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 you want us to stay here?" She opened her arms to include all of them. 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 surrept.i.tious 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 sh.o.r.eline. 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 sh.o.r.e. Glittering stars and a haunting sliver of a moon sparkled from the velvet waters, and gentle waves lapped the rocky sh.o.r.e. 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."

Chapter 33.

A Genellan Year 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 h.e.l.l 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 k.n.o.bby-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 b.u.t.tburger."

Pet.i.t 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 a.s.ses," 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 a.s.sault rifle.

"Have to get d.a.m.n 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 ma.s.sive heads. Still too far away. The first shot would stampede the herd. There would be no second chance.

The prodigious smell a.s.saulted 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 gra.s.ses, 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 gra.s.ses. 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 antic.i.p.ation.

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 gra.s.ses, 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 gra.s.ses 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 a.s.sistance.

"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."