Jason quickly dug out a glob and rubbed it onto his cheeks. Reluctantly, the other two did the same. Before they were finished, the Pyrran scowls had deepened, which Jason had not thought possible. He wished they would relax, or this game would be over before it began. In the past week, once the others had approved, their plans had moved on teflon bearings. First the planned “retreat” from the planet, then the establishing of a base in this isolated valley. It was surrounded by vertical peaks on all sides and completely inaccessible except by air. Their resettlement camp was in the mountains nearby, a bit of plateau that was really only a large ledge set in a gigantic vertical cliff, a natural escape-proof prison. It was already occupied by a clean and embittered family of nomads, five males and six females, that had been caught away from their tribe and quieted by narcogas. Their artifacts and clothes, suitably cleaned and deloused, had been turned over to Jason as had their moropes. Everything was ready now to penetrate Temuchin’s army, if Jason could only get these single-minded Pyrrans to cooperate.

“Let’s go,” Jason said. “It should be our turn by now.”

With its capacious holds and cabins, the Pugnacious was still being used as a base, though some of the prefabs were almost erected. As they went down the corridor toward the lock, they met Teca coming from the opposite direction.

“Kerk sent me,” he said. ‘They’re almost ready for you.”

Jason merely nodded and they started by him. Relieved of his message, Teca noticed for the first time their exotic garb and grease-covered faces. And the fierce scowls on the Pyrrans’ faces. It was all very much out of place in the metal and plastic corridor. Teca looked from one to the other, then pointed at Meta.

“Do you know what you look like?” he said, and made the very great mistake of smiling.

Meta turned toward him, snarling, but Grif was closer, standing just next to the man. He sank his fist, with all of his weight, deep into Teca’s midriff.

Grif was only nine, but he was a Pyrran nine-year-old. Teca had not expected the attack nor was he prepared for it. He said something like whuf as the air was driven from his chest, and sat down suddenly on the deck.

Jason waited for the mayhem to follow. Three Pyrrans fighting, and all of them angry! But Teca’s mouth dropped open as he looked, wideeyed, from one to another of the furry trio who surrounded him.

It was Meta who burst out laughing, and Grif followed an instant later. Jason joined in out of pure relief. Pyrrans rarely laugh, and when they do it is only at something broad and obvious, like a man’s being knocked suddenly onto his backside. It broke the tension and they roared until their eyes streamed, laughing even harder when the redfaced Teca climbed to his feet and stalked angrily away.

“What was all that about?” Kerk asked when they emerged into the frigid night air.

“You would never believe me if I told you,” Jason said. “Is that the last one?”

He pointed to the unconscious morope that was being rolled into a heavy cable sling. The launch, with vertijets screaming, was hovering above them and lowering a line with a stout hook at the end.

“Yes, the other two have already been delivered, along with the goats. You go out in the next trip.”

They looked on in silence while the hook was slipped through the

rings in the net and the launch was waved away. It rose quickly, the legs of its unconscious burden dangling limply, and vanished into the darkness.

“What about the equipment?” Jason said.

“It has all been moved out. We set up the cainach for you and put everything inside it. You three look impressive in those outfits. For the first time, I think you may get away with this masquerade.”

There were no hidden meanings in Kerk’s words. Out here in the cold night, with a knifelike wind biting deep, their costumes were not out of place. They certainly were as effective as Kerk’s insulated and electrically heated suit. Better perhaps. While his face was exposed, theirs were protected by the grease. Jason looked closely at Kerk’s cheeks.

“You should go inside,” he said, “or rub some of this grease on. It looks like you’re getting frostbitten.”

“Feels like it, too. If you don’t need me here any more, I’ll go and thaw out.”

“Thanks for the help. We’ll take it from here.”

“Good luck then,” Kerk said, shaking hands with them all, including the boy. ‘We’ll keep a full-time radio watch so you can contact us.”

They waited silently until the launch returned. They boarded quickly and the trip to the plains did not take very long, which was all for the best, as the interior of the cabin felt stuffy and tropical after the night air.

When the launch had set them down and gone, Jason pointed to the rounded form of the camach. “Get inside and make yourselves at home,” he said. “I’m going to make sure that the moropes are staked down so they don’t wander away when they come to. You’ll find an atomic power pack there, as well as a light and a heater to plug in. We might as well enjoy the benefits of civilization one last evening.”

By the time he had finished with the beasts, the cainach had warmed up, and cheering light filtered through the lashings around the door flap. Jason laced it behind him and took off his heavy outer furs as the others had done. He rooted an iron pot from one of the hide boxes and filled it with water from a skin bag. This, and the other bags, had been lined with plastic which had not only leakproofed them, but made a marked difference in the quality of the water. He put it on the heater to boil. Meta and the boy sat silently, watching every move he made.

“This is char,” he said, breaking a crumbly black lump off the larger brick. “It’s made from one of the shrubs, the leaves are moistened and compressed into blocks. The taste is bearable and we had better get used to it.” He dropped the fragments into the water, which instantly turned a repellent shade of purple.

“I don’t like the way it looks,” Grif said, eying it suspiciously. “I don’t think I want any.”

“You better try it in spite of that. We are going to have to live just like these nomads if we are to escape detection. Which brings up another very important point.”

Jason pulled his sleeve up as he spoke and began to unstrap his power holster, while the other two looked on with shocked, widened eyes.

“What is wrong? What are you doing?” Meta asked when he took the gun off and stowed it in the metal trunk. A Pyrran wears his gun every hour of the day and night. Life is unimaginable without one.

“I’m taking off my gun,” he patiently explained. “If I used it, or if a tribesman even saw it, our disguise would be penetrated. I’m going to ask you to put yours in here, too—”

Before the words were out of his mouth there was a sharp ripping sound as both of the other guns tore through the leather clothing and slapped into their owners’ hands. Jason looked calmly at the unwavering muzzles.

“That is exactly what I mean. As soon as you people get excited, zingo, out come the guns. It’s not that you can’t be trusted; it’s just that your reflexes are wrong. We’re going to have to lock the guns away where we can get at them in an emergency, but where their presence can’t betray us. We’ll just have to handle the locals with their own weapons. Look here.”

The guns zipped back into their power holsters as the Pyrrans’ attention was captured by Jason’s display. He unrolled a skin that clanked heavily. It was filled with a wicked assortment of knives, swords, clubs and maces.

“Nice, aren’t they?” Jason asked, and they both nodded agreement. Babies and candy: Pyrrans and weapons. “With these we’ll be just as well armed as anyone else, in fact better. For any one Pyrran is better than any three barbarians. I hope. But we’re shading the odds with these. With the exception of one or two items, they are all copies of local artifacts, only made of much better steel, harder and with a more permanent edge. Now give me the guns.”