the sun high enough to provide the necessary warmth, they took turns removing suits and helmets for half-hour stretches. The sun-baked sand held the chill winds at bay, permitting them to soak their great muscular bodies in the marginal warmth. After a half hour the chilled sunbather would don suit and helmet and check the traps and nets for any catch, while the other scientist would undress and bravely recline in the soft sand. Occasionally, a pole tip would dip and bend nervously, and the suited kone would lumber over and reel in a wriggling fish. These biological samples were accumulated in a well in the hold of the skiff.
Fishing was good and the fish tank was filled by early afternoon. The sun no longer overhead, the afternoon breezes swirled around the bluff protecting the sandy cove. The day was ending and the pleasantly sun-burnished kones, both fully suited, collected the fishing equipment.
"I will load the nets, Suppree," Kot said. "Start the afternoon readings?"
"Real work!" Suppree whined. He grabbed the instrumentation satchel from the boat and walked a hundred paces upriver, disappearing around the low bluff. The technician immediately reappeared, lumbering through the sand on all fours, yelling unintelligibly. Kot dropped the nets, wondering whether to jump in the boat and start the engine, but Suppree stopped. "Come! Quickly!" he shouted, heading back up the sand. Kot followed at an uncertain trot.
A section of raft remained tied together, grounded on the beach at the foot of the bluff, the long bitter end of a line trailing in the clear current. Two tiny green helmets and a single pack were lashed tightly to the logs. A miniaturized weapon was firmly strapped to the pack. Suppree and Kot stared down at the foreign objects, circling the sunken raft, even walking in the icy water.
"A helmet," Kot said, figuring out the latching mechanism and lifting it from the raft. "But it is so small." It rested easily in the palm of his hand.
"A weapon, no doubt," Suppree stated, unbinding the rusted rifle from the pack. His thick finger was too wide by half to fit through the trigger guard.
"Et Avian will want to see this when he returns."
A week later Dowornobb held the helmet in his hands, fascinated with its miniature size. How could a being with a brain so small travel between the stars? Maybe its brain was not held in its skull. Maybe it had two heads. After all there were two helmets, and only one pack.
"Ironic," Et Avian said, holding the other helmet as if it were a holy relic. "We fly across the continent to examine debris that tells us nothing, while the best clues wash up on our front door."
"No, Your Excellency," H'Aare interjected. His enthusiasm for the search had steadily developed, escalating his personal emotions to almost a fervor. "We learned much from the wreckage."
"And we are better prepared for next year," Mirrtis added with surprising enthusiasm. Mirrtis had suffered more than most from the harsh elements.
"What His Excellency means is we found no clues to the aliens—no writings, no pictures, no tools," Kateos said, her voice firm. Dowornobb felt a strange pride in the female's assertion.
"Yes, Mistress Kateos," Et Avian added. "We now have a clue to their appearance. But we also know two facts that are even more important: one, they are on Genellan. And two, we can narrow the search to the river valley."
"That remains a large search area," Scientist Lollee said. "We cannot search any more before the cold season. They will probably die in the winter, if they are not dead already. Only dumb brutes can live through a Genellan winter."
Dowornobb glanced at Et Avian, who stared resolutely at the equipment. The Genellan winters, incomprehensibly vicious, were beyond hope. Dowornobb shifted his attention and noticed Corporal Longo standing silently in the corner.
Young Brappa was selected for the autumn salt expedition, a warrior's rite of passage. When Kuudor informed Braan of his son's selection, the hunter leader's paternal instincts filled him with foreboding: many sentries never returned. But Braan quickly dispelled his paternal anxieties. Salt missions were fraught with problems; he would not be distracted by selfish worry. The size of the expedition was Braan' s concern. The elders had proclaimed the salt requirement, and the pronouncement tore at Braan' s heart—one hundred full bags. Braan sighed and swallowed his protests; there would be many hunter abodes to visit. As their leader, it was his responsibility to notify the warriors of their obligations to volunteer, and since hunters never refused duty, Braan' s visits were received with grim respect.
Delicate chimes heralded the eve of the salt mission; young sentries with thin silver bars dangling about their necks glided along the cliffsides, the clear tinkling sounds too cheerful for the intended purpose. Braan and his lieutenants followed the chimes, attending to their calls. Their mission done, the golden skies of evening darkened to night, and hunter families celebrated with somber thanksgiving. The selected warriors and sentries slept well, secure in their courage and proud of their responsibility. Braan' s slumber was less serene.
At dawn all hunters, young and old, dressed for battle and ascended the cliffs, their straggling multitudes clogging the pathways and tunnels of the colony. By midmorning thousands of warriors crowded the cliff rim, a sea of black eyes and leather wings. Pikes and bows prickled above the horde, a field of pointed blades. In the center of the massed hunters, arrayed in precise ranks, a hundred battle-armored sentries stood proudly, graduating sentries, awaiting their final test. At their head was ancient Kuudor, captain-of-sentries. Five second-year sentries maintained a ceremonial tattoo, beating granite rocks with tuned metal bars, while all other sentries posted vigilant guard along the cliff rim. At Craag' s signal the beaters became still.
As always the winds freshened with the rising sun. Braan stood alone and silent atop the rocky rise overlooking the common. Pivoting with dignity, the leader-of-hunters raised his wings to embrace the four winds. As Braan turned, he screamed ancient chants, powerfully, beautifully. Hot blood rushed through the veins of every hunter; the fur on their spines bristled with emotional electricity, with anticipation and apprehension. They joined fervently in Braan' s harmonics, creating a resonant vibration. The strings of their shortbows vibrated, and dust elevated from the ground—an ecstasy of hope and fear.
The prayer completed, Braan screeched fiercely and thrust his black pike, pointing at Kuudor. The captain-of-sentries marched to the front of his arrayed charges, halted, and ceremoniously whistled the names of fifty sentries, including Brappa, son-of-Braan. The drummers initiated a marching beat. The named sentries hopped forward, picked up a dark bag, and fell into formation facing the edge of the cliff, expressions stoic and movements precise. The massed warriors chirped raucously to the marching beat, acknowledging the suppressed fears of the young sentries, reminiscing over their own first times. Braan signaled, and the beaters halted with a flourish. Clicking in unison, the sentries not called closed ranks smartly, looking simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
Braan brandished his pike and pointed sternly, this time at Craag-the-warrior. With grave authority Craag sang out more names—the names of sixty warriors. One by one the sixty stepped forward, most grabbing salt bags. The first ten, master warriors, including Tinn'a and Bott'a of clan Botto, shouldered only their weapons. As scouts and guards, they formed the first rank. The next fifty warriors were experienced but less seasoned. Each would associate himself as an instructor to a novice, responsible for the sentry's survival and training. They formed ranks with the sentries.
The sentry common roiled with nervous movement and sound. Braan raised his arms. Silence fell; the gurgling noises of the nearby stream drifted across the redoubt. Braan screeched lustily,demanding praise, and the cliffside was drowned in ritual bedlam. With explosive volume the assembled hunters screeched the death song. All sang for death, a death of honor, a passage to final peace: the hunter's plaintive acknowledgment that life was over, that he had fought to the limits of his strength—that he was ready to die.
The hideous screaming built level upon level, to pitches and frequencies known only to dumb brutes and cliff dwellers. In the continuing din, Braan raised his pike and the drummers initiated a rhythmic marching tempo. The hunter leader glided from the hilltop and joined Craag at the formation head. The two hunters marched over the edge, cracking their wings with explosive power. The formation followed, one rank at a time, to the whistling cheers of the multitude. As the salt mission rose on fresh updrafts, their formation altered, the ranks sliding outwards and joining until a large vee formed, giving each hunter undisturbed air. The whistles and screams from those left behind increased in intensity and volume. Thousands of hunters followed the salt expedition into the air, leaping out over the river and rising vertically on convection currents heaving upwards against the face of the plateau. A billowing horde of black bodies soared majestically and noisily upwards, as the wavering vee of the salt mission faded to a faint line on the northern horizon.
"Look!" MacArthur shouted. He pointed ahead, toward the plateau's edge. A thin black cloud drifted skyward. Buccari lifted binoculars to her eyes while MacArthur and the other patrol members—O'Toole, Chastain, and Jones—stared at the ascending column.
"Our friends," Buccari said, taking the glasses down. "Thousands of them." She handed the binoculars to MacArthur. The humans took turns watching the wheeling mass. Gradually the clouds of animals thinned and spread, dissipating, individual motes gliding down the cliff face.
"What that's all about?" MacArthur asked.
Buccari glanced at the corporal and shrugged.
"Maybe they're waiting for your letter, Lieutenant," he persisted.
"It would be nice," Buccari replied. She was impatient to drop off the next batch of pictographs. Nothing had been received from the cliff dwellers since the initial tease. She scanned the skies to the north and west. The weather was changing. Her patrol was headed for MacArthur' s valley, a last foray before the snows of winter. Buccari stifled her frustration. She had wanted the entire crew moved to the valley before winter struck. According to MacArthur, in the valley tundra gave way to topsoil, temperatures were warmer, wildlife abundant, and the forests thicker and more diverse.
Yet Quinn had elected to winter on the plateau. Buccari worried about the commander's decision-making abilities, concerned that his emotional distress was infecting his judgment. He spent long hours alone and made decisions only when pressed. On most issues he seemed indifferent or distracted, but for some reason, he had taken a strong stance on not leaving the plateau. Two sturdy A-frame log structures and a solid meat house had been constructed downhill from the cave; a magnificent woodpile for the winter's heating and cooking requirements had been accumulated. And there was the cave. The cave provided an element of permanency and an essence of security. The crew was emotionally attached to their first campsite. Quinn, seconded by Sergeant Shannon, proclaimed they were prepared for winter.
The arrival of winter was mysteriously uncertain. There was already a bite in the wind, and the air smelled different, but Buccari had insisted on one last patrol before winter snowed them in, tugging at Quinn's mantle of leadership, cajoling and badgering. Quinn conceded, if only to stop her harping. Buccari organized the patrol and set out immediately. She was going to be prepared for the spring, and learning more about the valley was imperative to those preparations.
"We got some cold weather coming," she said now.
"It's damned cold now," Jones said.
"What's the matter, Boats?" O'Toole asked. "I thought you liked playing Marine."
"Yeah, Boats," MacArthur said. "Act like a man. Right Lieutenant?"
"Yeah, Boats," Buccari said. "Act like a man. Move out, Corporal!"
"Aye, Cap'n," MacArthur replied, stepping out toward the horizon.
Braan glided along, measuring altitude by the pressure in his ears. The thermals were unseasonably strong, and the autumnal southwesterlies pushed the hunters rapidly over the plains. An auspicious start.
Hours passed. Thermals lifted them high, yet Braan' s initial well-being was tempered by the changing elements. An innocent parade of puffy cumulus had exploded into a threatening line of towering nimbus. Concentrations of billowing turbulence blossomed upward, fluffy white tops curling ever higher, their bottoms black and heavy with rain—thunderstorms. Braan veered west, hoping to slide behind the rain giants. Hours of soaring remained, but flying into the crazed craw of a thunderstorm would not get them to the salt flats. Ominous booming of thunder rattled sensitive nerves in Braan' s sonar receptors, and searing blue streaks of lightning arced between the roiling mountains of moisture. The hunters pressed forward, skirting the bruised clouds, but the course ahead grew solid with storm. The hunter leader set a sinuous detour, descending slowly through a dark valley of rumbling behemoths. Braan screamed a command along each wing of the echelon, and Craag, leading half the hunters, descended, falling behind and forming a separate vee. Wispy vapors and occasional raindrops sailed through the formation, and high overhead, dark clouds cut off the last bright rays of the sun. The hunters accelerated their descent, fighting increasing turbulence and decreasing visibility.
Sonar pulses of frightened hunters discharged randomly, their locating organs firing off sonic feelers. Braan in the lead, with nothing to guide him except eyes and instincts, remained quiet. Turbulence rocked him. A pelting rain started. And then hail. Braan screamed: every hunter for himself. A nimbus cell had swallowed them. There was no telling which way the powerful and turbulent drafts would throw them. Braan held his glide straight ahead, increasing his rate of descent, hoping the formation would stay with him. His hopes evaporated. He felt powerful updrafts. The longer the hunters remained in the air the more scattered they would become. Braan repeatedly screamed the dive command and pulled in his membrane wings, bunching them behind his back. The elevator updraft pressed him but could not hold him; the lead hunter pointed his nose downward and knifed through upwelling winds.
He fell through the bottom of the clouds, black grayness suddenly brightening to the midnight green of rain-soaked plains, rising to meet him. Braan flattened his body and allowed his membranes to ease into the rushing slipstream, bleeding off vertical velocity. Halting his descent, he struggled to keep his wet body in the sky, beating the air with powerful strokes. He circled relentlessly downward in driving rain, screaming for rendezvous. Answering cries came from all around, and as he drifted to the hail-strewn tundra, other hunters hopped and glided to his location, marshaling to his cries. Miraculously, after a half hour of whistling searches, everyone was on the ground, regrouped and without serious injury. Their adventure had started.
The line of thunderstorms passed, harbingers of a fast-moving front. The flint-edged wind shifted to a firm northerly, and temperatures dropped sharply; hail stones crunched underfoot, and bright gashes of cold blue sky sailed overhead. The hunters would have to march; the cold, wet air would not lift their weight. His warriors formed in two columns, ten spans apart, Braan deployed experienced pickets on each flank, and ordered Tinn'a to take two warriors forward as advance guard. Craag dropped back with the remaining experienced warriors; growlers usually attacked from the rear. The vast number of plains carnivores were to the east, where the great herds were beginning their migrations, but straggling buffalo remained in the area, and even small herds had packs of four-legged death stalking them. Braan screeched and the hunters hopped forward. The hunters' short steps moved the columns doggedly across the wet tundra. Braan proudly watched his son waddle by.
Cast-iron squalls swept the rolling plains, unloading gray sheets of icy rain on the hunters' bent backs. A deluge had just passed when Tinn' a's warning cry drifted to his ears. Braan halted the columns and moved forward. Tinn'a was on the point, crouched on a low ridge, slightly below the crest. As Braan approached, a great eagle gliding easily in ground effect lifted above the low elevation of the ridge. Braan screamed for Tinn'a and his scouts to retreat, for they were too few to thwart the monstrous killer. He was not worried about the hunter columns to his rear; their firepower would discourage a dozen eagles.
Tinn'a's scouts retreated, converging from either flank. Tinn'a silently unfurled his wings and pushed mightily down a shallow slope. Braan noted with alarm the quick turn of the eagle's head as it registered Tinn'a' s movement. The eagle pounded the airand rose higher. It wheeled and, with the wind at its back, closed the distance with alarming speed. Braan had no choice; the hunter leader screamed again, but this time the order to attack. Braan leapt into the air, thunderously deploying his wings. He pushed forward, laboring to gain speed and altitude, brandishing his shortsword.
The intrepid scouts responded to Braan's command. Their wings cracked unfurled, and they bravely rushed to intercept the eagle, skimming across the damp downs. Tinn'a swung hard around to join the assault, his wingtip shooting up a rooster tail of water and hail stones from the sodden ground. Braan' s forward velocity and Tinn'a's momentum to the rear caused them to pass in opposite flight, separating the warriors more than good tactics would dictate, but action was joined, and they could not delay. The hunters screamed the death cry and closed on their great rival for the skies.
The eagle's glare was fixed on Tinn'a. Yet as the hunters narrowed the distance, Braan detected a shift in the predator's attention. Undaunted, Braan bore straight ahead, aiming his sword thrust at the eagle's malevolent yellow eye. The eagle, disconcerted with the directness of the small creature's assault, maneuvered, but Braan sharply adjusted and met the eagle head-on, striking a vicious blow. The collision knocked the hunter into a tumbling spin. Braan flared his wings and cushioned his splashing jolt onto the soft ground. The indomitable cliff dweller somersaulted and leapt back into the air, struggling for altitude.
Screaming horribly, its momentum carrying it high, the enraged eagle regained contact with the hapless Tinn'a. Now half-blind and furious with pain, the eagle dove at the trailing hunter, obsessed with ripping the small winged creature to pieces. Tinn'a, far below the eagle's altitude, could not attack, but neither could he run. Tinn'a bravely held his glide, and just before the eagle impaled him with its grasping talons, the crafty hunter dipped sharply, trying to evade the overwhelming attack. Too late. One of the crazed eagle's talons struck Tinn'a a murderous blow across his back, and the hunter was hurled like a stone into the ground.
The two scouts converged on the eagle and wheeled with it, trying desperately to keep up with the faster and more proficient flyer. Braan, thrashing air to gain altitude, watched the three flyers head back in his direction. Tinn'a' s inert form lay on the ground. The huge eagle descended toward the stricken hunter, talons spread wide. Braan, much closer, folded his wings and plummeted, landing heavily beside the immobile warrior. The hunter leader's hands moved with blurring speed; Braan unsheathed his shortbow, drew an arrow, nocked it, and bent his bow to the target. The eagle, sightless in one eye, canted his cruel beak to the side, the better to view his prey as he dove. Braan loosed the arrow; its iron-tipped shaft sliced the air and dug deeply into the glaring evil orb, finding the great brute's small brain and shutting out the creature's last light. With a tortured screech the eagle feathered its massive wings, halting its dive. It collapsed from the sky, blinded, and mortally wounded.
The scouts landed on either side of the shuddering bird, bows taut, ready to shoot. Braan nocked another arrow. The hunters, lungs heaving against rib cages, warily circled the fallen raptor. The eagle trembled in its final death throe and was still.
"Let us—" Braan gasped, "see to our comrade." The warrior lay in a twisted heap, still alive, his breathing quick and shallow. Braan carefully arranged the injured hunter's limbs, trying in vain to make Tinn'a comfortable. The warrior's back was broken. Tinn'a's eyes fluttered opened.
"I was not quick enough, Braan-our-leader," the hunter whispered.
Braan said nothing; a most difficult duty lay upon him. Braan looked to the skies and began the death song, but with subdued volume and measured pace. His keening wail spread over the downs with mournful slowness and softness. Tinn'a's scouts added their voices, and even Tinn'a, given the honor of singing his own death, joined in feebly. The hunters wept without shame. When it was right, Braan knelt on Tinn'a's chest and carefully, affectionately, grabbed hold of the injured hunter's head and twisted it fast and hard, breaking his neck and snapping the spinal cord.
They dug a shallow grave and covered it with a rock cairn. Tinn'a, clan of Botto, a warrior in life, was buried holding the eagle's head—a glorious warrior in death.
The smell of cooking meat and the clatter of implements brought Buccari awake. Reluctantly leaving the warmth of her sleeping bag, she crawled painfully from the tent. The morning was frigid; a layer of hoarfrost coated the landscape, and a few lonely wisps of steam flowed upwards past the cliff's edge. Beyond the timid mists the hard line of the eastern horizon promised a new day,the first rays of sunlight spilling over the unrelenting margin of earth and sky. A single high cloud glowing salmon-pink against the neon-blue sky testified to the impending brilliance of the unrisen sun. MacArthur and Chastain hunched over a small fire. MacArthur looked up.
"Morning, Lieutenant," he said too cheerfully. "Got lucky and caught a marmot in our trapline. We can save the dried fish for dinner."
Buccari swallowed hard and exhaled. More greasy meat.
"You okay, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked with genuine concern.
"I'm fine, Corporal," she replied, correcting her facial signals. "Just a bit stiff."
"You aren't the only one. Had to kick O'Toole out of the rack this morning, to get him up for his watch. He could barely move. It's that soft camp life."
She looked up to see O'Toole breasting the rise, returning from the stream.
"Where's Bosun Jones?" she asked.
MacArthur pointed to the tent with his thumb, just as Jones groaned loudly, the sound of a large man in agony. The tent flap moved aside and Jones's wide face and burly shoulders emerged into the chilly morning, his head and back covered with a blanket.
"She-it! It's cold!" Jones shivered, his eyes barely opened. "Excuse me, Lieutenant," he quickly amended, seeing Buccari. "I meant to say that it was right pleasant out. Refreshing even." He slowly straightened his back and stretched mightily. His liquid brown eyes blinked slowly, and then he took notice of the cooking marmot.
"My, that smells good!" he drooled. "But I hope you got more than just one of them rock rats for us to eat."
"You going to eat the whole thing, Boats?" O'Toole asked as he walked into the camp. "Just like you hog the whole tent. I feel like we're married. You sure you're not Irish?"
Jones smiled. "It was cold. Best time to make friends," he mumbled.
"Speaking of friends, Lieutenant," O'Toole continued. "Your notebook disappeared sometime after I came on watch. I checked it first thing, and it was there, but it wasn't about an hour ago, and there were tracks in the frost. They headed over the cliff."
"Finally," she sighed. "Did they leave anything in return?" "Not a thing, sir."
By the time the sun rose above the distant eastern horizon, the salt expedition had trekked many spans. The dusky odor of musk-buffalo drifted into their awareness. Scouts sighted a herd to the east. The hunters chewed thickweed and altered course to stay clear. Predators of all types, rapacious and long inured to the stink, doggedly stalked the great herds, worrying the fringes, attacking and killing the old and sick. Braan veered further west, hoping to avoid the inevitable growlers. They were nearing the salt lakes.
Braan moved forward to join the scouts, the terrain lowering sharply to flat desolation; to the north were the white-tinged lake beds. Herds of musk buffalo ranged to the east, and constant activity dotted the plains in that direction. Brown dust filtered into crystalline skies, tumbling up from the pounding hooves of the plains animals. A scout signaled, and Braan' s attention was jerked forward, not by the scout's alarm but by a shrill, banshee ululation wafting over the downs—buffalo dragon. Striding into view across the rolling tundra were two of the ferocious beasts. One monster halted abruptly and whirled to glare menacingly at the hunter columns. Its powerful fluted neck stretched upwards, lifting its terrible head above a thick-plated dorsal. Canting its head, the reptile sniffed at the air, spiked tail twitching nervously. As suddenly as it had stopped, the creature pivoted and ran after its mate. Braan sighed with relief.
It was unusual for dragons to be about in daylight. The splendid animals were efficient killers, but for reasons unknown to Braan, the dragons avoided the hunters, as if they were cognizant of the cliff dwellers' potential for retribution. Braan was thankful for this mystery, for he respected the terrible beasts. He had seen dragons bring down charging musk-buffalo with an indescribable power and ferocity.
"Braan-our-leader!" twittered a scout, pointing. "Growlers!"
Upwind, well clear of the hunters and posing no threat, a large pack of growlers moved at a trot, warily following the dragons. Their gray manes and silver pelts already turning, in two months they would have thick, white coats. Instinctively Braan turned in the opposite direction. He saw more growlers coming at that flank. A scout screamed the alarm. There were only six, but they cantered directly at the hunter columns, skinny tails flailing the air like nervous whips.
The downwind scout rose into the air and slanted for the oncoming danger, circling slowly away from the cliff dweller columns. The experienced scout hit the ground awkwardly, only strides from the startled scavengers. The burly beasts leapt abruptly sideways and reared onto their hind legs, baring yellow fangs and efficiently hooked claws. A ferocious rattling, grumbling explosion of their displeasure rent the air, a preternatural harmony of growls and howls.
The wily hunter stumbled and hopped three or four times before flapping noisily into the air. The growlers, tails erect, recovered from their surprise and lunged to the chase. The scout landed frequently, shaking the fatigue from his wings, but always jumping into the air just as the growlers pounced, staying tantalizingly out of reach. Braan watched with approval, and the column veered further west, moving rapidly behind the chase. When the growlers were clear, the exhausted scout worked into the air and glided to the rear of the column, leaving the scavengers directionless and frustrated.
The hunter columns marched onto the stark flatness of alkaline lakes, the landscape barren, surreal, without perspective. Life was reduced to two dimensions, existence pulled down to utter flatness, distances obscured by shimmering lines of cold heat rising from silver mirages. The hunter leader ranged ahead of the expedition, using scouts as messengers. The columns of impatient hunters passed old excavation sites, smooth from winds and rain. Braan knew the advantages of getting salt of the highest purity; every grain of salt carried over the distances was dear. An extra pound of pure salt refined from the harvest would justify the added hours of hiking.
Braan stopped. Through thermal distortions rippling from the surface of the bright white salt could be seen small, erect animals. Alert to Braan' s presence, their postures were frozen and poised to action. The wind was from Braan' s left and carried no dangerous scents, nothing but the stale, acrid odor of the salt flats. Braan whistled softly to the closest scout, ordering him to fall back to the main body with instructions to form for attack. Braan motioned for the other scouts to spread to the flanks. Warily testing for rising air currents, should retreat be necessary, Braan continued forward. As the distance closed, the bleary air cleared and a familiar scent reached his nose. A tribe of mountain dwellers materialized from the wavering whiteness.
Braan halted a hundred paces short of the encampment, displaying his bow and sword openly, but without menace. His scouts held their positions a shortbow shot out on each flank. The mountain dwellers had seen Braan coming and were waiting with pikes and knives at the ready. Only a few carried shortbows. Braan made a quick head count; close to seventy mountain dwellers werespread over the salt digs. Their leader, a furtive creature with a knife held threateningly in his wiry grasp, limped toward Braan, stopping ten paces away. He was a hunter, the same as Braan, only smaller and darker, pitch-colored to Braan's charcoal, and there was no cream-colored patch on the smaller hunter's chest. The little warrior was old, a veteran of many battles, with massive scars waffling his wrinkled countenance. The mountain warrior's peculiar eyes were the color of pale tea.
"We here first, cliff dweller," said the mountain dweller chief. "No dispute, warrior-from-the-mountains," Braan answered. "Be at peace."
The aged warrior peered across the wavering distances to the cliff dweller scouts and past Braan, trying in vain to discern the magnitude of the cliff dwellers' main body. Braan sensed the mountain dweller's anger and frustration at being surprised.
"No need for fear, warrior," Braan consoled. "Thou art wise to use all thy hunters to gather salt. The snows of winter will soon be upon the land."
"We done this day," the surly creature said, his dialect difficult to comprehend. The mountain dweller chief glowered at the taller cliff dweller. Some dweller tribes, particularly those of the mountains, raided other tribes, stealing harvested salt rather than expending arduous efforts mining it. Some tribes captured hunters with the salt, forcing their captives to carry the salt back to the raiding tribe's colony, where the prisoners were enslaved or killed.
"An excellent site," Braan said. "The salt here is pure."
The gnarled and gimpy hunter, brandishing his knife, snarled. "Do not attack, tall one," he said. "Go away or we fight. My warriors have much battle. We not run."
Braan allowed his vision to drift over the head of the ravaged leader to scan once again the skulking gaggle of mountain dwellers. They were tired and malnourished. A desperate foe was a bitter adversary.
"Threaten not, warrior-from-the-mountain," Braan replied evenly. "Continue digging and depart in peace. We pose no threat unless thou make one of us by foolish acts." He turned and unfurled his wings. He paused and returned to face the twisted visage of the mountain dweller.
"Thy hunters are hungry. We have killed an eagle. What can be spared of its flesh will be brought to thee as a gesture of good will." Braan turned and cracked his wings, catching the air. A weak thermal boosted him, and Braan used the height to glide toward his expedition. The scouts retreated on foot, covering his movement.
Autumn had touched the riparian underbrush along the great river. Isolated islands of yellow and copper fringed the more prevalent darkness of spruce and fir foliage, providing depth and perspective to the narrow, tributary defiles veining into the larger valley. But the autumn glory revealed during the days of hiking along the great river paled in the splendor and fullness of MacArthur's valley. Buccari' s patrol arrived in the valley near first light of day. Breasting the slanted outlet falls above the river, the din of thrashing rapids pounding, Buccari stared over the placid lake waters into the deep and magnificent setting. Beams of pure gold from the low morning sun crafted rainbows facet in the mists, and autumn hues glowed softly, doubled by reflections from the mirrored surface of the long lake. In the distance, a festival of earth tones gave way to tracts of blue-green mountain forests, through which a waterfall fell in multiple cataracts, dashing from the steep-sided foothills at the base of the towering mountains. Nestled high above, a white-frosted, blue-green glacier flowed sinuously around white-shrouded peaks and tors, all resplendently reflected in the serene lake.
"Oh, my! It's wonderful!" Buccari exclaimed, her breath taken away by the pureness of the vision, the painful weight of the pack forgotten. "I never want to leave this place."
"I know what you mean," MacArthur said, reaching down with his foot and shattering the crystalline film of ice on a puddle. Visible puffs of warm air spewed from the speakers' mouths, punctuating their wonder.
MacArthur walked past her and she followed, stumbling, unwilling to divert her gaze from the gaudy landscape. Great flocks of waterfowl exploded from the lake, the noise from their wings rivaling the sounds of the river left behind. The patrol picked its way along the gravelly lake shore, moving deeper into the valley. Buccari finally brought her gaze back down to her feet and noticed a tall, bushy thatch growing abundantly in the marshy shallows. Birds fluttered around and through the tall grasses, perching frequently to peck at the golden reeds.
"Hold on for second, Corporal," she ordered. "I want to look at something." She removed her pack, sat down, and took off her boots.
"Time for a break anyway," MacArthur said, shedding his pack. "You got blisters?"
"See that bushy-headed grass?" she replied, wading into the frigid, ankle-deep water. "Looks like a grain." Buccari inspected the chest high thatch for seeds and was delighted to find dense rows of ricelike grain. She picked the tiny husk-covered seeds and shelled the chaff, leaving behind pale white germs in the palm of her hand. Her instincts told her that she was looking at food. Buccari hacked off some stalks and carried them to shore. She sat down, and the corporal joined her.
"I've tramped by here a dozen times. Never thought to check for grain," MacArthur said.
"You wouldn't have seen anything until a few weeks ago," Buccari replied. "This is small stuff." She stripped the seed into a cook pot.
"Can I help?" MacArthur asked. He grabbed a stalk and started stripping it. Buccari watched him work, his hands agile and sure, his face a study in concentration. They made quick work of the stalks. Done, they looked at their meager collection. It was food—the makings of bread, the staff of life. Buccari looked up and started to speak but caught MacArthur staring intently at her. She looked away quickly, her demeanor eroding before involuntary emotions.
"You have to take the husks off," she said, fingering through the seeds, separating the lightweight shells from the germ, her voice as husky as the grain. The pressure again; she was feeling the pressure of living in a natural world, a world of animal drives. Her world had been reduced to fundamentals. It no longer mattered that she could fly a spaceship; her computer skills were useless, her military rank irrelevant. She was facing the prospect of learning how to be a woman—a woman in a primitive world. The thought was not consciously formulated, but her instincts shouted the dictate, echoing it through her subconscious being. She felt the pressure.
The mountain dwellers disappeared in the night. Braan knelt and examined their abandoned equipment, the signs of panic written in the remains. He had seen hunters from other tribes only a dozen times in his long life, and each time the meeting was characterized by extreme fear and distrust. Braan contemplated the blatant differences between his own cliff hunters and those of other tribes, the tribes of the mountains, and was bewildered.
"Where should we dig, Braan-our-leader?" Craag interrupted. His lieutenant had posted the perimeter guard as Braan had ordered. Braan studied his capable and intelligent lieutenant, and was grateful for the cliff dwellers' advantages.
"Concentrate on areas already excavated, but do not dig more than the depth of a field pike. If more area is required, dig upwind, and ensure the top layer is removed."
"Bott'a has found the excavations to be fouled," Craag said angrily.
"Fouled?" Braan replied, startled.
"Dung-slugs, ashes, excrement. They did not want us to have the advantage of their work. Perhaps we should have fought them."
"No, my friend," Braan replied thoughtfully. "We were right to let them go. Start new excavations. At least we have an understanding of their fears. Let them continue to wonder about us. In the long run it will be to our advantage."
"Mac, you and Chastain finish scouting the valley," she ordered. "I'll keep Boats and O'Toole here. We need the food." She was angry, angry that she could only take a limited amount of the precious seed back to the plateau. Why hadn't they moved to the valley? She was also angry because she would not get to see more of the valley. That would have to wait until spring. She tried not to show her foul mood.
"Aye, Lieutenant," MacArthur replied. "We'll be back in three days."
Buccari watched the two men head out along the lake shore and disappear around a point of land. She was both relieved and sorry to see MacArthur disappear—his presence was disconcerting.
She went to work, directing the two remaining men. O'Toole and Jones hacked great sheaves of lake grass and carried them to an area of cleanly swept granite, where the seeds were stripped. Once a quantity of raw grain was accumulated, it was put in a tent bag and pounded against the rocks to break down the husks. After threshing, the grain was tossed into the air over the flat rocks, allowing the wind to blow through the airborne mixture, catching the lighter chaff and sweeping it downwind. This beating and tossing was repeated until the husks were flushed from the grain. After two days of laboring in the sun and wind, the three spacers were burned and sore, but they had accumulated almost thirty kilos of white grain.
"Ready for the return march, Braan-our-leader," Craag said. Harsh winds blew straight as a nail, driving stinging salt into red-rimmed eyes and white-crusted fur.
Braan walked the line of burdened warriors, checking physical condition and providing encouragement. Heavy salt bags strained fragile frames, unnatural loads for airworthy creatures. He came to his son and slapped him solidly on the back. Brappa turned and lifted his chest, proud and capable, saying nothing.
Brappa checked his own ponderous bag of salt, shrugging it against the set of his shoulders. Braan lifted his sword, pointed to the south, and started hopping slowly between the columns. Craag and the rear guard, not carrying salt bags, waited until the columns moved away. Scouts and pickets turned to their missions, ranging far ahead and to the sides.
The salt flats were left behind. The hunters scaled the rising downs, returning to the rolling tundra. The unwieldy salt bags rode heavily, and the hunters perspired under their loads, despite the chill bite of the quartering northerly. A gray layer of clouds scudded overhead, letting fall an occasional splatting drop of rain. The young sentries steeled themselves to their loads, anticipating the cliffs of home. The experienced warriors, knowing better, blocked their minds to all things.
On the second day growlers attacked, a modest pack, fourteen animals, led by a silver she-beast. The rear guard spotted them loping over the crest of an adjacent rise and whistled the alarm. The picket moved to intercept. The columns halted but did not put down their salt bags. Salt bearers shuffled in position and sniffed nervously. Dropping and retrieving the salt bags would only tire them. Braan expected the rear guard and the pickets to turn the pack. He screamed into the wind and the columns staggered forward.
The she-beast halted before the crest of the rise and stood erect on her powerful haunches, raising her eyes above the near horizon. Hunter whistles and screams floated in the wind. The growlers dropped low and skulked over the hill, turning slightly away from the columns. A hunter picket and two of the rear guard took to the air. They wheeled together and glided smoothly over the low ridge straight for the stalking growlers. The picket confronted the scavengers first, followed in rapid succession by the two guards, swooping low, tantalizingly close. Jaws snapped, tails twitched, and guttural growls lifted into the breeze; the beasts jumped to their hind legs trying to intercept the darting hunters, but to no avail. The hunters landed beyond the pack and sucked hard to regain their wind, waiting for the growlers to pursue. The she-beast followed the flyers with cruel eyes. The pack rumbled nervously as the wily scavenger smelled the wind. She looked to the nearby hunters standing alert on a knoll of tundra and then back to the massed columns in the distance. The she-beast growled deeply and headed downhill toward the more numerous opportunity. Her pack grudgingly followed.
The rejected lures struggled into the air, screaming. Braan heard their urgent alarms, ordered the columns to halt, and moved to face the oncoming fangs. Craag' s attack cry pierced the wind as that brave warrior and the balance of the rear guard hauled themselves skyward. Braan screamed the order to drop salt bags. He deployed six warriors to the opposite side of the massed hunters, positions vacated by the defending scouts and guards. It would not do to get surprised.
Braan ordered the left column to face the charge with weapons ready. The right column would be his reserve. He dropped his own salt bag and flapped tiredly into the air. The growlers, no more than a long bowshot away, bounded down the slope at the formed hunters, their horrendous grumbling increasing in volume and intensity as they neared their kill. Craag' s hunters dived on the lead beasts, firing their arrows in a glide, a difficult and inaccurate tactic. Craag was buying time—time for the rest of the rear guard and pickets to marshal. The pack reacted to the perils of Craag' s missiles, slowing and slinking sideways. A growler fell, an arrow impaling its throat.
The she-beast barked, encouraging the pack's charge, but the delay allowed five of Craag' s warriors to form a defensive rankdirectly in the growlers' line of attack. Craag and two pickets joined the rank as Braan neared the action. The defenders spread apart in a gentle crescent, intending to enfilade the pack with deadly shortbows. The growlers, heavy viselike jaws slavering with foam, yellow eyes rimmed with crimson, closed on the hunters' defensive position. Craag screamed. Bowstrings sang, and arrows buzzed into the ranks of the charging predators. Three tumbled to the ground, dead or mortally wounded, but the charge carried through the hunters' position. Craag's warriors scattered into the sky, pivoting into the wind and crawling desperately above the maws of angry growlers.
The attack lost its weight. The she-beast limped forward with an arrow dangling from her shoulder. She stopped abruptly, snatched the arrow with her jaws, and pulled until it ripped from her hide. The pack moved past her, toward the strong smell of prey, but at a wary lope. She followed, blood running from her head, where another arrow had plowed its furrow.
Braan was ready. The columns separated, and the column closest to the attack moved in line abreast, steadily up the grade, preparing to fire an overwhelming barrage. Doomed, the dumb beasts advanced, breaking into a gallop, growling and snarling. At thirty paces Braan signaled and half the bows in the facing column—those of the novices—fired. Three growlers fell and two others staggered back, limping. Braan screamed again and the arrows of veteran warriors sang viciously through the air. Four more growlers dropped in their tracks. The few still capable of running, arrows bristling from their hides like quills, turned in rout. The hunters cheered lustily and then chanted the death song in tribute to fallen foe.
"Well done, warriors!" Braan shouted. "Retrieve thine arrows. The march continues." He watched in satisfaction as the jubilant hunters scoured the ground for their precious missiles. Craag' s guards butchered the vanquished creatures, rolling the skins tightly—trophies that would soon become grievous burdens. Braan said nothing, for he had proudly brought his first growler skin home and many others thereafter.
"Hey, it's Corporal Mac and Jocko!" O'Toole exclaimed, pointing down the shore. O'Toole shouted and waved at the returning men. They carried a pole over their shoulders from which hung considerable cargo. Buccari enviously squinted across the distance, guessing at their burden. As much as she had wanted to scout the valley, she knew she had made the correct decision. She stared proudly at the large backpacks filled with seed.
"They killed something," Jones said. O'Toole jogged down the beach and joined MacArthur and Chastain, taking one end of the bough to which a beast had been tied. "It's a little deer. Look at the antlers!" Lumpy tent bags also hung heavily from the shoulder pole.
"Welcome back!" Buccari said, offering her hand. MacArthur looked down, struck dumb and stupid by the simple gesture. He looked back at her face, smiled largely, and took her hand with a firm grip. Smiling, she pulled away from MacArthur' s lingering grasp and took Chastain' s big hand. Chastain' s grip was gentle, and his smile eclipsed MacArthur's.
"Mac, let me show Lieutenant Buccari the roots you brought her, er…the toobers!" Chastain said excitedly. The big man lumbered over and yanked off one of the tent bags.
"Corporal MacArthur, you brought me a present?" Buccari asked with affected girlishness, and everyone laughed. MacArthur looked down at his feet, color rising through his thick beard.
"Go ahead, Jocko," MacArthur said, recovering his composure. "You can show 'em to the lieutenant as easily as I can."
Chastain wasted no time. He walked over to Buccari, hulking above her, and held open the bag. Buccari gingerly reached in and pulled out a russet, fist-sized nodule. It looked like a potato. Buccari looked up smiling.
"What's it taste like?" she asked.
"We boiled'em," answered Chastain. "They taste like sweet potatoes."
"We saw bears dig them up," MacArthur said. "Most had gone to seed."
"We musta eaten fifty of them," Chastain added. "Careful! They'll make you—er, they give you the runs!" He blushed. "Specially if you eat fifty of them," Buccari said, laughing.
Brappa forced himself forward one step at a time. Bag straps cut deeper with every step; his back ached, and his feet dragged on the yielding tundra. He was not alone in his suffering. The pained breathing of his comrades, a pervasive sobbing, revealed the misery surrounding him. At last they saw the cliffs.
A comfort at first, the clear skies of the third morning revealed the stately cliffs, but the landmark became a tease. Two full days of hiking did not draw them closer. The cliffs hung aloof, tantalizing the weary hunters, filling heads with hopes and dreams. Nor could Brappa purge his mouth of the salty taste or his nostrils of the alkaline smell. Nights were short, and sleep did not cure his fatigue. He awoke faithfully from the same horror—a dry, coughing nightmare of overwhelming sensations and the taste and smell of salt. His thirst expanded daily, his mouth dry as dust. His eyes burned. He did not complain.
"How fare ye, Brappa-my-friend?" asked the warrior Croot'a. "The journey is long, Croot'a-my-friend. I have learned of myself."
"Then thou art blessed with true knowledge, Brappa-myfriend." They slogged along, the columns stringing out, the vanguard over the horizon. From behind he heard whistles admonishing the salt bearers to keep up. Brappa gritted his teeth and closed interval.
"There will be water tonight," Croot'a said. "We camp at a spring. That is why the column extends. The warriors anticipate washing away the salt. They pull away in their eagerness."
Brappa had no energy for eagerness toward any purpose, but thoughts of water involuntarily caused his mouth and throat to fill. He swallowed, and the taste of salt welled within. He waddled faster.
Buccari reached the tumbling cascades marking the end of the valley and its confluence with the great river. The huge river crashed and boiled below, stark contrast to the placid valley. Her patrol was returning to the plateau. Buccari' s dissatisfaction with Quinn's decision to winter on the plateau was a gnawing cancer.
The packs were leaden, their fabric distended with excess load, their frames draped and hung with whatever would not fit inside. Chastain and Jones carried the grain, the camp gear and the venison distributed among the other three. Buccari's pack pulled heavily on her already weary shoulders. It was going to be a long, uphill hike home.
We aren't going home, she thought. We're leaving it!
The weather changed. The wind shifted to the south; the temperature rose slightly, and the dim light of dawn was filtered by a moody overcast. It began to snow early, the first flakes drifting lightly to ground. By midmorning the cliff dwellers columns left a thin trail, rapidly obscured by blowing flurries. By noon the ground was covered; visibility was eradicated. The columns tightened up. Pickets and guards peered nervously outward; growlers would not be deterred by snowfall.
Brappa slogged along, watching the footfalls of the salt bearer in front of him. Deadened to pain, his body had transcended the numbness of total fatigue. The wind cut through his bones; his legs were like stumps. He lifted each foot from the ground and carried it deliberately forward, placing it beneath his falling mass, jarringly, praying he would not stumble. Irrationally, he looked up to see if the cliffs were any closer—he had forgotten it was snowing. The snows mercifully masked the taunting cliffs. Brappa began to think that he would die.
"Thou art doing commendably, Brappa-my-friend," panted Croot'a, the young warrior. "Braan, leader-of-hunters, must be proud of his son."
"Thank thee, Croot' a-my-friend," Brappa responded. "Thy encouragement is precious, but please spare thine energy. Waste not effort on my account."
"Thou art obviously doing well, since thee remain verbose and long of wind."
"Croot'a-my-friend, shut up!"
"Very good advice."
"How you doing, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked, dropping back and falling in step. The forest was thinning out, the roar of the river barely audible in the steep distance. Buccari lifted her head, trying to mask her pain.
"I'm okay, Corporal," she said between deep breaths. She looked at him and smiled, perceiving his deep look of concern. She knew the steepest, hardest part of the hike still lay ahead. "I'll make it."
"You're a helluva Marine, Lieutenant," MacArthur said quietly.
"Thanks. I guess." She averted her face, her smile turning into a grimace, but she felt better for his compliment.
"Crap! It's starting to snow!" Jones exclaimed, looking into a vague sky. A wind-driven flurry of dry snow dusted the forested hillside, the chilly breeze whispering through evergreen boughs.
"We're in for a good one," MacArthur said evenly. "Keep the pace up. We have to make the cliff trail before the snow gets too deep. It'll be a sumbitch to climb now."
"How much further?" Buccari asked.
"Don't know," MacArthur replied. "We may be in trouble." The patrol put their heads down and trudged up the mountain.
The blizzard descended in its full fury. Braan took the lead, kicking through burgeoning snowdrifts, his visible world reduced to a fuzzy white hemisphere extending but a few paces from his uncertain position. The salt bearers stumbled along in his wake, plowing the dry and powdery snow aside. The hunter leader stopped and tried to sense his position, feeling deep within his instincts. The valley head was near, but even Braan was losing confidence.
The hunter leader heard a dim and faraway whistle. His sagging shoulders lifted with hope—the relief column! Braan vigorously returned the signal call and repeated it in the direction of his expedition. Muted screams pierced the storm. Another whistle! Braan oriented himself to the signal and pressed through the blizzard. Shadowy figures materialized from the whiteness.
"Return in health, Braan, leader-of-hunters," whistled Kuudor. Snow covered his fur-shrouded form. Two sentries, cold and excited, flanked the sentry captain.
"Greetings, Kuudor, captain-of-sentries," chirped Braan. "Thy presence is heartwarming. A difficult expedition, but successful. Thy students have been faithful to thy teaching. All performed well, and all return as warriors. Good fortune but for the loss of a faithful warrior. Brave Tinn'a, clan of Botto, has joined his ancestors."
Kuudor' s shoulders sagged in relief, but he also mourned the loss of the indomitable Tinn'a. Kuudor turned to a sentry and dispatched him to deliver the news to the elders.
"Sentries stationed to mark the trail await thee," Kuudor said with ritual. "Thy burden is now theirs." The old warrior stepped forward. He handed Braan a growlerskin cape and lifted the salt bag from Braan' s shoulders, settling it on his own. Braan thankfully relinquished his burden and covered his raw shoulders with the fur. Braan whistled and the columns surged forward. Another dim whistle sounded ahead, and as the columns arrived at the next sentry's position that hunter moved into the column, relieved one of its exhausted members of his heavy salt bag, and marched alongside. Onward the salt bearers marched, listening for the sentry beacons ahead, waiting for fresh backs to relieve them of their loads. The bone-weary cliff dwellers gave up their onerous burdens as if being reborn. Many cried, overwhelmed by the succor. And thus they were guided down the narrow and steep valley and across the ice-encrusted bridge. An agonizing uphill journey remained, but their numbers and energies were expanded to the task.
The forest ended. The patrol was abruptly in the open, above the tree line. The clouds lifted momentarily, revealing their precipitous ascent. MacArthur stopped and stared upwards.
"Why don't we start climbing?" Buccari asked. "We have to go up."
"We could, I guess," MacArthur replied, turning to face her. "That path cuts along the edge of the cliff, and it switches back over those higher ridges to the left. If we blindly head up, we may find ourselves boxed in on one of those steep cuts, dead-ended."
"So what are you saying?" Buccari asked.
"I'm scared," MacArthur said, looking her in the eyes, "…sir."
Buccari looked up the steep ascent, but the clouds filled in; the ceiling descended, enshrouding them in foggy flurries.
Hunter scouts detected the long-legs camped near the trail and stalked them from the edge of the blown snow's limits.
"Long-legs command the trail, Braan-our-leader," reported the scout. The scouting party leaned against the flurries, the wind lifting the plush fur of their capes.
"It is true, Braan-our-leader," Bott'a said. "They are positioned so that we cannot pass, but they are not vigilant. We could easily overwhelm them."
The others acknowledged Bott'a's assessment. Kuudor also advocated direct action. The storm was in full sway. The footing would only get more treacherous.
"Wait here," Braan commanded.
"The snow is only going to get deeper. Now's the time to move."
"Move where, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked. "Where's the trail?"
Buccari's anger eclipsed her exhaustion; her fatigue overwhelmed her good sense. She stared into the swirling snows, frustration blossoming like a weed.
"MacArthur! Lieutenant!" O'Toole whispered urgently. "Behind you."
Buccari turned to see a cliff dweller ten paces away, its hands raised with empty palms. Buccari regained her composure and emulated the creature's actions.
"He looks familiar," Buccari remarked quietly. "Look at the scars."
"Yeah, we've seen him before," MacArthur replied, also bowing. "When we returned Tonto, he was there. He must be their leader—their captain. Look! He has Tatum's knife."
The cliff dweller stepped forward, looking agitated and frightened. Brandishing the man-knife, the animal pointed up the mountain and then to its own chest. It sheathed the knife and flashed the spindly fingers of both hands many times. The creature moved slowly toward them, palms forward, as if to push the humans backward, but it did not come too close. It pivoted its body up the slope and walked in place. The bewildered humans looked at each other trying to find meaning in the charade. Buccari approached the creature and pointed to herself and then to the rest of her patrol, and then turned uphill and marched in place, just as the hunter had done. The hunter looked around at the humans and impatiently repeated the pushing-back gesture.
"He wants us to move back, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "I concur," Buccari replied. "Let's do it."
The humans collected their gear and moved back into the thin line of fir trees. The creature whistled into the deadening snow; a muted answer sounded, and then several more whistles, each further away, diminishing in the distance. Moments later the first scouts hiked nervously by. After the scouts came the rest of the expedition, slowly, in single file, many bent grotesquely with huge bags on their backs. Dozens of cliff dwellers filed by—scores of them. They kept coming as the snow fell harder and the temperature dropped. And coming.
"Anyone been counting?" Jones asked.
"Somewhere around a hundred fifty," Buccari said.
"Hundred and sixty-two," MacArthur said. "About a third carrying bags."
"They look tired," O'Toole said. "Wonder what's in the bags?"
"Food, I guess," Buccari said. "Probably stocking up for the winter."
The long file of cliff dwellers came to an end. The last few, without bags, walked alertly past and disappeared into the vague whiteness. Three cliff dwellers, including their captain, remained stationary, dim forms in the falling snow. Buccari picked up her pack and struggled painfully into the straps. MacArthur supported its weight.
"Ooph! Thanks," she said, looking at his feet. She raised her head and ordered, "Let's move! They're waiting for us!" She turned and trudged up the steep hillside toward the waiting animals. When she had closed half the distance the cliff dwellers turned and started climbing.
General Gorruk braced himself as the command vehicle curved in an abrupt arc around an obstacle, the swaying motion quickly dampened by auto-stabilizers.
"Third Army was surprised in the desert by six divisions of tanks and is heavily engaged, General," shouted the helmeted adjutant. "It has taken heavy losses. Sixth Army will be in enemy radar range in fifteen minutes and is still undetected."
Gorruk, in full battle regalia, acknowledged with a nod. His command vehicle trailed the forward elements of the Sixth Army's attacking divisions. It rolled smoothly over the soft desert sands, its tank treads reaching down and pulling sand from the ground, propelling it backwards in a continuous rooster tail. Gorruk's attention drifted from the situation display on the computer screen in front of him to the panoramic viewscreens of the armored command vehicle. The featureless terrain was broken by the billowing dust of tanks and armored personnel carriers strewn solidly across the horizon. Broken-down troop carriers and supply lorries, overcome by the infernal elements, were passed with irritating frequency, their crews doomed to desiccation.
The equatorial deserts of Kon were continuous, blazing-hot belts of sterility, time-proven natural barriers between northern and southern interests. Conflicts, mostly petty economic squabbles, were frequent, but collision between hemispheres was almost impossible. Prior to the Rule of Generals commerce had leapfrogged the hemispheres, trade routes over the dead lands made possible by mutual benefit. Interhemispheric trade had been central to the worldwide economy during the timeless history prior to the Alien Invasion, and its absence was inevitably pointed to when explaining the moribund state of the economy ever since. Jook the First was convinced that reestablishing commercial links between hemispheres, forcibly or otherwise, would renew the international economy, thus solidifying and amplifying his power.
Gorruk was tasked with the assault. After years of frustrating preparation, during which even the indomitable general refused to acknowledge acceptable odds for success, a rare meteorological event occurred. The sun-star erupted with solar flare activity during the planet Kon' s approach to orbital perigee. Gorruk' s astronomers and meteorologists predicted this anomalous thermal radiation pattern would cause a loss of symmetry in the atmosphere's heat balance, resulting in a skewing of weather patterns. The atmospheric equator would tilt slightly for almost a full cycle of their largest moon. Gorruk was informed of this momentous happenstance and, true to his opportunistic nature, ordered great forces in motion. His army would be ready should the forecasts prove accurate.
Gorruk' s scientists watched as the planet's immensely stable weather system began to ponderously shift, creating local anomalies that would occur only once or twice in a century. The meteorologists' predictions came true. Portions of the northern hemisphere normally inhabitable became torrid. Hot gales swept over crops, reducing the land to bitter dust. Northern farmers wept and retreated from their homes. Yet on the opposite side of the globe, searing equatorial desert winds abated, and a low ceiling of clouds mercifully covered large parts of the sterile zone. Blast furnace temperatures mellowed to merely scorching, and the deserts became tolerable—giving opportunity to cross their trackless wastes.
General Gorruk, behind monumental stockpiles of supplies and massive accumulations of weaponry, exhorted his armies into religious frenzy. It was time for the grand stroke, risking everything to shift the balance of global conflict. Eight armies of the Hegemony, spearheaded by armored columns and mobile infantry, moved southward into the waste lands. An eight-pronged pincer lunged across the sere and forsaken landscape, an irrepressible force moving inexorably onward.
Gorruk would have preferred to lead the assault. It was his passion to personally close with the enemy, wielding death-inflicting weapons, to see the terror that overwhelming strength and indomitable courage could exact from a stricken enemy. Yet he alsoknew his job as supreme commander precluded such tactical pleasures; he could not risk being eliminated, leaving the armies without their decision-maker. Generals, regrettably, must lead from the rear.
Coded transmissions confirmed the progress of the advance. His satellites were still working but no doubt would soon be destroyed. Gorruk's eight armies ground forward, closing on southern objectives. What had not been anticipated was the untimely deployment of enemy tank divisions in sector nine, most unfortunate for General Klarrk's Third Army salient; Klarrk was getting cut to pieces and no reinforcements could be spared—the fortunes of war.
"We are on schedule," Gorruk said. "Have the strategic rocket forces verified launch yet?"
"Yes, General," answered the brigadier. "The first wave of missiles are in the air, and tactical fighters and bombers are in position to follow the ballistics."
Gorruk looked into the sky. The cloud ceiling was breaking up as predicted. He should be hearing the attacking aircraft any moment.
"With the exception of the Third Army, it goes well, General Gorruk," remarked the brigadier. "The First and Fifth Army salients have reached their objectives and have overrun positions. The enemy is totally unprepared."
"Of course," Gorruk replied.
"Your Excellency," Et Kalass pleaded, his dignity slipping away. "We are making progress. We have photographs and video of the wreckage of one of their spacecraft. "We must—"
Jook reclined on his pneumo-pillows and listened contemptuously. "Too late, Minister," the Supreme Leader said. "The die is cast and irreversible actions are underway. We are at war, and war is everything." As if in punctuation, a deep rumble shook the huge palace; one of the enemy's intercontinental rockets, launched in desperation, had reached the capital city. Jook did not deign to look up.
"General Gorruk' s valiant forces have established bridgeheads in the southern hemisphere," Jook continued. "The armies of the Northern Hegemony are victorious today, victorious beyond our wildest expectations. General Gorruk has spanned the wastelands. Within weeks he will march on their industrial centers. It is but a matter of time before they capitulate."
"A quarter of a million kones have died," Et Kalass blurted. "A dear price."
Jook glared down malevolently. "Not dear by half, my lord!" the Supreme Leader retorted. "It is but small down payment to the dogs of war. We are at war. What did you expect? Do you not understand? Gorruk has crossed the deserts. In force! Imperial armies are triumphant!"
"Gorruk may have crossed the deserts," Et Kalass persisted, "but the aliens have the power to cross the infinite universe. We forego a far greater opportunity."
Jook lunged to his feet, mouth open. With great effort, he contained his emotions and slowly reclined. "I have seen your reports," he said calmly. "In fact I share your views, Minister. Finding the secrets of the alien ships must take high priority. However, at the moment I must consider the activities of our generals on a higher plane."
"Yes, Exalted One," Et Kalass replied. "The—"
"I am told it is winter in the area of search operations," Jook said. "A terribly inclement time on a miserably inclement planet. What opportunity exists for us there? What would you have me do? Can it not wait until next year, or even the year after?"
"My science team remains on Genellan, Your Excellency," pleaded the noblekone. "Gorruk's shuttle removed the military personnel but left Et Avian. Our little war broke out, and there has not been a shuttle since."
"We are at war, Minister. All boosters must be conserved for purposes that advance the good of our cause. I am told those on Genellan are in no danger. We will resupply them when it is necessary." Jook stared down from his elevation. "You are dismissed."
Et Kalass, realizing logic would not penetrate the ruler's adamantine priorities, pivoted on his hinds and walked out. Et Kalass had not been surprised by the commencement of war, however he had not anticipated Et Avian being stranded, nor had he expected Gorruk' s horrific success. Events were out of control. How to mitigate their impact? Global conquest by northern generals would be a monstrous setback to his plans—to the restoration of the nobility. Perhaps the survival of the nobility was cause to relegate the aliens and their power of interstellar travel to a lower priority. He would have to adjust to the vagaries of political reality. Jook was correct—when at war, war was everything.