The wind stiffened at dusk, blowing snow sideways. Cliff dwellers packed the cold whiteness around the salt bags, building low-walled enclosures over which they draped animal hides. The creatures, chewing their meager dinners, scurried into the shelters, piling atop more hides and atop each other. Four heavily bundled dwellers remained outside, positioned around the humans.
"Sentries," Buccari said, squinting in the fading light.
"Or guards," MacArthur rebutted. "A matter of semantics."
Buccari stared at the Marine. "Semantics, eh? I didn't know you were a philosopher, Corporal," she said into her ice-crusted scarf.
"Philosopher? No. Well, maybe, but only when it gets warmer," MacArthur replied, burying a tent stake sideways in the snow. "You know," he remarked without guile, "our little friends are smart. They sleep together and stay warm. Being warm is more important than philosophy."
Buccari tented alone.
"Perhaps," she answered, hiding her face behind her scarf.
MacArthur straightened abruptly, staring past her. She turned to see two cliff dwellers approaching through the falling snow. She remembered the mannerisms displayed during previous contact. MacArthur followed her lead.
Braan bowed in return, pleased by the display of manners. The long-legs stood erect and looked at each other. Braan took the initiative and whistled the special low notes. The hairy-faced one responded in kind, although the short one was obviously the leader. This one uttered grunts and pulled back the flap covering the shelter. It pointed—obscenely extending the first finger—rudely signaling the hunters inside. The hairy-faced one kicked snow from its foot coverings and entered. Not knowing how else to signal, Braan rudely pointed at Short-one-who-leads and indicated that it should go next. Short-one-who-leads moved in next to the taller one.
Braan directed Craag to enter the enclosure. The courageous hunter shook snow from his cloak and slowly moved inside, joining the long-legs. Braan followed, pausing to feel the peculiar fabric of the tent. He left the flap open, the last hint of daylight illuminating their council. Panic welled in Braan' s belly. Sitting close to a potential enemy was against all instinct. The odor of the long-legs, sour and dank, pervaded the tent's interior, and Braan suddenly missed the sweet breezes of the snowstorm.
"Definitely the same bugs that took Tonto back," MacArthur said. "Look at the scars on their captain's nose?"
"Captain!" Buccari said, pointing at the lead hunter, anointing him. The creature recoiled from her pointed finger. She looked at her hand and slowly dropped it. The cliff dweller noticeably relaxed.
"Captain doesn't like to be pointed at," she observed. "Evidently not," MacArthur replied.
"But he pointed at me when we were outside," said Buccari, perplexed.
"Yeah, but he was uncomfortable," MacArthur replied, pointing his finger into the air. The cliff dwellers watched suspiciously. MacArthur moved his hand slowly in their direction. When MacArthur's finger was pointed at Captain, the creature gently pushed it aside. MacArthur nodded, and both cliff dwellers bobbed their heads up and down. Captain reached out and firmly grabbed MacArthur's hands, extending the Marine's fingers in a praying position. The cliff dweller, holding his own hands in the same manner, thrust them toward MacArthur, withdrew them, and then did the same toward Buccari. Pointing the long index finger on his four-fingered hand toward MacArthur, he shook his head and pulled his finger away, using his other hand.
"Interesting!" Buccari said, her hands together. "Pointing with one finger must be impolite."
"Progress," MacArthur said. "A good first step—proper manners."
A dark form in the snowy gloom moved across the tent opening.
"Mac, you there?" Chastain asked loudly.
The cliff dwellers recoiled at the booming voice.
Buccari spoke softly: "Chastain, move away from the tent. We have two of the animals in here." Chastain's shadowy hulk moved silently away. Buccari, using both hands, pointed to the tent entrance. The creatures nodded vigorously and scrambled through the opening. Buccari and MacArthur followed, the cliff dwellers already invisible in the snowy gloaming. Buccari looked up at MacArthur, feeling the warm spot on her thigh, where his knee had touched her. She was excited; they had taken another step in establishing contact with the strange animals, but her excitement was heightened by physical contact with her own kind.
"Good night, Corporal," she said, trying not to smile at the handsome face. She put her hands together in cliff dweller fashion and put them next to her cheek. Then she stuck out her fist with her thumb extended, jerked it over her shoulder and said, "Scram!"
"Aye, sir," MacArthur replied, moving away in the darkening snowfall.
"Oh, Mac, er. Corporal," Buccari called after him. "Yeah…Lieutenant," he replied, quickly turning.
"Tell everyone how to point. Wouldn't want any incidents."
MacArthur pointed as if firing a pistol. "You got it," he said.
She laughed and crawled into her tent, wearing her clothes against the penetrating chill. She climbed into her sleeping bag, sealed the thermal flaps, and zipped the bag over her head. Snow-muted laughter drifted in. Her stomach growled, but she fell into an exhausted coma of dreamless sleep.
The hikers awoke in the flat light before dawn, camped on the edge of the world. The blizzard of the previous evening had masked the proximity of the cliff face, mere paces from their tents. Cloudless skies arched high above, the air transparently clear. MacArthur studied the terrain. The rock wall of the river valley, covered with snow, appeared vertical with no hint of a trail. Beyond the precipice, past the sinuous gash of the great river, spread the rest of the world in virgin white, awaiting the sun's golden rays to pour over the eastern horizon. Visibility was limitless. Beyond the twin volcanoes, their sullen summits issuing wisps of sulfurous smoke, the plains rolled to infinity, softly white and featureless in their snowy mantle. Far, far away, on the distant northeastern horizon, beyond the curve of the planet, jagged tips of another mountain range bathed in the sharp, golden aura of daylight revealed the coming dawn.
MacArthur stared, mesmerized at the vast scale and depth of his vista. In outer space one could see infinite distances, but the view before him was more powerful. It was dimensionalized by finite objects, objects a human being could understand, objects that had weight and size, with a clearness and granularity far exceeding reasonable expectation. You could see a star, but you could never comprehend one. Intellectually maybe, but never viscerally.
The cold, dense air made his hearing acute; MacArthur detected the twitter and chirping of cliff dwellers, shrill and constant, as they hiked up the trail, their encampment cleanly evacuated. The loud voices and industrious clankings of the humans were amplified, every word, every syllable clear and distinct. The powdery snow squeaked plaintively under the souls of their boots. Heightened senses enhanced his feeling of physical power. He felt powerful—omnipotent. He felt alive.
"Daydreaming, Corporal? Sun's not even up," Buccari said. She slogged through the dry snow to his side, only paces from the brink. He looked down into her face, one rapture replaced by another. She had not put on her ragged scarf, and her complexion glowed with high color. The first spark of sun peeked over the horizon and flashed in her green eyes.
"Morning, Lieutenant," he said, turning to watch the sunrise. "It's beautiful." His words exploded in vaporous puffs. The eastern horizon had been a stark demarcation of land and sky, a bold line of definition. The fiery sun overflowed the boundary, its red-gold splendor suffusing all realms. Feeble rays of warmth touched his exposed face, enforcing his sense of well-being.
"Wonderful!" she replied. They turned to each other, sharing a mutual resonance. MacArthur forced himself to leave the moment.
"Running behind, aren't we?" he chided. "Our friends are moving out."
"You're right," Buccari groaned, stretching her back. "We better hustle. Then again, we don't have to worry about losing them, do we?"
The advance of the departing cliff dwellers was marked by a gash of tracks up the mountain. Two dwellers, Captain and his constant companion—Lieutenant Buccari had christened him 'X.O. for Executive Officer—loitered at the column's rear. The dwellers lifted a hand and turned to the steep trail. The column stretched far up the ascent until it disappeared around the profile of the cliff, a necklace of black pearls in diminishing perspective.
Braan heard panicked whistles. The hunter leader moved rapidly up the side of the halted column, Craag following close behind. The terrain was nearly vertical, the traverse perilous. Hunters lay on their sides, leaning against the rocky slope, feet dug securely into the packed snow. Three animals protected each salt bag, moving it several hundred paces at a turn. Braan and Craag stepped over the hunters and their cargoes, the trail too narrow for them to walk around.
"Caught up with 'em!" MacArthur said. "Take a breather." Buccari, in the number two position, leaned a shoulder into the snow and loosened the belay.
"Forgot how steep," she said, "and how narrow this trail is."
"The snow might have something to do with that, Lieutenant," Jones said, third in line. "You're checking good, sir. I'm just trying to keep up with you."
"Thanks, Boats," Buccari replied. "We should have stuck with EPLs. I'll take a short fuel, bad alignment reentry any day."
"I'd go anywhere as long as you're the pilot," Jones said.
"She's got my vote, too," MacArthur joined in from above.
Buccari grinned at the Marine, but he was staring up the trail. She looked down at Jones and smiled nervously. Jones smiled back, but not comfortably. O'Toole and Chastain, stood close together, talking quietly, pointing nonchalantly out over the void.
"Let's move," MacArthur said.
Buccari felt the slack go out of the belay. She exhaled, moved her weight over the path, and dug a boot into the packed snow for another step forward, when urgent whistling came from above. Snow cascaded down the fall line onto their heads.
"Keep moving!" MacArthur shouted. "Get out from under that snow!"
The whistling heightened in urgency. More and different sounds sliced the still air, screams of panic and desperation. A switchback appeared. Buccari followed MacArthur on a short climb before traversing in the opposite direction; the path widened slightly. Able to look upslope, she comprehended what was happening: a team of bag bearers had lost control of their precious load. A cliff dweller with a bag strapped to his back lay spread-eagled on the steep slope, his leather-covered talons and fingers sunk desperately into the snow; but the snow beneath him was moving inexorably downwards. Two cliff dwellers not burdened with bags leapt into the air.
"Jocko!" MacArthur yelled down the hill. "Untie and take one of the lines back to where the snow was falling on the path. One of the bats is over the edge with a bag on his back, and his hold is about to let go."
Buccari wondered what good Chastain could possibly do standing beneath a potential avalanche.
"The rest of you come up to this wide spot and give me the other rope," MacArthur shouted, moving ahead and pulling the rest of the group with him. "Jocko! If he's falling, don't try to catch him or he'll take you with him. If he's sliding or barely moving, give it your best shot. Be careful, Jocko! Take off your pack."
Chastain pulled one rope away from his comrades and removed his pack, driving the frame deep into the powder. With rope in hand he retraced the trail and disappeared from sight. MacArthur removed his pack as he waited for the second rope to be cleared from the waists of his fellow climbers. The bag bearer had slipped another body length and the slope was increasing. Before Buccari could say anything, MacArthur pulled the rope free and clambered on all fours across the face of the cliff, cutting beneath the trail in a direct route to the falling hunter. He stopped and coiled the rope, placing it over his head and shoulders. MacArthur kicked the edges of his boots into the yielding snow and crabbed across the cliff.
Braan flapped mightily, holding position over the salt bag. He whistled permission for the salt bearer to release the salt bag, but the plucky hunter stubbornly held on, begging for help. Braan noticed additional movement on the slope and was astonished to see a long-legs. It could not glide to safety. It would fall to certain death. The long-legs was very brave—or crazy.
Braan watched the long-legs take a rope from his shoulder and shake out the coils. With a jerky flick, one end of the rope was tossed to the spread-eagled hunter. It snaked across the salt bearer's forearms. Suddenly Braan had an inkling of what the long-legs wanted. The long-legs took the remaining coil of rope and threw it feebly up the hill, the effort causing him to slide abruptly downhill. Shouts and screams erupted from the long-legs waiting at the switchback. They crawled, panic-stricken, up the trail.
Braan screamed and dove for the bitter end of the rope. The leader of the hunters landed in the snow, grabbed the rope with his talons, and leapt into the air, pulling mightily, struggling to regain the path.
MacArthur felt sick to his stomach. Every move he made caused the snowpack to slide. Digging in his boots did no good; everything was moving. He looked at the bag bearer. It had grabbed the end of the rope and was tying it. To the bag!
"No! Tie it around your waist!" MacArthur spoke as loudly as he could without exhaling strenuously. Even heavy breathing seemed to move the snow. "Crap," he whined, his face buried in the soft snow. "I killed myself for a lousy lunch bag."
Braan dropped his the end of the rope into the waiting hands of cliff dwellers and jumped into the air, flapping over the deteriorating predicament. He made his decision.
"Untie the bag. Give the rope to the long-legs," he commanded.
"Braan-our-leader," whistled the salt bearer as he untied the rope, the movements accelerating his descent. "I have failed." The sliding hunter threw the rope to the long-legs who grabbed it greedily.
"The salt is gone, warrior. Fly now, so thou may redeem thyself with future effort," Braan screamed, struggling to hold altitude.
MacArthur clenched the rope in his gloved hands. He looped it around his right wrist and arm several times and then reached over to the cliff dweller with his left hand. He shouted, "Grab hold! Take my hand!" But the animal had slipped out of reach. The bag bearer looked dumbly at MacArthur, then glanced up at the cliff dweller flapping mightily overhead. The bag bearer shrugged its shoulders and started sliding down the precipice, clearing itself from the bag straps.
MacArthur screamed, "Heads up, Jocko! Stand clear!"
Cliff dweller and bag slid from sight. MacArthur closed his eyes. The creatures flapping overhead moved away from the cliff. With shocking abruptness they screamed in unison and soared out over the river valley. The cliff dwellers on the trail also raised their voices in squeaky bedlam. Suddenly MacArthur felt himself moving upward with powerful jerks. He looked up to see Jones and O'Toole hauling on the line. Jones's strong arms grabbed his coat and pulled him onto the narrow path. The meager trail appeared as wide as a jet runway.
"What happened to Chastain?" MacArthur gasped. "O'Toole, check on Jocko." The Marine moved cautiously down the precarious path toward the switchback, while curious and highly animated cliff dwellers crowded around the gasping human, Captain foremost among them. MacArthur looked up as Captain solemnly bowed. MacArthur, still on his knees, did his best to return the gesture, but his mind was on Chastain. Buccari stood a few paces downhill, looking up at him as if she were seeing a ghost, her face ashen, tears glistening in the bright sun.
"That was the stupidest trick I have ever seen, Corporal!" she shouted, eyes flashing green sparks. "Why didn't you throw the rope over from the trail?"
"I thought it would be quicker…" he started. MacArthur felt old emotions, emotions not felt since he was a small child. He put his head down and tried to rationalize an appropriate response. He could not; the lieutenant was correct. He had made a poor move. He looked at her, amazed at the power of her emotions. She was not just chewing him out—she had been scared witless by his peril.
"You're right, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "I guess I didn't have a plan until I got out there, and the options narrowed too fast." Buccari stood there, shoulders heaving.
"Excuse me, Lieutenant," MacArthur said, breaking the emotion-laden silence. "I got to check on Chastain. Our problem's not over." He slipped and skidded past her down to the switchback in time to see O'Toole and Chastain climbing up, Chastain carrying the bag. Two dwellers hiked a cautious distance behind. A third hunter, a tiny speck in the distance, tramped up the trail far below.
Seeing Chastain loosened a surge of warmth through MacArthur' s body. The big man had become a part of his being; they had shared too much. MacArthur felt the infinite obligation of owing his life to the gentle giant, and Chastain was simple enough not to care. Chastain looked up and his features erupted in an immense grin. MacArthur felt his own face stretch with happiness. The big man lifted the gray bag over his head like a trophy.
With startling clarity MacArthur understood the passing sequence of emotional transactions. His own fears over Chastain' s well-being and the subsequent joy felt at seeing him whole were cathartic. MacArthur realized Buccari had suffered a similar catharsis and that he was the focal point of her emotions. He was warmed by the thought—and confused. He looked up the trail and saw the lieutenant, hands clasped over her chest. MacArthur waved—a subdued wave, a subtle signal. Buccari waved back in kind, quickly and easily.
MacArthur looked back at Chastain. The big man trudged upward, the bag slung effortlessly over his shoulder.
"Ho, Mac!" he shouted. "This bag's filled with salt!"
"Salt?" MacArthur replied, grabbing Chastain' s arm. "These guys are risking their lives for salt?" Yet as he spoke he realized how much they, too, needed salt.
"I heard you yell," Chastain said proudly. "I look up and see the bat sliding down the mountain. He's holding on to the bag with his feet—flapping his wings hard. Stubborn—like you, Mac. But he's coming straight down and the bag starts bouncing, so he lets go. The bag rolled right into my arms. It was going pretty fast, but I had a wide spot to stand on. But then the little bat flew right by me, screaming so loud I almost jumped off the trail."
"You did great, Jocko!" MacArthur slapped the big man on the chest. Chastain glowed with pride. "I'd like to hear the bat's version. I'll bet it was falling like a son-of-a-bitch."
Captain and X.O. glided into the snow above the switchback and hopped down, showing no fear. Captain chirped and whistled to the cliff dwellers trailing behind the humans and then moved directly in front of Chastain, bowing deeply. The other animals, catching up with Chastain, also bowed.
"Bow, Jocko," MacArthur ordered gently. "You're a hero, my friend."
"Cut it out, Mac." Chastain smiled self-consciously and bowed awkwardly. He offered the salt bag to the little animal. Captain bowed deeply again. Chastain, confused, returned the bow. MacArthur smiled at Chastain's gracelessness. X.O. stepped forward and accepted the bag. The creatures all bowed yet again.
"Okay." MacArthur laughed. "Everybody bow one more time, real low."
Swirls of first-magnitude stars dotted the velvet skies. The last murky hints of dusk revealed a line of salt bearers winding along the brink of the plateau far ahead of the exhausted earthlings. The humans trudged upward, miserably chilled by plummeting temperatures and rising winds. A full moon elevated into the eastern skies, outshining the stars and casting an eerie light over the snowy landscape. The river falling over the cliffs had lost much of its volume and voice, but its cascading spray spread phantasmically in the soft light. Silky sheets of gossamer snow sifted across the crusty whiteness, drifting into patterned dunes of sugar dust. MacArthur worried the drifting snows would mask the trail. He stumbled faster, pulling the patrol with him.
"What's your plan, Mac?" Buccari panted.
"Not sure, Lieutenant," he huffed, his breath emanating in huge, moonlit puffs. "Maybe—we can find where they go over the edge. Maybe they'll invite us for dinner."
"What.. a…dreamer," she wheezed.
"Dreams.. are all we have," he grunted.
"Philosophy again!" she said, stopping to catch her breath.
"Why…is it so cold when that subject comes up?" he gasped, pushing unmercifully, opening on the others. The dwellers were almost to the stream gorge, surprising MacArthur by staying so close to the plateau's edge. They should be heading away from the cliffs, to ford the stream.
They did not cross the stream. As MacArthur approached the point where the stream fell over the cliff, the snow-blown tracks moved sharply down, toward the brink. For twenty nerve-wracking paces the trail descended and swung to the left, over the cliff edge. MacArthur followed the trail, knees quaking from fatigue and from acrophobic terror. Wind tugged at his clothes. The pack dragged on his shoulders.
The trail veered hard left beneath an outcropping of rock. The rocks under his feet were suddenly hard, gritty, and clear of snow. He looked back to see Buccari and the rest of the patrol tentatively pursuing. He turned to the trail and looked ahead. The path, slipping further beneath the overhang of the cliff, continued to curve until, fifty paces ahead, he could see the stream waters exploding into the river canyon. The trail led under the moving water! Needles of spray stung his face and patches of ice threatened his footing. He plodded forward. Jagged icicles hung like fangs, glinting dully in the moonlight.
Visibility beneath the overhang was nil. Past the roaring mists the trail turned sharply along the cliff. Large boulders reared up on his right hand, reaching and melding with the cliff overhang, forming tunnels and obstructing the moonlit view of the canyon. Captain and X.O., covered with heavy skins, waited in the shadows, blocking the path. Other shadows softly creaked and clanked along the walls. MacArthur halted and bowed. The cliff dwellers before him reciprocated but did not move aside. He waited, eyes adjusting to the gloom.
"What now?" Buccari wheezed, teeth chattering, as she caught up.
"You got me," MacArthur replied. "Why don't you take over?"
"Thanks a bunch," she panted, dropping her pack. Brittle breezes tumbled through the rocky openings, whipping icy crystals onto their heads and shoulders. Buccari stepped forward and pointed in cliff dweller fashion down the trail. She grabbed her shoulders and shivered, signaling coldness. Captain shook his head gently and pointed to the cruel ground. Buccari turned to MacArthur.
"It's cold, Mac," Buccari said. "Should we just pitch our tents?"
"Yeah, no vacancy," Jones rejoined, teeth rattling.
"Hey, Mac!" O'Toole whispered hoarsely. "Something's coming. Look!"
MacArthur peered down the winding path. A procession of luminous globes rounded a distant curve. Captain retreated toward the lights.
Braan moved quickly to the lights. Eight apprentices carried glowing spirit lamps on staffs. They escorted Kuudor and four heavily bundled elders, including the Koop-the-facilitator. Elders! At the cliff tops!
"Long life and good tidings, facilitator," Braan said.
"Good eventide, Braan, leader-of-hunters," Koop replied, his eyes aglint. "Thy return was heralded. Kuudor' s sentries speak of adventures and a full bounty of salt. Great praise."
Braan bowed in gratitude.
"Stories of thine exploits provide the colony with much fodder," the facilitator continued. "Is it true a full salt bag was rescued by a long-legs? At foolish risk to their lives? In our behalf?"
"All true, facilitator," Braan replied. "The long-legs demonstrate peaceful intent. We have made progress with communications."
"Dost thou not worry in revealing this entrance?" asked another elder, a stone carver. Kuudor, captain-of-the-sentries bobbed his head in silent agreement.
"It cannot be helped, elder," Braan responded. "They are curious. It is but a matter of time before they discover this and other entrances."
"Thy recommendation, leader-of-hunters?" the facilitator asked.
"The long-legs have passed all tests. Permit them to enter the barracks for the night. On the morrow we will present them to guilders more capable in the ways of communications."
"So be it," Koop said. The ancient stared into the darkness with uncharacteristic boldness. "It is cold, but I would see the creatures."
"Here they come," Jones said.
The procession marched closer, globes casting diffuse shadows along the ground. Captain appeared from the darkness, whistling sharply. Shedding his cloak, X.O. ran to a moon-washed opening in the rocks and jumped into the empty blackness, wings cracking sharply as he disappeared downwards. Captain picked up the fur and approached Buccari. A head shorter than the human female, he bowed and handed her the silky pelt. Buccari accepted it, bowing in return. She gratefully wrapped the pungent leathery skin around back and shoulders, the soft fur deliciously covering her neck and much of her lower face, cutting the wind.
"It's because you whined about being cold," MacArthur whispered.
"Eat your heart out, Corporal," she retorted.
"Hey, these guys are taller," Jones said.
"The other ones!" Buccari gasped. The new arrivals were taller than she was. "The other kind in the drawings. And not females."
The procession stopped several paces away. One of the taller animals, an ancient creature, whistled softly, and the light bearers came nervously forward. Captain walked fearlessly between the humans and grabbed Chastain' s hand, improbably pulling the giant to the front. The light bearers staggered backward. Chastain shyly looked at his feet.
"Going to eat you first, Jocko," O'Toole whispered. Buccari elbowed the Marine.
Captain dropped Chastain' s big paw and whistled to the members of the procession, indicating MacArthur and then pointing with two hands to Buccari. The old one whistled intricately and bowed directly to her. She bowed back. The ceremony over, the procession shuffled sedately away.
"Well," Buccari said, "I guess we've been introduced. What now?"
Captain indicated they should pick up their packs and follow him.
The next morning the dwellers, after waiting interminably for the late-rising strangers to arrive, watched with amazement when the long-legs were escorted into the chamber, the taller ones ducking their heads to avoid striking the uneven ceiling. Their ugly round faces were splotched and burned by sun and wind. They smelled horribly.
The cliff dwellers, including the elders, stood uncertainly at their perches. An awkward silence ensued. Eventually Koop-thefacilitator signaled for all to sit. Koop remained standing.
"Braan, leader-of-hunters, thy report?" he whistled.
Braan stood forth and summarized what they had learned. The elders asked questions. The long-legs sat and watched.
"There is little we can do," Braan said, "without a means of communication." He turned and faced the steam users.
"Master Bool," said the facilitator. "Hast thou a recommendation?" To steam user Bool had been assigned the task of interpreting the long-leg drawings. He had delegated this to his assistant, steam user Toon, a capable intellect. The drawings were simple, and Toon had compiled a translation scheme and added pictographs he felt would assist in expanding the communications.
"With permission, facilitator," Bool spoke. "Steam user Toon has analyzed the pictographs and has expanded them. I offer Toon to work directly with our visitors."
Koop nodded approval, and steam user Toon, clutching his manuscripts, stepped unsteadily toward the sour-smelling giants.
Buccari watched, fascinated, trying to determine what was happening.
"Look. On the tall ones' necks," Jones whispered. "Diamonds! Rubies! And those are emeralds!" He pointed. MacArthur grabbed his hand.
"Manners!" Buccari hissed. Her interest piqued, she turned and examined the necklaces. The gemstones glowed luminously, their large facets sparkling with rich color.
"Geez, Boats!" she croaked, craning her neck. "You're right!"
The dwellers appeared irritated at their gawking. Buccari composed herself as the taller creature approached. His face was oddly formed, wider and flatter than the others, and he was burdened with large, bound tablets.
"Whew, he's an ugly bugger," O'Toole whispered. "Looks like a lizard. What's he carrying?"
Included in his burden Buccari recognized the notebooks she and Hudson had used to compose pictographs. The dweller halted at a low table in the middle of the room and deposited the books.
"Everyone sit tight," Buccari ordered as she presumptuously stood, walked over to the table, and sat, gesturing to the cliff dweller to do the same. She slid a book in front of her and studied it.
"Fantastic!" she exclaimed over her shoulder. "Lizard Lips here has taken our pictographs and developed a shorthand system." The door was open. Buccari smiled at the creature. She pointed with two hands at the manuscript, demonstrating joy at what was before her. She clapped her hands and whistled the ditty. The creature apparently understood, hesitantly clapping its four-fingered hands together. Soon all the dwellers were clapping and chirping.
The celebration abruptly halted when Buccari brusquely reached across the creature and grabbed a writing implement, a stylus with an ink wick squeezed in a fine-tipped clamp. Stylus in hand she flipped through the manuscript, stopping to copy symbols onto a square of stiff linen. The creature at her side squeaked and chirped as she wrote.
A high overcast painted the calm afternoon winterscape in muted tones. The spindly yellow-barked evergreens contrasted green-black against a blanket of powdery snow. Packed footpaths stitched the campsite, connecting shelters, watch posts, woodpile, meathouse, and latrines. Hudson looked up into the heavy underbellies of the clouds rolling ponderously across the white-shrouded mountains. The small canyon above the camp echoed with the hollow thunk-thunk of wood chopping. White and yellow splinters of wood fluttered across the radius of hard-packed snow as Tatum swung the long axe. Beppo Schmidt worked on boughs and branches with the hatchet, while Fenstermacher used a hammer and heavy chisel to split logs.
"Another storm's coming," Hudson sighed, lifting his parka from a tree branch. He had worked up a sweat. An icy chill flowed across the small of his back. "Looks like a big one."
"Where—the—hell—are—they?" Fenstermacher grunted in time with his hammer blows. As if cued, Mendoza, on watch above the cave, shouted, "The patrol! I see 'em. They're back!"
Hudson jerked his eyes from the storm clouds and turned to scan the vast whiteness of the plateau. The lake with its three islands, hard frozen except for irregular blemishes of black and gray marking the welling hot springs, provided the only relief. She was back. Finally, the patrol was back. Through the trees a cluster of dark forms plodded along, leaving a trail of blue prints that disappeared in a faint melding with the near horizon of the high plateau rim. Hudson exhaled, muttering a silent prayer of gratitude.
Leather-hinged doors to the A-frames groaned open. Shannon came first, followed by the rest of the crew, shouting and cheering. Even Commander Quinn, gray-faced and gaunt, blanket over his shoulders, stepped outside despite Lee's efforts to keep him in the shelter. Shannon ran up to the cave terrace to better see over the tree tops.
"Jupiter's balls, Mendoza, you let 'em get close enough," he growled. "Tatum, you, Gordon, and Petit come with me."
"I'm coming, too, Sarge," Hudson said, pulling on his parka. "Dawson, help Lee get Commander Quinn back by the fire. Chief, keep 'em working on the firewood. Okay, let's go."
They took beaten paths down to the lake and onto the pure flatness of its surface, to the near island, using its beaches to get past the largest of the steaming hot springs holes. Beyond the island Hudson plowed through virgin snow, running ahead of the Marines. He met the patrol halfway across the lake. They were walking fast, and they were all smiling, looking none the worse for wear.
"Where you guys been?" Hudson blurted. "We've been worried sick."
"And it's nice to see you, too," Buccari replied, green eyes and grinning teeth flashing from her sun-darkened, wind-burnished face. Her backpack was grossly overloaded, and she held her thumbs under the shoulder straps to relieve the pressure.
"Here, let me take your pack," Hudson said moving behind her and lifting as she released her waist strap. "Oooph! What's in here, rocks? You didn't carry this all the way from the valley?"
"She sure did," MacArthur said. "The lieutenant's an animal.. sir!"
"This little lady is Superwoman!" Jones added exuberantly. "Sir!"
"We spent the last two nights with the cliff dwellers, Nash," Buccari blurted as Shannon and the others slogged up. "We've established contact, Nash. Real contact! Wait until you see their drawings. They've created a dictionary of icons. They're truly intelligent creatures—advanced intelligence. We've made solid contact."
"No shit!" Petit said. "Those bat bugs intelligent? You sure?"
"Petit, shut up and take Jonesy' s load. Gordon, get O'Toole's," Shannon barked, grabbing MacArthur by the shoulder and spinning him around to get at his pack. Tatum, knees buckling, had already taken Chastain's bloated backpack onto his equally wide shoulders. "Welcome back, Lieutenant. We were worried about you guys—"
"Ah, Sarge," MacArthur chortled. "I didn't think you cared." "Not about your sorry ass, Mac," Shannon laughed. "Not with your luck."
"So what did you see, Sharl?" Hudson asked. "What—"
"Wait until we get back to camp," Buccari replied. "There's too much to show and tell. How about you guys? How's Pepper?" "Hyperpregnant," Tatum replied, worried. "Any day." "Commander Quinn's real sick," Hudson said. "He caught that virus we've all had, but Lee thinks it's changed to pneumonia.
He's bad off."
A gust of wind swept the lake. Everyone put their heads down and started retracing the trail. Individual flakes, large and buoyant, swirled gently downward, the rustling of the trees the only sound.
Tatum, rifle slung over his shoulder, clasped the frozen meat in one arm and pulled on the guide rope. He leaned into the gale. Powdery snow whipped up from the ground and fell from the skies. Visibility was zero. A whiteout.
The line around Tatum' s waist yanked sharply, its nether end vanished in whiteness. Tatum waited. Yelling was futile; wind blew his words into oblivion, and he did not want to risk frostbite. The belaying line tugged again, urgently. Tatum let the gusts push him back along his own wake, the plowed furrow already blown smooth. Rennault waited at the end of the safety belay. Tatum put his head next to Rennault' s mouth.
"Thought…saw something!" Rennault shouted.
"What?" Tatum asked.
"Couldn't tell for sure. movement. low to the ground."
"Why the hell pull me back? Let's get inside." Tatum leaned back into the freezing wall of wind, pulling on the guide rope leading to shelter. Rennault shouted, but he kept moving, intent on returning to the warmth. A muffled scream brought him up short. The safety line jerked tight—viciously tight! Throwing the meat down, Tatum swung the assault rifle from his back and crouched low, waiting. The belaying line tugged painfully hard. Irresistibly, it pulled Tatum over onto his back, jerking him from the guide rope. Flailing, Tatum rolled helplessly in the snow, unable to gain purchase, until he found himself in the middle of snarling mayhem. A nightmare! White-pelted phantoms, growling horridly, fought over some undefinable object. Thrusting his legs deeply in the snow, Tatum gained stability and fired at the scuffling creatures, the muzzle blasts flat cracks in the gale. One of the animals fellconvulsively to the snow. The others disappeared into the blizzard. The line went slack.
Tatum peered into the stupefying whiteness. He saw nothing—nothing but the belaying line fading from sight. He pulled tentatively. Resistance; something was there! He pulled harder but it would not budge. He leaned backward, taking the strain with his legs. The weight on the line—Rennault, or what was left of him— yielded. Tatum forced his legs to push to the rear, hauling the deadweight along the furrow marking his path to the shelters. Tatum yelled. The gale hammered his words back into his mouth. He glanced over his shoulder, frantically peering for the guide rope, blinking wind-driven snow from his freezing eyes.
The belaying line stiffened vibrantly. In desperation the Marine fired a shot down the line, his aim high—in case it still mattered. The line jerked angrily and went slack. Tatum resumed his backward march, staring wide-eyed into the vertiginous blizzard. Backward he struggled. An eternity passed before his shoulder ran up against the rope linking the shelters to the meat house. Grasping the line, Tatum slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled himself hand over hand, helping his back and legs to move the invisible anchor of Rennault' s body. Slinging the rifle was a mistake.
It came from the direction of the shelters, a growling white blur of fangs. The Marine twisted to bring his rifle to bear, but the burly creature was on him, leaping for his neck and face. Tatum threw his arm up, and the frenzied beast seized it in outsized mandibles, taking ferocious, ripping bites above the elbow, driving the Marine backward into the snow, growling maniacally the entire time. Yellow eyes, insane with ferocity, glared malevolently into his. Animal spit and human blood splattered against his face as he struggled to extricate the rifle. His weapon was fouled in the ropes. With efforts borne of desperation, Tatum cleared the rifle from its tangle and swung the barrel. Holding the tip of the weapon steady with his numb hand, he thrust the muzzle into the growling, pulsating rib cage and fired four rounds. Heat from the barrel flowed through his glove as the creature died, its frenzied jaws still grinding, its throat still rattling.
Tatum could not look at the animal; he could only gape at his arm. His fingers would not move; they still clasped the hot rifle barrel. He set the rifle stock in the snow and prized the fingers loose. Blood pulsed from his wounds, streaming hot down his arm. Tatum felt dizzy. He shook cobwebs from his eyes and tried to think. He removed the sling from his weapon and put his mangled arm through the slack loop and pulled it painfully tight. He pulled even harder, biting his lip, tasting his own blood.
Teeth clenched against a rising tide of agony, Tatum resumed his march. Pulling hard, he closed the distance to the shelters. Several times he felt nibbling jerks on his gruesome trolling bait, but the sensations were dreamlike. Shock set in, reinforced by the numbing intensity of frigid winds. His back hit the solid logs of the A-frame and he slumped against the icy wood, relieved to have his back protected from the wind. And from attack. He fell unconscious.
Shannon looked up from his cards.
"Where the hell is Tatum? You hear something?" he growled.
The wind howled, a manic ambiance that dulled the mind, the eighth day of the storm. The earthlings huddled helplessly in their shelter, a ragged collection of refugees. Some played cards in the smoky light. Others slept. Unreliable daylight leaked through the apex of the peaked roof, where the sheet metal flue penetrated the logs. The wind-battered metal rattled insanely, and snowmelt dripped and hissed down its length. A musty odor eclipsed all sensations, and sneezes punctuated the whistling draughts more frequently than did civilized conversation.
Shannon checked his watch. "Crap! They've been out over twenty minutes. Chastain, you and Gordon get your gear on! I'm out!" Shannon threw down good cards and stood.
"Cry baby!" Fenstermacher said, dealing. "Marine's can't play poker."
Lee giggled, a lonely sound.
Shannon ignored them and grabbed his hat and coat, while Chastain and Gordon retrieved weapons from the stacked arms in the cold corner.
"Problem, Sergeant?" Quinn coughed from the warmest corner. Dark circles surrounded sunken eyes. He had lost too much weight.
"Tatum' s overdue, Commander," Shannon replied. "Better find out why."
"Right, huh…good idea, Sergeant," Quinn replied listlessly.
Goldberg looked up anxiously at Tatum' s name, a hand on her grossly distended abdomen.
Walking in a crouch, Shannon stepped over the sitting and reclining humans, moving from the warmer area near the fire to the uncomfortably cold area adjacent the door. A gutted marmot, dripping blood, hung from the rafters near the door, slowly thawing. Seeing what was about to happen, the occupants groaned and pulled their sleeping bags higher. Shannon flipped his hood up, zipped his coat over his chin, and pulled on his gloves. Chastain and Gordon helped move the heavy door inward far enough for them to squeeze through. Wind swirled, blasting through the open door, sprinkling the interior with fine crystals. The men used their feet and free hands to move snow, packing a ramp to the elevated surface. Shannon trudged into the drifts and found the guide rope leading downhill. Rising snow had almost covered it.
Shannon followed the rope, breaking his own rule by not belaying to another person. Gordon and Chastain followed in his wake. If Tatum was wasting time in the other shelter, he was going to get a supreme ass-chewing for bringing them out in the blizzard. The sergeant plowed around the corner of the cabin and saw the body slumped in the lee, a dusting of snow covering the corporal's face and clothes. Shannon grabbed the Marine and shook him violently. He looked into the injured man's face. Tatum's eyes opened, blinked once, and slowly shut.
"Get him inside!" Shannon yelled, lifting Tatum's right arm over his neck and pulling him toward the sleep shelter. He noticed the safety line trailing away and felt the invisible leaden weight at its end. Growling noises separated from the insane howl of the wind.
Explosions!
Rifles firing on full automatic spat bullets past his head. Deafened, Shannon fell face down in the snow. As he lay, stunned, something heavy struck him bluntly in the back—an animal, a heavy animal! For an instant it stood, and then it pivoted sharply, footpads and claws seeking purchase on his coat, and was gone. Shannon struggled to his knees; he was drowning in the yielding, frigid whiteness. Gordon and Chastain continued a sporadic fire. Shannon heaved upright, ears ringing painfully, to find three steaming carcasses within arm's reach, their thick white fur splotched with livid streaks. One shuddering heap rose on powerful forelegs, materializing into a prognathous-jawed, saber-toothed horror. Gordon fired a single shot, knocking the yellow-eyed demon's head sharply backwards. It was still.
The door to the near shelter sucked inward and MacArthur scrambled through the drifts, rifle poised threateningly, eyes wild. He was hatless, coatless, and bootless, his hair bedraggled, his bearded face imprinted with the indentations and lines of a makeshift pillow. MacArthur registered on Shannon dragging Tatum through the snow. His mouth fell open, but his eyes lingered for only an instant. He scanned the white nothingness of the howling blizzard. A shouting crowd followed MacArthur through the narrow exit, rifle barrels slicing the air.
"Get him inside!" Shannon shouted, taking his knife and cutting through the line around Tatum' s waist. He handed the rope to Chastain. "Rennault' s on the other end."
"What the hell?" Gordon shouted. "What are they?" "Nightmares," Shannon gasped. "Goddam frigging nightmares."
"Bring him over here," ordered a disheveled Buccari from the door of the shelter. She and Dawson hurriedly cleared a space by the fire. "Gordon, get more wood. Boats, get Lee and her first aid kit—fast!" Shannon laid Tatum on the ground next to the stove and headed for the door. He still felt the claws on his back, and his ears still echoed with neck-chilling growls.
Buccari stared at the bleeding Marine. With Dawson' s help she stripped off his coat. Arterial bleeding increased as he warmed, a pumping fountain of life. Buccari pinched the pressure point under his arm. Tatum moaned—a good sign.
"Need help?" It was MacArthur, shivering, his sock-covered feet soaking wet.
"Take care of yourself first," Buccari replied. "You look like hell."
"How is he?" MacArthur asked, ignoring her.
"His arm's hamburger and he's bleeding to death," Buccari said, her stomach fluttering. "We need to get the tourniquet on."
"Let me," MacArthur mumbled. "Hold the pressure." He knelt, opened the loop of the sling, and ran it up Tatum' s arm just short of Buccari's hold on the pressure point.
"Okay, Nance, grab his shoulder and squeeze hard," he ordered. "Tighter! I want white knuckles." Satisfied with Dawson' s grip, he pushed Buccari's hands away, briefly inspected the muscular arm, and slid the looped sling as high up as he could, snugging it under the armpit. Blood pulsed freely.
"Hold him down," MacArthur said. "Nance, lean on him."
MacArthur stood, holding the free end of the strap, and put a wet foot on Tatum' s mangled arm. Grunting, he pulled with all his might. The bleeding dribbled to a stop.
"Cover him," MacArthur said. "Keep him warm."
"They find Rennault?" Buccari asked. Blood covered her hands.
"Yeah," he replied, shivering. "Most of him. They put him in the meat house." He walked over to his sleeping bag.
The door opened with a snowy blast and Lee tumbled in. Chastain plodded behind her, carrying the medical kit. Shannon followed both of them. Lee walked unsteadily to the injured Marine and took a long look at the arm, testing the tourniquet.
"Shit!" she said, shaking her head. "Has he been conscious?" "Barely," Buccari answered, wiping away gore.
"Shit!" Lee shouted and turned to Chastain. "Put it down." Chastain, pathetically frightened, set the equipment down as if it would explode.
Shannon moved into the circle of light, staring at the bloody mess. "Jocko! Get Jones!" he snapped. "We'll need the horses."
Buccari felt her stomach leap. She took an unconscious step backward.
"Oh, shit," Lee whispered between clinched teeth. She rummaged in the equipment and came out with a syringe. She broke the seal, armed it, and shoved the needle into Tatum' s shoulder. "Hope this stuff is still good. Get a larger fire going and boil water. Sarge, we'll have to cauterize the wound. See if you can find a piece of flat metal we can heat to red hot—a big knife, or one of Chief Wilson's frying pans."
Lee pulled a bone saw from her bag and looked at it with loathing.
"I'll need help," she said. The medic glanced around the circle of people and stopped when she came to Buccari. Buccari understood why: she was the senior officer—the leader. She was supposed to take charge, but all she could feel was revulsion and panic.
MacArthur, in dry clothes, shouldered through the ring of spectators and took the vicious saw. "Ready when you are, Les."
They started. Tatum refused to lose consciousness, remaining lucid despite the drugs. Lee gave orders while Chastain, Jones, and Shannon struggled to restrain the injured man's frantic spasms. Dawson hugged Tatum's head, blocking his vision while MacArthur, pale-faced and grim, maneuvered the saw over the tortured limb. Buccari, her resolve shored by MacArthur's determination, stood close by, holding a frying pan in the roaring fire, perspiration rolling down her face and neck. Tatum' s screams drowned out the wet, rasping noises of the bone saw. The ravaged arm fell away, and Lee washed the spongy stump with antiseptic. Buccari, using rags to insulate the heat, pressed the glowing-hot frying pan to the pulpy end of the traumatized limb. Tatum, biting on a rag, screamed twice and mercifully passed out. The sickly smell of cooking flesh permeated the confined shelter.
The storm stopped two days later. Bright, heatless rays of morning sun found the chinks and gaps in the rafters of the shelters, inducing the hapless occupants still asleep to awaken and to look once again upon a world with horizons. The dawn air, dense and transparent, revealed a host of morning stars twinkling thinly overhead, displaying their arrogance, daring to be visible during the light of day.
Cold! So cold! Faces covered and hands gloved, the earthlings struggled upward, throwing back the snowy blanket of an alien winter. Of their shelters, only the peaked ridge beams protruded into the new day. The thin forest was reduced to a field of pygmy trees, drifted in virgin powder. Standing close to their shelters, the humans looked anxiously across the shrouded lake, vaporous breaths freezing in the air. Snow chirped under their footfalls, and every whisper, every sound, flew fast and far in the iron-hard air. In the distance, connected to camp by a trail of snowshoe prints, two hikers made slow progress. Avoiding the smooth craters that identified the hot springs, they plowed across the bowl of the lake, trudging in velvet shadows, growing smaller all the while.
"Couldn't stop her, Gunner," Shannon said. "Didn't want to. We can't just hide in our shelters. Those things aren't going to go away."
"You could've sent a couple more men," Wilson admonished.
"Those two can move as fast as anyone," Shannon responded. "Sending more men would only have slowed them down. The nightmares won't be a problem as long as the visibility's good. They've got plenty of ammo."
Ammunition.
Shannon thought grimly about the limited supply. He worried as he turned and scanned the softly mounded terrain. The blanket of snow eradicated the sharp edges of their rock-tumbled world, and it worked to soothe his anxieties. His vision slipped outward, over the muted ridges and foothills to the awesome and lofty granite giants; the snows could not dampen the sharpness of those spires. Low rays from the rising sun gave the alpine vista a wash of colors from soft gold to brilliant alabaster, presenting the hard lines of precipitous terrain in emphatic relief. Shannon felt a reverence, a sense of awe.
"What did Commander Quinn say?" Wilson persisted.
"He's out of his head," the sergeant replied. "For dinner, if you cook up any of those furry devils, don't grab Rennault by mistake."
"Not funny," Wilson retorted. The men stomped their booted feet for warmth. Both carried rifles.
"Let's check out the lake," Shannon said. "Maybe we can still fish."
"How's Tatum?" Wilson asked, content to trudge in Shannon's wake.
"The dumb grunt doesn't know how to complain," Shannon replied. "How's Goldberg?"
"Real good," Wilson said. "I thought Tatum going down would do her in, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. She's gotten tougher."
"She's going to have be damn tough to bring a baby into this world."
"So's the baby," Wilson sighed.
They struggled through the snow for several minutes without speaking.
"Nance is pregnant, too," Shannon said at last.
Wilson looked at him. "You ever have kids before, Sarge?" "Hell, I never even owned a goddam dog."
"Think they'll take us in, Lieutenant?" MacArthur gasped.
"Don't plan on giving them a choice," Buccari huffed, adjusting the ride of her pack. The backpacks were loaded heavily with firewood. It had grown dark, and the long day's hike over loose snow had taken its toll. Buccari trudged in MacArthur's wake, ungainly in her crude snowshoes. It was painfully cold, too cold to talk.
Something moved in the gray distance.
MacArthur stopped and peered into the gloaming. The large moon, a crescent settling behind the mountains, offered little assistance.
"I saw it," she whispered, checking their rear.
"Good," MacArthur replied. "I wasn't sure how to break the news."
"Stick to the plan?" she asked.
"Yeah. Soon as it gets too dark to see we'll build a fire." "Pretty dark now," Buccari said, unshouldering the carbine. "Careful with that," MacArthur said. "You're a little too anxious."
"I am not anxious," she sniffed. "I qualified 'Expert' at the Academy."
"You ever shoot anything that moves? Or bleeds?" MacArthur asked.
She shook her head.
"Crap, it's cold," he said, turning his head.
The false light revealed only the texture of snow, and their own footprints trailing into the distance. Stars, subdued by an icy overcast, twinkled feebly overhead.
"I'll shoot first," MacArthur continued, head still turned to the rear. "This assault rifle will do a lot of damage, and there's no sense in wasting bullets. If you have to shoot, make sure you're aiming at the target. Don't just point—"
"Mac!" Buccari shouted. Yellow-fanged, mustard-eyed nightmares pounded out of the darkness, their growls rising in pitch like an approaching locomotive. MacArthur threw up his arms and ducked sideways. The first beast struck his shoulder and knocked him into the snow, unholy jaws snapping for purchase and finding nothing but backpack and wood. Buccari had no time to think—a second snarling creature was leaping straight for the bare whiteness of MacArthur' s face. Her carbine barked and the nightmare twistedin midtrajectory, landing in a convulsing, screaming pile. Other creatures scattered into the dusk.
She swung her weapon to bear on the violence at her feet. The nightmare, straddling the fallen man, ripped and tore at MacArthur's bedroll. MacArthur's rifle was still slung over his shoulder. The Marine, trying to protect his face, struggled to sit. Buccari staggered to find a safe line of fire. With explosive abruptness muzzle flashes lit up the dusk as three gut-muffled reports from MacArthur's pistol rent the air. The animal jerked violently and slumped to the snow, its whiplike tail slapping a pattern in the snow. And then it was still.
MacArthur shed his pack and crawled, trembling, to a crouch, assault rifle in one hand, a smoking pistol in the other. He pounced on Buccari's still thrashing nightmare, slamming his rifle butt on its skull. Bloodcurdling growls whimpered to silence.
"You okay?" she panted, wrenching her eyes from the saber-toothed monster at her feet. It was dark. All she could see was his silhouette.
"Yeah. Just.. some scratches. Time to build that fire."
"Sentries have heard the sound of long-legs' death sticks," Craag reported.
Braan nodded thoughtfully. The two warriors stood in the outermost chamber of the hunter leader's residence. Brappa-theyoung-warrior, grown taller and backlit by the hearth's golden glow, stood in the tunnel passage leading to the main living area, listening to the news. Soft noises of mother and child came from within.
"What dost thou make of it, my friend?" Braan asked.
"Growlers are about. 'Tis likely a patrol of long-legs makes their way to us, and they have been beset by hungry beasts," Craag answered.
"Can we not help?" Brappa asked impetuously, and insubordinately.
Braan excused himself and turned gently to his son.
"Brappa-the-young-warrior," Braan said. "Dost thou not have enough to think about with thy wedding on the morrow? Spare thy courage for the ultimate test. Leave this trivial matter to old hunters."
"Eeyah! Young warrior!" Craag added. "Gliss, thy mistress to be, my young sister, is fair and strong. Growlers are as playthings by comparison. Thou must save thine energy and wiles if thou art to be the master of thy residence. Marriage and mortal combat are as first cousins."
A derisive hoot emanated from the direction of the fire's glow where Ki-the-mother sat by the hearth. It was a time of felicity in the house of Braan and universally for all hunters of the cliff colony. Winter was for marriage and mating. The ferocity of cold storms kept the tough animals near home. The young hunters, the sentries, still posted the cliff edges, ever vigilant for encroaching enemies, but the mature hunters found themselves idle. With the scars and injuries of the summer campaigns behind them, well fed and of welling energies, the experienced warriors directed their attentions inwardly, to their families. It was a time for training, for teaching, for telling, and for touching.
"Apologies, my father, and my brother-to-be," returned the chagrined young cliff dweller. "I have intruded where I belong not. I apologize for the directness but not for the essence of my question. The long-legs took care of me in my need. Is there not something we can do to help?"
"A fair question, and from the heart, but for now we must wait. It is too cold. We cannot fight in the open under these conditions. Permit us to finish our discussion."
"Sarge! I heard gunshots," Gordon shouted as he came through the door of the dayroom shelter, bringing with him a wave of frigid air.
Shannon glanced up from his meager and greasy dinner and looked over at Chief Wilson. Wilson shook his head, keeping his eyes on his plate.
"How many, Billy?" Shannon asked.
"A couple—maybe three or four," he responded. "Way out. You could barely hear 'em. You know how sound carries in this cold air. Beppo heard 'em, too."
Shannon stared past the sentry's shoulder. There was nothing to do.
"Mac's just taking target practice. Let me know if you hear more."
"You're bleeding," Buccari said as she kindled a small fire. It flared, its amber flames revealing a ragged gash down the corporal's cheek.
"Was afraid of that." He removed his glove and gingerly touched his bearded face with bare finger tips. He glanced down at the bloodied fingers and grabbed a handful of snow to hold against the wound. "I still got work to do."
The Marine checked the wind. The air was still. Using a snowshoe, he dug deeply, throwing snow into a pile next to the widening hole. Satisfied with the depth and breadth of the excavation, MacArthur walked out of the deep hole and proceeded to stomp on the snow pile and the area around it, adding more snow and packing it hard. Returning to the pit, he carved out a lateral hole—a snow cave—under the area he had compacted. MacArthur transferred the burning brands from the small fire to a spot before the cave opening. He laid the packs and their wood supply at the cave mouth.
Buccari leaned up against the side of the pit, keeping her eyes outward, looking for movement. She glanced at the industrious Marine as he melted snow in a cooking pan.
"Don't be watching me, Lieutenant," he said. "Keep your head up for more nightmares! You've got sentry duty, or do you want to cook?"
"Sentry, aye!" She struck an alert pose. The small moon rose in the east, an illusion of brightness. Vague shadows moved at the limits of vision, but she could not resolve any beasts clearly enough to fire. MacArthur left the snow crater to hack apart one of the carcasses. Cooked on skewers over the flames, the charred meat was greasy, tough, and gristly, yet the ravenous hikers consumed goodly portions, and with relish, sitting as prehistoric man had sat many light-years away, both in time and distance.
Sated, Buccari melted a pot of snow and drank the water. "With all due respect, Lieutenant, you'll be peeing all night." She laughed. "Where's the latrine, now that you mention it?" "Over there." He pointed opposite the fire, "Doesn't make sense to take a walk, does it?"
"No," she said. "Let me clean that scratch, before the water cools."
"From latrines to my face," MacArthur said. "What am I supposed to think?"
"At least you're smart enough to make the connection," she replied, dipping a rag in the water and throwing on another log.
Buccari knelt in front of MacArthur, wet rag poised. The corporal looked up, gray eyes sparkling in the dancing light of the fire. The gash, running from the fat part of his cheek diagonally into his beard, was deep enough to have required stitches in a civilized world. It would make a scar. MacArthur winced as she dabbed the cloth around the wound. As she was swabbing the injury, a lock of hair fell in front of her eyes. MacArthur reached up and gently jammed the tress under her hat brim. Buccari smiled, feeling embarrassment, and other emotions.
"Thanks. Hair sure gets in the way." She looked away.
"Pretty hair," he said shyly. "Keep it out of your eyes. You have the first watch." MacArthur pulled the shredded sleeping bag from his pack.
"Use mine," Buccari said, amazed MacArthur would even think about sleep. "I can wrap yours around me. What do I do while you're sleeping?"
"You ever hear of Jack London?" he asked, exchanging sleeping bags.
"Yes, but—oh, I get it. It's cold. Time to talk philosophy."
"London wrote about wolves…and fires," MacArthur said without levity. "That's the philosophy that matters: keep the fire burning. Nightmares will understand fire; best argument I can think of, but be ready to shoot. Use the rifle but have your pistol ready. Give me the carbine." He positioned the sleeping bag and crawled in. "Wake me up in two hours, and then it's your turn to sleep. We'll do two-hour shifts."
She sat down in the cave mouth and scanned the darkness surrounding the crater. The opposite side was trampled low, and she had a good view. But behind her, directly over her head, the view was obstructed by the packed mound of snow. The feeling that something was there weighed heavily. She threw another log on the fragile fire and leaned against the shredded sleeping bag, soaking in the feeble warmth. She checked her watch. Two minutes had crept by. MacArthur was already asleep, his breathing deep and slow. Her own eyelids slipped downwards. Shaking fogginess from her brain,she stood slowly, warily turning her head to peek over the snowbank.
Nothing. Nothing but the black night. She turned and looked past the fire and detected dim sparks of light floating in the air. The cruel stares of three predatory animals hung suspended in the distance, three sinister pairs of eyes glowing red in the firelight.
"Aw, shit!" she whispered. Her cold hands perspired. She threw another precious log on the fire and lifted a burning brand into the air. Sparks sprinkled about her as inconstant illumination spread over the shadow-dappled snow. Surrounded! She counted ten beasts and stopped. There were at least thirty, all stealthily converging.
"MacArthur!" she exhaled, breathlessly. "Mac!"
She kicked his foot, afraid to take her eyes from the frightening vision. MacArthur stirred, moaning dully.
"We got company, Mac. I need. need your help."
The Marine eased from the cave and rose to a crouch. "At your service," he muttered, moving closer. His hip touched hers.
He took the assault rifle, replacing it with the carbine.
"That one's closest," MacArthur croaked, indicating a fierce specter directly across from the fire, its huge under canines shooting up past the top of its snout. "Let's hope he's the leader. Hold your ears." MacArthur took quick aim through the flames, exhaled, and fired a single round, dropping the animal like a lump of mud. The other monsters evaporated into darkness.
The Marine checked his watch. "Kick my foot before you fire at the next one." MacArthur took the carbine, handed her the assault weapon, and climbed back into the cave. He leaned on his elbow and peeked at the fire.
"Go easy on that wood." He flopped down and zipped the bag over his head.
"Beppo! I heard another shot," Gordon whispered excitedly. His breath glowed in the faint light of the little moon. Both men listened quietly.
"Ja, me too," Schmidt answered. "You tell Sarge. I will wake up Mendoza and Chastain for the next watch."
"Another death stick explosion, Braan-our-leader," said the sentry.
"Only one?" asked Braan.
"Only one," the messenger replied.
"A good sign." Braan dismissed the sentry.
MacArthur breathed heavily in his sleep. An hour crawled by. Buccari arranged the crumbling logs, causing yellow flames to flare brightly. Close by—behind her—a rumbling growl reverberated over the edge of the snowbank. Adrenaline flushed warmly through Buccari' s body, but the back of her neck went cold. She pivoted, simultaneously raising the assault rifle. Two fanged horrors crouched, coiled to spring. Buccari locked the sights into line with the leftmost animal's nose and squeezed the trigger—just as the animal lunged. She staggered, her booted foot disturbing the fire. The predator jerked in midleap, a large caliber bullet ripping its throat, and fell from the air, thudding to the snow at the mouth of their cave. The other nightmare vanished.
The sleeping bag zipper sang like a buzz saw. MacArthur bolted from the cave, firing his pistol and kicking viciously at the twitching carcass as he leapt over it, twisting and turning. Buccari stepped back and allowed the Marine to discharge his pent-up fright. He came to a trembling halt, lowered the smoking pistol, and slowly erected himself from the stooping, bunched-muscle crouch into which he had contorted himself. He looked at Buccari and then down at the inert animal. He kicked it again—hard.
"Nice shot," MacArthur said, shaking his head. "Thanks for the warning." He blinked at his watch, having difficulty focusing his eyes.
"Believe me," she laughed, wondering that she could laugh and be petrified at the same time. "If I had had time to kick you, I would have. with pleasure."
"Hmmph." He yawned, looking down at the nightmare. Grunting, he bent over, lifted the limp carcass, and heaved it from the crater. He looked at his watch. "I got an hour. That's enough."
"No!" she insisted. "It's still my watch!"
He yawned again and crawled into the cave. "Put more wood on the fire, Lieutenant." He pulled the top of the bag around his head, but he left it unzipped this time.
Buccari rubbed her bruised shoulder. She looked at the dead animal and acknowledged an atavistic gratification. She wanted more. If it was kill or be killed, then she was ready to play.
The night was long, but in the dim light of predawn, Buccari and MacArthur climbed from the carcass-littered crater and continued their slow trek to the cliffs. Not long after sunrise, a patrol of hunters made rendezvous.
Toon offered his respects and requested a moment of Bool' s time. The older steam user lifted his snout and aimed it at his underling. Toon' s request no doubt concerned the long-legs; that seemed to be the only subject for which Toon cared anymore. While Toon was doing an excellent liaison job—the elders commended Bool on his choice—many of Toon' s important duties had gone wanting, and Bool was personally required to fill the void. His work groups were behind on corrosion inspections and link replacements for the lifts, in addition to the never-ending requirement to clear sediment from the accumulator channels.
"Steam user Toon," Bool replied superciliously. "What dost thee require?"
"To presume on thy time, master. A matter of the long-legs."
"Short-one-who-leads returned to our caves this morning, did she not? Art thy communication efforts progressing in a satisfactory manner."
"Most superbly satisfactory, master," Toon replied, his tone and choice of words obsequious and supplicating. Bool's interest was piqued.
"State thy business, steam user," he ordered.
"The long-legs have requested succor. They ask to be taken under our roof," Toon responded directly, taking his cue from Bool's abruptness.
"Impossible!" sputtered the older dweller. "We cannot support twenty long-legs. They are huge! They eat so much, and constantly!"
"Nineteen, master," Toon replied. "One has died. Another is injured."
"Dead!" Bool exclaimed. "Oh, no! May its soul rest. Tragic! Oh, my!"
"Master Bool," Toon said with unusual intensity. "The elders must be informed. I apprise thee before word reaches the elders."
"Thy loyalty is commendable, steam user Toon, and thou art correct. We must inform the elders immediately. I shall request an audience."
The biting wind was a two-edged sword; it had blown the snow from the plateau, but the temperatures were cruel, the bright sun providing light without heat. The return hike from the cliffs had been punishing. They trudged on the ice-armored lake below the camp; Buccari feared frost-bite in her extremities. She peeked forward into the rasping gusts; her watering eyes detected someone hurrying to meet them.
"Shannon and—Hudson," MacArthur shouted, his head next to hers.
"Hope everything's okay," she screamed. The blurry apparitions gave Buccari a sense of foreboding. They met in the lee of the island, the wind blunted by trees and rocks.
"You're in command, sir. Commander Quinn died last night," Shannon shouted, his face hidden behind a ragged muffler. "Fever took him away. Lee did what she could, but he went fast. Just gave up and died."
Buccari momentarily forgot the cold. Commander Quinn, the senior officer, was dead. The decisions were now hers to make. She was responsible; she was speechless. She stared at her feet.
"Tatum' s the one we need to worry about, Lieutenant," Shannon yelled against the wind thrashing through the trees. "He's in bad shape—infection, maybe blood poisoning. Lee says it's only a matter of time before gangrene takes over."
"We need to get him to the cliff dweller colony," Buccari said, shaking off her thoughts. "At first light tomorrow we're heading for the cliffs. The cliff dwellers have given us permission to stay there."
"Aye," Shannon said, looking up. "Best news in a long time."
"We'll have the wind at our back," Hudson shouted.
"Don't count on it," Buccari replied. "Look at those clouds. A front's coming. Bad weather and a wind shift. Let's get moving before the storm hits."
Large downy flakes sifted gracefully from an amorphous ceiling. The snows would last until the full moon, maybe longer. Old Kuudor, wearing black otter fur, slogged between posts through the delicate shroud of snow. The guard had been doubled, and he was checking sentry stations for vigilance. The pointillistic forms of two other hunters materialized from the textured curtain of snowflakes—Craag and Braan, in white growler skins and nearly invisible.
Braan spoke first, as was fitting. "Tidings, Kuudor, captainof-the-sentry."
"Hail and well met, Braan-our-leader. Greetings, brave warrior Craag," returned the sentry commandant, using ancient forms.
"All is in order," Craag said. "Thy sentries are well-taught and serious."
The old warrior swelled with pride. "But this storm is ominous," he responded. "It will last many days."
"No, and the long-legs are not yet within hail," Braan replied. "Daylight endures but one more hour. After dark the growlers will have their way."
"Perhaps they are not coming," Craag offered. "To wait would be wise."
"Perhaps," Braan replied. "But I think not. Short-one-wholeads said they would return this day. That creature seems sure-minded."
"I am told Short-one-who-leads is a female of the race," Kuudor said.
"It would be true," Braan stated.
"Strange beings, allowing smaller and weaker females to lead," Craag ventured.
"Perhaps their females are the more intelligent, as with guilders and hunters," Braan responded.
"We would never allow a guilder to lead us into battle!" Kuudor exclaimed. "Guilders have neither the will nor the means to fight, and they lack courage."
"Evidently female long-legs have the necessary attributes," Braan answered. "I doubt not their courage."
"Most curious. You will pardon me, warriors, for I must complete my rounds," Kuudor said. He saluted and stepped away and was immediately swallowed in a white matte curtain of snow.
MacArthur checked his compass and refigured his reckoning. The snow masked all directional references. He looked about, his anxiety rising. Goldberg was done—Mendoza was bodily carrying her. Lee and Fenstermacher tried to help, but it was all they could do to help each other. Shannon had his hands full with Dawson, but at least he was keeping her moving. Tatum was the problem; too heavy to carry, he fainted with disturbing frequency. It took two men to keep him moving. MacArthur, recalling the delirium and fever of his own infected shoulder, knew how his friend felt. The dwellers would heal Tatum—if only they could get there in time.
"How's Tatum doing?" MacArthur asked. Chastain, carrying an enormous backpack, also supported Tatum' s lanky weight. Hudson attempted to help, but Tatum's sagging body and the absence of a left arm made it awkward.
"Dunno, Mac," the big man gasped. "He ain't stirring." "How're you doing, Jocko?" MacArthur asked. "You need a relief?"
"I'm okay," Chastain wheezed, plowing through the yielding whiteness.
"I'll take a break," Hudson gasped.
"Sure thing, Mr. Hudson. I'll tag O'Toole," MacArthur said. He hated to take O'Toole off guard detail; he wanted his best guns on the line. MacArthur walked toward the rear of the refugee column. The column was stringing out dangerously.
There was movement to his right! Something vague and without definable shape. MacArthur halted and stared into the downy precipitation, straining to distinguish what his peripheral vision had discerned; but he could see nothing. He shook his head to clear his tired brain, and he pulled his face protector away from his eyes, giving him a wider field of vision, but to no avail. His five senses could tell him nothing, and yet he was certain something was lurking in the drifts, only paces away. Buccari, walking on snowshoes alongside the column, came up to him.
"I don't like you staring like that," she said. "What'd you see?"
"Something…maybe," MacArthur responded. He looked at her. She looked away.
"The last time we made this trip was more fun," he said, smiling behind his scarf. "I only had you to worry about.""Thanks a bunch," she replied sarcastically, turning face him.
"Don't get me wrong," he protested. "I worried about you at first, a lot! But after the first night, I worried more for the nightmares."
"Flattery!" she said. "I accept your praise, fierce warrior." "Praise easily given, fair damsel."
They touched shoulders as they turned and walked together, trudging along the column to where Tookmanian and Schmidt, struggling under their large backpacks, kicked through the snow. Petit and Gordon followed, also heavily burdened, wallowing in the whiteness.
"How much farther?" Buccari asked.
"Can't be far. Maybe a kilometer." MacArthur glanced sideways into the falling snow. The nagging feeling would not leave.
"We're too spread out," he said. "I want the rear closed up. Let's take over the rear guard from O'Toole. I'm putting O'Toole with Chastain. Tatum's really slowing us down."
A single rifle shot sounded from the head of the column. Burping automatic fire followed, shattering the cottony stillness. MacArthur turned and lunged ahead with Buccari in his wake. Growls reverberated in the air. As he came even with Tatum, he saw five wraithlike apparitions, their paws throwing up a furious churning of snow, charging the column from the opposite side. Tatum and his attendants blocked his line of fire. MacArthur dove behind the men, plunging into the dry snow, and fired a burst into the black-rimmed maw of the closest beast. Buccari's carbine stuttered over his head. Another nightmare fell. Chastain stumbled, dropping Tatum facedown in the snow. Someone screamed! Hudson drew his pistol as two ferocious animals rammed into him, jaws snapping for flesh. MacArthur rose to a knee and fired a round into the closest beast, knocking it squealing and whimpering. Chastain stepped forward and grabbed the other growler by its thick scruff and heaved it into the air. The agile, twisting beast landed on its feet and withdrew.
The other growlers swerved at the rifle reports but maintained their attack. Snarling animals leapt for Chastain's hamstrings. A burst from Buccari's carbine hit one growler in the shoulder, knocking it down, but the remaining beast struck at Chastain's buttocks and drew blood. Chastain went to his knees. Hudson, already on the ground, put his pistol behind the growler's ear and squeezed off two rounds. The growler fell dead.
MacArthur leapt to his feet. Hudson, clothing torn and bloodied, attended to Chastain, helping the big man stagger to his feet. As Buccari rolled Tatum' s snow-covered form face up, more rifle fire exploded from the rear of the column.
Explosions of death sticks reverberated along the cliffs. Braan and Craag, bows drawn, rushed into the snow. Kuudor deployed two sections of archers and called up the next watch. With nothing further to do, he drew his bow and marched forward, confident his sentries would stand their ground.
The reports from the death sticks were louder, the frenetic explosions coming in desultory bursts and random single shots, all muffled by the deadening snowfall. Shouts and screams wafted through the flurries, the long-legs' rumbling voices growing louder and louder. Sentries gave the alert—movement had been seen. The first hulking form appeared; it was colossal, and it carried the limp form of a fallen comrade. Two others followed closely behind, their heavy bodies sinking in the snow. They were startled by the cliff dwellers. One giant shouted, signaling his own warriors not to their point death sticks at the hunters.
"Craag! Guide them!" Braan ordered. "We will help those that follow."
The next group came out of the blizzard—another injured one attended by three heavily burdened long-legs intent on keeping the hurt one moving. There was much shouting and screaming. Confused, the long-legs stumbled and fell in the deep snow. Kuudor bravely approached, grabbing one by the hand. Two of the longlegs, seeing cliff dwellers and sensing safety was near, left the injured ones and returned toward the gunfire, all the while shouting with their booming voices. Braan followed them into the unyielding whiteness.
From out of the dusk-darkened snowfall came the largest of the long-legs. He was injured, leaving a trail of blood and staggering ponderously through the powder. He also struggled with the limp form of an injured comrade. The two long-legs returning to the fray relieved him of his burden, leaving the giant standing unsteadily, looking lost. Braan was concerned he might fall, but more long-legs came out of the flurries; two grabbed the big one's arms and pushed him forward, supporting his great weight. A third one took his rifle and turned to face the rear, maintaining a guard. Another long-legs advancing from the snows appeared; they retreated together.
More shots, near! Craag was at his side, and Kuudor, bows drawn and ready. And more shots! Brilliant flashes of orange! The cliff dwellers flinched and recoiled at the barking death sticks. Growls! Snarling growlers! The hunters smelled the deadly animals despite the chemical reek of death stick magic. The scent of blood was also strong, as snowflakes drifted gently downwards, serenely oblivious to the carnage.
"Fall back, Lieutenant! Fall back!" MacArthur shouted. "O'Toole! Boats! Who else is still here? Shout your name and close up!"
No answer. It was just the four of them, formed into a tight huddle, their backs together. They knew that cliff dwellers were close by. They had made it! Almost made it—the four of them still needed to break off the engagement. They could not turn and run.
"Keep moving. O'Toole! Watch our backs and lead the way," MacArthur ordered. "Do you see anything? Any cliff dwellers?"
"Not yet. Which way do we go, Mac?" O'Toole asked helplessly.
MacArthur glanced at his compass, trying to hold it steady. Uncertain, he pointed in a general direction. They could be marching off the cliff for all he knew.
Growlers exploded from the blizzard. Buccari' s carbine and Jones' pistol barked viciously and were quickly joined by the lower-pitched and angry reports of MacArthur's and O'Toole's heavy automatics. Only two of the growlers survived to close the gap, and one of those was dispatched with MacArthur' s bayonet. The last growler fell to the ground with three arrows in its throat. The firing stopped. The humans stared at the shaft-studded growler and looked about for the unseen archers.
Fur-shrouded cliff dwellers materialized, bows drawn and arrows nocked. One of them approached and indicated with a sharp gesture they should follow.
"It's Captain!" MacArthur shouted, recognizing the dweller leader by his manner and gait. "Follow him!"
The hunters turned and ambled over the snow, their broad feet keeping their light bodies from sinking. The humans followed, struggling to keep pace, eyes scanning the snowy gloom.
It had gotten extremely late. Runacres was escorted from the inner offices of the west wing to the empty lobby of the deserted assembly forum. Only janitors puttered about, attempting to bring order to the hallowed chambers of that last bastion of democracy on Earth, such as it was. Runacres proceeded to the east entrance alone. He knew the way well. His footfalls on the lacquered floor echoed from the mahogany paneling and high-ceilings of the interminable corridors. His pace was measured, neither quick nor slow, but then again gravity was a nuisance. Of habit he enjoyed reviewing the yellowed oils of ancient leaders and war heroes hanging from the walls, along with mildewed draperies and innumerable faded, dusty campaign banners and flags. The glorious past.
He entered the east wing rotunda "Guard! Attennn-huttt!" the captain barked. Elite troops of the Alberta Brigade in chromed helmets cracked explosively to attention. Runacres pulled on his thick reefer, donned his heavily braided cap, and tossed a spacer salute, flipping a hand from the cap brim, neat and quick, unlike the chest-thumping, fist-in-the-air salute of the Legion Federation Peacekeepers. Runacres laughed at the irony of that appellation as he stomped into the snowy night.
Night reigned over Edmonton, but there was precious little darkness. Arc lights illuminated the capital mall, all the way to the distant Defense Ministry, in which he had labored the past months. Armed patrols in combat fatigues, some leading dogs, crisscrossed the grounds. Other than ground-wire trolleys, there were no powered vehicles within the administration perimeter. Runacres elected to make the short walk to the General Officers' Club, a refreshing prospect after so many hours in closet session. Jupiter, he hated politics! His planet was dying.
He glanced at his watch; it was two hours after than their agreed-upon meeting time, but he knew they would be waiting. He walked through the brass and teak lobby of the officers' club and into the secluded apartments reserved for the occasion. Sarah Merriwether stood at the window watching snow fall softly through the harsh glare. The others, clustered on leather sofas near the fireplace, jumped to their feet—all except Cassy Quinn who remained seated, staring at the floor. A magnificent oil of an ancient sail-powered dreadnought heeling to the wind hung above the mantel.
"We're going," Runacres announced stolidly. "The president wants us on that planet. We've been authorized to use all available means." He looked around the silent room, not knowing what to expect, anything except silence. Quinn looked up at the ceiling, her eyes glistening in the firelight.
"I'll get the word out, Admiral," Wells replied, putting on his winter cap. "We have a few logistic problems to iron out."
"More than a few, Franklin. Get on it," he said, turning to face the geologist. "Commander Quinn, your report was the hammer. The president's advisors swallowed the hook. You are to be commended. I know how hard you worked for this."
"Thank you, Admiral," Quinn replied, color just starting to flow into her face. "I really believe my—h-how soon, sir?"
"Of course you do, Cassy," Runacres replied. "We'll have to see how quickly Commodore Wells can crank up the refit. Not sooner than three months, probably more like six. We must be prepared to do battle."
Muzzle blasts from heavy artillery thundered across the land. Pig-snouted cannons erupted, hurling hunks of demon iron screaming through tortured skies, and distant, low-pitched explosions beat an arrhythmic dirge day and night. Black clouds of greasy smoke tumbled skyward from hideously orange tongues of flame raking the brutalized horizon. Joined in mortal combat were the konish armies of north and south. Devastation spread, and word of war flew in the wind. Millions of panicked civilians and thousands of furtive soldiers fled southward, forming endless refugee columns, filled with despair and absent hope.
Gorruk' s hordes poured into the cratered and torched salients. They did not appear to be conquerors. Parched and blackened by sun, the troops of the north were also refugees, fleeing from the unmerciful heat and winds of their forced march across the arid sands. The soldiers stumbled forward, relentlessly, knowing too well the searing tribulation behind them; they would rather die attacking the unknown than to repeat the ordeal of the deserts. As the dehydrated hordes reached the pitiful tributaries draining the contested lands, they would raise immense cheers and stampede the feeble watercourses, falling and wallowing in muddy ditches like cattle. Their footholds established, the northern armies flowed inexorably southward, supported by massive logistics convoys. Engineers, ruthlessly employing prisoners, struggled to erect rail systems spanning the deserts, striving desperately to complete their slave-driving atrocities before the weather systems returned to normal, reverting the deserts to impassable infernos.
The southern tribes put aside argument and rivalry. Gorruk' s daring invasion eclipsed petty trade and boundary squabbles, putting in their stead a full blown threat to their very existence. Jook' s iron-fisted general did not subscribe to civilized conventions of warfare. To Gorruk, all war—by definition—was total war. Torture, genocide, plunder, the torch—all of these, and more, were weapons in his arsenal of terror. The kones of the south were victims of their own complacency. The equatorial deserts had not been the ultimate barrier after all. Madmen knew no barriers.
"Rather obvious, is it not?" Et Kalass asked wryly. He stared from his fourth-story penthouse overlooking the regimental parade field. Lovely orange-blossomed kotta trees lined the grass-covered fields. The atmosphere was thick with particulates and smog—as usual. The muted sky, clear of clouds, yet still murky, was tinted almond, complementing the bright blossoms.
"Perhaps we can argue our way clear, Your Excellency," said his militia commander, General Et Ralfkra. "We can say that the satellites were possibly defective—or already sabotaged, built with time bombs installed. There is no proof they were destroyed at our hand."
"Proof is rarely a weapon of justice, certainly not of the ilk served by our friend Gorruk," said the ancient kone lounging in the corner.
"Our wise and worthy Samamkook is correct, of course," Et Kalass said. "We may have to relent, or we will surely be purged. How goes Gorruk' s latest attack?" Et Kalass turned his attention from the window, back to the long wall of his office suite upon which strategic maps were arrayed.
"He has broken out to the west, along the Massif of Rouue. Et Barbluis is ready for him at the highlands. They will engage at day's end."
"So many to die!" the minister moaned. "When will we be free of this?"
"With the Restoration, m'lord!" the general replied, too loudly.
"It is dangerous to flatter ourselves," Samamkook said.
"Truth and freedom were in our past," Et Ralfkra said. "So will they be in our future."
"Only if our kings are pure and wise—a difficult challenge for mortal kones, good General. Even those of unblemished nobility," Et Kalass reflected. "And let us not forget: our pretender is himself in grave danger."
Gorruk's attacking advance was met by superior forces occupying developed defensive positions—a recipe for disaster— but Gorruk was not to be denied. It was a disaster, a disaster for both sides, and despite horrendous casualties, casualties no sane military commander could tolerate, Gorruk' s forces rolled over the bodies of dead multitudes and climbed the high ground. Marshall Et Barbluis's lines were irresistibly bent and then finally broken by Gorruk' s maniacal charges, ammunition depleted on both sides, blasters melted, soldiers reduced to scratching, clawing, stabbing, and clubbing. General Gorruk was prominent on the front lines, exhorting and goading, brave and resolute, constantly exposing himself to enemy fire. At one critical juncture he personally led a charge against an enemy strong point, suffering a superficial wound. He was seen to wipe the blood across his face as he pressed onward, onward toward the objective, screaming the battle cry of his ancient tribe. His men, witness to the inspiring charge, carried everything before them and would not be stopped. The southern army retreated, gravely mauled, leaving the field to the bleeding barbarians of Gorruk' s decimated armies.
"A girl!" Buccari announced, walking into the low rock-walled barracks. "Goldberg's doing fine."
A cheer erupted from the crew, followed by raucous comments and laughter. Cliff dwellers peeked into the barracks area, curious. Buccari, closest to the entryway, used crude sign language to indicate a pregnant belly and a babe in arms. The old females went away chirping, smiles on their ugly faces.
"So… uh, who does it look like?" Tatum asked.
Everyone laughed and hooted, pounding the tall Marine on the back.
"So who does it look like," Tatum persisted.
"It's not an it, you big dork!" Lee admonished. "It's a she! Her name's Honey. She looks like a little monkey, just like all newborns."
"Fenstermacher, you dog!" Wilson shouted.
"Leave me out of this!" the little man protested. "I'm innocent."
"You mean impotent," O'Toole jibed.
Laughter echoed from the narrow walls—for a change. Cramped quarters and forced indolence had been telling; tempers ran short and attitudes sour. Their small world had become a prison.
"Do you think I can see her?" Tatum asked softly.
"Won't hurt to ask," Buccari said. "I'm expecting Lizard soon. I'll write out a request. Anyone else want to go?" It was a silly question; they all raised their hands. "I'll see what we can do," she laughed.
"So what did you see?" Hudson asked.
"Corridors, polished floors. Running water. Lots of rock. And elevators! They have elevators," Buccari reported.
"They covered our heads," Lee added. "Pepper's room looks like this, only smaller and much warmer. She says they never put her under anesthetic. She had to work hard, and it took hours, but she feels good—and strong."
"Get this!" Buccari exclaimed. "They delivered the baby under water! Goldberg says they put her in a dark room with a stone tub filled with hot water."
"That used to be done on Earth," Lee said.
There were few sanctuaries at Goldmine, the science expedition's retreat for the winter. Dowornobb and Kateos, mature adults, realized they were suited for mating, and they wished to discuss the delicate matter fully and candidly. They discovered the necessary solitude under the dome housing the station's fruit and vegetable gardens. The agricultural dome did not have an elevated pressure, but the temperature was moderated. By the kones' perspective it was uncomfortably cold. It was impossible for Dowornobb to imagine what it was like outside.
Frigid winds blew leaves and debris against the dome's surface. It was snowing. The first soft flakes of the season whirled before driving winds, striking and sliding across the translucent surface; ridges of white snow accumulated on the dome's seams. Imbedded heating coils in the dome shell kept the ridges wet and narrow, causing melting snow to slide downward across the dome in long streamers of ice. Dowornobb sat with Kateos on a green bench, helmets off, staring dreamily, enchanted at the strange precipitation and its effects on the dome. They had talked for many minutes yet had said little.
"I am told each snowflake is unique," Kateos sighed.
"Et Silmarn claims the entire ground, as far as the eye can see, will be covered in white by the end of the day," Dowornobb said. He stood, walked to the dome, and tested the temperature of the dome. He yanked his bare hand away and returned it to his glove. "Ouch! Quite cold!"
He ambled back to the bench and looked at Kateos. She sat, unnaturally quiet and demur. Dowornobb had grown accustomed to her loquaciousness and her spontaneity—characteristics she revealed, with interesting exceptions, only to him. The import of their conversation was affecting him in similar ways. He sat, picked up her gloved hand, and gave a gentle squeeze. She pressed his in return, averting her eyes.
"Our lives have become complicated," he said.
"Yet at the same time more purposeful," she replied softly. "Our lives are more defined." She looked upward and outward, staring resolutely through the falling snowflakes.
"I wish to express my feelings, Mistress Kateos," he said softly.
"You have done so already, and without words, Master Dowornobb." She turned to look deeply into his eyes. Had Dowornobb retained any thoughts of independence or equivocation in the matter—which he did not—that sweet, simple, yet intense glance would have crushed all ambivalence. Dowornobb felt his gay heart and free soul climb through his eyes; he desperately wanted to belong to this female, and in wanting to belong, he needed also to possess.
"It is said that life is long, no matter how few the days, when life is shared," he said after many entranced moments.
"And it is said," Kateos added, continuing the litany, "that true love is a perpetually blooming flower that knows not seasons and can never die."
Dowornobb' s passions swelled, doubts vanished. His love scent lifted. "Mistress Kateos, our lives are uncertain. I am but a common kone, and I cannot promise comfort and wealth—"
"If certainty and wealth were that important to you, then I would rather not continue this conversation," she interrupted, most rudely.
"Please, Mistress Kateos," said the exasperated male, struggling to maintain his composure and train of thought. "Your welfare and happiness will be my responsibility. You must permit me to express my concerns, even if I am incapable of eloquence."
"Yes, Master Dowornobb," Kateos replied. "Want not eloquence if you speak sincerely."
He stared into her large, lustrous brown eyes and found himself a dazed wanderer, lost in love, not caring where he went, but ever so thankful for the chance to take the voyage. Time floated by. The air thickened with his essence.
"Master Dowornobb?" she whispered, bringing him back to the moment.
"Yes?" he said blankly. "Oh, yes!" His objective clearly in front of him, he shored up his resolve yet again and stated his position, "I want you as my mate, forever and without end."
There! It was said—a bit tersely. But she made it so difficult for him to think and talk. She looked down at the ground. No response was forthcoming. Just as he was about to expound further, she spoke.
"I have no choice in the matter. You have selected me, so I am bound to submit and to obey. It is the rule—my life is yours. Of course, I am honored." Her head bent low in submission; a large, pellucid tear welled up and clung to her lower lid. She blinked, and it fell to the ground.
"Thank you, Mistress Kateos, for your formal acceptance," Dowornobb said quietly. Suddenly it was easy for him to speak. Her abject posture injected him with the urgent need to relate his feelings. Dowornobb was a scientist and a freethinker. He loathed the orthodoxy of his society, especially if it would interfere with his ability to express his emotions, or to understand the emotions of another.
"We share a bond, an understanding, a feeling—" he stated quietly but with escalating passion, " — something deeper and more profound than ancient rules." It was his turn to lecture. "I want to be your companion. I want you to be my companion—for life—forever and always. I want you as my mate, not because I have ordered it so, and not because I am willing to take social responsibility for your children. I want you to be my mate because, and only because, you wish to be. If that is not the case, you may walk from me and not turn back. I will not invoke the social rules, and I would be disappointed in you if those were your reasons for submitting to my wish."
She gazed into his face as he lectured, and her demeanor fairly glowed with each word of admonishment. Dowornobb detected her love scent exploding in waves.
"Oh, I promise you!" she declared effusively, taking Dowornobb aback. "I promise you that my acceptance demonstrates my expression of free will. I am yours forever. I am yours because I want to be. You are my master."
"I am your mate," he said emphatically, their scents blending. She squeezed his hand, tears flowing freely down her beautiful face. "My mate, this promise is an undying flame. It will always be kindled and it cannot be extinguished," she said with a liquid fervor that made Dowornobb's emotional bubble nearly burst with boundless ecstasy.
Stemming his exhilaration, Dowornobb stared into her eyes and declared his love. "The promise is the marriage. The marriage is the promise. We are mated. I will file the necessary papers."
"We must keep them isolated," whistled Koop-the-facilitator. "They are boisterous and rude! They are unclean and they smell. We fear they may be evil!" The assembled body of elders and guild representatives listened to the harangues cataloging the questionable behavior of their guests. The cliff dwellers could not countenance the long-legs' voracious appetites, their rambunctiousness, their rudeness.
"With immense respect, my elder," Toon chirped from the visitors' gallery, standing without sanction and unrecognized. "May I speak?"
The facilitator looked down from the assembly podium, irritated with the impudent interruption. The assembly was occupied primarily by members of the dweller congress, the duly elected guild and hunter officials.
"Ah, supervisor Toon!" the facilitator acknowledged. "Thy reports art the basis of our findings. What is it thou wouldst say?"
"I humbly address the council," replied the steam user. "My reports have not served thee well, for while thy decision to continue the quarantine may be correct, thy logic for doing so is faulty."
The assemblage murmured at the steam user's blatant affront.
"The crude behavior of the long-legs should not be seen as evil or base," Toon continued hurriedly, desperately holding on to his courage. "The long-legs are different. We should reserve judgment until we have a better understanding. Arrogant and ill mannered yes, but they are not evil. They desire to be good, but they act as individuals, selfishly and without common purpose."
Murmurs grew louder. Toon raised his voice and continued.
"I humbly propose the long-legs be provided with labor, even if it means exposing them to our society. Gainful employment will exhaust their energies in worthwhile endeavor, and it will serve to give them value in our eyes."
The great hall was silent. The council of elders stared down at the lone engineer as if he were an insect. The silence lingered.
"Toon' s words have merit," interjected Braan, leader-of-thehunters. He stood erect, not apologizing for the parliamentary breach.
Koop glared down. Such disruptions reflected ill on his leadership.
"The hunter leader is recognized," warbled the facilitator with poorly concealed resignation.
"Permission to speak is humbly accepted," Braan whistled as he took the speaker's dock, talons clicking obnoxiously. "Hunters have billeted the long-legs for four cycles of the small moon and have observed them firsthand—not from rumor or from steam user Toon' s reports. The long-legs have good qualities—many good qualities. If they are evil, then we are equally so."
Remonstrative jeers whistled around the assembly. Braan turned and belligerently scanned the members, defiantly awaiting the disruption to attenuate. The floor was his.
"It is true they behave offensively," the hunter screeched over the din. "They gesture obscenely. They stare with fixed eye contact! They consume great amounts of precious food, only to convert it to malodorous waste! They seldom wash, and their bodies stink. They are loud. They respect not our customs. They even fight among themselves. All of this is true. Yes, it is true! But that does not provide reason to condemn. It illustrates only that they are different."
It was a long speech for a hunter; Braan concluded, "Listen to steam user Toon. His counsel is well measured." The hunter returned to his seat.
The assembly was silent. The facilitator recognized Toon.
The spacers waited nervously in the dark, damp cavern. Although they could not see the river, its muted roar required them to raise their voices to be heard. Steam was thick and warm around them, yet icicles dripped from the ceiling and along catwalk chain railings. Dim globes stretched out before them, a string of dingy yellow pearls disappearing in the distant curve of the cavern. Sixty meters below and on the other side of the channel, another necklace of spirit lamps ran parallel to the first, following the channel course at the cavern's bottom. Cliff dwellers worked in the dim light, splashing, scraping, and pounding in the wet channel bottom. Lurking in shadows behind them a mysterious guilder stood between lamps, watching them carefully.
"Who's that?" MacArthur asked.
"Lizard's boss," Hudson replied. "That's the guy we have to impress."
"He's not impressing me slinking in the shadows," O'Toole said.
"Stop staring," Shannon said. "It makes them nervous."
The spacers turned their attention to Buccari and Lizard Lips walking toward them. The beings from different worlds had been scouting the cavern, silently communicating, using sign language and writing.
"We're sediment cleaners," Buccari announced. The tall human males circled the twosome, compelling Lizard Lips to take an involuntary step backward. Buccari reached over, put an arm around the cliff dweller's back, and firmly pulled him into their huddle.
"Mr. Lip's been explaining accumulators to me," Buccari said, "and why they need to be cleaned. This cavern is one of four accumulator channels. They have closed and drained it so sediment-cleaning teams can clear away rocks, silt, and other debris that have deposited since the last cleaning. All four of the channels are behind schedule for cleaning. Last year's flow was one of the heaviest in their history, and it left behind tremendous amounts of sediment. We are to join one of the cleaning teams, and after we learn the job, we train the rest of our crew and form our own team. It's a big job."
"Sounds like forced labor to me," Petit said.
"We're working for food and shelter," Buccari said. "No one's forcing you to do anything. You can leave anytime you like, Petit."
"Eh, sorry, Lieutenant," Petit replied. "I didn't mean—"
"Yeah, that's okay," Buccari said. "This place gives me the creeps, too." Liquid scraping noises echoed through the dripping, musty cavern.
"We need the work," MacArthur said. "Let's get going."
"Okay, you know how important this is," Buccari said. "We earn our keep, and we have a chance to prove we're not worthless, which our friend tells me is the case right now. Anything beats sitting around on our fannies all winter."
"What do they accumulate in an accumulator channel, Lieutenant?" Shannon asked.
"Energy! Potential energy to be precise," Buccari replied. "River water is diverted into a channel, depending on availability of water and energy needs. Each channel has a series of geared waterwheels used to hoist large weights up vertical distances. The cables suspending these weights can be disengaged from the waterwheels and connected to other drive mechanisms. It's a gigantic mechanical storage battery. These guys are amazing mechanical engineers."
"That must be how they drive the elevators," Hudson said. "Did you see the weights and the gearing systems?"
"Just a peek," Buccari replied. "That's still off limits. Lizard was reluctant to tell me about it. I just kept asking questions until he caved in. So to speak."
MacArthur snorted. "How is it so warm in, uh.. a cave this big?"
"Steam," Buccari said. "They collect steam. Water flowing through the channels is diverted into some sort of magma chamber. This produces gobs of steam which is collected in low-pressure accumulators and released to drive pistons and turbines. A lot of steam backflows into the caverns. Lizard has cautioned me a dozen times on the dangers of steam geysers and scalding water."
"Hot showers, eh? All right!" O'Toole said.
"Yeah, hot! Very, very hot!" Buccari warned.
"Does that mean they have electricity?" Hudson asked.
"Not that I can tell," Buccari answered. "I couldn't explain the concept to Lizard, either. All the steam energy is dissipated mechanically, or used directly as heat."
"What do we use for tools?" Shannon asked.
"Good question. Evidently our tools are waiting for us. Let's go," Buccari replied. "We have to climb to the channel bottom. Be careful. Our friend keeps telling me the work is dangerous, so keep your mouths shut and pay attention."
"Aye, aye, sir!" they shouted in unison.
The winter solstice had arrived. Hundreds of spirit lamps were shrouded with dark blue globes for the occasion; the great assembly hall flickered in yellows and blues. The quiet chittering of the gathered masses lowered abruptly as two hundred votaries, adult females dressed in orange robes, appeared at the entrances and dispersed into the hall, moving slowly about the central podium, lighting more candles. Bool, sitting in the masters' gallery, watched the scintillating patterns, enchanted as any child.
"Toon' s idea has proven excellent," Koop whispered. The facilitator had stopped for a subdued chat with the old steam user. Together, the dwellers watched the multiplying points of light.
"Without question, wise one," Bool responded. "My doubts have been dispelled. After only two moon cycles of instruction the long-legs are twice as productive as an equal number of dwellers, despite inexperience. In another moon cycle they will clear sediment at thrice the rate of our best teams. We are designing special tools to take advantage of their leverage and reach."
"Is it only because they are so strong?" the facilitator asked. "I am told they destroy tools because they wield them with such force."
"Perhaps," Bool responded. "And yet Toon tells me they have brought innovation to the task. We have been doing it the same way for so long that we have stopped looking for other ways. It goes well. Sediment clearing is actually on schedule—a miracle."
"Excellent to hear—sssh! The ceremony is starting. I must take my place. Good year to you and long life." The facilitator moved to his position behind the central podium as high-toned bells rang sharply. The votaries arrayed themselves, and the hall fell silent.
The celebration of the shortest day of the year began with the rhythmic pealing of a single bell—a sweet tone. Then the singing began, distant and muted. Rich harmonies and expansive tonal ranges emanated from the congregated cliff dwellers, their delicate frames physically resonating in the glory of transonic music—a deep, nearly sexual stimulation overwhelming all senses. The procession of choirs commenced. Singing grew in volume and intensity as thousands of females robed in royal blue filed in, stately and erect, moving as slowly as the passage of the stars. Time was not perceived, for the singing was ethereal, and all present prayed it would never end.
Another bell, large and deep-toned, pealed three times; the elders slipped from their perches. A keening rose from the choirs, signaling the arrival of the judges and priestesses—females all,robed in black. The regal entourage moved with dignified yet graceful pace to positions around the great hall. Several mounted the stairs to the central stage. Over half were small—hunter females—including the high priestess, for hunters were the best singers.
The high priestess moved to the raised stage center and faced the multitude, lifting her arms high, wing membranes luminously backlighted in blue, the very image of beauty and purity. Yellow fires danced at her feet, highlighting her prominent features. She slowly lowered her arms, and all present, male and female, adult and child, raised voices in harmonious accord, increasing volume in a majestic crescendo. The high priestess raised her arms once again and the female tones surfaced from the powerful male background harmonies; a lush ululation rose in wave upon wave; alternating harmonics of male and female origin, a yin and yang of sound, tumbled around each other, melding into one. When the time was right, the high priestess dropped her arms.
Silence.
The high priestess stared outward and upward, eyes closed— her vision confined to the sonic realm. She uttered sounds, musically, but very quietly. Yet every pure, harmonic emanation was clearly heard by each dweller in the hall. She projected— transmitted—her message at a multitude of sonic levels, and the acute receptors of the audience received and resolved her vibrations.
"We are blessed, my people," she trilled. "We are blessed with children. We are blessed with salt and warmth. We are blessed." She paused. The audience responded with a musical affirmation, an «amen» of surpassing harmony.
"We are blessed, my people," the litany continued. "We are blessed with food. We are blessed with flowers and families. We are indeed blessed." The audience responded with growing passion and volume.
"The gods abide in our hearts and in our souls. They live in our rocks, in the mountains and cliffs. They live in the waters of lakes and rivers. We are blessed. They look down from the moons, and they illuminate the sun and the stars. Each tree, each blade of grass, each drop of rain, each starry snowflake—they are each and every one a benevolent and compassionate spirit. We are blessed. The gods are everywhere, and they are just. The gods are just and fair. We are blessed. We are so very blessed. Let us sing! Let us sing our thanks for our many blessings. Let us sing."
The voices in the assembly hall were forcefully raised in harmonic resonance, a powerful manifestation of rising fervor. Wave upon wave of multidimensional sound permeated the great hall, rebounding from stone walls and reinforcing the next wave of song newly sent forth. The fledglings in the audience trembled before the power of the adult voices. Bells sounded in rolling peals, and the harmonious tumult continued to elevate. Spirit lamp globes vibrated. The very rock upon which they stood buzzed in sympathetic harmony, warming with the transmission of sonic energy.
Time passed but was not measured, and when it was right, the high priestess raised thin arms. Blue and gold light danced from her wings, and the concord of tones and whistles, of bells and songs, subsided in subliminal thresholds, falling through innumerable levels of frequency and harmony, until only a small portion of the choir was left chanting. And with lingering glory, the last exquisite sounds drifted into exalted silence. The high priestess scanned the audience. A radiant smile reflected her contentment and inner light.
"We are blessed. We are blessed with the voices of our ancestors," the high priestess cried, tears of joy giving her speech liquid qualities. "We are so very blessed." The assembled multitude responded, humbly but with great passion.
The deep, heavy bell tolled again, six times, and the high priestess gestured grandly. The judges strode forward—nine guilder females. They arrayed themselves, solemn and imposing, behind nine onyx monoliths. They wore the same orange robes as the votaries, but they also wore necklaces of sparkling onyx. The hall was still, a stillness beyond silence, for it was the time of reckoning. Cliff dweller laws were few, but penalties severe; any cliff dweller who willfully caused harm could be banished, doomed to die in the freezing wilderness.
"We are blessed," intoned the high priestess, "with justice. Let justice have voice! Read the names."
And the trials began.
"It's cold!" Fenstermacher complained, feeding the ante. "It's cold every day!" Chief Wilson said, dealing the cards.
"Stop complaining! It's a hell of a lot colder back at the cave," Dawson chided.
"So what's going on, Lieutenant? Why the day off?" Wilson asked. He sat on a deep pile of furs looking at his poker hand.
Buccari pored over stacks of dweller writings—the dictionary. The collection of writings and drawings had grown large. Hudson and MacArthur were helping her organize the icons and symbols.
"Liz wouldn't say," she replied. "He said we had to stay in our barracks today. Some kind of religious day—a holiday, maybe?"
"There are extra guards down the passageway," Shannon said. "I pass."
"A religious day?" Fenstermacher asked. "What kind of religion do they have?"
"Hard to say," Buccari answered. "Some kind of animism."
"What?" Fenstermacher persisted. "They worship animals?"
"They worship everything," MacArthur answered. "To them every rock, tree, and mountain has a soul. They worship the planet. And they have different sects or life-purposes—the tall ones, the workers, actually pray to the rocks, or to the plants, or to the fish, or to the steam, depending on their training. The hunters worship the wild animals."
Buccari looked up at MacArthur. The Marine, standing close to her, looked away, embarrassed.
"You're picking this up quickly, Mac," she said thickly. "Keep at it. More of us need to communicate with our new friends. It's like learning how to read." MacArthur blushed and smiled weakly.
"Yeah, Mac," Hudson agreed, absorbed in the material before him. "This stuff is ambiguous and Sharl, er—Lieutenant Buccari never buys my interpretation. Like this, Sharl; check this out."
"What's it in response to?" she asked. Hudson had organized a keying system to match questions with answers.
"It relates to the series of questions on other races and peoples," Hudson replied. "We were trying to determine if they had ever seen other aliens or flying machines."
"Yeah," Buccari said. "And…"
"I read this sequence to say they've seen flying machines, but not recently—not in four years, and then only rarely before that. They also describe giants or bear people. Here, tell me what you think." He pushed the parchment sheets over. Buccari stared at them. MacArthur moved tentatively closer.
"You're right, Nash," she said after a while. "This indicates the dwellers saw loud, rigid-wing flying objects. Four winters, er— years ago." Buccari stared at the pages, shifting her view. "Their mythology includes stories of large people—giants or bear people— emerging from such flying machines. The bear people had weapons that made music, or sang. Weapons that killed from great distances."
"Giants, eh?" Wilson remarked. The poker game halted in mid-hand.
"Don't forget," Hudson said. "They think of us as giants, too."
"Not quite the same, Nash," Buccari interrupted. "Lizard uses this term big to describe us. The term he uses to describes the mythical beings seems to be more emphatic, a difference of degree. Liz makes it clear that no living dweller has seen one of these mythical bear people, but many dwellers have seen their flying machines."
"How about the singing weapons?" MacArthur asked. "Lasers?"
"Good guess," Shannon said soberly.
Everyone's attention was drawn to the entrance of their living quarters; Chastain and Gordon walked in, shaking snow from their furs.
"We thought we heard something," Chastain said.
"Like what, Jocko?" Buccari asked.
"Music, bells, whistling, or—something. Weird noises. It kinda got under your skin. Kinda pretty, though," he said thoughtfully.
"I miss music," Dawson said absentmindedly. She started humming a long forgotten tune. After a short period of time she stopped abruptly and looked around, embarrassed.
"It was pretty, Nancy," Lee said. "Don't stop."
"I'm embarrassed," she replied.
"You mean embarrassing," Fenstermacher chuckled. Dawson' s thrown boot missed badly.
Wilson stood up. "I used to sing. I remember some old songs." "Don't go singing beer-drinking songs," Shannon jibed. "Yes! Keep it clean, Gunner," Buccari requested.
"He can't even breathe and do that," Fenstermacher needled. Everyone laughed as Wilson chased Fenstermacher into the cold passageway. Buccari turned back to the dweller writings and pondered the future. It was going to be a long winter. She looked up to see MacArthur staring at her. MacArthur grinned bashfully and turned away, his color rising. No one but Buccari noticed.
Dawson and Wilson began harmonizing an ancient carol. Soon all were singing, and it was beautiful.
The alpine lake in MacArthur's Valley was large, a full day's hike to circumnavigate. At its southern end, on the eastern side, a finger of forest protruded, forming a cove. Wooded islets protected the mouth of the harbor. MacArthur had seized on the locale early in his explorations. Besides sheltered access to the lake, there was an abundance of wood—evergreen and hardwood—and the soil seemed favorable for planting. But the primary attraction was the spring, an irrepressible knuckle of sweet water bubbling from the ground. It flowed energetically across flower-margined stones to the cove's sandy beach.
"Ouch, this water's cold," Goldberg said, squatting next to the gurgling spring, rinsing fish entrails from her hands. Fat lake fish lay beheaded and gutted on the rocks. A hunter perched near-by, watching with obvious interest. Dawson had named him Bluenose.
"Chief Wilson's got a pot of water on the fire," Dawson said, cleaning her knife in the sand. "Let's see if we can clean off some of this smell."
"I feel like I've been gutting fish all my life," Goldberg moaned.
"Cheer up," Dawson said, throwing Bluenose a piece of fish. The hunter deftly caught it in his long jaw and swallowed it whole. "Hudson says today is our anniversary. We've been here one Earth year."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Goldberg asked, looking up at the sound of a tree crashing to the ground. Tookmanian and Schmidt were clearing timber up the hill. Downhill, near the cove beach, Lee and Mendoza tilled black, muddy soil, only recently uncovered by receding lake waters. Oneof the tall dwellers—a gardener—scurried about, hoe in hand and a satchel of seeds about its neck.
"Give me a hand, little momma," Dawson pleaded, collecting her gear, including a pistol. At least one person in every work group was armed; the cove's largest drawback was the number of Gargantuan bears that still considered it their territory. Two grizzled monsters had already paid with their truculent lives; their furs stretched on tanning frames downwind from the tents.
"Damn, Nancy, are you getting big!" Goldberg exclaimed, helping the awkward Dawson to her feet, both ladies grunting like teamsters. Dawson' s clothes no longer fit, and she was draped with loose furs and hides. Makeshift robes shifted indelicately as Dawson gained her feet. Above a pair of men's space boots rose the twin pillars of her bare white legs, sharply-muscled and covered with fine red hair. A tangle of pelts attempted to cover her heavy-boned frame and distended belly. Her freckled, coarse features were sunburned. An explosion of fiery red hair shot from her head.
"A pregnant cave woman!" Goldberg hooted.
"Don't tease, Pepper!" Dawson pleaded. "You ain't no bargain."
"Thank you," Goldberg replied with exaggerated sophistication, posturing a lean body that had been made hard and wiry by unending work.
"Let's haul this bear bait up to the tents," Dawson said, eyeing the opportunistic hunter. "Can't leave it here."
"I stink," Goldberg whined, putting the cleaned fish into a basket. They walked uphill to the tent circle, where the odors of wood smoke and leather blended flagrantly. Fenstermacher, laboring with strips of precious hide, sat on the ground next to the cook fire. He struggled to stitch two strips together, binding them around a wooden frame.
"Brat's awake," Fenstermacher grumbled, concentrating on his work. "She's making noises. Already makes more sense than her old man, but what ain't smarter than a Marine?"
"Thanks for watching her, Winnie," Goldberg said, putting the fish next to the fire and taking a dipper of hot water. After washing the scales from her hands, Goldberg leaned into one of the tents. Honey lay on her back, nestled in furs, playing with her toes. Goldberg leaned over and grabbed the brown infant, saddling it on her hip.
A layer of clouds scudded darkly overhead, threatening more rain. They had already seen one ferocious storm. Goldberg draped a plush nightmare skin over Honey's back. The baby clung tightly to her mother.
"I can't believe Shannon is letting you use those hides to build a boat," Dawson said. "What a waste."
Fenstermacher squinted in concentration, a length of rawhide in his mouth. He mumbled something obscene.
A monotonous thumping drifted across the clearing; Tookmanian and Schmidt still labored at the forest's edge, their axes arcing in the sharp light. Uphill from the tents, near the gushing springhead, sat Chief Wilson, his ample bottom firmly planted on a stump carved into a chair, a dweller ax at his feet. Buccari and Shannon stood with him, gesturing with sweeping motions. Tonto, Buccari's ubiquitous companion, perched on a fallen log.
"Hey, Chief," Goldberg shouted, "I'm tired of women's work. All we do is sew and clean fish."
Wilson and Buccari turned. Shannon was already facing the women, his eyes affectionately on Dawson. Wilson was wet with perspiration.
"Too damn bad, Goldbrick!" Wilson snapped. "I don't know what to say. Here!" He reached down and grabbed the ax, throwing it at Goldberg's feet. Tonto' s head jerked upwards. "Take my job and chop and haul those logs. I'll be happy to do a little sewing. Yeah! And after I get some sewing done, I'll still have time for my other job. Yeah! Real man's work—cooking!"
"Whoa, Gunner! Easy does it," Buccari interjected. Her auburn ponytail, streaked from the sun, twitched across her shoulders. "Goldberg wasn't trying to make trouble."
"Hrmmph," Wilson snorted. "She never tries to."
"You hit Chief Wilson at the wrong time, Pepper," Buccari said. "Be patient. You have a baby to take care of, and Dawson' s not in shape to do much of anything. Give it time."
"Sure, Lieutenant," Dawson jumped in. "Gosh, Chief! Didn't know you'd lost your sense of humor, or we would've been extra special nice to you, just like we usually are."
"Pick on someone your own size, Dawson!" Wilson snarled.
"That's more like it," Dawson replied. She winked at Shannon, put her arm around Goldberg's back and gently pushed her up the hill.
"Come on, Trouble, let's go see how the guys are doing," Dawson said. The two ladies continued walking, leaving the tent clearing. Goldberg shifted the baby to her other hip and readjusted her furs as they walked into the forest toward the quarry where most of the men were hewing rocks. Large-boled trees and thick underbrush lined both sides of the climbing path.
"The bitch!" Goldberg spit.
"Pardon me?" Dawson replied. "You can't—"
"Bullshit! Who's she to tell us to be patient!" Goldberg snapped. "She's the boss man. An officer! She has no idea what it's like for us."
"Come on, Pepper! Enough," Dawson replied.
"She's not one of us. She doesn't know what it's like to be treated like a woman! We get all the crap jobs, and she gets to be king shit!"
"Slow down, Goldie. You're not making sense." Dawson grabbed her large belly and inhaled.
"I'd like to see her pregnant. That'd get her off her high horse…the bitch."
"Pepper! That's not right!" Dawson stopped. "We're lucky she's strong. You wouldn't want her job, not even for a ticket home. She's got all of us to worry about! And how would you like to try and tell these muscleheads how to act? You think that's easy? She's doing it! And they listen to her. She's the boss!" Dawson belched.
"She outranks everybody. They have to listen," Goldberg rebutted.
"Nonsense! If Buccari showed even the slightest weakness, they'd run over her like dogs. It'd be the law of the jungle, and you know it." Dawson hiccoughed.
"But—" Goldberg started to say.
"Nobody got us pregnant but ourselves!" Dawson interrupted, hiccoughing again.
"Didn't know you could get pregnant by yourself," Goldberg retorted.
"You know what I mean. The law's on your side. Until you get pregnant. And then the responsibility's all yours. You take the consequences. Right? Give Buccari credit for not getting pregnant. Give her a lot of credit. I bet she's been having a tough time."
"Nobody would have her. It'd be like humping mud…frozen mud."
Dawson laughed. "That wouldn't stop these Marines. She's smart and she's gorgeous, and you know it. You're just jealous." Goldberg started crying, and so did Honey.
"Come on, Pepper," Dawson said softly. "I'm sorry, but it's just not fair to pick on Buccari." Dawson pulled Honey away from her mother.
"You're right," Goldberg sobbed. "But I'm tired of being cold and dirty. I'm tired of cleaning fish—of eating fish. Oh, Nancy, we're never going to be rescued."
"Oh, Pepper," Dawson said. "Who knows? But getting down on Buccari isn't going to help matters. She needs our help." She put an arm around Goldberg's shoulders and pulled her close. Goldberg stiffened, but the embrace was irresistible; the fetus kicking in Dawson' s womb became a shared sensation, and Goldberg's short arms moved reluctantly around Dawson' s tall waist.
Dowornobb and Kateos flew as loading crew for the fuel-staging flights. They were on the fourth and final leg of the last staging flight, prepositioning barrels of fuel for subsequent search flights. Scientist Lollee was the pilot and Et Avian the copilot. Their destination was a large, steep-sided plateau that Lollee had been to once before—four years earlier.
"Et Silmarn told us about flying creatures that live in the mountains along the river," Kateos said. "Mountain flyers. Have you seen them?" Kateos leaned over the backs of the pilots. Dowornobb slept on the floor of the passenger compartment.
"Three times," Lollee answered. "But always from the abat. You only find them in the far north. Very elusive—they soar on the updrafts, reaching remarkable altitudes." He adjusted trim and reset the autopilot to track the river channel.
"The official reports are from the early days," Lollee continued. "In the early days mountain flyers and other Genellan animals were hunted for their fur. Mountain flyers were found in abundance, even in the south, but their numbers were greatly reduced during the fur harvests. An ugly business."
"Et Silmarn joked about the creatures' intelligence," Kateos said.
"No joke," Lollee replied. "They possess intelligence. Some were found wearing leather garments and carrying weapons. I have seen pictures of their relics. Early science teams spent time in the northern latitudes looking for rare metals, but an organized science expedition has not come this far north in nearly two hundred years."
"Why has there not been more exploration?" Kateos asked. "I should think we would want to find out more about these creatures."
"Our government does not want to expend the resources. It is difficult and expensive to support extended operations this far north—and dangerous. The upper Corlian Valley is an unforgiving place," Lollee responded. "Herds of musk-buffalo abound. Your breathing units will not help around musk-buffalo. Huge bears, too! There are many, many bears in the river valley, not to mention predator lizards, real abats, and growlers. You must be wary at all times. And the volcanoes in the Corlian Valley have high sulfurous gas emissions. And it is very, very cold. A most treacherous region."
The river curved in a wide arc to the west, and Lollee banked the craft to follow its course. The sun, setting behind the majestic mountains, shone like spun gold through wispy auroras of blown snow.
Buccari stood on the lodge site discussing building plans with MacArthur and Shannon. Lizard stood at her shoulder, stylus and parchment in hand. Two guilder stone carvers watched and listened, their tools laid neatly before them. Tonto and X.O. waddled uphill from the cove. With ear-splitting suddenness, the two hunters screamed, whipped out their membranes, and pounded into the air. The guilders jumped with alarm and hopped about nervously, clasping bony hands together. MacArthur leapt to his feet, his eyes jerking skyward. Buccari started to speak, but then her ears also detected the sound. It took a second for her brain to process the mechanical signal. An airplane engine!
"Airplane!" she shouted. "Get under the trees! Kill the fire!" The aircraft appeared from behind the valley's northeast rim, still catching the full light of the sun, starkly white against the deep blue sky. So civilized in appearance, so familiar in design and function—it was difficult not to run into the open, yelling and screaming, difficult not to throw armfuls of wood on the fire, signaling the craft to return, to rescue them from their barbarism. But it was not a rescuer. It was the enemy. The airplane's undeviating course carried it along the river and out of sight to the west. The sound of its engine echoed from the high mountains long after it had disappeared.
The campfire had been small, and Wilson doused it completely with a large pot of water. The valley was emerged in shadows; it was unlikely the plane's occupants observed the cloud of steam.
The earthlings recovered from their amazement, dropped their tools, and converged on the camp area. Tonto and X.O. dropped from the sky. The other cliff dwellers joined them, chattering intently. Within minutes, everyone was assembled around the smoldering campfire, looking like frightened children.
"Have they found us?" MacArthur asked.
"They're close," Buccari replied. "It's taken them long enough."
"What do we do, Lieutenant?" Chastain asked, for everyone present.
Buccari looked at the worried faces and tried to hide her own fear. "There's not much we can do," she said, straining her troubled mind for a plan. "No fire—at least tonight. We have plenty of dried fish and biscuits." She stooped and picked up a rock.
"We've talked about this before, and I keep arriving at the same conclusion. Sooner or later we'll confront them." She sat down on a stump. "When that time comes, we must not show hostility or aggression, and—this is the hardest—we must not show fear. We must appear strong and confident, yet cooperative."
"What happens if they start shooting?" boomed Tatum.
Buccari looked down at her feet, hiding her face behind a fall of copper-bronze hair. She swept the sun-streaked tresses behind an ear.
"We'll probably die," she said, lifting her chin.
The humans stirred nervously. Hudson jumped to his feet.
"We can't run and we can't hide—for long," he said. "We can try to stay hidden for as long as possible, but once they find us, they'll catch us. We can't fight them."
"Why can't we hide?" MacArthur asked. "This is a big planet. They don't live here."
"Several problems," Buccari responded, looking into the Marine's serious face. "They'll narrow down the search area. Then our biggest problem comes into play—we're a group. Maybe Mac, you by yourself, and possibly the Marines as a group, could avoid detection and capture indefinitely, although I wouldn't give good odds. The only way to survive the winter is to be prepared, and that means building shelters and raising crops while the sun shines— activities that leave big tracks." She glanced around the clearing, noting the straight lines and clutter of their nascent settlement.
"The rest of us are less adapted to running and fighting," she continued. "Sooner or later we'll leave a trail that brings them to us. When that time arrives, when they show up, we must show strength, strength of character. And then be prepared for the worst."
"It's better to fight," Tatum said. "Can't the rest of you adapt?"
"Look at Goldberg and that little baby! Look at Dawson!" Buccari almost shouted. "Try to tell me you can run and fight with that on your hands."
Tatum looked at his feet.
"Once you start shooting at them, you become their enemy," Buccari said, pressing the point. "And they will hunt you down."
"But they shot at us, in space," Chastain complained.
"It's their system. They make the rules," Buccari answered. "We have a chance of convincing them we mean no harm. That's our best hope. You shoot at them, and I guarantee you'll piss them off, and then we're all dead. Or worse."
"Shouldn't we go looking for them—the aliens?" O'Toole asked. "I'd rather find them before they found us."
"Yeah! We could take them out!" Tatum said, fire in his eyes. His tone surprised Buccari. Tatum, even with one arm, was transforming back into a soldier, a trained performer of mayhem. She looked at the Marines and noted similar transformations in all of them; an enemy was near. They were not listening. She looked to Shannon for support.
"O'Toole!" Shannon snapped. "How much ammunition—?"
"Sergeant!" Buccari snapped louder. "Come with me." She pivoted on her heel and marched to the cove beach. Shannon followed.
"Bad move, Sergeant," Buccari said when she was out of earshot of the crew. "You don't know where the plane went, or even if it landed." The waters of the cove were mirror flat. Two gaudy ducks navigated across the serene cove opening, creating smooth and persistent wakes. On the far bank of the lake, seen through the opening of the cove inlet, a herd of lake elk watered, at peace and unafraid.
"Sir," Shannon insisted, "there can't be many bugs on this planet. We take out the airplane, we buy time—weeks, maybe months. Perhaps the difference between being rescued or not."
"I understand. I don't agree, but I understand. Why not just lay low?" she asked, trying to stay calm.
"And I understand your point of view, Lieutenant," Shannon said. "Commander Quinn told me I needed to make the decisions for the Marines. I would like to exercise that professional discretion, sir. We're not in a Legion spacecraft, now. We're fighting for our lives—on the ground. That's my job."
Buccari looked up at the square-jawed Marine and realized his ego and sense of purpose were sitting squarely on his brains. That he would invoke Quinn's name was a clear signal he was not ready to accept her leadership.
"Sarge," she said. "Only one of us can be in charge of this mess. Go play your games. But remember, if you start a war, my friend, you better head for the hills. Don't come back. I don't care how much we need you."
"Sir, what if we make peaceful contact?" Shannon asked. "I know you'll try, Sergeant. That's my hope."
Shannon's Marines jogged over the rocky terrain, marching along the cliff-sided riparian valley. The angry river crashed and tumbled on their right hand; white-water rapids filled the air with noise and moisture. Shannon looked backwards, checking the disposition of his men. A gaggle of hunters waddled far to the rear, struggling to keep up. It was too early for thermals. Eventually they would take to the air and leave him behind. He resumed his fast march.
The white aircraft appeared overhead. The tumult of the cataracts overwhelmed its engine noises, and the alien craft was on them. It jerked abruptly and banked hard on a wing.
"Hold your fire!" Shannon shouted over the crashing water.
"They know where we are," MacArthur yelled. The plane angled around for another look, climbing to a higher altitude.
"Hell!" Petit shouted, lowering his rifle. "I could've blown them out of the sky."
"Hold your fire! Don't even aim your weapons!" Shannon bellowed. If they attempted hostile action now, it was unlikely to succeed, and their hostility would be reported back to the alien authorities. Buccari' s words haunted him.
"What now?" MacArthur shouted.
"Nothing," Shannon said. "We stay right here until it goes away. I don't want to give them an indication of which way to go. Just stand here and look friendly, like the lieutenant told us to do in the first place." Shannon raised his arm and waved. MacArthur nodded in agreement and held his open hand tentatively in the air.
Lollee flew low so they could see the wildness of the river. "Look!" he shouted. "Hiding in the rocks! Next to that waterfall— aliens!"
The stick-legged, green-clothed creatures with white upturned faces were clearly visible, scrambling along the rocks. Some attempted to hide, though two aliens stood conspicuously in the open.
"They are so thin," Et Avian said, peering through binoculars. "They have weapons."
"Interesting they would just stand there," Kateos remarked.
"What else can they do?" Dowornobb replied. "There is no cover, and we know they are of high intelligence—running around like frightened beasts would not make sense. They know they have been seen."
"Careful, they could fire their weapons," Kateos said.
"No! They are waving!" Et Avian said. "Rock your wings, Lollee!"
The pilot complied, banking his craft back and forth. They flew over the aliens again, their flight path taking them down the river to the mouth of a spreading lake valley. The richness and grandeur of the sun-washed valley registered with Et Avian. He realized that the valley was where the aliens had settled. It was beautiful, the early morning sun flowing golden across its width and breadth.
"Land there!" Et Avian ordered. "Over there, on the far side of that valley, above the tree line. It is the closest point on this side of the river." Lollee followed the noblekone's pointing finger, adjusting his course for the eastern slope of the valley.
"Wait, shh!" Hudson whispered. "The airplane! Hear it?" Buccari, heart pounding in her chest, listened to the stillness.
And then her heart stopped; a whining engine growled ever louder. "It's coming!" she said, sick to her stomach.
Nerve-tugging noises echoed across the lake and reflected between the valley flanks. Louder and louder! There it was, flying low over the lake. It came abreast the cove inlet and banked sharply. The straight lines and right angles of the stone foundation were like signals from a beacon. The plane climbed and flew two wide observation circuits. The humans, some hiding under trees, a few peeking from the tents, some frozen at their task, watched helplessly. Buccari stood in the middle of the clearing. After the second circuit the plane flew to the east, disappearing over the tree tops climbing the side of the valley. The faint sound of its engine altered abruptly.
"It landed on the ridge!" Fenstermacher shouted. "The damn thing landed!" He came running up from the lake, joining the distraught humans gathered around the cold ashes of the fire pit.
"Gunner," Buccari barked, moving into action. "I'm going to meet them. I want you to collect everyone and move out. Grab as much food as you can carry. Break down the tents and stand ready. If all goes well, I'll come back with our visitors. If you hear gunfire, get moving—fast! Head for the cliff dweller colony. Rendezvous with Shannon."
"Nash—" She turned to Hudson. "Get two pistols. Let's go greet them."
"Me, too. I'm with you, Lieutenant!" Jones insisted.
Buccari looked at the broad-shouldered boatswain. The man was balding on top; the hair along the sides of his head had bushed out, and his gray-shot beard was full. Jones wore baggy elk skin leggings and a parka made from rockdog pelts. He looked every bit the savage.
"Three pistols, Nash!" she shouted. Jones smiled largely, and Buccari nervously returned his infectious enthusiasm. A peculiar sadness washed over her, displacing her fear.
Lollee brought out wheel chocks and put them under the fat tires. The valley slope was wide and clear, but the grade above the tree line was steep. He had flown a tricky, wing-down approach, skidding along the canted terrain.
Et Avian, excited and nervous, walked under the wing, waiting for Lollee to secure the aircraft. The noblekone had decided to make contact. The aliens had not fired their weapons at the low-flying abat, and they had not run away. Et Avian read these as positive signals. And the aliens were constructing a settlement, another indication of peaceful intent, or at least an indication of a desire for peace.
"Master Dowornobb and Mistress Kateos, stay with the plane," Et Avian ordered. "We will leave one blaster." He handed his laser unit to Dowornobb. Lollee slipped the other blaster unit into one of his deep chest pockets.
"Let no one approach," Et Avian continued. "We will be back in two hours."
"If you are not?" Kateos asked sternly. Dowornobb rolled his eyes.
"We will be back," the noblekone replied severely, and then he laughed. "A good question, Mistress Kateos, unfortunately, I do not have a better answer." The pilots turned and moved rapidly down the hillside, starting a traverse toward the aliens and their rectangle of rocks. Lollee took the lead, bending onto his front legs and breaking into an easy rolling gallop; the massive muscles of his flanks and upper arms rippled under his loose fitting thermal suit. Et Avian ran on two legs and was much less graceful, frequently slipping and stumbling on the grassy slopes. They entered the conifer forest, and the temperature dropped sharply in the shade of the trees. Lollee slowed, allowing the noblekone to close the gap.
"Sometimes it is better to crawl," Et Avian panted, coming even.
"Crawling is a state of mind, Your Excellency," the commoner responded, breathing hard. "If moving fast and staying surefooted is the objective, then it is wise to use all of your limbs. The hill does not respect your lineage."
"Well said, Lollee, and true."
Et Avian leaned over and landed on his hands and forearms, trotting easily. Lollee pushed off with a leap, and the two kones moved down and across the face of the hill, moving fluidly in the light gravity, dodging and weaving between fir trees.
"Spread out but keep me in sight," Buccari ordered, voice low and tense. "Keep the weapons holstered or hidden. When we see them, I'll walk up to them, real friendly. Stay away from me until I tell you different. If things get nasty, shoot in the air to warn our people. Now spread out."
Hudson went to the left, and Jones moved out to the right. They ascended above the thick underbrush of the hardwood forest and entered open pine glades, hiking past the trunks of tall, straight trees. Buccari stalked at a deliberate pace, eyes and ears searching for conspicuous sounds or movements. A screaming bird called in the distance. They continued, the rustle of needles underfoot the only noise. After a kilometer, the tall trees gave way to the shorter, mustard-barked firs. Hudson moved closer.
"We're near the bears, Sharl," he whispered. "One of the dens is just over that rise." They stood on an upslope mounted with a sharp ridge.
"Steer to the right," she replied. "A kilometer to the tree line?" "If that," Hudson said, edging away.
Buccari gave hand signals to Jones, shifting him further to the right. The trio resumed their climb and had not gone ten paces when a ferocious roar from behind the near ridge obliterated the silence. Amid the growls and roars could be heard the sounds of heavy footfalls and grunts, and a peculiar metallic ringing reverberated through the animal din. A scream—a scream unlike any scream ever heard by humans—soared into the skies.
Three mother bears and their cubs had spent the morning tearing apart the rotten tree, flushing out swarms of insects from the crumbling humus. The huge beasts sat on their great posteriors patiently, if incongruously, eating the tiny bugs. Gargantuan pink and purple tongues licked and dipped over the moldy limbs, and massive, claw-studded paws rent the deteriorating bark. The cubs, grown impatient with the pastime, had moved across the clearing and cavorted in yellow wildflowers under dappled sunlight.
Lollee, with Et Avian close behind, burst into the clearing between the she-bears and cubs. Lollee froze, big brown eyes opened wide in stark terror. With a fatal hesitation, he reached for his blaster and swung it from his belly pouch. The bears, roaring their deepest displeasure, exploded to their feet with blurring ferocity. Et Avian, lagging behind, was the closest target. The noblekone was knocked from his feet, dazed and helpless, his helmet slapped away by the vicious impact of an immense claw. Lollee, seeing Et Avian down and about to be mauled, fired the blaster at the attacking bear, cutting it in two, just as a second bear rammed him against the bore of a pine. The third angry mother closed her cavernous jaws over Lollee's haunch, dragging him relentlessly to the ground.
With strength borne of fear and a love for life, Lollee struggled back to his feet, fighting desperately to train the blaster on his brutish adversaries. His gasping efforts were no match for the taller and heavier bears. With renewed fury, the towering beasts overwhelmed the valiant kone, ripping and tearing his body maniacally, crushing his helmet from his head. Lollee screamed horribly as he died.
Buccari topped the ridge and stopped, aghast. Jones and Hudson caught up, and all three stared down at the hellish scene before them. Blood flowed freely from the alien held against the tree, covering the combatants and the ground with crimson gore. Great growling bears insanely mauled the alien's body, the dying creature still clutching a weapon in its bloody hands. A second alien lay only paces away.
"The aliens!" Buccari gasped. "They're as big as the bears."
"Let's get out of here, Sharl," Hudson grimaced. "We're not going to stop those monsters, much less the bears, with these peashooters."
"Mr. Hudson's right, Lieutenant," Jones huffed. "The bears will be after us next."
As the humans watched, the downed alien staggered to its feet and stumbled toward the mayhem, mindless of its own safety. Its courage moved Buccari to action; she sprinted down the slope, her pistol ready, her mind blank, her nerves and muscles reacting to the emergency. Below her one of the bears lifted its gore-spattered snout toward the surviving alien. The great beast turned abruptly, towered fully erect, and roared—a noise primeval and terrible. The horrible growl resounded majestically through the forest, halting the giant alien as if it had been hit with a stout stick. The bear roared again, a foul blast of ferocity, nose curling grotesquely, saliva dripping from its bloody maw. The alien's shoulders sagged, and it turned away, but then it hesitated and turned back to bravely face its death. The bear charged.
Buccari dodged past the ravaged alien, its mangled corpse still being worried viciously by the closest bear. She fired a single shot into the wild beast's head as she ran by, not stopping to see its effect. She trailed behind the monstrous hulk of the attacking bear. With incredible speed and ferocity the charging beast knocked the surviving alien on its back and bit down with knifelike teeth on the alien's shoulder. Buccari heard the brain-numbing crunch of bone. The giant alien, wide-eyed in terror, looked imploringly at her. She grabbed the bear's thrashing and gnashing head, repeatedly firing the pistol point-blank into its meter-wide skull, until her pistol magazine emptied. The immense bear rolled its head in slow motion to stare at her, its tongue lolling, and then the animal fell away, heavy. And dead.
The flat crack of pistol shots sounded behind Buccari. She whirled toward the noise. With teeth-rattling force, a massive paw struck her violently on her shoulder, knocking her across the clearing. Dazed, spitting dirt and bark, she looked up to see the remaining bear staggering after her, its red-rimmed eyes intent with rage, obsessed with killing—killing her. Blood streamed down its skull, soaking its grizzled mane. In two heartbeats Buccari cleared her brain and bunched her feet beneath her body, ready to leap to either side. Her left shoulder was numb. Beyond the approaching bear she saw movement from the alien, and, farther away, she noticed Hudson struggling with his pistol, trying to reload. Jones was nowhere in sight.
Mere paces away, the bear lurched and whirled with fantastic speed. As the bear spun, she saw Jones clinging to the beast's fur, resolutely stabbing a survival knife into the brute's back. Jones, as strong as he was, was an insect to the ursine monster. The boatswain was shaken loose and flung violently clear, landing limply on his head and neck amidst the decaying pieces of bark and the swarming bugs. Jones shuddered convulsively and lay still.
With the knife impaled in its back, the great bear pounced on Jones' inert form, snatching his head and neck in cavernous jaws. Looking more like a rag doll than a large human being, Jones was viciously shaken back and forth, his head held firmly in the bear's mouth. Hudson ran up to the animal, aiming his pistol.
"Shoot!" shouted Buccari. "Shoot!" she screamed. "Shoot, now!"
Hudson jockeyed position and fired two shots, and then another. The insane bear, impervious to Hudson's bullets, worried the limp human. Suddenly, a metallic ringing resounded, and an energy beam blasted the bear squarely in the back, exploding fur and muscle. The monstrous beast collapsed in a bleeding heap with Jones's lifeless body at its side. The air reeked of blood and ozone.
Buccari and Hudson turned to see the alien, blaster in hand, standing next to its dead mate. As they watched, wondering if they would be its next target, the alien collapsed.
Chief Wilson nearly jumped out of his skin. Goldberg moaned and hugged her baby.
"Move," Wilson ordered. "Grab what you can and get moving. Now!"
"Chief!" Fenstermacher shouted. "Here come the Marines!"
MacArthur and Tatum ran into the camp at full sprint, shedding their packs. Chastain was behind them, running along the beach, just coming through the cove opening. The rest of the Marines were not in sight. Chief Wilson, surrounded by a frightened crew still frantically packing equipment, stood and met them coming up the hill.
"I heard gunshots!" MacArthur gasped, staggering. "Where's Buccari?"
"She, Mr. Hudson, and Jones went up to meet them, Mac," Wilson said. "She told us to stand tight. If we hear gunfire, then we're supposed to find you guys and head for the dweller colony, she said."
"Some plan." MacArthur sucked wind. "Come on, Sandy, the boss needs some help."
"What should we do, Mac?" Wilson asked.
"What she ordered you to do, Gunner," MacArthur said, his breath returning. "Get your asses in gear. Sarge will be here soon, so you can get his opinion. We're going up the hill. Come on, Sandy."
The Marines double-timed up the grade and disappeared into the trees.
"Fenstermacher, get 'em going," Wilson shouted, pushing people into movement. Chastain trundled by, breathing too hard totalk, stopping only to throw off his pack, before following MacArthur into the woods.
"What is that popping sound?" Dowornobb asked.
"Light caliber weapons," Kateos answered, leaping to her hinds. "I have heard such noises from battlefields when I worked as a translator."
"But we do not carry such weapons," Dowornobb said. "Oh, no! The aliens have attacked Et Avian." He hefted the blaster and walked around the aircraft.
"Et Avian! Can you hear me? Report in!" he shouted, keying the transmitter on his helmet radio. "Scientist Lollee! Report in!" There was no response.
"Should we investigate?" Kateos asked. The noises had stopped.
"I do not have an answer," Dowornobb replied.
"Perhaps their helmet transmitters are out of range. Why did they not take a field radio?"
"A mistake," Dowornobb replied dolefully. "We will wait."
Minutes crept by. Dowornobb decided to venture to the tree line and Kateos insisted on accompanying him. As Dowornobb crept from the shadow of the airplane's wing, he detected movement. Something moved from the shade into the sunlight. An alien! Two-legged, erect and spindly, tiny head covered with golden hair, it waved at them; it beckoned. Dowornobb looked disbelievingly at Kateos, and she at him. They returned their attention back down the hill.
"It brandishes Lollee' s blaster!" Dowornobb shouted. "The aliens have killed Lollee!" Dowornobb raised his weapon, aiming it at the alien. The alien dropped out of sight in the long grasses. The grasses would do nothing to attenuate the beam; Dowornobb started to fire.
"Wait! It could have discharged the blaster at us," Kateos whispered, putting a hand on his arm. "It did not. It is trying to communicate."
"A trick!" Dowornobb exclaimed. "How else would they disarm our comrades?"
"Hold," Kateos said. "Wait here and protect me. I will go forward."
"That is inappropriate, my mate. We proceed together." He lowered the weapon.
"As you wish, my mate." Kateos pointed. "Look! The alien shows itself. Do not aim the blaster."
The alien crouched nervously in bright sunlight, holding the blaster's barrel straight in the air. It wore faded, buff-colored garb with streaks of black-edged crimson smeared across the front. With emphatic intent, the alien threw the weapon to the ground and waved its arms in an agitated manner. It pointed downhill and walked backward into the forest shadows, waving its arms. Kateos fell on all fours and loped toward the mysterious creature.
"Something is amiss!" she shouted. "Et Avian needs our help!"
Dowornobb knew it was a trap, but he could not forsake his mate. He bounded after the headstrong female.
Hudson heard thudding footfalls behind him; his own strides widened in fear. He tried not to look back but could not help himself. One monstrous alien was on his heels. It had fallen into a gentle trot, easily matching his pace. The other giant had stopped to pick up the discarded weapon and was galloping frantically to catch up.
Hudson breathlessly led the aliens down the forested hillside, quickly reaching the clearing, where he found Buccari, sitting in the sun with her back against a tree, dressed only in her thermal underwear. She attended the stricken alien, holding its great head in her lap, the alien's shattered helmet at her side. Buccari had used her jumpsuit as a bandage; the material, black with seeping blood, covered the alien's huge neck and shoulder. Across the clearing, Jones's body lay in the cool shadows, limbs composed and face covered with his fur jacket. Nearby, two cubs fretted and pulled on the carcasses of the destroyed she-bears, whining and mewling.
"You were right, Sharl. They had crewmates—good grief, the smell!" Hudson gasped. "They must of lost control of their bowels!"
Buccari nodded silently, hair falling in her eyes.
"You okay, Sharl?" Hudson asked, glancing over his shoulder. Buccari looked up, wet tracks running down her grimy face. She wiped away tears with the back of a hand.
"We were a team, Nash. Jones and me," she wept. "Jones was. my…"
"I'm sorry, Sharl, but…we got visitors."
Buccari shook the hair from her face and lifted her chin. She sighed heavily, firm resolve returning to her strong features. "Yeah, I guess we have other things to worry about now, don't we?" she said, her voice growing louder. She grimaced in pain.
"Yeah! You sure you're okay?"
"Shoulder's killing me," she groaned.
"What do we do now, Sharl?" he said, turning to face the aliens.
The monsters had stopped at the edge of the clearing and were slowly making their way on all fours. They communicated quietly, a low-pitched, melodious sound with infrequent word breaks. Helmet amplifiers gave their speech a hollow, mechanical tone. The spectacle of injury and death did not seem to deter them as much as did the human presence. They looked nervously at the activity of the cubs and at the sundered carcasses of the dead bears.
"What now?" Kateos asked, edging closer to Et Avian.
Dowornobb lifted onto his hinds and walked over to Lollee' s gruesome corpse. He sniffed the dead kone and delicately touched the side of the scientist's mutilated neck, a perfunctory search for a pulse.
"Scientist Lollee is expired," he said.
He bravely approached Et Avian, wary of the petite alien. Kateos followed closely. Dowornobb was touched by the alien's obvious compassion for their leader.
"Et Avian is injured grievously," Kateos said. "The wounds are deep and the bones of his shoulder are crushed. He must receive treatment, and soon, or he, too, will die."
"What are we to do?" Dowornobb asked helplessly. "Scientist Lollee is dead. There is no pilot other than Et Avian, and he certainly cannot manage the task."
"I know not," the female replied. "Can we fly the abat ourselves?"
"I cannot. Can you?" Dowornobb moaned.
Kateos shook her head. She removed her breathing unit and slipped it over the noblekone' s head, securing the pressure fittings around his neck. The long-haired alien made efforts to help, its spindly fingers hardly able to span the helmet locking lever.
"Let us carry Et Avian to the abat," Kateos said. "We must get him out of the cold."
The compressed air revived Et Avian. He stirred; his eyes bulged opened in fear and pain, but then he saw the alien and lay still. He slowly raised his hand toward the alien's white face but shuddered in evident pain, his arm dropping heavily to his side. He turned his head, recognizing Kateos.
"Aliens—saved my life," he gasped. "One of them died—ddied in our behalf. We—must be—"
Et Avian fainted—merciful unconsciousness.
Brappa gained altitude on the rising currents. He dropped a wing and crabbed to the north, toward Craag's marshaling signal and the rest of the hunter scouting party. Brappa knew not what to make of the furious activity. The flying machine was ominous enough, but the incredible death struggle was frightful beyond words. Short-one-who-leads was again proven to be a brave and fierce warrior. They would have much to report. Brappa wished he understood more about what he had seen. Of one thing only was he certain: the bear people had returned.
MacArthur, lungs burning, topped the spruce-lined ridge and stopped short as Tatum ran up his heels. He recoiled at the carnage spread across the clearing below; the blend of putrescent odors was staggering. He detected a human body—Jones—laid out on the opposite side of the clearing, not far from a trio of cubs whining among the fly-infested carcasses of three adult bears; but it was the monstrous, gory mass of a dead alien that dominated MacArthur's attention. The hulking creature lay slumped at the base of small tree, its thick spacesuit shredded, its bowels eviscerated, its fleshy, gross-featured face contorted in death. Chastain, gasping and sucking for air, joined MacArthur and Tatum, breaking their morbid trance. The Marines stumbled across the bloody clearing and up the wooded slope opposite, following the trail of blackened needles and leaves—and the horrible smell.
They climbed upward for an eternity. MacArthur's frantic thoughts focused only on Buccari. He burst from the tree line, and stopped—relieved and astounded. Tatum and Chastain staggered to a halt behind him. In the distance, walking through knee-high grass,
Buccari, Hudson, and two hulking alien beings struggled under the weight of a third alien. A crisp breeze had risen, but the bitter, cloying stink hung in the air. MacArthur, forgetting his cramping muscles and burning lungs, sprinted toward Buccari, shouting her name.
Buccari snapped around, dark hair swirling in the breeze, glinting copper in the sunlight. "Stop!" she yelled. "Put down your weapons. We need to help them." They set the injured alien next to the airplane. Buccari and Hudson stepped quickly away from the aircraft. The ponderous aliens stood with their backs to the plane, watching nervously.
"Put down your rifles!" Buccari ordered. "Drop the damn rifles, now!"
MacArthur let his piece fall and signaled for the others to drop theirs. Tatum and Chastain carefully placed their rifles on the ground.
"Damn!" MacArthur gasped, stepping away from his weapon. The fetid smell was overwhelming. "They're smelly. And big! What happened?" He approached Buccari, observing her carefully. The thick fabric of her underwear was torn away from her pale shoulder, and a bloody contusion glared angrily through the opening. Her left arm hung straight, immobile. MacArthur winced in empathy, feeling her pain and wishing he could transfer it to his own body, sparing her.
"You okay?" he asked, returning a wary eye to the aliens.
"I'll live," she said, her voice barely audible. "I think my shoulder's dislocated. One of those bears took a swipe at me."
"You sure made them pay for it," MacArthur blustered, striving to overcome his own fear. "Don't ever get that mad at me." He peeled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, daring to put an arm around her waist. She accepted his embrace.
"Geezus, Mac! Boats is dead!" she suddenly cried, tears gushing. She clenched her eyes shut and twisted away, holding her face with a grimy, blood-stained hand. MacArthur withdrew his arm and watched as she waged an internal battle to regain her composure.
The aliens stirred; they opened the plane's cargo door and bent to pick up their injured comrade. Buccari, her emotions under control, stepped forward to help, but MacArthur gently pulled her away. He and Hudson each grabbed a tree trunk leg and assisted in hoisting the injured alien into the aircraft's commodious cargo area. The aliens began administering medical aid while the curious humans milled around outside. The cargo door eased shut.
Suddenly the door swung open. One of the aliens, holding Buccari' s blood-stained jumpsuit, tentatively stepped from the aircraft. MacArthur stared at the alien. It was huge! Taller even than Chastain or Tatum and easily twice Chastain's bulky weight! Its face could be discerned through the wide helmet visor—a gentle monster's face, with fleshy, rounded bovine features. Its skin resembled grainy leather—hairless except for wiry tufts over bulging brown eyes. Its mouth was a lipless gash under a bulbous snout with widely spread nostrils. The alien handed the bloody garment to Buccari and leaned over onto its front legs, putting its face on the ground. Buccari looked at MacArthur in embarrassed confusion and then cautiously tapped the creature on its tremendous shoulder, indicating it should return to the airplane. With surprising agility, the massive alien hopped aboard the aircraft.
Kateos pulled Et Avian's garments from his wounds and was encouraged. The bleeding had abated, and the noblekone' s pulse was steady, albeit weak. She cleansed the wounds with antiseptic, applied a sterile dressing, and covered his prostrate form, trying to keep him warm.
"He is in great pain but seems to be resting now," she said as Dowornobb climbed into the airplane, shutting the cargo door to keep in the warmth. Kateos had taken note of her mate's activities, with approval. They owed much to the tiny, long-haired alien.
"More aliens approach!" Dowornobb reported, his fear smell gushing forth. Kateos saw aliens in dark green striding across the field. All carried weapons, and Kateos discerned fear in their features. The little long-haired one walked up to the newcomers and began talking, pointing down the hill. The green-garbed alien with one arm grabbed a weapon and waved it fiercely at the abat.
"Now's our chance!" Tatum shouted, brandishing his rifle. "They're helpless. We got 'em! I say we kill the bugs and push the plane into the trees. They'll never be found." The Marines nodded in affirmation.
"At ease, Tatum!" Buccari ordered.
"Put the rifle down, Sandy," Shannon ordered softly, inspecting the airplane. The aircraft was huge, with long, drooping slab wings and massive low-pressure tires—representations of a technological society capable of employing deadly weapons and effective search techniques.
"You might be right, Sandy," Shannon said, "and then again, they may have already reported in on the radio. Listen to the lieutenant. There's no harm in checking things out first, and everyone on their toes—these guys have lasers."
"Bullshit, Sergeant!" Buccari barked, the sun reflected angry red highlights from her hair. "We've already gone over this ground!" She snatched Hudson's pistol and walked up to Tatum. Tatum stood his ground.
"Anyone even thinks about hurting these—these bugs, is going to have to come through me." Her eyes were furious. Shannon stepped toward the confrontation, but Buccari took another step closer to Tatum. She pounded the pistol butt against the tall Marine's chest, pointing the barrel straight up to Tatum' s chin. Tatum did not move.
"Tatum, think about it!" she cried. "We saved an alien's life. Now we have to help them, so their leaders will know we mean no harm. It's the clearest, most unambiguous message we can send. We got real lucky, and Bosun Jones has already paid with his life. Jones doesn't need revenge. We both know what Boats would have wanted us to do. Think about it, Tatum! Think! Don't screw it up!"
Tatum retreated a half step and nodded sharply. Shannon eased closer, took the rifle from Tatum' s hand, and softly clasped the Marine's shoulder. MacArthur gingerly reached in and removed the pistol from Buccari's grasp.
"What transpires?" Dowornobb asked. "How can they stand the cold?"
"The smallest one argues our cause," Kateos replied, donning a spare breathing unit. "But what now? How will we get Et Avian back to Ocean Station? He needs medical assistance. The cold will kill him if his injuries do not."
"They are coming in," Dowornobb said. He shut off the cargo section, sealing in warm air for Et Avian, and opened the smaller crew door forward. He stepped back from the door and watched the aliens climb awkwardly up the forward ladder. They were so delicate, their legs and arms like plant stems, their skulls unbelievably tiny. They chattered rapidly, frequently at the same time. Showing great curiosity, they looked everywhere. They gawked at the flight deck and, using crude sign language, requested permission to go forward. Dowornobb did not know what to do. He nodded.
The aliens moved into the seats. They pointed at instruments, and then the small one, using only one arm, pulled on the flight controls. The taller one, using both arms, was able to move them full travel. It was impossible for the small one to see over the instrument panel, or to reach the foot pedals. The taller one could just manage, but his attention was captured by a map case.
"The small one is female," Kateos said knowingly.
"Whew, it's stuffy," Buccari said. "Why don't they open a window?"
"Look! Charts!" Hudson cried. "Take a look! They aren't stopping us."
"You're right. Wha—Wait a minute!" Buccari exclaimed, glancing at the monsters. "Something's wrong. They should be in a hurry to take off. Their friend's seriously hurt. Why aren't they pushing us out of here? Why aren't they starting the engines?"
"Maybe he's not hurt that bad?" Hudson said with a shrug.
"He's in bad shape," Buccari said. "I don't care how big and strong he is. He's going to die without some medical treatment. And soon." She stood and approached the aliens. Grimacing in pain, she used her hands to make takeoff motions. The aliens watched her carefully and talked anxiously. She was not getting through. She pulled the charts from Hudson—satellite composite topography overlaid with a nav grid and strange markings. One was dog-eared from use, a flight track lined across it. Buccari recognized the scratches and notations, not understanding the words but knowing for certain their purpose: landing points, fuel consumptions, enroute times, headings. She traced the flight track to its origin, noting that it followed the river all the way. The chart hypnotized her; she stared with fascination at the depiction of the terrain and the scaled distances.
Buccari broke her concentration from the chart and confronted the smaller giant. She pushed the chart in front of the alien, her finger on the point of origin. She dragged her finger along the flight track on the chart and pointed to the controls. She pointed at each of the aliens, making flight control motions with her hands. The smaller alien looked at Buccari and pointed in the distance, downhill in the approximate direction where the murdered member of their crew still lay, and then the alien pointed to the pilot's seat. After a short hesitation, the alien pointed at the injured alien and immediately thereafter to the other forward seat.
"They have no pilot," Buccari moaned. "Tatum' s going to get what he wants."
Hudson sat silently. His face brightened. "We could fly it back. It's an airplane isn't it?" he asked.
Buccari stared straight ahead. "You're right! Damn straight! You can fly it back," she said, turning toward Hudson. "But you'll have to do it alone, Nash. I can't go with you."
"Me? Alone? Without you?"
"Yes! Yes, it's got to be," she insisted. "Nash, they need me here, and my shoulder's screwed up! I'd be worse than useless. I'd be in your way. I can't reach the rudders. I can't even see over the panel. You can fly this truck. We have to get the injured alien to a doctor, and fast!" She moved from the pilot's seat, making room for Hudson.
"Sharl!" he cried. "I need help to figure out the systems."
Buccari patted him on the head as if stroking a spaniel. "You've already figured most of them out. Once you get this hog into the air, all you have to do is follow the river."
"What about fuel?" Hudson asked. "This thing's going to need refueling."
"I bet that's what these markings indicate here, here, and here," she said, excitedly pointing to the chart. "They have prestaged fuel, or airfields, and I bet these two can help. Get in that seat and figure out how to start the engine. I'm going to tell Mac to bring up your gear and some food. I'll be back. Okay?"
Hudson looked down at the chart and then out the front windshield.
"Sharl! This is crazy," he groaned, sliding into the pilot's seat. "It was your idea," she shouted as she went out the crew door.
Dowornobb followed the alien's uncertain movements. The engine was revved high, vibrations rattling the abat. Dowornobb watched the alien fumble with the controls, apparently looking for the parking brake. Dowornobb reached down and disengaged the lever. The plane lurched forward. As the craft bounced and jostled down the grassy hill the skinny alien retarded the throttle, shouted with glee, and slapped Dowornobb on the shoulder. The alien chattered to himself, and Dowornobb answered, so as not to seem rude. The alien looked at him strangely, and Kateos giggled.
Their craft shuddered and jolted over the rough terrain. The alien turned the airplane and headed it up the grade, adding power to keep it moving over the soft, steep ground. After opening up enough clear area for a takeoff run, the alien turned the abat and accelerated downhill, into a stiff breeze. The plane gained speed and, after a short bouncing run, slipped into the air, wallowing into a climbing turn. The aircraft banked over on a wing, and Dowornobb caught a lingering glimpse of the skinny aliens left behind on the ground, still waving. The alien pilot turned his somber countenance to the serious business of flying the airplane. The river ran under their left wing, and they were on course for Ocean Station. The golden-haired alien stopped talking.
Eventually Hudson established limited communications with the helmeted aliens, primarily due to the persistence of the smaller of the monsters. Its—her—name was Kateos; her voice was deep and resonant, made even more so by the artificial amplification of her helmet speaker. The larger alien answered to "Doorknob." They called him 'Huhsawn.
Hudson watched as Doorknob talked on the radio, wondering what the alien was telling his friends. The flight down the river had been awesome, and endless. Refuelings had gone without incident, and they had spent an uncomfortable and sleepless night on the ground at their first stop. Now, their destination was nearing, and not soon enough; the late summer sun was sinking below the horizon, and Hudson was exhausted and frightened by the prospects of flying the strange aircraft at night over the surface of an unexplored planet. Fuel was uncomfortably low; his back ached from stretching to see over the instrument panel, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper. The last hour had been the worst, fighting toovercome the fierce bucking and jostling turbulence of the mountain passes. He needed to land and to get some sleep.
The sight of a limitless ocean spreading to the south revived him. Doorknob pointed to the right, away from the river, and Hudson saw the last rays of sunlight reflecting from unnatural structures. A chill fluttered across the back of his neck; his gut tightened—he recognized his own fear. Pumping up his resolve, he banked the plane and pulled power, heading for the bittersweet signs of civilization. Bright sparks of electricity—artificial light— floodlights—beckoned. His physical discomfort evaporated, replaced by dread.
The sun disappeared behind the high northern mountains, but the indigo twilight provided ample illumination as he circled the alien compound. What looked like a rocket booster was erected near the center of a brightly lighted metal ramp equipped with gantry cranes and rail tracks. A large blocky hanger and two smaller structures squatted at the edge of the matting, and a round, two-story building stood by itself in a small cluster of foliage. Aliens ran from the buildings, moving toward the ramp area. As Hudson watched, white lights popped aglow, outlining the perimeter of a runway.
Piece of cake! Hudson thought, pumping up his courage. He extended his flight path away from the buildings and descended. The controls were stiff, but the big plane was rock steady. Hudson dropped an increment of flaps and pulled power to idle; the aircraft floated onto the grass strip and quickly slowed to taxi speed. A ponderous alien, waving signals, galloped from the waiting cluster of giants. The hand signs were understandable, particularly the final signal—the signal to kill the engine—a slicing motion with the flat of the hand across the neck. Hudson wondered if his own neck was in danger. He closed the throttle, secured the fuel, and switched off the battery.
It was uncomfortably quiet. The endless vibrations of the long flight no longer rattled his entire being. Hudson turned to Doorknob, and the smiling alien slapped him on the shoulder, extremely hard. Hudson attempted a smile, but fear eclipsed all emotions.
Cargo doors opened roughly, and warm, humid air flowed into the cockpit. Hudson smelled the long-forgotten scent of ocean. A crowd of shouting aliens clambered noisily and heavily into the cargo compartment, all grabbing at the injured alien and hoisting him onto a stretcher. All stole lingering glances at Hudson, broad noses swelling and twitching behind face masks. Left alone in the aircraft, Hudson slowly rose from his seat and moved to the crew door. Doorknob stood at the foot of the ladder, holding up a massive hand.
Gorruk's hordes climbed the thinly defended gorge and assaulted the high mountain passes, streaming onto the fertile alluvial plain of the valley Kingdom of Penc. Its defenders, in total disarray, fell back into the crescent-shaped valley—a rout. Devious sabotage and fifth column infiltrators had undercut their defenses, and the first assaults had overrun forward positions. The southern troops were pushed aside and hacked apart by northern commandos. With the mountain roads clear of defenses, Gorruk' s armored columns motored through the main pass, grinding relentlessly over the rich fields. Phalanxes of hungry, battle-hardened soldiers radiated outward from the narrow mountain trails. Artillery blasted screeching shells overhead while engineers established bridgeheads. The northern armies advanced, pillaging and sacking.
The Supreme Leader called his victorious general home to celebrate the great victory. The imperial capital had turned out to welcome General Gorruk, and a formal audience was held to decorate the military heroes of the campaign. The court of Jook the First was resplendent in banners and battle flags.
"Hah, that old toad Barbluis assumed we would press him from the bloodstained heights of Rouue," Gorruk gloated, addressing the court. "He never dreamed we would attack to the west. And Penc is a worthy prize. My armies will eat like noblekones this winter, thanks to that senile noblefool's complacency." Gorruk glared with ill-concealed contempt at Et Kalass.
"A glorious victory, General Gorruk," stated Jook the First. "Your armies have achieved much. A most glorious victory."
"We salute you, General!" Et Kalass exclaimed, his voice clamorous, but his facial expression inappropriately somber. The minister signaled theatrically, and a lackey jumped upon the podium at Jook' s feet and led a rousing cheer. The entire court and attendant citizens yelled their thunderous acclaim, the hurrahs echoing and reverberating through the polished halls.
Gorruk, lantern jaw held high, basked in glory, and yet his thoughts dwelled on the noblekone standing across from him. The cheers subsided, and the decorum of the court returned.
"General Gorruk, what is your next step?" Et Kalass inquired.
Gorruk' s intense gaze darkened. "That is a military secret, Your Excellency," he replied with vitriolic tones. "Enough questions!" he turned and bowed to Jook. "Your Greatness, permission to depart. My presence is required at the front. For we are still at war."
"And so you must return, General," Jook rumbled. The Supreme Leader had grown larger and more obese, his self-indulgences and depravities legend. Dissipation ravaged his countenance, but stern malignancy and wary cunning still radiated from behind half-shut eye lids.
"To my duty, Supreme One. My armies are engaged," Gorruk replied, hiding his disgust. To think the odious leader had once been the scourge of the north.
Jook nodded, and Gorruk marched from the hall to more and greater cheers.
General Et Ralfkra, the Public Safety Militia commander, walked into Et Kalass' s inner office on an announced matter of urgency. The minister eagerly anticipated the general's message— but he was wrong!
"He was not in the hovercar!" Et Ralfkra said bleakly.
"What!" Et Kalass would have yelled, but his throat constricted, and it was more of squeak. The first attempt at assassination was usually the best—and the last—chance to succeed.
"Three sources have reported Gorruk's arrival at field headquarters. He knows of the assassination attempt and is sending agents to investigate."
Et Kalass sat heavily, chest down on the massive lounge, his mind grinding.
"What is our next step?" Et Ralfkra asked.
"Continue the march." The minister spoke calmly, his courage and resolve returning. "Our positions in this government are too valuable to abandon. Double our personal guards and set up the necessary agents to block Gorruk's inquiry. We will be under siege."
"How will this effect Et Barbluis's plans? What should we tell him?"
"Unchanged. He is to proceed," Et Kalass replied. "We may not have eliminated Gorruk, but I am sure we have distracted him. The distraction may serve our purpose, if to a lesser degree."
"I will send the signal," the militia commander said, but he did not immediately depart. He stood indecisively. Et Kalass noticed the general's agitation and sat erect in the lounge.
"What is it my friend? You have something to say?"
"Minister, the news is sketchy, and I am told his condition is stable—"
"Et Avian! Something has happened to Et Avian?" Et Kalass interrupted, his golden complexion blanching.
"Please, sir! Be at ease and allow me to finish. Et Avian is alive and returning to Kon on the booster you dispatched, but he is badly injured. By a wild animal—a bear. His shoulder was broken and he suffered muscle and tendon damage. The injuries are serious, but he is out of danger."
Et Kalass's panic slowly dissolved. He fell back on the lounge, shaking his head. The pressures were too much. Et Avian must survive; his time was come.
"And more news, Your Excellency," Et Ralfkra reported.
Et Kalass's head snapped up, searching the general's expression. "Good news or bad? I have had enough bad news, General."
"I do not know, Your Excellency. You must tell me. Et Avian made contact!"
Crescent-shaped, the steep-sided and narrow valley of Penc curled to the south and climbed in stages to the lake passes, so named because of the large artificial lakes. Gorruk's armies advanced steadily toward the serene bodies of water, their progress made more difficult by the narrowing and climbing terrain. The retreating southern defenders regrouped, harrying and slowing the advancing columns, but paying a dear price.
The four lakes at the high end of the valley were formed by great dams built millennia earlier, prideful artifacts of ancient konish engineers—beautiful, peaceful reservoirs, graced with rustic stone bridges and bordered by ancient cedar groves. A third of the natural valley had been displaced by these engineering wonders, forming a series of deep lakes, each one monumentally higher than the one before—oceans stacked upon oceans. Tunnels and aqueducts hewn through the ridges surrounding the valley carried the clear mountain water to farms and cities throughout the region. Penc was synonymous with rich and abundant agriculture—and with water.
Gorruk paced the floor of his field headquarters, devising the next phase in his aggressive strategy.
"General, our armies have reached the first dam," the aide reported.
"Very well," Gorruk replied, uncharacteristically distracted. It was not the first time someone had tried to assassinate him, but he knew Et Kalass was behind the latest attempt, and that thought infuriated him. Gorruk moved to the status panel and scanned the real-time displays that continually updated the positions of his forces. His armies were taking the upper hand on all fronts. Gorruk had received word that Et Barbluis was even withdrawing from the plains behind the Rouue massif. Perhaps his armies could move to the central flatlands unopposed. Nothing would stop his armies then.
A runner entered the command center and handed a dispatch to Gorruk' s aide. The aide scanned it quickly and came directly to Gorruk, his face a mask of pale horror. The runner left quickly.
"G-general, we have c-confirmed reports indicating sappers have mined the lake dams," the aide reported, taking a hesitant step backward.
Gorruk's great snout jerked upwards. It was unthinkable. Blowing the dams was unfathomable. Unfathomable! Destruction beyond comprehension. The southern generals were not that desperate. They did not play by those rules. Rules? Stark reality dawned on Gorruk' s strategic and intellectual horizon. He turnedthe idea over in his head and acknowledged the tragic ingenuity. His respect for the old noblekone Et Barbluis elevated immensely. He had been suckered.
The first explosions breached the highest edifice, and torrents of water broke onto the lake below it. Coordinated detonations set along the moss-grown span of the lower dam ripped the centuries-old structure apart, and the combined waters of two reservoirs descended majestically upon the third dam. It in turn was torn asunder in perfect synchronization by another series of blasts, and the full fury of the unleashed waters descended upon the last lake and dam, the largest of all. The doomed stone was crushed by the descending hydrodynamic forces even as the explosives detonated. The explosions were loud, but the banshee scream of the waters eclipsed all sounds. Ripping and gouging with the force of a nuclear explosion, the torrent streamed into the upper valley, carrying everything before it. Soldiers, armored vehicles, barns, trees, herds of farm animals were dashed away in tumbling chaos; the roiling, turbulent onslaught careened down the valley bottom, thundering with resounding tumult. Et Barbluis observed the spectacle from a safe elevation, his grief monumental. He had destroyed the valley, along with many of his own soldiers still fighting the enemy. His stomachs knotted; he could not breathe. Time stood still—tragedy held constant. War was an obscenity.
The cataclysmic scene unfolded. The routed battalions of the north surged backward, creating a chain reaction of panic. Explosive rumblings from the unfettered cascades converted panic into pure terror. Apocalyptic noises from the valley's head vibrated the air. Birds screamed. A gigantic rolling, churning wall of water poured into the valley from the upper horn, its inertia swirling wide and high against the far slopes of the valley, only to come crashing down onto the valley floor, sweeping across it with ruthless power. The heart-stopping sound of water pushing gravel, magnified on a titanic scale, preceded the arrival of the flood, and gales of yellow dust tumbled into the air from the winds compressed before the deluge.
Frantic armies trapped on the valley floor sprinted helplessly, abandoning weapons in the field. Torrents of living flesh, streams of hysteria, hordes of northern troops frantically crawled along the lower slopes, clawing and digging at the sheer rock, obsessed with escaping the deluge. In vain—the roaring waters avalanched by, sweeping away the living and the dead.
When the slithering waters receded to the scooped-out banks of the River Penc, the green peaceful valley was transformed. The once sparkling, crystalline river ran brown and thick, like melting chocolate, and the pastoral valley had become the surreal landscape of a nightmare; muddy ooze slid from exposed rocks, and the deep humus was no more, the fertile topsoil scraped from the bedrock and flushed into the rocky river gorges. Primeval muck, animal carcasses, and the bodies of soldiers were cast among the boulders. Carrion birds arrived in great numbers.
Weeks went by slowly. Foliage on the margins of the lake thickened into the lush, deep greens of early summer. The humans listened nervously for the sound of airplanes—in vain. No aircraft appeared. But Dawson had a baby, a healthy, black-haired, blue-eyed boy named Adam. Shannon was its proud father.
"Lieutenant," Shannon said, squinting into the afternoon sun. "After we complete the main lodge I'm going to build a house for Nancy and the baby, if it's okay with you."
"And for yourself, too?" Buccari replied, watching MacArthur as he supervised the positioning of timbers alongside the rock piles. Cliff dwellers hopped about importantly, providing strident assistance. Her left arm was in a sling. After they had buried Jones and the monstrous alien, MacArthur had relocated her shoulder. Then he had held her tenderly, and she had allowed herself time to cry in his arms.
"And for yourself, too?" she repeated, turning to face Shannon.
Shannon looked at his boots. "And for myself, yes, sir," he replied.
"Certainly, Sergeant," Buccari responded, realizing there was no other workable answer. The integrity of the group was splitting, but not for the worse. Another emotional priority had emerged, a priority that superseded the essence of team or crew. A family had formed.
"We should build one for Tatum and Goldberg, too," Buccari said.
"And Lee and Fenstermacher," Shannon added. "And what about you, sir? With the women out of the lodge, you'll be wanting your own place."
Buccari turned sharply and looked at the heavily bearded Marine. It was an honest, concerned face, paternal and frank. His implication was innocent, but Buccari was momentarily nonplused. Her thoughts went to MacArthur; his nearness reinforced the flood of emotions and physical sensations welling within mind and body.
"Lee and I can still live together, Sergeant," Buccari replied hurriedly, cutting off her thoughts. "Leslie hasn't mentioned moving out of our tent yet."
"Lee's pregnant, too, Lieutenant."
She stared at Shannon and shook her head in disbelief. "Nancy says so," Shannon said softly.
She was speechless, but it did not matter; the sound of an airplane engine eclipsed all other thoughts and sounds.
Et Silmarn banked the abat in a gentle curve over the lake. Hudson pointed out the cove, and the massive pilot nervously grunted. The geometry of human construction was more apparent than ever; humans scurried about the clearing like disturbed ants.
Et Silmarn slipped the airplane toward the grassy slopes. Winds were strong and steady, and choppy turbulence rattled the airplane and its occupants about, but the pilot skimmed the tree tops and settled gently onto the hill, rolling to a bouncing halt. The kones moved quickly and efficiently, immediately refueling the wing tanks. Four sealed barrels of fuel were rolled across the open grass and placed within the tree line—provisions for future needs. As the kones worked, Hudson walked down the hill toward the human encampment.
"Huhsawn! Huhsawn! Stuh-hop!" Kateos shouted. The linguist had made remarkable progress. She trotted after him, Dowornobb and Et Silmarn close behind. The other scientists, spare pilots, remained at the plane.
"Huhsawn! Waytah fo-ah meee, pool-leeze," she pleaded, her helmet-amplified voice deep and resonant, but also hinting at nervousness. The titans shook the ground with their footsteps. Hudson smelled their fear.
"Wee go-ah witha yew. Wee see-ah more hewmanns," Kateos rumbled emphatically.
"Huhsawn! Look-ah fo-ah b-bears!" Kateos implored. "B-berry danger!"
Hudson concentrated on the phonetics and put them in context. "Right! Very dangerous! Follow me," he instructed. He walked over to Dowornobb and pointed to the laser blaster. "Be ready!" he commanded and pantomimed pointing and shooting the weapon. Dowornobb nodded vigorously, touching the big weapon suspended from a harness on his chest. Hudson turned and headed down the hill at a jog. The kones followed easily, trotting on four legs.
They met a solitary Buccari standing in an open glade of yellow-barked fir. Her jumpsuit was patched and cleaned, but faded stains streaked across large sections of the sun-bleached fabric. Hudson noted her injured arm and wondered why she had come alone, but as he drew closer he caught glimpses of Shannon's Marines in the underbrush. Hudson signaled for the kones to hold their position and closed the remaining distance alone. Buccari surprised him with a one-armed embrace. He returned it with unchecked emotion, trembling in the excitement of being reunited. She backed away and looked up, wet-eyed and smiling hugely. Hudson wiped his own eyes.
"Ah, I was so worried, Nash. You okay? You look good!" "I'm good, I'm great!" he blurted. "Your arm. How's your arm?"
"Sore, but getting better. I can lift the elbow a little." She peeked around his shoulder at the colossal beings. "So, huh.. what happened? Are we friends?"
"Too much to tell, Sharl! I don't know where to start. They treated me well, but except for Kateos, they mainly just left me alone. They're suspicious and afraid, but, yeah—they're friendly." He pivoted to face the kones, waving at them to approach.
"You should hear Kateos speak Legion, Sharl!" Hudson exclaimed. "Amazing. You can hold a conversation with her. That's her specialty—languages. She's sharp! Real sharp! Dowornobb's not bad, either."
"So she is a female—did you say Doorknob?" Buccari responded.
"Yeah! Dowornobb. I'm not kidding," Hudson said. "That's his name."
"What now?" she said, checking the sun. "It's getting late." "Yeah," Hudson answered. "They plan on spending several nights here. Kateos says the most important thing is learning to communicate. She wants to talk. I couldn't get any more than that out of them. There are two more kones back at the plane. They'll come down later."
The mammoth, hulking beings towered above them, nervously watching. Their peculiar pungent odor came and went in waves.
"Damn, I forgot how big they were," Buccari said nervously. She squared her shoulders and bowed, holding her hands at waist level, palms upward—the cliff dweller's greeting. The kones replied in kind. The one called Dowornobb fumbled with his weapon, slinging it over his shoulder. They stood erect and Hudson formally introduced them.
"Welcome!" Buccari said slowly.
"Thang-ah yew, Sharl. Wee owe yew b-big thangs! B-big thangs to Sharl!" Kateos stepped forward and extended her hand. Buccari glanced warily at Hudson.
"I taught them to shake hands," he said. "And they wanted to know all about you, but they could never pronounce your last name. You're a hero. They say 'Sharl' real well."
"Yeah," Buccari said, her small hand disappearing in turn into each of the gigantic but surprisingly gentle gloved hands. "Let's go back to camp. We can talk better there."
"Yesss… talk-ah," Kateos said. "We talk-ah with Sharl."
Buccari smiled at the kone and turned downhill. She signaled and Shannon's Marines abruptly moved, revealing their positions. Et Silmarn made a transmission over his helmet radio, and the kones, trodding alertly on all fours, followed.
"So, how was the flight?" Buccari asked.
"Tiring! It took two days. I never did get that truck trimmed." "Huhsawn b-ber-ah good-ah…" Kateos struggled for the right word. "Pilot-ah…ver-ah good-ah pilot-ah."
"She is good!" Buccari complimented. Kateos smiled proudly. "And getting better fast," Hudson said. "Real fast!" "How is the injured, er. alien?" Buccari asked.
"They call themselves kones," Hudson replied. "He made it back alive and is doing well, or at least he was when he left the planet. There was an orbital lander sitting on their launch pad when I arrived—not a coincidence it turns out. It had been sent expressly to retrieve Et Avian—that's his name. Guess what, Sharl? He's a member of their nobility. You saved the life of a very important kone. They worked on him at the science station for about a week,gave him a lot of blood. Once he was stabilized they launched him back to Kon."
"Kon?" Buccari asked. "Is that their name for R-K Two?" "Right. This planet is called Genellan."
"Genellan! I like that. Much nicer than R-K Three."
"Planet-ah named Genellan," Kateos said, smiling through her visor.
"Why do they wear helmets, Nash?" asked Buccari, smiling back.
"Air's not dense enough for them," Hudson said. "The backpack is a compressor and heating system. To them this place is cold—miserably cold. Even their southern base is considered cold, and, Sharl, it's awesome. Looks out over a tropical ocean, and it's beautiful. I walked on sandy beaches that went forever, and I swam in the ocean. It's beautiful, wonderful, the closest to paradise I've ever been."
"Even without human beings for company?" she said. "Paradise has a price."
At the sound of engines, all the cliff dwellers ran in near panic for shelter. A flight of hunters wheeled high overhead; keen eyes discerned movement in the trees—humans, and others—bear people. Braan studied the activity. The leader whistled commands and dove for the trees. Others followed, except for two hunters left aloft to maintain a soaring vigil for as long as the dying thermals would hold them. Braan and his warriors landed on the backside of the wooded peninsula below the long-legs encampment.
"They won't talk about it," Hudson said. "They won't say why they attacked the fleet or what is going to happen now. The bad news is: their planet is at war."
"Wee cannah tell-ah wha' haffen when-ah war-ah over," Kateos said.
Buccari was growing accustomed to the inflections of the prodigious creature; she also detected resignation—sadness—in the female's words. The kones sat around the campfire, relishing the heat but remaining wary and acutely attentive to the movements of the humans. A huge rubbery tent had been erected in the clearing. The kones were to stay for three nights. Their one clear objective, besides bringing Hudson back and learning more of the human language, was to establish a schedule and a plan for future interchanges.
"What-ah message should-ah I bring to my leaders?" Kateos asked.
"Tell them we came to your star in peace," Buccari said. "We mean no harm. We are stranded here. Will your government accept our presence?"
Kateos seemed perplexed by the question. The conversations had been painfully slow—mostly introductions and attempts to define roles. It was clear that Et Silmarn was in charge.
Buccari rephrased the query: "Can we stay on Genellan?"
Kateos turned to Et Silmarn and spoke her melodious tongue. They talked at length, many words for such a short question. Kateos nodded sharply.
"The war-ah on Kon muss' end-ah," Kateos said. "Your quess-chun must-ah wait-ah until war-ah end-ah—"
"How long? How many days until war end?" Hudson asked. "Cannot-ah tell," the kone answered. "Maybe not-ah end-ah." "It must end.. sometime. Do you want us to stay on Genellan?" Buccari asked in frustration. "Do you want us to stay here?" She opened her arms to include all of them.
Kateos nodded and translated. Et Silmarn spoke only two words.
"Yesss," said Kateos emphatically. "Wee learn from-ah yew."
"What—" Buccari started to ask, but Kateos interrupted.
"Sharl. It-ah b-ber' cold-ah for-ah kones. B-ber' cold-ah. Sun gone. Can wee stop-ah for-ah now? Start-ah in more-ning? Morening is right-ah word-ah, Huhsawn?" she asked. Hudson nodded and smiled. "It-ah iss b-ber' hard-ah to talk-ah. That-ah iss why wee come. Wee mus' learn talk-ah." Her great body was shivering.
"Yes, of course. We talk in morning," Buccari replied, standing up. The kones ponderously extended to their full intimidating height and with little ceremony retired to their tent. One of them hunkered at the tent's entrance, a laser in his big hands—a guard. He was frightened—his eyes darted around the surrounding campsite—and cold. He shivered violently but refused to leave the door of the tent for the warmer vicinity of the fire, despite Hudson's polite entreaties.
Soon after the kones disappeared, baby Adam began to cry. Dawson exited her tent carrying the bawling infant. The konish guard turned to the noise and watched intently as Dawson sat in front of the fire, joining Shannon. Dawson settled the child under her furs to nurse, and the baby's complaining stopped. The guard poked his head into the konish tent, and within minutes all of the kones reappeared. They tentatively crawled the campfire, staring owlishly at Dawson, firelight reflecting from their helmet visors, the ones in the back rising to their hinds. Buccari stood to confront the gaping kones.
"What is it, Kateos?" she asked. "Do you have a question?"
Kateos sat back on her haunches and held her hands in supplication. "Sharl, yew have.. new hewmans? Small hewmans? I not-ah know word. Childs?" she asked quietly. "Wee would-ah pleese seee? Pleese!"
Buccari turned to the curious firelit faces of her own people. "Nance, they want to see Adam," she said. Dawson looked frightened.
"Nancy," Hudson said. "If you don't want to, that's okay."
Dawson stirred and adjusted her furs, bringing the infant out on her lap. Adam was swaddled in rags and blankets. The nervous mother wrapped the infant in a thick hide to protect it from the chilly night air. The kones shuffled nervously and whispered loudly. Dawson, holding the newborn in her arms, stood and tentatively approached the first row of kneeling giants. Shannon rose to his feet and moved protectively behind Dawson.
"What's the deal, Lieutenant?" Dawson asked.
"You got me. They must not get to see many babies," Buccari replied. "Stop there, Nancy. Nash, bring them one at a time."
Dawson halted next to the crackling fire. Kateos's great bulk crawled forward. Dawson tilted her shoulders so the light of the fire could illuminate the baby's round, pink face. Firelight danced from Adam's clear blue eyes. His tiny lips, moist from suckling, cast flame-colored highlights. A small fist burst free from the furs and wandered with purpose into the infant's sucking mouth. Kateos stared, unblinking, enraptured at life in unbelievable miniature. Tears streamed down her face, falling against her helmet visor. Shannon looked nervously at Dawson, but the kone' s emotional reaction had banished the mother's fears.
"What transpires?" Craag asked brusquely.
"They examine the long-legs whelp," Braan replied. "Most peculiar."
Cliff dwellers, hidden by darkness, had entered the long-legs' campsite and were peering at the spectacle, black eyes scintillating in the firelight.
"The long-legs trust the bear people," Craag said. "Perhaps the legends are wrong, and the bear people are not evil."
"Perhaps," Braan replied. "Perhaps it is only cliff dwellers that bear people kill."
"Is it not possible the long-legs will become allies with the bear people—against us?"
Braan rudely said nothing, his right as leader. Braan endeavored to catch the attention of Brave-crazy-one.
MacArthur knew the cliff dwellers did not like the kones, so when he saw Captain and X.O. out of the corner of his eye he was surprised. He jumped to his feet and started to shout, but instinctively bit back his words. The cliff dwellers signed danger. The kones noticed MacArthur' s abrupt movements and watched him alertly. MacArthur looked away from the surreptitious hunters, stretching and yawning, attempting to ease the unsettling effects of his initial actions.
"Well," he said, too loudly. "I'm going down to the lake and haul in some shoreline. Lieutenant! Sarge! When you get a minute, I'll be needing your help." Turning quickly, he set off down the gentle slope toward the dark lake, leaving the bemused humans looking at each other. The kones, captivated by the babies— Goldberg had brought Honey out to join Adam in the spotlight— lost interest in the disturbance.
In dim moonlight MacArthur made contact with the hunters approaching the cove beach. Together they walked across the narrow peninsula to the lake shore. Glittering stars and a haunting sliver of a moon sparkled from the velvet waters, and gentle waves lapped the rocky shore. A night creature hooted mournfully. As MacArthur' s eyes adapted, he detected other hunters moving wraithlike through the shadows.
Buccari and Shannon arrived. Under the insignificant light of the new moon Buccari rendered a formal greeting. Captain returnedher salutation and presented a parchment—a message from the elders. It was too dark to read; Buccari slipped it under her furs.
"Captain doesn't trust our new friends," Buccari said.
"The kones are the giants, the bear people in dweller mythology," said MacArthur. "The cliff dwellers are afraid of them."
"So am I," Shannon said.
"So should we all, if the dweller legends are true," Buccari said.
"Blasting the fleet into hyperlight wasn't a good start with us, either," Shannon said. "Do—"
A soft whistling caused Captain to turn abruptly. The hunter leader turned back to MacArthur and flashed adroit hand signals in the dim light. The cliff dweller leader had learned MacArthur' s sign language with ease and was as much teacher as student.
"Someone is coming. One of ours," MacArthur translated. A rustling noise marked the approach of a two-legged animal— Hudson.
"Did you put our friends to bed?" Buccari asked. "What was that all about?"
"Yeah, they're back in the tent. I'm not certain," Hudson replied.
"They act as if they've never seen children," Shannon said.
"I don't think they have," Hudson answered. "Kateos garbled something about konish children being taken from their mothers as infants, but she wasn't making much sense. They're very emotional. What's going on?"
"Captain delivered a letter," answered Buccari. "Let's find some light and decipher it. I have a feeling that it's a warning to avoid the kones—as if we could."
"The cliff dwellers know something we don't," MacArthur said.
"The kones seem peaceful," Hudson said. "They treated me well."
"All we've met are scientists," Buccari said. "Watch what happens when the political or religious leaders get involved."
"Lieutenant, are these the Killers of Shaula?" Shannon asked.
"It's a big galaxy, Sergeant. It sure smells like it, but who knows?" Buccari said. "Enough for now. Nash, I want you to notify each member of the crew they are not to discuss cliff dwellers around the kones. Top Secret. Let's learn as much as we can, and be as nice as we can—but try not to tell them anything. We've got three days of diplomacy ahead of us. Don't blow it."
Summer advanced; the settlement grew in steady stages but never fast enough for Buccari. Shannon knew he was in trouble before she spoke.
"Where the hell are they?" she snapped, flipping a thick braid of sun-streaked auburn over her shoulder. Lizard followed her like a dog, stylus in hand. Two other cliff dwellers—stone carvers— labored on the lodge foundation, setting stones and nervously watching the heated exchange. Whenever kones were present in the valley, the cliff dwellers became invisible, but with the kones gone, the knobby-headed creatures scurried about the settlement with characteristic single-minded purpose.
Shannon looked down at the striking, if stern, visage. "MacArthur thinks he can get close enough to the buffalo to get some of their hides. I gave him permission to take Tatum and Chastain across the river and give it a shot. I take full responsibility, sir."
"Sure, Sarge," she snapped, "you always do, but—dammit, I want this lodge and palisade up as soon as possible. With Hudson and Chief Wilson gone south, we're a bit short-handed, now aren't we?"
"Yes, sir. The rest of us will take up the slack, Lieutenant," Shannon continued. "We need the hides, sir. Mac doesn't want to shoot any more lake elk. Tatum says there aren't that many in the valley. Killing off the local herd won't help us in the long run."
"Okay, Sergeant," she exhaled, turning to continue on her rounds, the cliff dweller mimicking her movements. "It's a good call. I just hope they survive the stink. The musk is awful strong today."
"They'll do okay, sir," Shannon replied as Buccari marched downhill toward the planted fields on the margins of the cove.
"Whoee, Sarge," O'Toole whistled, "Thought you were buttburger."
Petit and Gordon, leaning against large rocks just transported from the quarry, laughed at Shannon's expense. Shannon's neck grew hot.
"You helmetheads better start putting real muscle on those rocks instead of just your fat asses," he snapped. "Move! You heard the Lieutenant."
The Marines crept over the low ridge and looked down upon endless herds. A rippling herd of gray-striped tundra gazelles bolted from their scent, and a giant eagle soared low over the downs, its monstrous wings flapping lazily. The river valley lay behind them. To the west, billowing ash and steam, were the twin volcanoes; beyond the volcanoes were the cliffs of the plateau; and beyond the cliffs were the perpetually snowcapped mountains, gracing the horizon with their ponderous majesty. A land of immense vistas— and immense odors.
"Good grief, Mac!" Tatum exclaimed, gagging. "How can you take this?"
The cinnamon-red and burnt-umber backs of musk-buffalo formed a placid sea of pelt and muscle. Interspersed at irregular distances were small concentrations of lighter-colored animals, muted straw-yellow and gold. MacArthur looked skyward and saw Captain and Tonto soaring overhead, the hunters his near constant companions. Returning his scrutiny to the grazing beasts, he pondered his options. He had to get closer. No wasted bullets! MacArthur could think of only one strategy.
"Stay put," he ordered, rising to his feet. "I'm walking until I get close enough to shoot."
"What!" Tatum exclaimed. "Closer? The smell will kill us." "I said stay put! I'm going solo. If it gets bad, I'll turn back." "I'd say it's bad enough now," Tatum groaned.
"Gotta kill him to stop him," Chastain said. "Careful, Mac!" MacArthur grinned as he checked the action of his assault rifle.
"Have to get damn close to hit anything with that," Tatum said.
"Then I better start walking," MacArthur muttered. He would go right at them, slow and steady. The smell was immense. His head throbbed, and his sinuses burned. His nose and eyes started to run; he worried that his eyesight would be too blurry, but he pressed forward, the musk-buffalo oblivious to his presence. At three hundred meters some animals lifted their massive heads. Still too far away. The first shot would stampede the herd. There would be no second chance.
The prodigious smell assaulted MacArthur' s sanity. He reeled with nausea, constantly shaking fuzziness from behind his eyes. He stopped, dropped to a knee, and threw up until his stomach was empty, and then he retched and gagged for many more minutes. His guts purged, he staggered to his feet and continued his drunken march toward the milling buffalo. He heard soft lowing and bellowing. He forced his vision to focus and noticed the nearest animals moving away, slowly, the press of the herd holding them in check. When would they spook? Could he get a shot off? Out of the corner of his eye he detected a motion; Captain and Tonto glided low over the tundra grasses, coming straight for him. The cliff dwellers landed at his feet, hopping to a halt, chattering and squeaking, flashing hand sign. MacArthur stared stupidly, unable to comprehend. His throat burned. With effort he recalled his mission and began walking, but immediately stumbled and fell, leg muscles stiffening and joints locking.
The dwellers waddled close and lay next to him. Captain waved frantically, indicating MacArthur should stay on the ground. Not that it mattered; MacArthur was physically unable to stand. The trio lay flat, sinking in the yielding surface and concealed by the short prairie grasses. Something was happening. MacArthur shook fog from his brain and strained his vision outward. He had walked farther than he had intended. The animals had moved, and he had penetrated into the herd. Buffalo grazed placidly on three sides, and some were slowly moving around behind, less than a hundred meters away, closing the gap and coming closer. He gaped inanely at the cliff dwellers and feebly waved in thanks, trying to smile. He dry heaved instead. The cliff dwellers huddled on each side, intent on his condition.
MacArthur wanted to sleep; unconsciousness would end his misery. Captain prodded annoyingly at his elbow, and he dreamily opened his eyes, trying hard to be irritated. MacArthur looked into the hunter's sinister eyes, its scarred snout practically touching his numb nose. The little animal chewed on something, and its breath smelled sweet, all the more remarkable because the odor distinctly penetrated the miasma of buffalo musk. MacArthur' s brain labored to process the foggy inputs, but the noxious effects of the musk were overpowering; he could feel his nervous system shutting down. The rifle fell from his hands, his fingers unable to answer the commands from his misfiring brain. MacArthur rolled onto his side and could move no more. He had withdrawn from his body; all that he had left was his vision—and his lungs! His breathing, heavy and labored, was the only sound in his universe. All else was silent.
Buffalo drew near. One was but fifty paces away, downwind and coming closer. MacArthur endeavored to stay interested. He tried to remember his mission. His mission! What mission? Apathy and fatigue brought sad and restful thoughts, and he felt his last bit of self-will slip into eternity. Coma was near, death not far behind.
Something vigorously manipulated his head. Vaguely irritated, MacArthur focused on Captain's ugly face. The cliff dweller's mouth opened, and a bony little claw reached into the tooth-lined maw and pulled out a wad of spinach-green material—a cud, masticated and churned with saliva. MacArthur watched dully as the dweller's hands came into contact with his own senseless mouth. Strong, wiry fingers—warm and leathery—pried open his jaws and inserted the lump of dark green on his tongue. Captain brought the human's chin to, closing MacArthur's mouth on the strange substance. MacArthur wanted to sleep. To die.
The same sweet smell he had detected earlier manifested itself as a sensation on his taste buds. A sensation—something felt! Like an explosion expanding outward, nerve endings reawakened to the electrical impulses of consciousness. Muscles twitched with spurious signals and a section of his brain still capable of command ordered his jaws to grind juices from the green pulp in his mouth. Awake again—the sweet taste and smell rushed through his palate and sinuses and down his throat. The cliff dweller had given him a stimulant of wondrous power; MacArthur felt alert, psychedelically aware. The colors of the world pulsed with intensity. His mission! He remembered his mission with obsessive fervor.
Buffalo grazed about him—more easy targets than he had bullets. MacArthur slowly turned his head to look at the hunters. The cliff dwellers watched him intensely, concern dominating theirobscene features. MacArthur opened his mouth, holding the green substance between his teeth, and displayed it to Captain. Both creatures—man and hunter—grinned conspiratorially. The cliff dweller made a shooting motion with his hands. MacArthur recovered the rifle and turned his body slightly, aiming the heavy-sighted weapon at the neck of the nearest buffalo—a large bull— barely thirty meters away. The movement caught the animal's attention; it jerked its head upwards, alarmed. MacArthur and his furry comrades froze, the hunters staring with rapt attention at the barrel of the weapon. Both creatures held hands tightly over their ear openings, wincing and flinching with painful anticipation.
MacArthur fired one round. The bull staggered, took several stuttering steps and crashed heavily onto its side, raising a cloud of dust. The cliff dwellers, stunned by the rifle's report, recovered from the explosion and jumped up and down, whistling and chirping. The buffalo herd reeled against the noise and blindly dashed in full flight—a stampede! MacArthur moved awkwardly to his knees, his leg muscles not fully awakened. He worried about getting run down—an imminent possibility since buffalo were galloping in all directions. Two bulls leading a frantic herd bore down on his position. The cliff dwellers pointed—rudely—at the driving animals, nervously hopping from leg to leg and unfurling their wings.
MacArthur sighted down the barrel of the rifle, placing the bouncing forehead of the biggest bull atop the knife-edged sight. The buffalo were close! He squeezed the trigger, and the large-bore rifle kicked violently against his shoulder. The herd pivoted as one, swerving away. MacArthur swore for wasting a bullet and took aim at the same bull. But the animal was wounded, and its pace slowed amidst its panicked mates. The stricken animal lumbered to a wobbly halt, staggering lopsidedly away from the herd. It fell to its knees and collapsed on its side, bellowing in fear and agony as it died.
The dwellers, hands still over their ears, screeched their delight. The rest of the herd bolted away, giving MacArthur only hindquarters at which to shoot. Two bullets, two hides. Enough. MacArthur chewed vigorously. The substance in his mouth yielded juices like sparks of electricity crackling against his teeth and throat. He felt tightly wound, a coiled steel spring; his senses were acutely raw; he could see forever; the sounds and the smells around him were abundant and crisp, each a separate and distinct event. Pungent buffalo musk billowed through the air, almost visible, a brown, dusky odor—not pleasant, but no longer putrid. He could smell the tundra grasses, the gunpowder, the cliff dwellers; he could smell his own sharp body odor, and the high-grade machine oil used on the rifles. But—But, something was wrong! The dwellers were whistling—whistling at him. Too loud, it hurt his ears.
The clouds! The clouds were flowing like wild things overhead! They were changing colors—luminescent and pulsing and golden. The clouds were beautiful animals descending from the skies. MacArthur could reach out and touch them. He could fly! He could fly—fly like the animals in the clouds. What was happening? This was not real. His intellect struggled to overcome his senses, but he was no longer sure of anything. Something was wrong with his body—with his mind. He was hallucinating. It was too real, too vivid. Golden horses! Golden horses, heavy chested and silky manes streaming, were running over the prairie. Beautiful. So beautiful. He could smell them.
MacArthur was afraid to move. His very being eclipsed his corporeal form, as if he would burst his skin like an overinflated balloon. The spinach stuff—the cud! He stopped chewing. He dimly deduced the dweller's stimulant was causing him to hallucinate. He spit it out just as his arms and legs seem to disappear; he fell forward, like a falling tree, squarely on his face. Helpless, mouth open and drooling into the tundra, he watched magical horses gallop across the plains, just paces in front of him, thundering hoofs vibrating the ground. What magnificence! Euphoric, he managed to roll over on his back and stare at the sky. Everything was beautiful.
"The thickweed is taken over!" Brappa exclaimed.
The stampeding herds were clear, and a veering wind kept the invisible musk cloud at bay. Braan looked back at the other longlegs, Giant-one and One-arm, stumbling drunkenly over the prairie grasses in the far distance.
"He has spit it out. He will recover," Braan said, standing over the prostrate stranger. "Let us skin the buffalo."
Brave-crazy-one lay spread-eagled, eyes glazed. Braan picked up the discarded wad of thickweed pulp, broke it apart, and placed it in his leather pouch. The hunters pulled out knives, and each headed for a downed animal.
Braan was not long at his task when he noticed the stricken long-legs staggering toward him, head in his hands. His comrades were trying to help him, but Brave-crazy-one rejected their assistance.
"The long-legs recovers," Brappa screeched.
"Its head will surely ache," Braan warbled.
Buccari adjusted her position so that the light from the extravagant campfire fell more directly on the dweller message. She half listened to the raucous banter, feeling peculiarly light-hearted. They were starting a new life, their new settlement awakening. And they had just finished their first year on the planet. Not an Earth year—a full Genellan year—four hundred days, four hundred twenty-six hour days.
"I saw horses. Golden horses!" MacArthur declared.
"You're crazy, Mac," Fenstermacher said. "Tatum says you were all as drunk as a dogs."
"Leave him alone, Winfried," Dawson said. "Look what he did for us. What a feast."
"Dawson' s right, for the first time in her life, Fenstermacher," Wilson said. "Stop picking on Mac, and be thankful you've survived a year on this planet. I don't know how we managed to put up with you."
"Yeah, Winnie," Lee said. "Happy anniversary to us all."
Cliff dwellers and humans sat around the evening fire. The midsummer sun had reluctantly settled behind the soaring peaks, leaving clear skies layered in vivid orange and deepest blue above the stark sawtooth silhouette. The meal was over, but the campfire burned brightly, a celebration of survival.
MacArthur's provision of buffalo steaks and hides had changed the dubious nature of the occasion into a festive and social mood. The campers reveled in the telling and retelling of MacArthur' s adventure, embellishments growing with each new version. MacArthur regaled the listeners, humans and cliff dwellers, with outrageous histrionics and exaggerated sign language. The Marine danced around the fire, pulling Tonto along behind him. The young hunter parodied the dancing human, and soon all the hunters were jumping to their feet and dancing a pagan conga, whistling and screeching in a snaking line behind MacArthur, while the humans pounded out a rhythmic chant, clapping and laughing.
The cliff dwellers had taken to joining the humans at their evening campfire. The taller guilders had grown comfortable with the humans, having found living with earthlings more tolerable than living in the woods with their hunter cousins. A tent adjacent to the campfire had been provided for the visiting workers, while the hunters remained content inhabiting the rocks on the wooded peninsula, close to the fish.
Dancing shadows cast by the flickering firelight struck the newly risen stone walls and foundation of the main lodge looming above the fire pit, sheltering the flames from steady northerlies. With the help and guidance of dweller stone carvers, construction of the lodge had moved rapidly, and its stone walls were nearing completion.
The stone carvers were not the only ones to make a difference in the new community. With the frosts behind them, and despite some insect pests, the crops planted from Earth seed flourished. The cliff dweller gardeners were intrigued with the variety and impressed with the robust qualities of the fruit trees and vegetable plants. When Buccari presented them with a sampling of the seeds, they behaved as if they had been given precious gems, falling to their knees in effusive gratitude.
In addition to helping with the crops, the gardeners spent time with Lee gleaning and gathering medicinal roots, tanning agents, and herbs. The gardeners had much earlier shown Lee the dark, pulpy plants by the river, giving her an emphatic caution as to its use—a medicinal narcotic. Using Lizard's writing skills as the communication vehicle, the gardeners described the weed's primary medical benefit—it was a potent but potentially lethal painkiller. MacArthur' s exploits had revealed yet another use for the thick, blackish leaves.
The dancing MacArthur fell to the ground, exhausted, and chirping hunters piled on top of the earthman. Tonto stood on the Marine's chest and whistled sharply, his whistle soaring into the ultrasonic realm as MacArthur suddenly sat up and lifted the dweller high in the air. The other hunters tumbled backwards as the laughing MacArthur regained his feet, hugging Tonto close to his chest. He placed the hunter on the ground and bowed low. The hunters, all of them, bowed in return.
MacArthur flopped on a log, and the other dancers stumbled and hopped back to their seats, tweeting and chirping.
"You didn't see them?" MacArthur asked Chastain and Tatum for the twentieth time since awakening from the thickweed stupor. "They were beautiful. I could smell them!"
"We were too far away, Mac," Tatum answered. "I thought you were dead. And the stink was too much. We both kept passing out. I don't know how you were able to walk so far and stay conscious. We thought you were dead for sure."
"Beautiful," MacArthur said softly. "Horses. I smelled them."
"Well, at least now we know how to get close to the buffalo," Chastain said. "That loco weed grows along the river. I picked some."
"Careful with that stuff," MacArthur chided. "My head still hurts."
"Yes, be careful," Lee pleaded. "We need to experiment with it first. It's obviously a mind-altering substance, possibly habit-forming. It may have permanent effects."
"MacArthur's mind don't need any more altering," Tatum offered. "He already comes up with enough crazy ideas. You should have seen him staggering after those buffalo!"
"Don't get him started again!" Shannon shouted, and everyone laughed.
"Why don't you ask Lizard about the horses, Mac?" Buccari asked. She and the guilder had been sitting on adjacent flat rocks, industriously scrawling messages to each other in the flickering firelight. "I could use some help, and since Hudson's still enjoying the sunny south, it looks like you're elected."
"I don't know how much help I'll be," MacArthur responded. The Marine slid next to her and grabbed a writing implement and a clean parchment. She watched as he deftly made the interrogative signs and added a series of action icons describing the hunting activity. Lizard watched.
MacArthur' s iconic skills had progressed markedly, almost on par with Hudson's, but still short of Buccari's. The mood around the campfire became quiet and peaceful, everyone patiently waiting for MacArthur's written query. Dawson hummed as she rocked Adam, the fire crackled and popped, and the modest noises satisfied everyone's need for society.
Buccari moved out of MacArthur' s way and turned her back to the fire so she could more easily puzzle out the long message Lizard had just prepared for her. Two hunters had flown in from the dweller colony late in the day, bringing instructions for Captain. The cliff dwellers spent almost an hour among themselves prior to the evening's feast, and Lizard was communicating the essence of that meeting to her now. Captain sat nearby, watching every move.
Buccari broke the serenity. "The dwellers all leave tomorrow," she said, getting everyone's attention and eliciting groans of disappointment.
"All of them? Even the stone carvers and gardeners?" Lee asked. "Why?"
"First, the bear people will be back soon," Buccari said. All cliff dwellers disappeared into the forests at the first sign of the konish airplane. "Secondly, and more importantly, the hunters must return for a salt mission. The hunters will not leave the guilders here unprotected."
"A salt mission, eh?" MacArthur said, looking up from the drawings.
"We'll miss our friends," Lee said.
"But it will be good to see Mr. Hudson and Chief Wilson again," Dawson said. "I bet they'll have a million sea-stories."
"After two weeks with the bugs," Shannon said, "they'll be glad to get back."
"I don't know," Buccari said. "The way Hudson went on about how warm it was there, neither one may ever come back."
"Finished," MacArthur said, handing Lizard his message. The cliff dweller scanned it before starting his reply, and as usual, the guilder was quick. He handed his reply to MacArthur. On the parchment was a clean and precise line drawing of a muscular, short-legged horse, its mane and tail flowing.
"That's it!" MacArthur shouted. "Look at this! This is what I saw!" He held the drawing up for the others to see, then abruptly sat down and began adding to the message. Buccari watched over his shoulder, quickly grasping MacArthur' s intention.
"They certainly must have thought of it before," she said. "There must be a reason why they haven't used horses to carry salt bags."
"They aren't strong enough to control a horse," MacArthur said, handing Lizard the message.
Lizard looked at the sequence of icons thoughtfully. He communicated with Captain for several minutes, and the hunter became very excited, unusual for the stolid warrior.
"What's his problem?" Fenstermacher yawned.
"We're going to catch us some horses," MacArthur said.
Two abats banked over the settlement. Standing under the big solitary hardwood tree next to the tombstones, Buccari watched the aircraft. She turned and walked up the hill, away from the cove. This arrival was special: Hudson and Wilson were returning. She dispatched O'Toole and Petit up the steep trail to the landing area to greet the two men and to escort their alien visitors. Two hours later all had returned to camp.
"Welcome back, Chief!" Goldberg cried, rushing to hug the portly man.
"You're still ugly, Gunner!" Fenstermacher shouted.
"Ohh!" Wilson groaned. "Now I know why I liked being away so much."
The returning men were surrounded. The visiting kones waited patiently, content to let the greetings run their course. Buccari, acknowledging her duty, walked around the knot of people and up to the towering kones, bowing. Et Silmarn removed his helmet and graciously returned the gesture.
"Welcome back…to our settlement," Buccari said slowly.
"Thang yew, Sharl," Et Silmarn responded passably. "Yew have-ah done much." His prodigious arm lifted and swept over the construction, sausagelike fingers pointing at the main lodge. Stone walls and chimneys were capped by a sturdy rafter frame for a high-pitched roof. A corner section and a long run of the pine log palisade were in place, and a plot of vegetables flourished in dark green abundance. Chips of wood lay thick underfoot, and odors of pine resin and sawdust permeated the air. The humans had made their mark.
"We must prepare, Et Silmarn," she replied. "Winter is unforgiving."
Et Silmarn looked to Kateos for help. The female translated quickly.
"Yes! B-berry unfork-ah…even. Winner tooo cold-ah! It b-berry cold now!" The bulky alien clasped his own bulky shoulders, a universal gesture.
Buccari nodded, smiling inwardly, for it was a warm day. She turned to Hudson. "Welcome back—yet again, Nash. You must be getting used to the trip."
"The lodge looks terrific!" Hudson exclaimed.
"O'Toole and Fenstermacher are first rate carpenters, and MacArthur's friends have been a big help," Buccari replied cryptically, referring to the cliff dwellers. Buccari noticed Kateos's questioning expression.
Hudson quickly continued. "The trip's a grind, but they let me fly. It's a big, wild planet, Sharl. It's beautiful…." He paused, his expression speaking for itself.
"I envy you," Buccari said. "You'll have to take me up."
"You bet. The kones want us all to fly south. They're friendly, Sharl," he continued, "and Kateos will be speaking Legion better than you or me pretty soon. She's programming a voice recognition system that translates in real time. It doesn't work too well yet, but wait a few weeks." The konish female's face dropped demurely.
"She's an expert," Hudson continued. "She's asks questions about tenses, grammar, nouns, verbs, sentence structure— everything. It was good to have Chief Wilson along just to give her a new subject to study and give me a break from all the questions."
"I'll bet he taught her some choice words!" Fenstermacher joked.
"Watch it, Fensterman!" Wilson shouted. "Or I'll tell the Lieutenant not to let you go south." Wilson turned to Buccari. "Oh, man, Lieutenant, it's wonderful! Rains a bit, but the place is beautiful—turquoise-blue ocean with wide, sandy beaches. And islands with lagoons. Trees with fruit—we brought some back for the mess. To be honest, I'm looking forward to going back."
Buccari looked at the sun-burnished, unworried face, the clear hazel eyes beseeching permission to return with the kones—a powerful testimony to the allure of the south.
"We missed you, Chief," she said. "Go check out the lodge. Help Tookmanian decide how to lay out the galley—er, the kitchen."
Wilson's face flickered with disappointment as he moved away, taking the bulk of the chattering crew with him. Assisted by Chastain, the kones migrated to their campsite and set up their huge tents, leaving Shannon, Hudson, and Buccari standing alone.
"Hey, Sharl," Hudson said quietly. "Kateos started hitting me up for skinny on HLA drives. She and those two new guys really worked me over."
"What did you tell them?" she asked.
"Nothing worth knowing," Hudson snorted. "Give me a little credit. And watch out, they're recording everything. I mean, they're friendly, but they're damn serious about it."
She pondered the implications of Hudson's information. "Gunner sure wants to go back," Shannon said. "Must be nice there."
"It really is," Hudson said softly. "Chief Wilson has found a home. I practically had to tie him down to get him in the abat. You should see him walking bare-assed naked down those beaches, bald head sunburned and his gut hanging out. You know, Sharl, before we got out of the 'vette, Virgil Rhodes said Wilson would die on a tropical island. Gunner took him seriously. I think he's already picked out the island."
"Well, I'm not ready for him to die," Buccari said impatiently. "We need all hands working—maybe even you, Nash. Winter will be here before we know it, and I'm—we're going to be ready."
"Why not move everyone south?" Hudson asked. "Like the kones want."
Buccari remained silent. She looked past the camp, surveying the verdant valley with its clear lake and frothy waterfalls.
"Welcome back, Nash," she finally said. "Sarge, take Mr. Hudson down and show him what the boys have done." She grabbed Hudson's arm and gently pushed him down the path. Shannon led the way, and the two men headed for the new construction. Buccari followed for a few steps and then stopped. She stared again at the magnificent scenery, as if for the first time. Nagging doubts hectored her.
Hudson's unanswered question had struck a nerve. She thought of Commander Quinn's original reluctance to leave the plateau in favor of the valley prior to the first killing winter. Would they really have been better off in the valley? Or would they have just lasted a little longer, without the cliff dwellers close enough tosave them? Was this another verse of the same song? Should she order everyone south? Or should they persevere, continuing what they had started? Perhaps the coldness of the north was their best protection. Going south would only increase contact with the konish governments, and increased contact would inevitably cause problems. Of that, somehow, she was positive.
Decisions! Decisions! The frustration of leadership—the price of leadership. But Buccari had made up her mind. They would face winter in the valley, and they would be ready for the cold and deprivation. Maybe they would move to the warm and sunny south the next summer—maybe. Yet somehow the thought had no appeal; somehow it was important to stay near the cliff dwellers; somehow it was important to have them as an ally. Perhaps suffering through another winter would change her mind.
She walked over to the kones. Kateos brightened at her approach.
"The war on Kon continues, Sharl," she reported. "We cannotah tell anything new, but we are worried—worried about ourselves. No one knows what-ah to happen. We have not heard-ah what became of Et Avian, not-ah even if he live or died. Et Silmarn is, uh…concerned. He is like brother to Et Avian." Kateos's loquaciousness was unfettered with her increasing command of the human language.
Buccari pushed; perhaps there was something to be gained. "What is the war about, Kateos? What do they fight over?"
"Power. They fight-ah for power. As always." Kateos removed her helmet and leaned onto her forelimbs, putting her eyes at the same level as the eyes of the sitting human.
"Are many kones dying?" Buccari asked.
Kateos snuffled and nodded her head. "The reports are, uh…not clear, but it-ah appear that-ah many kones have died— millions."
"Millions! Is there no concern for loss of life?"
"Yess. Yess, but-ah only as…as one values fuel in rocket, or grain in silo. Our rulers not-ah concern for the masses. Unskilled kones—we call them trods—arenumbers, statistics—po… tential soldiers or laborers or workers," Kateos answered, a metallic note in her deep voice. "Huhsawn, ah… Hudd-sawn, has told-ah me much about your families and about freedom. Our evil system does not-ah permit these ideas."
"My world also has many problems," Buccari said.
"But look at-ah you!" Kateos said. "You—a tiny female—are officer and leader! Leader of warriors. And Huh. Hudd-sawn says that-ah you are space pilot. That can never, never happen among konish female."
"Perhaps I am not a good example."
"Good example or not-ah, you have reached status of which konish females cannot even dream," Kateos said with a forlorn tone. "And your race has traveled across space—a, uh.. miraculous, yes?. a miraculous thing to travel the stars."
Buccari's head jerked upward at the unintended confession. "You mean your race does not travel outside of your own—er, to other stars?"
Kateos looked confused. "Ah, no.. I should-ah not talk about it-ah. It-ah is great mystery with my people. Kon has been attack-ah from space. My government-ah feels threat-ah by attacks from space. We want-ah to know how you fly between stars. We be asking you about—"
"We did not attack you," Buccari said, her mind racing—the kones were not the Killers of Shaula. "You attacked us. We came in peace."
"We not-ah know that-ah. Kon has been attacked before," Kateos rumbled, looking about nervously. "Many kones killed. We assume you come to attack us again and you tricking us."
"We have never been here," Buccari said. "My race did not attack yours. Who attacked you? When?"
"It was m-many years ago," Kateos stuttered. "P-perhaps your generals keep it-ah hidden, for their own benefit."
"How many years, Kateos?"
"Over four hundred-ah years. Kone years."
Five hundred Earth years! Five hundred years ago earthlings had not even reached Mars, the hyperlight anomaly still a century from being discovered.
"Kateos, how long have kones been traveling to Genellan?"
"Many years, perhaps nine hundred," Kateos replied.
Buccari gulped. Kones had been flying in space for over twice the time humans had, but they had failed to break the hyperlight barrier. She was beginning to understand the game. She changed the subject.
"Why do you call yourselves evil? Your race has accomplished much," Buccari said. "Your system works well. You are intelligent. I perceive you to be gentle and good. An evil system would be incapable of producing such beings."
Kateos thought for several seconds. "In many ways our culture, our system, works well. Very well," she remarked. "You have met-ah only scientists and technicians. Most science is the artah and, uh…uh, application of gentle logic. Our social system controls personality. It controls our, uh…dispositions and our intellects. We are b-bred-ah to the task. If we gentle and good, it is b-because it makes us better at our jobs. We are b-bred-ah for job, with traits that-ah you describe."
"Bred to be scientists! How?"
Kateos sat back on her haunches and pondered an answer.
"It is old-ah system," she began. "Many generations have been…trained—yes? Of course, it begins with childs. All childs of common parent taken—sometime by force—at birth. Mothers and fathers never see childs. Only nobility allow the raising of childs."
"How can that be? Where do your childs, er—children go?"
"Ah, yes, it is children. First-ah go to government nurseries and then to schools. The schools—'training centers' is better translation—where they are sorted and trained and—if they, uh…genetically correct—molded into skill units. Skill units become scientists, technicians, officer, administrators, artisans, or farmers. The rest—most kones—are assigned to unskilled labor—trods. Trods sorted by size and emotion and assigned—when very young—to become soldier, worker, field hand, or common laborer. Trods not gentle—they not raised to be gentle—although most trods be good-ah and well meaning."
"Everywhere? On your whole planet?" Buccari asked.
"Oh, yes! It-ah be for whole planet. The system work-ah too well. No one think of changing it-ah. Our farmers good farmers, our workers good workers, our universities…filled with hard working students. Our soldiers be brave and aggressive—if not smart-ah. Unfortunately. uh, ambition and power be usual traits of our leaders, and strength be first important than smartness."
"It sounds orderly," Buccari said, amazed.
Kateos shook her head slowly. "Orderly? Yes." She dropped her eyes. "Sad! It-ah is a sad life. I had not thought of rreason before, but seeing your babies makes it-ah clear to me. We sad because there are no childs—children…no families."
"Why? Why no families?" Buccari asked.
"Konish solution to population problem. Long ago there many, many kones on planet. Too many. Not enough food." "Your governments restricted breeding?"
"Only by requiring marrying. Only able to marry one time. Itah crime to have children, if not-ah married. Only married couples permit-ah to have children and must-ah be qualified by government-ah. That-ah how they control population. I lucky be married to Scientist Dowornobb. He intelligent and kind, and he make happy to me. We sure to have license to make children, especially since so many kones die in this war."
"I am glad for you, Kateos," Buccari said, noting the konish female's sudden radiance. The radiance turned subtly to determination.
"I hold my baby someday," Kateos rumbled. "That-ah would make happy to me."
Buccari looked up to see Et Silmarn and two of the konish scientists crawling their way. Kateos straightened, standing tall while remaining on all fours.
"Sharl, I introduce Scientist H'Aare and Scientist Mirrtis to you," Kateos said. "They experts in space drives."
Buccari's internal alarms went off; the kones did not have the secrets of hyperlight. She guessed what was coming.
"We would-ah like to know how your ships travel between stars," Kateos continued. "We would also be able to fly between stars. We hope you help us."
The scientists began asking questions for Kateos to translate. "Scientist H'Aare wants to know if your propulsion—" Kateos started.
"Kateos, Et Silmarn! These are difficult questions," Buccari begged.
"Yes, Sharl, but scientists will work-ah with you for as long as it-ah takes. Perhaps you come with us to Ocean Station where—"
"Please, Mistress Kateos," Buccari said slowly, carefully. "Your interest is understandable, and when it is appropriate to do so, we will discuss these matters. Please understand that none of us is expert in the fields you are inquiring about." She realized that if it came down to negotiating permission to remain on this planet, anyinformation provided freely would be unavailable as a future bargaining chip. Perhaps, just perhaps, the hyperlight theories would be their passport. Buccari was not proud of her disingenuous replies; both she and Hudson were extremely knowledgeable of hyperlight theories and applied algorithms, but information represented power, and they needed to marshal what little power was available to them.
Kateos spoke softly to Et Silmarn. The noblekone nodded.
"Sharl," he roared. "We thang you for what you have done. If you can help-ah us more, we thang you more.. er, we help-ah you more."
"I understand," Buccari said.
Three days later Et Silmarn banked the aircraft on course and returned his view forward. Hudson was in the back with Scientists H'Aare and Mirrtis. Dowornobb and Kateos crowded into the cockpit, the connecting hatch secured.
"The female Gol'berg-ah gave you this information?" the noblekone asked.
"Yes. It was technical. I understood little," Kateos remarked sadly. "The female claims to know about interstellar drives. She is a technician of propulsion."
"They allow females to do technical functions?" the copilot asked.
"Yes!" Kateos answered too loudly. The males on the crowded flight deck turned to stare at her. Involuntarily, she dropped her eyes.
"Sharl is lying?" Dowornobb asked. "I thought we could trust her."
"Sharl is smart," Et Silmarn answered. "She is protecting what she has. After what she has done for us, I do not hold it against her. I still trust her."
"What about Gol'berg-ah?" Kateos asked. "Her information is valuable, though I do not respect her. She tells us these things because she is spiteful and full of hate for Sharl. I do not understand why she is disloyal."
Et Silmarn sighed heavily. "It is not for us to understand the aliens. On our next visit we will discreetly record what the female Gol'berg-ah has to say, and we will suggest that she and maybe some others accompany us to Ocean Station, although I doubt Sharl will permit that to happen. I do not like to work behind Sharl's back, but Et Avian's primary mission was to uncover those very secrets."
"The humans are uncomfortable in our presence," the copilot said.
"As it would be for us if our roles were reversed," Kateos replied. "They are frightened of the power we hold over them." "They have seen nothing, yet," Et Silmarn said.
The alien airplane flying along the river valley rumbled into the distance. MacArthur, sucking on thickweed, waved at Tonto and Bottlenose, signaling them to come no closer. The fluttering of their wings would spook the trapped animals. Satisfied his brain was clear, MacArthur extracted the masticated weed from his mouth and placed the lump of chewed greens in a pouch hanging from his neck. He looked to each side. Chastain and Petit skirted the left edge of the ravine while Shannon and O'Toole took position on the right, each Marine carrying a lariat made of parachute shroud. Shaking out the coils of his rope and slinging aside his leather poncho, MacArthur stalked the terrified horses. Three golden beasts had been funneled into the narrow wash, their escape prevented by boulders and branches laboriously transported to the gully. Effort had borne fruit; the trap had worked.
MacArthur swung the lariat easily, allowing the noose to expand. He nodded to O'Toole who also began swinging his noose overhead, just as MacArthur had trained him. Only two would throw their ropes; any more would just get in the way.
"Go for the small mare," MacArthur cautioned, his voice calm. "Throw for the neck. I'll go for the legs. Make it count!"
O'Toole crept along the edge of the wash, approaching the skittish animals. MacArthur, in the wash, stayed close to the bank, giving the animals room. The largest animal, a stallion, took chopping steps directly at MacArthur and snorted, its bulging brown eyes surrounded with frightened white. The animal's streaming, golden mane rippled and waved with abrupt motion, its long tail held high and flowing. Barrel-chested, mule-eared, blunt-nosed, heavy-legged with large feet and knobby knees, the animals did not match MacArthur's boyhood memory of his grandfather's Calgary ranch horses, but they were definitely horses. The soundsand smells were pure horse, and they were beautiful, powerful animals.
MacArthur flattened against the ravine's rock wall. The stallion bolted past, trumpeting a loud, rasping whinny. The mares, confused and frightened, reared and twisted, leaping to follow the stallion's lead.
"Now!" MacArthur shouted. He stepped in toward the last animal and made a well-timed throw, looping one foreleg and tangling the other. He dug his feet into the ground and wrapped the lariat around his back and shoulders. Excited, O'Toole threw too hard, missing high. One mare thundered by and was free. The second frightened female took her first step and fouled in the snaking rope, jolting MacArthur from his feet. The Marine sprawled in the dust and was dragged along for a stride and a half before the mare stumbled to the ground, the lasso intertwining her forelegs. MacArthur and horse regained their footing simultaneously. The golden horse leapt sideways and kicked, jerking hard to free its encumbered foot. MacArthur resumed his wide stance, grabbing the line and bracing himself for the inevitable muscle-wrenching tug, but he was too slow and too weak. His hands were burned viciously as the line spun through his grasping fingers. Feeling diminished resistance, the horse leapt to a gallop, and MacArthur—on his knees in pain—watched, powerless, thinking all was lost.
Not to be denied, Chastain made a dive for the trailing end of the lariat. And missed. But the horse's rapidly moving legs whipped the rope into a tangle ensnaring her own rear legs. Again, the horse crashed to the ground. As the determined mare struggled to her feet, the quick-footed O'Toole dashed to the horse's head and slipped his noose over her neck. Chastain made another gallant effort to reach the bitter end of MacArthur' s tangled line and was successful. The combined resistance from the two ropes threw the animal off balance, and the unfortunate mare tripped for a third time. MacArthur grabbed Chastain' s dropped lariat and dashed forward, making a quick looping throw that settled over the golden neck.
"Sarge! Hold this line. Give me yours!" he shouted as Shannon joined the fray. The sergeant did as he was told, and the horse was held at three points. Struggling fiercely, the indomitable beast searched for any leverage. MacArthur darted forward and, risking injury from flying hooves, looped a fourth lariat around the animal's rear leg. The powerful animal, tangled and restrained from multiple directions, gave a last valiant struggle and fell solidly onto her side. Except for labored breathing and an occasional flailing leg, the mare lay still.
MacArthur, on his knees and gasping for air, handed the taut rope to Petit. As he released his grasp, the ache from his fingers and hands shot straight to his brain; he squatted on his haunches, head back, his throbbing hands held tightly in his lap. Petit pulled on the lariat.
"Damn, Mac! This rope's all bloody!" he shouted. "You okay?"
MacArthur looked at his lacerated palms and winced.
"Mac wouldn't have fun if he didn't bleed," O'Toole grunted, heaving on his rope.
"Slack up, Terry," MacArthur gasped. "You're cutting her wind." Moving quickly, before his fingers locked up, MacArthur shook out a pair of hobbles and slipped them over the animal's trembling legs. He dropped another noose over the horse's head and slipped off his hide poncho, wrapping it around the mare's head. Then, breathing mightily, he lay exhausted on the ground, his weight against the magnificent animal's back.
"Let her up," he exhaled. "Be ready!"
The soft, full light of a late summer morning revealed a straggling group of humans—a foraging party—carrying empty sacks and crude buckets along the receded waters of the great river. Beppo Schmidt' s thick thatch of flaxen hair gleamed like a white pearl. Red-headed Sandy Tatum and powerful Jocko Chastain, both of towering height, stood out as well. Fenstermacher, Goldberg with her baby, and Wilson rounded out the complement. They all wore ragged jumpsuits, or at least remnants of jumpsuits; several had cut off the lower portion of the jumpsuit arms and legs. A couple of them augmented their attire with hide ponchos, but all wore leather sandals laced up their calves.
The foraging party worked its way along the gravel-strewn bank, leaving the roaring cataracts and sparkling mists behind. Once past MacArthur's Valley the great river settled to a more placid pace. The main channel widened and the current diminished; narrow river islets dotted the watercourse; and river otters and long-legged waterbirds abounded. In many respects it became a long, narrow lake, easily crossed with dugout canoe, especially during the late summer and autumn. Human traffic over its span was necessary, primarily to gather furs and buffalo meat. The demands of this traffic precipitated another Fenstermacher innovation—a ferry.
The ungainly log raft floated between boulders in the eddying river waters. It was secured by four spring lines, its two big oars shipped and secured alongside; a smaller sweep oar—the tiller— hung down in the water at the stern. Fenstermacher and Chastain, wading in the gentle current, grabbed the lines and hauled the tall raft shoreward until it grounded. The group waded in to board, with Tatum taking the baby from Goldberg until the mother was safely pulled up.
"Tatum, you want the tiller?" Fenstermacher asked, standing in the water.
"Nah, I can row," Tatum said. The tall Marine had adapted to the missing limb. His right arm had compensated for the lost appendage, developing into a mass of ropy sinew greater than a large man's thigh.
"You big dumb guys are all alike," Fenstermacher snorted. "Beppo, keep an eye on Tatum. Make sure he pulls his weight. I'd hate to depend on Chief Cookie."
"Ja, you bet." Schmidt laughed, climbing aboard.
"You know, Sandy," Wilson said casually. "I bet that's one fart that would actually sink if we drop him in the middle of the river."
"Particularly if we put some rocks in his shorts," Tatum added.
"That's mutiny, assholes!" the little man snarled. "Belay the chatter, and attend your oars—smartly, I say."
Laughing heartily, Tatum walked to a stout oar and took his position. Wilson grabbed the other, and the two rowers kept the raft pointed into the current as Chastain and Fenstermacher cleared the lines.
"Lieutenant Buccari is coming," Schmidt said, pointing upriver.
Buccari, wearing a faded jumpsuit cut off at the knees, sprinted over the rocks. A pistol belt, worn like a bandolier, flopped as she ran, and her long, braided ponytail bounced behind her, flashing in the morning sun. Fenstermacher held the last line as the raft swung to the current.
Brappa circled on the weak thermal current. Craag struggled to hold altitude, still striving to catch the poorly defined updraft that Brappa had somehow managed to exploit.
"Perhaps we should return to the riverbank, Craag-thewarrior," Brappa screeched, proud that he had gained an altitude advantage.
"It is early for thermals, young friend," Craag wheezed as he flapped mightily. The veteran was not going to admit defeat. Thegreat river, deep green in the golden morning, flowed easily below them. The hunters were barely a third of the way across and rapidly approaching the point where they could no longer glide to either shore.
Below and downstream, Brappa watched the long-legs climbing onto their platform of wood.
"We could descend to the river and float over with the longlegs," said Brappa, trying to give the older hunter a face-saving alternative. The updraft stiffened. Brappa detected a satisfying lift.
"No need, Brappa, son-of-Braan," Craag screamed, suddenly heaving past Brappa' s altitude. "This updraft will boost us to heights adequate for the crossing."
Brappa acknowledged. In close formation, the hunters allowed themselves to be carried upriver by the gentle but persistent thermal.
Brappa saw the eagles.
"Thanks, Fenstermacher," Buccari hailed. She splashed thigh deep in cold water and clambered easily up the wooden structure of the raft, getting a hand from Chastain. Fenstermacher followed her aboard, bringing the last line. He grabbed the tiller and yelled orders for everyone to haul together. Schmidt sat down on a stern post next to Chastain and helped make up the lines.
"You almost missed the boat, Lieutenant," Wilson said.
"Wouldn't be the first time, Chief," Buccari replied. "I want to watch them with the horses. Tookmanian said you were heading over to forage for thickweed."
"And to pick up some buffalo, too," Wilson huffed as he pushed on his oar. "O'Toole says they got a new kill butchered and ready to go."
Buccari looked down at the splintery surface of the raft and noted bloodstains left behind by earlier cargoes. Also lying in the center of the raft was the newly constructed ramp for moving the horses onboard. Goldberg, with Honey cooing softly in her lap, sat on the fragrant, fresh-hewn wood. Buccari made eye contact with the young mother and smiled. Goldberg reciprocated with a cold nod.
"How's Honey, Pepper?" Buccari persisted. The infant was recovering from a racking cough. Several days earlier, the gardeners had prepared a sour-smelling herbal mash that Lee force-fed to the baby. It had a positive effect; the baby's cough had diminished, and the baby had recovered a healthy tone.
"Better, thanks…sir," Goldberg replied, with the warmth of a north wind.
Buccari glanced up and caught Tatum looking at her. He shrugged with sympathetic bewilderment. Buccari walked forward and sat on the front edge of the raft, legs hanging over the blunt bow. The low morning sun reflected from the river, and fish rose to summer bugs flitting and skittering over the gentle current. Fenstermacher mumbled a soft cadence for the oarsmen and steered at an angle to the easy current, keeping the raft on course for the opposite bank. With each coordinated swing of the oars, thole pins groaned in their leather pivots and the heavy raft surged forward, thrusting a crush of white water before it. Closing her eyes to the warm glare, Buccari lay on her back and allowed the splashing tempo to melt her anxieties.
Presently the raft glided into a small cove, grounding against rocks still in cool morning shade, waking Buccari from her catnap. She sat up and stretched. The rocky riverbank was steep but not high, and Chastain, mooring line in hand, jumped to dry ground. The sandy terrain leveled and then climbed steeply to a grassy clearing above the river's high-water mark. Thick undergrowth and a lush stand of trees closed in the rear of the lea. Silhouetted against the trees, MacArthur sat on a large rock at the edge of clearing. Two golden horses stood alertly behind him.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," MacArthur shouted. "You looked mighty comfortable out there." Field glasses dangled from his neck.
Buccari was impatient with Shannon, O'Toole, and MacArthur for the amount of time they had been spending with the horses. She did not appreciate their enduring absence from the camp. There was too much heavy work to do. And the horses could help. She wanted the horses transferred to the other bank.
"It must be something about this side of the river that makes everyone forget the work they're supposed to be doing," she answered.
"Ah, Lieutenant," MacArthur rebutted mildly. "We've been working hard over here, too. But you're right. We need the horses across the river."
That the horses were sufficiently docile to transport over water was amazing in itself. The first mare captured had been nervous and frightened; none of the men could calm her enough to start training. She had refused to eat or drink, and she had thrashed and struggled so much that MacArthur worried for her health—almost to the point of setting her free. However, another horse—a stallion—was caught using the same tactics employed to capture the mare. When the newly captured horse was put in the paddock with the first animal, both animals calmed down, taking food and water from the humans as if they had always done so.
MacArthur dared to mount the mare. Surprisingly, the animal reacted mildly to the presence of a human being on its back. The horse bucked and pranced about a bit, but then it just stood there, accepting the human's right to the superior position. Within another week both horses were answering basic riding commands. The stable on the north side of the river was expanded, and two more horses were captured. MacArthur, Shannon, and O'Toole were like children with their first pets.
A shrill whistle sounded overhead. Buccari looked skyward. Two cliff dwellers, membranes folded to their backs, descended in a panic. High in the deep blue heavens, two great eagles soared lazily in the bright sunlight. But lower! A third eagle had folded its wings and was plummeting from the skies in pursuit of the hunters!
Buccari leapt to her feet. The diving eagle grew larger, its spreading talons swinging downward—right for them. Reflexively, she pushed Goldberg and Honey over the side and into the deep, cold water, and dove in after. Tatum, Wilson, and Schmidt followed in quick succession, splashing noisily into the relative security of the river, clinging close to the protective overhang of the raft. Only Fenstermacher remained on deck. The resolute raft captain seized a fending pole and wielded it like a lance.
The hunters extended their wings and pulled up from their headlong dives, with the eagle closing rapidly. Buccari brushed river water from her eyes and looked up at MacArthur. The Marine was on his feet, assault rifle aimed skyward. The hunters leveled out above the raft and shot past MacArthur' s position, gliding with a rush of wind into the narrow confines of the trees, too restricted for the eagle to follow. The eagle flared above Fenstermacher' s head, spreading its wings to an unbelievable span, throwing a mantle of darkness over the shoreline. Its yellow eyes focused on Fenstermacher, glowing with atavistic hate, but also a glint of fear.
Buccari winced, waiting for the inevitable explosion from the rifle, but MacArthur stood steady, staring through his sights. He had but to pull the trigger and the eagle would be annihilated. The eagle was almost stationary; its massive wings beat powerfully, slowly lifting the great predator—an easy shot. Steadily it retreated. Buccari felt the skin crawl on her head; an overwhelming sense of relief flowed through her. She watched MacArthur blow air from his lungs and lower the weapon.
"Get out of here, baby," she whispered. And it was gone, the swishing of its wings diminishing to silence.
"I didn't hear anyone sound swim call!" Fenstermacher yelled, standing at the edge of the raft, glaring ferociously at the people treading water. He jumped back from a mouthful of river spit in his direction. Honey howled mightily.
"About time you got here, Fenstermacher!" MacArthur shouted, setting the rifle on the ground. "We got work to do. Get that raft secured and let's get the ramp up."
"Up yours, Mac!" the feisty boatswain shouted. "I'm early, and you know it. And don't go yelling at me. I'm officially a hero. I chased that buzzard away while these fishies were flopping around in the water." He turned back and bent over the side. "Gunner, I ain't never going to let you live this down."
Honey bawled as the dripping swimmers pulled themselves from the river. Chastain and Fenstermacher brought the raft broadside to the bank and secured it fore and aft. Buccari, soaking wet, started up the path winding toward MacArthur' s position. Goldberg gradually soothed Honey to a hiccoughing calm as the members of the foraging party sat on the river rocks, letting the dappling sunlight warm their wet bodies. Insults flew fast and furious, and soon everyone was laughing too hard to speak.
As Buccari arrived at MacArthur' s vantage point, X.O. and Tonto hopped from the woods. The hunters craned their necks as they waddled from beneath the tree cover, searching the skies. Satisfied that the threat had disappeared, they hopped up on boulders and watched the humans with great interest. MacArthur gave them hand signs that meant, "Death close," and pointed to the sky. The cliff dwellers chirped animatedly, and X.O. signed back, "Death always close."
The hunters turned and bowed to Buccari. The little creatures treated MacArthur and Buccari differently from other humans, showing each of them peculiar forms of respect. To Buccari they were formal and deferential; whenever she moved or spoke they took note and adjusted to her position as if she were a local sun and they were her planets. To MacArthur they demonstrated a jolly camaraderie, and they invariably followed him whenever they were around. It was with MacArthur and, to a lesser degree, Buccari that they attempted to communicate. To all other humans they were remarkably indifferent.
"A bunch of clowns," MacArthur said, looking down on the dripping hilarity.
"Laughter's great," Buccari commented, removing her dripping pistol belt and hanging it on a convenient branch. "I don't hear you laughing," he said.
She looked up without humor. "I have other things on my mind, Corporal. Like getting you guys back on the other side to do some work."
"Okay, okay," he said. "Point's made! But we're the least of your worries. These horses are going to make a big difference."
Buccari felt his steady look and her eyes were drawn to his. She lowered her gaze to the river.
"Hey, Chief! Move everyone down the bank," MacArthur shouted. "The fewer distractions the better."
Wilson waved, and the foraging patrol made their way upriver.
Buccari turned from the river and, once again, found herself staring into MacArthur' s gray eyes. Neither spoke. The spell was broken by the chirping of the cliff dwellers; the alert creatures gawked curiously into the woods. Buccari detected the sounds of approaching animals. Soon Shannon and O'Toole hove into view, descending the steep path that dropped from the cliff tops. They led two horses loaded with butchered segments of buffalo into the small clearing. The meat, wrapped in skins, was unfastened and dumped on the grass. Tiny insects buzzed about the bloodied skins.
"We're waiting, Winfried," MacArthur sang out. "How're you doing?"
"Ready here!" Fenstermacher shouted back. He and Chastain brought the raft against the bank and positioned the sturdy ramp. The height and steepness of the bank made the incline of the gangplank negligible.
"Okay, Terry. Let's do it!" MacArthur grabbed the reins of one of the horses, leading it down the last section of steep path. O'Toole followed leading a second horse, leaving Shannon to hold the other two. Buccari stood on the edge of the clearing and watched.
"Lieutenant?" Shannon asked. "Sir, would you watch the horses?"
"Sure, Sarge," she responded, walking over and taking the reins. Shannon bent down, grunted a parcel of buffalo meat over his shoulder, and trotted down the trail. The horses, sniffing and snorting, nervously accepted Buccari as their caretaker.
Loading proceeded without incident. The first two horses, eyes covered, were carefully led onto the raft. The sturdy craft accommodated their great weight, but Fenstermacher wisely interrupted the loading to reposition the raft out from the shore so that it would not be held aground by the increased draft. MacArthur crooned as he secured the horses to the raft, each with three lines. While MacArthur and Shannon were securing the horses, O'Toole and Chastain climbed back up the path and retrieved the butchered buffalo. Everything made fast, MacArthur looked up at Buccari.
"Lieutenant," he said, "would you mind staying with the horses? We'll send O'Toole off on the other side and get back for the second trip that much sooner."
"I could help with the oars," she replied. "O'Toole could watch the horses."
"Nah!" he replied. "The raft is sitting low. The more muscle the better, and the horses are behaving. Let 'em graze. You okay with that?"
Buccari looked from MacArthur to the horses and back. "Hurry up!" she shouted.
MacArthur jumped into the water and helped Chastain stow the ramp on the crowded raft. Shannon and O'Toole stood by the nervous horses. The raft was fended away and propelled toward the opposite shore, a cliff dweller perched on each forward corner— bizarre figureheads.
Alone with the horses, Buccari explored the small clearing, suddenly quiet and peaceful. In the stillness she listened to the muted buzzing of insects and the gentle gurgle of the river. In thedistance Honey continued to complain. The sun's rays cleared the wooded high ground close behind her, the warmth a welcome change from the chilly shade. She was still wet.
The horses grazed contentedly. Sunlight slanted down and warmed her. She picked up the field glasses. The raft, a speck in the distance, had reached the far bank, and the Marines were moving the horses ashore. Two down and two to go. She laid the binoculars on MacArthur' s gear, next to the assault rifle, and leaned back in the grass. A cloud drifted overhead. Buccari imagined it to be a rabbit. She yawned.
The pastoral quiet was shredded by a blood-curdling scream— Goldberg's. Explosive reports of a rifle punctuated the plaintive wail, and booming echoes reverberated along the river valley, accompaniment for Goldberg's mournful keening. Buccari instinctively realized what was happening. She searched the skies. The dark, sweeping form of a great eagle soared along the riverbank, the susurrant sound of beating wings distinctly audible. Suspended from the raptor's talons was the tragic and unmistakable figure of a human baby. Its pitiful screams pierced Buccari's soul.
She dove for the rifle and rolled to a kneeling position. Pulling the weapon to her shoulder, she released the safety and selected full automatic. The eagle, baby writhing frantically in its talons, was slightly higher and abreast Buccari' s position. Putting the sights on the eagle's neck, Buccari held her breath, aimed with calculated deliberation, and squeezed off a burst. The eagle's head blew sideways with the impact of the heavy slugs, and the great bird tumbled about the axis of its wings, losing its grip on the tiny victim. Both creatures flailed the air.
Buccari dropped the rifle and sprinted down the winding path, watching the infant splash into the slow-moving river. She dove into the cold current and swam hard. Nothing—she saw nothing. She kicked to the surface, pulling her head high out of the water; she scanned the surface for signs—any sign! The eagle's carcass floated slowly downstream, and she stroked toward it.
Bubbles! Small bubbles only meters to her right. Buccari porpoised forward and stroked downward, staring with open eyes into the green water. Like sun rays streaming through cathedral windows, shafts of sunlight angled into the depths. Far below something glowed, faintly reflecting the prism-shattered light. A thin trail of bubbles danced and wiggled upward from its vicinity. Buccari crawled with desperate energy toward the fuzzy whiteness, stroking and frog-kicking, fighting the buoyant forces. At last she touched it—the yielding smoothness of skin.
Buccari grabbed hold of a limb—a leg—and pulled for the surface, lungs bursting but panic held in check by the exhilaration of reaching the child. An eternity lapsed. Panic dominated her senses just as her frantic hands clawed from the resisting liquid and into the warmer emptiness. She exploded from the river, spewing water from mouth and nose. Coughing and kicking convulsively, she held the child out of the water with both hands. Honey's eyes were rolled back in her head; angry bruises contrasted against fish-white skin; blood trickled from her nose. Buccari held the limp form close and tried to orient herself. Shouts attracted her attention. She glimpsed Tatum and Schmidt running along the bank. Further upstream, Wilson assisted the screaming mother.
Holding the baby's head above water, Buccari rolled over and side-stroked shoreward with her free arm. Tatum, distraught, panting and gasping, met her neck deep in the water and relieved her of the lifeless child. He stumbled from the water, his single arm holding his baby high in the air. Buccari swam several more strokes before she touched bottom, and then she struggled to drag her exhausted body from the frigid water. Still knee-deep, she collapsed, spent. She vomited.
On the bank, Tatum held Honey upside down by her leg. With his one good arm he shook the child in spasmodic jerks. Water poured from the child's tiny mouth.
"Beppo! Slap her!" he shouted. Schmidt followed orders, the technician's face contorted with tragic concern. "Harder!" Tatum shouted, his deep voice grown shrill, the frustration at having only one arm written across his countenance. Nothing! Just the pitiful claps of a strong hand against the small frame of an infant.
"Hold her head up!" Tatum bellowed. Schmidt brought the small face upward, and Tatum covered it with his own. Desperately holding his strong lungs in check, he blew softly into Honey's bloodied nose and mouth. On his third breath she burped; her small hands jerked and her eyes opened. Honey coughed, regurgitated water, and coughed again. And then she screamed, a strong scream, a mixed scream—a scream of pain, but more importantly, a scream of anger—a healthy scream of anger. Tatum roared in ecstasy, holding the child to his trembling breast.
"She's alive, Lieutenant!" He sat down in shallow water next to Buccari, the bruised and battered child bellowing in his lap. "You saved my baby's life!"
Buccari, still awash in the river, looked up and smiled at the overwhelming affection shown by the tall Marine. She reached up to pat Tatum's knee, and Tatum grabbed her hand, kissing it and holding it to his tear-streaked cheek.
"The horses," she gasped. "Where are the horses?" She raised her head and was relieved to see the horses standing where they had been left, staring down from their vantage point, grinding mouthfuls of grass. She had not wanted to disappoint MacArthur.
"You old fool! What more do you know of this matter?" Jook thundered.
Et Kalass's facile mind searched through his alternatives and their consequences. He decided to hold to plan. It was the closest to the truth.
"My concern for Et Avian overcame good judgment, Exalted One," the minister said. "I promised on his father's deathbed that no harm would come to him."
Jook looked down from his throne, fuming darkly. "Ah! No harm ever? A foolish promise, Minister. So another case of the nobility and their children! How tender!" Jook simpered.
Et Kalass dared to speak, "Et Avian' s discoveries—"
"General Gorruk would have your head!" spit the Emperor-General. "I should give it to him! Using boosters without authority—a gross assumption of power!"
Since the rout at Penc the war had gone badly. Gorruk was consumed with fending off vicious counterattacks. Missiles had resumed falling on northern territories.
"But Great and Powerful One—" Et Kalass started.
"Discoveries! You speak of discoveries," Jook preempted imperiously. "What do we know of the aliens? It is said that Et Avian has captured an alien alive."
"True, Your Greatness, though—"
"Bah! Why am I talking to you? Where is Avian?"
"In grave condition, Greatness. He faces multiple surgeries and extended rehabilitation."
"He has managed to survive an interplanetary acceleration. You are withholding something." Jook rose to his imposing height and glared down. "Bring Et Avian to me."
Et Kalass turned and scurried from the imperial chambers.
After three days Buccari's buttocks and thighs were chafed and bruised. And the obstinate beast had just given her a painful nip on the shoulder.
"You okay, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked, his voiced concerned but his face smug—his first spoken words to her in days. He galloped up and grabbed the balky mare's reins, leaping from his stallion. "You can't be turning your back on that horse."
Buccari rubbed the tender spot and concentrated on holding her temper. Coming on the salt mission was her idea; MacArthur had not wanted her along, fearing for her safety, but she persisted.
"I guess I missed that on the checklist," she responded.
"Beg your pardon, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked.
"Nothing! Nothing. Just a little pilot humor. Give me a boost." She grabbed the reins and moved over to the port side of the four-legged creature. She straightened the leather blanket, tightening the knot in its girth strap. MacArthur bent down and grabbed her left boot and the back of her thigh. On three, he lifted and she jumped, swinging her right leg over the animal. She landed with a painful grunt. MacArthur quickly turned away and swung up on his own mount, his shoulders gently shaking.
"Stop laughing, Corporal!" Buccari yelled, but her command disintegrated with a whimper.
"Aye, Lieutenant. Stop laughing, aye." He trotted off.
Buccari tried to ignore the trauma inflicted on her stern. She clicked her tongue and shook her reins. The horse bent its head and nibbled the grasses at its feet.
"Move, stupid!" she yelled.
"You yelling at me, Lieutenant?" MacArthur shouted back. "No," she shouted. "Not this time," she added under her breath.
"Giddap!" she barked, kicking her heels. The mare surged to a spine-jolting lope; she hung on, bouncing painfully, until her horse caught up and fell into trail, settling into a rolling walk. More passenger than pilot, Buccari relaxed and studied her surroundings. A covey of ptarmiganlike birds flushed from a weedy runnel and sputtered into the air, scattering downwind and bringing Buccari's eyes up to the vistas around her. Above them hunters—Tonto and Bottlenose—soared easily on buffeting thermals. A stately line of sunstruck squalls paraded across the dusky horizon, dragging thin sweeps of rain. Two-thirds of a rainbow magically appeared in the near distance and serenely faded into ephemeral memory. Scattered cumulus clouds drifted past, yet the skies overhead were so fresh and clear that the hunters were never hard to discern, despite their altitude. And the hunters were not alone in the skies—giant eagles also wheeled in the clear air, keeping their distance and posing no threat. Visible to the southeast, musk-buffalo grazed with singular purpose, the great bulk of their number shielded from sight by rolling tundra. Their odor had been absent for more than a day, the prevailing winds an ally. Instead, the sweet, musty scent of late summer wildflowers assaulted Buccari's senses, the pink and blue blossoms contrasting sharply against the gray-green of the taiga.
Hunters screamed. Bottlenose glided rapidly ahead and out of sight beyond a low line of humpbacked downs. Tonto remained overhead, swerving in a nervous figure eight.
"We must be getting close," Shannon remarked.
Tonto screamed, urgently and loudly. He hovered, flapping his wings.
"Let's keep moving. Something's up," MacArthur shouted, chucking his reins to the side and heeling his horse into motion.
Tonto broke hover and glided out of sight behind the ridge. The riders crested high ground and the rolling prairie dropped dramatically at their feet, leveling abruptly on the geometric flatness of the salt plains. The vista was dotted with activity. An arm of the musk-buffalo herd rumbled to the east, raising a gritty cloud. Nightmare packs harried the herd's flank, breaking out stragglers and calves, their kills marked by congregations of buzzards and eagles fighting for carrion. Buccari's horse trailed MacArthur's surefooted mount down the steep decline. The others followed.
Three hours of trotting found them on the dry patches of crusty alkaline, the terrain making the going easy except for acrid billows lifted by the horses' hooves. The riders spread out line abreast to avoid the dust. Sight lines across the salt flats were blurred with thermal distortion, but they could finally see the compact figures of cliff dwellers. Something was peculiar. The realization struck home—the cliff dwellers were fighting nightmares! Hundreds of the horrible beasts encircled the small creatures.
Braan, leader-of-hunters, knew not what to do. Normally he would signal his warriors to jettison their bags, to rise on the powerful thermals. Only this time the decision was not simple, because the long-legs were approaching—ironically, coming to help the hunters. The long-legs could not escape into the air.
Growler carcasses riddled with hunter arrows littered the field. Sentries bravely darted among the kill, retrieving their precious missiles. Hunters were injured, but only one so severely that he could not fly. That hunter, a sentry, must die if the expedition took to the air.
"Thy decision, Braan-our-leader?" Craag queried, a bleeding claw mark on his neck. "The growlers circle closer."
Braan turned to the approaching horses and their long-leg riders. A good idea—using horses to lift the burden from the shoulders of his hunters—but now it seemed foolhardy.
"Jettison the salt bags and take flight!" Braan screamed. Craag loudly echoed the command. The hunters screamed in bedlam. Salt bags not already dropped were let go, and hunters flapped their membranes, leather wings cracking and snapping. The creatures desperately reached for free air, wingspans overlapping and conflicting. The cliff dwellers elevated from the salty surface— except the injured novice, his hand and forearm broken, his left wing shredded.
The hunter leader glided to the bleeding sentry and landed with a dust-throwing skid. It was Braan's fateful job to mercifully terminate the young hunter rather than leave him to the torture of the scavenger pack. Braan had helped many warriors die. The novice stood bravely erect, eyes shining with black glory, honored to die at Braan's hands. But then the sentry's head jerked in alarm, and he whistled a warning. Vicious growls shuddered in the air, and Braan looked up to see growlers prowling close—too close. There would not be time to dispatch the sentry, yet Braan could not desert the injured one. Braan screamed and drew his sword. The hunters stood back-to-back, ready to do final battle. A mighty fanged beast broke from the skulking siege and bounded forward, its tail a whipping, whirring blur.
Brappa landed at Braan's left side, his bow singing. The growler died in mid-leap, two arrows jutting from its skull. Braan looked over his right shoulder and saw Craag nocking another arrow.
"Flee!" Braan screamed at his cohorts. "It is my order! Fly away! Craag, thou art in command. Who takes charge? Fly now!"
Craag had no time to answer, but neither did the growlers have time to attack.
Buccari lost control of her mount. Her reins were useless; the thick cords of the horse's neck resisted all efforts to change direction. The mare plunged across the salt flats, her gallop a soothing pace change—except for the breakneck speed! Buccari grimly held on to the thick mane with both hands. She dared to glimpse sideways. The other horses also dashed headlong, riders powerless to sway or slow the beasts, though MacArthur sat erect, his rifle in hand. Buccari returned her view forward. The nightmares were scattering, feral eyes wide in fear. Her horse bunched its muscles and drove hard with a gut-sucking burst of speed to overtake the retreating predators, lunging into their midst.
Buccari redoubled her grip, desperately trying to anticipate the steed's terrific accelerations and swerves. With nimble strength the golden animal drove the panicky nightmares in tightening circles, working in concert with other horses. When a collection of the slavering beasts were made to collide back upon themselves, rendering them directionless and confused, one of the horses would charge into the pack and trample upon them with unbridled fury. It was during one of those charges that O'Toole was thrown. Buccari watched him crash to the ground. The horses avoided the fallen man, driving the nightmares clear.
The hunters on the ground screamed in fright and huddled together. Horses rumbled past, thick legs crashing like earth-drumming pistons, trampling the bodies—living and dead—of the growlers. Braan, sword held impotently, watched as the giant golden animals—helpless and frightened long-legs clinging to their backs—towered upon hind legs and crashed hoofs down upon the crippled growlers, crushing life from the whimpering and howling devils. Flashing teeth grabbed and snatched at the cringing beasts; powerful hind legs delivered deathly blows, and growlers fell by the dozens. The beleaguered scavengers scattered in rout, and thehorses pivoted and pranced nervously, looking for more victims. It was over. The horses, one riderless, nerves high, tails twitching, danced sideways as they converged in a trot around the awestricken cliff dwellers.
Tentatively, like dry falling leaves, the troop of dwellers drifted down from the skies and formed up by the discarded salt bags. Craag comically recovered his demeanor, bowed in apology to Braan, and moved away to take charge. Brappa, leading the injured novice, followed Craag, leaving Braan—the diminutive hunter— standing erect, if uncertain, before the towering, prancing horses.
O'Toole limped in their direction, smiling awkwardly.
"What the hell!" Shannon shouted, thick, silver hair blown askew; perspiration rolled from his brow, his eyes wide in astonishment.
"What happened? What made them do that?" Buccari asked, heart pounding. The muscles in her forearms and thighs ached from exertion.
"They evidently don't much care for nightmares," MacArthur said. "I wonder why they let us control them, or pretend to control them."
The horses settled down, and Buccari gingerly dismounted, joining O'Toole on the ground. Shannon and MacArthur did likewise, apprehensively watching their powerful mounts. The horses, breathing hard, dropped their heads, sniffing and snorting at the salt beneath their feet. Captain, small and frail, bravely if tentatively approached the tall humans and their taller horses. The horses eyed the small creature disdainfully, sniffing the air in its direction as the nervous hunter bowed politely if quickly. Buccari reciprocated, and MacArthur started rapidly gesticulating, flashing sign language to the cliff dweller. Braan answered with equal fervor.
"They're ready to go," MacArthur said. "They've been waiting for us."
Buccari knew the horses would be loaded with bags of salt, requiring the humans to hike back to the river. MacArthur made that clear when he was trying to dissuade her from coming. After the beating her rear end had taken for the last four days, walking was a welcome alternative.
"How long will it take to get to the river?" she asked. "Captain says five days, maybe six," MacArthur replied.
Jook stared with regal scorn as Et Avian, listing slightly with the weight of his cast, moved haltingly to the foot of the imperial throne. Et Kalass and an aide flanked the injured noblekone, assisting his movements. Et Avian, appearing feeble and infirm, made no effort to show obeisance, but only raised his face to stare at the Supreme Leader.
"You requested my presence, Leader of Leaders," Et Avian said weakly.
"Almost eaten by a bear, eh?" Jook snarled. "The physicians say you are lucky to be alive, and that you may yet lose the use of your arm."
"The bear is dead, Great One," the noblekone parried. "For the bravery of the aliens."
"So says your report," Jook reflected. "The aliens must be powerful. Well armed."
"If you have read the report, then you know that is not the case. They are of slight proportions, perhaps one-third the mass of a kone. Their weapons are modest chemical implements. They do not present a danger to our planet." The dialogue visibly sapped the noblekone.
"A most presumptuous conclusion. You have only seen a shipwrecked sample of this race. Is it so easy to perceive their nature?"
"Your skepticism is healthy, Great One, but mine has been eradicated. The aliens sacrificed their lives to save mine. There was no reason for their bravery, other than an inherent sense of goodness and compassion."
"Goodness and compassion. Goodness and compassion! Dangerous attributes upon which to base an alliance. What have you learned of their technologies? That would be the brick and mortar with which we could build." Jook paraded down the wide steps and peered deeply into the invalid's unblinking eyes.
"Your Greatness!" Et Kalass interceded. "Et Avian is not up to this. I beg of you! Permit us to withdraw before we do him further harm."
"I can tell you nothing of their technologies—as yet, my Leader," Et Avian whispered. "My science team is persisting in this area. I have received reports, very sketchy reports, that contact has continued. If the communication satellites were operational, we could have current information, including video."
"As you know, my noble scientist," Jook said, turning and remounting the stairs. "We are at war. In wartime information is the first victim."
"I beg of you, Great One! We must give aid to this kone immediately. His mortal health is in jeopardy," Et Kalass beseeched.
"Very well, Minister," Jook replied. "But see that he does not travel far."
Et Kalass grabbed Et Avian's elbow, gently turned the injured noblekone, and led him unsteadily away. Jook watched them depart, settling his massive bulk. A burgundy-uniformed officer appeared from behind the throne dais and crawled to the reception area. The intelligence officer made obeisance to the Supreme Leader.
"Do you understand your mission, Colonel Longo?" Jook asked.
"My duty is to serve, Leader of Leaders," Longo fawned.
"Your duty, Colonel Longo, is to capture the aliens. They represent a strategic objective of growing importance. We must capture them and cultivate them as allies. And if we cannot do that, then we must kill them. Do you understand?"
"Your orders are clear, Great One," Colonel Longo said. "Depart," Jook ordered, "and do not fail."
Longo bowed low, pivoted sharply on all fours, and trotted briskly from the imperial chamber. Jook sat silently, recognizing how tenuous his grasp on power was becoming. Gorruk' s army was no longer dependable, and the nobility-controlled militia was more threat than comfort. The dissipated ruler leaned back on the throne lounge and allowed his anguish to swell within his breast.
Chief Scientist Samamkook and General Et Ralfkra met Et Kalass and Et Avian at the formal entry to the Public Safety Ministry. A gaggle of doctors and nurses attended Et Avian as he stumbled from the hovercar.
"Take him to my chambers," Et Kalass ordered, shaking his head woefully. The procession moved quickly to the lifts and up to the minister's suite. The stricken noblekone was placed upon the minister's own bed. The ancient Samamkook, trembling and feeble, was also shown to a lounge and ordered to recline—a great honor in the presence of nobility. Minister Et Kalass, a look of despair governing his features, stood silently over Et Avian, while General Et Ralfkra took charge and graciously directed the assisting multitudes to leave. Anxious staff slowly filed out, and Et Ralfkra followed them through the anterooms, shutting and locking the security seals on the great doors. The militia general returned.
"A performance without rival," Et Ralfkra declared.
Et Avian swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing erect, the noblekone unhooked the straps securing the massive body cast and ripped it from his body. He grimaced. A spider web of scars flowed over his shoulder and across his chest.
"Your report, General," he said, slipping on a mantle. "Are we ready?"
"Not yet," General Et Ralfkra replied. "It is close, but we need more time."
"Time! More time! When then?" Samamkook asked, his voice weak but his tone adamant. The old commoner, brittle and rheumy-eyed, shifted feebly in the chair.
"Easy! Easy, my old friend," Et Kalass cautioned. "It must be at the right time, or it will be for naught. We—"
"If I am to be part of your great plan then you best accelerate your timetable," Samamkook interrupted. He laid his head down and sighed impolitely.
"There is no hurry, sir," Et Kalass replied with great respect in his voice. "For you will not die—not as long as you have a job to do."
"Thank you for your opinion, Lassie," Samamkook said. "But you have little say in the matter."
Et Avian remained silent. He rested his hand on the old commoner's shoulder.
After four days of clear weather and hard hiking, the salt mission returned to the valley of the great river. They were met at the top of the bridge valley by sentries prepared to assist them in the final uphill portion of their trek. The salt bearers were tired, but the horses had made a profound difference. Sixteen hunters, including the injured novice, had been relieved of their burdens by the goldenanimals. The unburdened hunters took shifts among the other salt carriers, preventing the crippling fatigue of the long hike back from the flats. The line of cliff dwellers headed briskly down the valley trail to the bridge and the river crossing, leaving the humans behind. Under a lowering overcast the horses were pointed south, paralleling the river valley. Ahead lay the valley of the smoldering pinnacles, and beyond that the ferry crossing to MacArthur's Valley—a two-day ride—the final, and shortest leg, of their journey. Buccari was ready to climb back on the wide back of the golden horse.
"Whose idea was it to come on this trip, anyway?" she asked.
"Don't get me started…sir!" MacArthur bellowed over his shoulder. Buccari cringed and grimaced at O'Toole. It started to rain.
It rained all day and intermittently during the night, leaving the twin volcanoes shrouded in low overcast. The horses and their riders slogged along the undulating shoulder of the river valley and past the location where Chastain and MacArthur first came to ground. The mists were thick, and the only sign of the volcanoes was a sulfurous odor. On the second day a chill wind blew from the north, aggravating their discomfort, their rain-soaked skin damaged by the constant rubbing and chafing of riding.
The horses plodded along in single file, traversing steep terrain that merged with the low clouds, across the sloping margins of a ridge that ran away into the mists. On one side lay the river valley; on the other lay the downs of the prairies. MacArthur ranged ahead, leaving O'Toole, Buccari, and Shannon to bring up the rear.
"Whose idea was it to come on this trip, anyway?" O'Toole asked, turning around and directing his voice softly down the line of horses.
Buccari smiled painfully. "Don't get me started!" she said pompously.
Shannon's rumbling bass chimed in: "Don't get me started, either."
They laughed at MacArthur' s expense—there were only a few hours to go before they reached the ferry crossing. The thought of returning to the warmth and comforts of their settlement was salve to their fatigue and injury.
Buccari, her rear bruised and sore, shifted uncomfortably and stared into the mists. There was little to see. The land fell steeply away toward the river on the right and climbed gradually toward the northern plains on the left. Outcroppings of rock—gravestones in the fog—lifted from the tundra. Buccari's horse tensed; it neighed, a loud noise in the misty silence. All four horses were suddenly nervous, shaking their manes and flicking their tails.
"What is it, Mac?" Buccari asked. The corporal had halted.
"Wind's changing," Shannon said. "I can smell buffalo."
"Keep moving," MacArthur ordered, hauling on his reins. Shannon and O'Toole followed. Buccari was left in the rear, her horse balking until she gave it a hard kick. It moved skittishly, prancing sideways. She raised her head to yell for help—and detected movement in the rocks.
"We've got company!" Shannon bellowed.
The huge reptile sprang from the rocks, front legs high in the air, stiletto claws extended, a terrible hissing emanating from its saw-toothed maw. Buccari's horse reared and twisted to meet the attack, but the dragon was too quick. It impacted squarely on the horse's rump, one lightning claw flicking hotly against the side of Buccari's head. The stricken horse threw the dazed officer to the ground. She landed hard, rolling down the steep grade, limp and just clinging to consciousness.
Even before she stopped rolling she heard the staccato explosions and saw the muzzle flashes of automatic rifle fire. Holding her head, she looked up through thick mists made worse by her dizziness to see the flared-necked reptile drag the struggling horse to the ground, its great maw locked on its haunch. More bursts of automatic rifle fire, and the screeching mass of scales and teeth fell over. It great tail slammed the ground twice, shuddered, and was still.
Hamstrung, the noble horse screamed horribly, struggling to stand on useless hind legs. Buccari watched in great sorrow as MacArthur walked through the shroud of fog to fire two rounds into its ear. She tried to stand, but her rubbery legs would not cooperate; the hillside spun; she lay down to keep from passing out.
The silence was deafening—and short-lived. A bestial roar broke the calm, horrible and primordial, loud and resonant despite the fog. And then another. The echoes at last surrendered to wet and heavy stillness.
Buccari struggled to a sitting position and was relieved to see MacArthur bounding down the hill. She put her hands to her throbbing head and tried to focus on something—something big— that moved through the mists. It stopped and retreated, melding smoothly into the grayness. MacArthur skipped noisily down the steep, shingle-strewn slope, suddenly pulling up short. He saw it, too. The Marine planted his legs and fired a burst into the fog. A hideous screech lifted the hair on her neck, and something sprinted along the scrabbly rock, its crashing footfalls lingering in the stillness.
"Hold still, Lieutenant!" MacArthur shouted, stalking backward.
Buccari felt warmth running down her cheek; she touched her face and then stared dumbly at the bloody fingers. MacArthur, his head pivoting constantly, knelt next to her.
"I'm bleeding," she said weakly. "I'm going to have a scar like you."
"You're lucky you still have a face," MacArthur hissed. His clear eyes blazed into the fog, trying in vain to regain sight of the animal. "What the hell was that—can you walk?"
"Don't know," she said. She made an effort to stand, but her legs wobbled and she collapsed. MacArthur slung his rifle over his shoulder.
"Cover me!" he shouted up the hill. He bent down and picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Standing erect, he juggled her several times to get positioned and started hiking up the hill.
"Easy!" she said. "My head aches."
"I know all about headaches," MacArthur said.
She wanted to reply, but all discussion was ended by another primeval scream that flowed into a rumbling roar and ended with a reverberating growl. MacArthur staggered up the steep ground, occasionally stumbling to his knees, causing Buccari' s head pain to surge and pound. He reached the others and set Buccari down roughly. Shannon and O'Toole were on each side of the nervous horses, staring into the mists. O'Toole kept glancing sideways at the fallen reptile, muttering like a crazy man.
"I think I can get up now," she said.
"Hold still. Let the bleeding stop," MacArthur snapped. Shannon handed him a grimy cloth. MacArthur reduced it further, ripping it into strips and binding Buccari's wound. "Hold pressure on it," he ordered.
"Let's move," Shannon said. "The horse carcass should keep them from following us. We've used enough ammo."
"Roger that," MacArthur agreed. "Help me with the lieutenant."
MacArthur swung up on his horse. Buccari was lifted up behind him.
"Hang on," he directed. "And keep talking."
"I… I'm okay," she mumbled. She reached around MacArthur' s slim waist and clasped her hands together, pressing her good cheek to his wide back. She could feel the hard muscles of his body working as he twisted. The horse moved at a nervous trot. She groaned softly.
"Sorry, kiddo… sir," MacArthur said tenderly.
A kilometer later they backed the pace down to a walk. The weather lifted to the shifting winds; visibility increased rapidly, and the river was revealed with shafts of sunlight breaking through the scattering overcast. The horses calmed, as did the riders.
"That was a goddam dinosaur," Buccari said, taking a deep breath.
"No shit," MacArthur answered, looking over his shoulder.
Buccari blinked against the throbbing pain. She moved one arm from MacArthur's waist and tentatively tested the bandage, trying to gauge the length of the gash. It ran from her scalp, just over the ear, to the fat part of her cheek bone, almost to her nose.
"Adds character, Lieutenant," MacArthur said, as if reading her mind. "It'll take a lot more than that to ruin your looks."
"Thanks, Mac," she said, genuinely flattered. She returned her arm to his waist.
"And, Lieutenant, I'm glad you came on this trip," he continued.
"Now I know you're lying!" she retorted. "I lost a horse."
"You didn't lose the horse. It could just have easily been any of us. That crocodile was going to get any horse it wanted," he said. "No, I'm glad you came, because now you can see how important the horses are. The horses will make the difference between us living or dying on this planet. But I'm real sorry you had to get hurt."
"Me, too," she said. They continued in silence, starting a descent into the narrow valley leading to the ferry landing.
"You're probably right about the horses, Mac," Buccari finally said.
"Of course I'm right," MacArthur responded, cocksure. "Arrogant asshole!" she replied.
"Affectionate nicknames! Thank you very much." He reached back and gave her a gentle, lingering pat on her thigh.
"You stink," she said quietly. She looked at his hand but made no effort to move it away.
"So do you," he replied.
"No I don't, I'm an officer and a lady."
"Well, one out of two ain't bad."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"Nothing, nothing, er…just a little Marine humor."
Buccari grabbed a handful of the Marine's skin and pinched hard.
"Aarrggh!" he shouted loudly.
"You're lucky I don't have a knife."
Hudson settled into the acceleration chair. The crew of the booster rocket worked efficiently, giving clear evidence that konish space travel was a routine event. A konish full-pressure suit and helmet had been modified for his use, but it was not elegantly done. It hung on him, and he was certain the impending g-forces would efficiently locate all spots where the material was gathered.
"The flight-ah will take-ah forty of your minutes, Hudsawn," Kateos said, strapping in next to him. "If you have difficulties, please tell me." Her proficiency with Legion was incredible. His own facility with the konish tongue was growing more slowly. Kateos drove them to learn each other's language, while she continued to make progress with the voice recognition and translation programs.
Hudson was to spend the winter across the planet, at Goldmine Station. It was Kateos's idea, seconded immediately by Buccari. A common language was necessary. Without adequate communications an accord between the races would be unlikely. Hudson's role as emissary and translator was formalized.
The modest domicile, appropriate for a young warrior, was high on the cliffs—windy, cold, and near the dangers of carnivorous interlopers—but it was his. He was master. Returned from the successful salt mission, Brappa, son-of-Braan, glided onto the terrace of his new home. Gliss, beautiful and nubile, waited on the windswept rock, dark growlerskin pulled tightly around strong, capable shoulders. The sight of his new wife caused Brappa' s heart to soar with boundless spirit. Gliss opened her arms and Brappa embraced her. Scandalous behavior, yet understood and forgiven: the fervor of youth.
"Husband," his wife said. "A meal is ready, and thy rooms art warm."
"Thine eyes art the only warmth I need," Brappa replied, singing the famous words of love. "I have missed thee dearly. Now we live our lives as one, for I am home."
Glorious words. The salt vaults were filled and the hunting forays over. Home were the hunters, and happy were their wives and families. It had been a good year with but few hunters lost or injured. Many gave credit to the long-legs for the colony's good fortune.
Gliss was radiant; Brappa knew she wanted many children. The delighted pair turned to their entryway—and came to a halt, for sonic echoes lifted on the breezes. Familiar sounds—friendly noises—separated from the ambient background, and distinctive echo patterns grew louder.
Their time alone would have to wait.
"They come," he said unnecessarily. The lovers turned and faced the steamy emptiness. Two young cousins flapped happily to the terrace wall and took perch, and then Braan and Ki wheeled into view, landing with athletic prowess, followed by Craag and his mate; and then the venerable patriarch, Veera—grandsire to Gliss— lifted above the terrace wall, alighting with stately dignity. The terrace was quickly overflowing with family and well-wishers; lesser members of the clans perched on the walls and rocky cliffs behind them.
"Thy manners, my son. Thou wouldst invite thy guests into thy home," Ki pronounced, softly but formally. "'Tis impolite to keep friends on the terrace overlong."
"Our home is thine," said the nervous Gliss, using a timeless litany. "Please enter and sing." She turned and hurried inside, panic on her young and beautiful face. Brappa followed, leading the multitude into his humble three-room warren.
Food and drink were brought, and the singing was vibrant. What more festive than a homewarming and the celebration of the coming of winter combined? The celebrants and their gleeful noise overflowed the friendly confines. Neighbors stopped to partake in the cheer and goodwill. Singing spread over the cliff face, and it was a night for the ages.
Resplendent, the valley was painted with the magic wand of autumn. Forest pine, emerald fir, and blue spruce gave depth and contrast to the russet and gold of the turning hardwood. Dry, brittle leaves, dusted with frost, layered the forest floor, and on crisp mornings an earnest film of ice margined the lake, laminating the stony beaches with frosty glaze. It was cold, but as the days shortened the sun shone brighter.
Day's end, a peaceful, chilly gloaming settled over the valley; stars twinkled in deep velvet. Standing at the threshold of her new stone cabin, Buccari noticed Dawson, her infant carried papoose fashion, walking across the common. The tall redhead smiled and waved enthusiastically. Buccari reciprocated.
A commotion came from the horse barn, the horses neighing and prancing; O'Toole was feeding the animals. Threads of smoke wafted into the twilight; the homey smell of wood fire bespoke the coming mealtime. A palisade of sturdy pine boles, strong enough to deter bears and buffalo dragon ran the perimeter of the settlement, with a stout gate that opened to the lake. Two smaller doors provided alternate escape or entry routes. Guard posts, uniformly box-shaped, stood at four of the five corners of the fort, and Shannon, at Buccari's insistence, kept at least two manned at all times.
The harvest had been bountiful. A round stone structure stood next to the horse barn—a grain silo—filled with raw grain. Tookmanian had built a kiln for pottery and an adobe-brick oven in which to bake biscuits and coarse breads. Yeast and small amounts of salt and honey were provided by the cliff dwellers. Bread, wild tubers, herbs, berries, buffalo steaks, and the abundant fish of the lake provided a healthy diet.
Buccari studied her callused hands with pride. She was proud of herself and her crew. Most of them were warming themselves inside the sturdy lodge, where Wilson and his kitchen staff were moving across the rough-hewn floor preparing evening meal; the next watch was already eating. She debated a shower; the lodge had running water—of sorts. The friendly spring upon which they had centered the camp was channeled through stone and leather aqueducts directly into the lodge, and a large, beaten-metal pot hung suspended over a fire in a room off the kitchen. The hot water was used for washing—clothes and bodies. Fenstermacher hadcontrived plumbing that fed an adjustable mixture of icy spring water and hot pot water. The lines to take showers were long, and the warm water pot was always in need of replenishment. Buccari decided against the shower. She would clean up inside her own hut.
Buccari retreated into her abode, closing the thick door; leather hinges squeaked softly. The shutters were already pulled to, and she could feel the glow of the fire radiating and warming the single room. No more than six paces square with a floor of hewn wood, to Buccari the hovel was a castle. The fireplace, built with a wide-stepped hearth for corded wood, dominated the back wall. The door stood centered in the front, and shuttered windows penetrated two of the walls. A low ceiling formed a loft in which she made her bed. A stair built into the wall slanted steeply upwards.
A dweller-made water pot warmed on the hearth. She tested the temperature and, satisfied, poured water into a smaller bowl resting on the squat wooden table. She stripped off layers of fur and hide and stood near the glow of the fire, scrubbing her tough skin with a coarse cloth, noting with fascination the fine dark hair covering her body—thick and curly in places. She dried off with a clean rag. The humidity was low and her skin tightened in the dry air. Her fingers absentmindedly trailed across her cheek and too easily found the puckered line of scar tissue. She picked up a survival mirror and viewed the disfigurement. It could not be changed. Sighing, she pulled on an elkhide shift, just as a tentative knocking came at the door.
"Come in," she said, sitting on a stool and pulling on a pair of supple, pelt-lined boots that had been crafted by Tookmanian; the laconic weapons tech was teaching her how to work leather. The door opened and flickering firelight revealed Goldberg; the fur-clad female stood back from the entrance.
"Come in, Pepper. It's cold." Buccari stood. Though taller than the lieutenant, Goldberg seemed a child in Buccari's presence. "Sit next to the fire." Buccari motioned toward the fur-covered bench built into the stone hearth. Goldberg walked to the seat and sat down, eyes on the ground.
"Just washed up," Buccari said. "It's too much trouble to get warm water in the lodge, and besides, the guys all sit out by the fire and make fun… laughing and hooting."
Goldberg reluctantly smiled. "I know what you mean," she said. "You're lucky 'cause you're an officer. They actually behave around you. You should hear the crap that Nancy and I get, or Leslie even. Hell, they can be real dickheads, er.. excuse me!"
Buccari chuckled. "That's okay. Pretty close to my sentiments, too."
Goldberg drew a deep breath and made a choking sound. She put her face in her hands and began sobbing. Buccari sat and watched, perplexed.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I'm so sorry," Goldberg uttered at last, sniffing. "I've wanted to apologize for so long!"
"Sorry, Pepper?" Buccari asked softly; anxiety welled within her breast.
With great effort Goldberg looked Buccari in the eyes and blurted, "I told the kones about the hyperlight drives." Her crying exploded to a higher pitch, her body wracked by sobs. "I'm sorry," she choked.
Buccari sat heavily, shocked and speechless. Why? she wondered. Goldberg sat and sobbed. Buccari's emotions organized themselves and anger dominated.
"I don't understand, Pepper. What did you tell them? Why…?" she demanded, her voice raising in pitch and volume. She stood, fists clenched, and moved toward the wretched female. She wanted to strike the pitiful figure, but stopped and turned away, chewing on her knuckle. Goldberg's narrow shoulders sagged, and she bawled great tears.
"I–I wanted to hurt you," Goldberg gasped, finally. "I was jealous. You're never taken for granted or pushed around like the rest of us. You don't have to clean fish, or—or do other things. You aren't treated—"
"Enough!" Buccari said, steel in her tone. "I don't need to know. Not now. We can talk later. It's important, but later, okay? What did you tell them?"
"I was so wrong. You saved my baby's life. I'm sorry." "Enough. Pepper, what did you tell them?"
Goldberg straightened. She swallowed and glanced sideways.
"Grid generators and power ratios," Goldberg said, gaining composure. "I never understood the matrix relationships, but I explained—"
"Did you talk about hyperlight algorithms? The Perkins equations?"
"I don't understand them. They never taught us that level of math."
Buccari sighed with relief and pulled the stool closer to the fire. Relentlessly, she interrogated the technician. After an hour of punishing questions Buccari determined that Goldberg was exhausted and incapable of providing new information. Buccari moved toward the door.
"We may be okay," she said. "Power ratios and grid relationships are important, but they won't get far without the equations. Did you tell them who else knows? Did you mention Hudson or Wilson or Mendoza? To whom did you talk?"
"I told them you knew a lot more than you've been telling them."
"Who, Pepper? Who did you talk to?"
"Kateos and Dowornobb. Those other two guys, too. The new ones."
"Mirrtis and H'Aare?"
"Yeah, whatever their names are. I haven't talked to them since you rescued Honey. Honest! I've avoided them. Please forgive me? I'm sorry!"
Buccari grew implacably somber, pacing the confined floor. She turned on Goldberg abruptly. "I deeply wish that you hadn't done it, Pepper. It's serious, Pepper. I don't know if I can explain to you how serious it is. It's deathly serious. What you did is justifiably punishable by death—disobeying a direct order and providing classified information to a potential enemy. No, to a known enemy! Men—men and women—have died, have been executed for much, much less."
Goldberg whimpered miserably and dropped her head. Buccari collected her thoughts. She weighed the obligations and responsibilities of her rank and position and looked down at the dejected female.
"What's done is done, Pepper. It can't be reversed. You did the right thing to tell me, and I'll not punish you. Under the circumstances that wouldn't make sense. We have other problems to deal with, and your help is needed if we're to survive. I need your help, Pepper. I desperately need your help. Do you understand me?"
Goldberg nodded.
"Good night, Pepper," Buccari said.
Goldberg stood. "What next?" she asked. "With the kones, I mean."
"Let me think about it," Buccari replied. "There's no hurry, is there? Winter's almost here. We won't see a kone for five months, maybe longer. For now, just forget about it. It'll be our secret." She forced a smile and opened the door. Goldberg quickly exited, head down.
Buccari shut the door and slumped next to the fire, staring into the flames, a burgeoning sense of depression and helplessness displacing her former contentment. Her deep thoughts masked the passage of time. As the fire mellowed to a soft glow, the temperature dropped. Buccari felt the coolness and stirred to throw a log on the fire. She pulled a silky rockdog fur over her shoulders and yawned. A soft knocking brought her reluctantly alert.
She moved to the door and opened it. MacArthur, his skin burnished, hair and beard streaked by the sun, stood at her threshold, smiling shyly. His gray eyes, made all the brighter by his tan, reflected the amber glow of her hearth. His smile dissolved. The handsome Marine peered intently into her eyes. She saw her own concern mirrored in his sharp features.
"Missed you at evening meal, Lieutenant," MacArthur said tentatively. An aroma of cooked meat drifted in. "Gunner thought you might want a piece of mountain goat. Told me to bring it over."
She tried to respond, but her voice failed. She dropped her eyes.
"Wait until you see the rack from this monster," MacArthur continued, nervously. "Horns as thick as my thigh. We found a big herd up at the head of the valley. There's a glacier and a lake, higher up. Tatum and me found a cave, too. Big cave. It'll make a good hunting camp. We can store meat there, with ice, during the summer."
Her stomach grumbled, and she looked up, embarrassed. They laughed.
"Come on in, Mac," she said, standing away from the door. "Glad you guys are back. Tell me about the scouting mission. Mountain goats, eh?"
"Yes, sir, and we saw what looked like a big cat, too. We got us a big, wild valley. Goes way up…way up…" MacArthur said, staring too long into her eyes. She looked away. "Everything okay, Lieutenant?"
"Checking good, Corporal," she said, forcing a smile but avoiding his eyes. "I'm starved. What's it taste like—the meat?"
"Won't lie to you, sir," MacArthur deadpanned. "Like what you think Fenstermacher might taste like, only tougher. Tookmanian wants to use it for shoe leather." He moved past her and set the burden down, pulling back its cloth covering with a small flourish and a bow.
She picked up a chunk with her fingers and took a bite of the tough, grainy meat. It was delicious and still warm. Her stomach churned with a welling appetite. She looked up and smiled, but as she put her finger in her mouth to lick off the grease she started to cry, deep, shoulder-heaving sobs. She could not help herself; the tears came. Ashamed of her weakness, she turned her head to hide behind a fall of her hair.
Minutes went by, the quiet of the hut marked only by the crackling fire and her wracking sobs. MacArthur moved closer. His hands gently pushed her hair aside. His callused fingers trailed delicately along her neck. She tried to turn farther away, but the Marine cupped the side of her face. She closed her eyes and hot tears ran down her cheeks, growing cold.
"Lieutenant, what's wrong?" MacArthur whispered.
She blinked at the tears, tasting the salt on her lips. Again, she tried to twist away, but MacArthur refused to let go. The Marine lifted her, and she rose unsteadily to his beckoning, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. She opened her eyes. MacArthur' s bright eyes were tragically saddened.
Surrendering, she stepped close, putting her head on his chest. MacArthur' s hand moved gently to the back of her head. As he lifted his other hand the ebony fur slipped from her shoulders. MacArthur deftly caught it and brought its musky silkiness around both of them. At the same time he slipped his arms beneath its warmth, around the small of her back, pulling her into a tender embrace. She shuddered and lifted her chin.
"Corporal MacArthur," she said as firmly as she could. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant," he answered huskily.
"Tonight," she whispered, "please. Don't call be lieutenant." "Aye, sir," he said, bending and kissing her gently on the lips. She responded passionately, desperately. The Marine reacted to her passion with his own, his hands moving with possessive strength, fueling her emotional spiral. Her fur slipped again, and this time it fell to the floor. She shivered but not from the cold. Tears poured down her cheeks, wetting both their faces and seasoning their kisses with salty intensity.
MacArthur slowly, reluctantly, pulled his lips from hers. "What's wrong…Sharl?" MacArthur begged, holding her at arms length.
"Nothing, Mac. Nothing. It's my problem."
"Sharl, let me help you."
"You are, Mac. More than you can ever know. Hold me. kiss me."