"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 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 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 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. 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 hoa.r.s.ely. "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 grat.i.tude.

"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.signed the task of interpreting the long-leg drawings. He had delegated this to his a.s.sistant, steam user Toon, a capable intellect. The drawings were simple, and Toon had compiled a translation scheme and added pictographs he felt would a.s.sist in expanding the communications.

"With permission, facilitator," Bool spoke. "Steam user Toon has a.n.a.lyzed the pictographs and has expanded them. I offer Toon to work directly with our visitors."

Koop nodded approval, and steam user Toon, clutching his ma.n.u.scripts, 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 b.u.g.g.e.r," 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 st.i.tched 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 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. 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-h.e.l.l-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 cl.u.s.ter 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 grat.i.tude.

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 b.a.l.l.s, Mendoza, you let 'em get close enough," he growled. "Tatum, you, Gordon, and Pet.i.t 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 s.h.i.t!" Pet.i.t said. "Those bat bugs intelligent? You sure?"

"Pet.i.t, 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 a.s.s, 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.

Chapter 26.

Nightmare 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 h.e.l.l 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 m.u.f.fled scream brought him up short. The safety line jerked tight-viciously tight! Throwing the meat down, Tatum swung the a.s.sault 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 cracks in the gale. One of the animals fellconvulsively to the snow. The others disappeared into the blizzard. The line went slack. 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l is Tatum? You hear something?" he growled.