His concentration was taxed. Carrying thirty kilos of equipment made every trudging footstep an epic effort, and the adrenaline rush generated by the penetrator insertion had given way to total fatigue. Full planetary gravity pulled on every muscle and every tendon. Shannon's heart fluttered, his eyelids sagged, and stinging perspiration blurred his vision. His ears rang; blood pounded in his head. He shook the fog from his brain. The main stand of yellow-barked spruce was behind them, down the gentle hill toward the lake. Only a few stunted trees remained between them and the rocky escarpment. The ground was firm and mattedwith a fine weave of low vegetation. Early season berries, blue, black, and bright red, sparsely dotted the hillside.

O'Toole landed heavily at Petit's side. He peeked over the log and then looked down at Petit.

"You okay?" panted O'Toole. "You look ugly. Uglier than usual."

Petit raised his head and then laid it back down, unable to respond.

"Drink some pig-juice, Petit," Shannon ordered.

Petit rolled his muscular body on its side, his pack thudding onto the ground. After a swig of precious field stimulant, his eyes cleared and his color returned. "Yeah," he gasped. "I'll live. Gawd, I'm out of shape for this cross-country stuff."

"Gravity," wheezed O'Toole.

"It's less than Earth, you wusses," Shannon snarled.

"Been a long time since any of us been back on Earth, Sarge," O'Toole huffed.

"Quit whining. Get it together, Petit," Shannon snapped. "Cover me." Shannon forced himself erect, knees protesting. He stalked across the clearing and climbed the rocks until he was even with Tatum. The dark cave lay just beyond. Tatum twisted to face him; perspiration dripped from his nose. Rocky terrain blocked the chill wind.

"What've we got, Sandy?" The rising elevation permitted Shannon to look back over the tops of the trees, out over the lake, to the rising plateau rim where they had landed. Faint, filtered sunlight danced off the rippled lake. A penetrating gust of wind whirled around the protecting rock, whipping up dust. Trees rustled softly.

"Not sure, Sarge," Tatum replied. "Thought I saw something. Just a movement." Tatum had a glove off and was chewing on his thumb. He spat out a shred of nail.

"Think it was making the noise?" Shannon asked. Tatum shook his head. Shannon nodded and walked between the boulders, climbing the cascade of lesser stones toward the cave. Leaving the lee of the boulders, he felt the cool wind on his sweat-soaked body. The ground transitioned from loose rock and talus into slab and hard pack. Shannon searched for signs of habitation, for any sign of life, knowing the cave was going to be their home. He reached down to his calf scabbard, extracted a short-bladed survival knife, and fitted it to the muzzle of his assault rifle. Bayonet in front of him, Shannon covered the distance to the cave opening.

It was empty. High enough for a man to stand erect at the threshold, the cave widened and increased in height for about ten paces and then converged sharply to a low rock wall. A dark gloom filled the cave, but there was sufficient light to reveal the absence of occupants. A dusky odor hinted of large animals, and tracks patterned the gritty floor; fist-sized drifts of black, matted fur were scattered in the recesses, and crushed and splintered bones gave indication this was the home of a meat eater. Paw prints in the sand were doglike, bearing ominous sign of long claws—the first sign of animal life, competitive and visceral, the tracks of a carnivore.

Shannon backed out into the wan sunlight and assembled his men. The sun-star peeked from its shroud of high stratus and was quickly masked by swollen cumulus barreling overhead. Rolling gusts of wind thrashed the boughs of the small forest.

"Got a storm coming, so let's move," he barked. "The 'vette comes overhead in fifteen minutes. O'Toole, get the ground station operational, and set up the nav' beacon for a check. They can get a fix. Tatum, make camp in the cave. We were lucky enough to find it, so let's use it. It's dry, and it's big enough. That's the good news. The bad news is something else lives there, and as far as I can tell, it has claws and eats meat, so keep the weapons ready. Actually, that's good news. It means there's food."

"Yeah," Tatum muttered. "Just a question of who does the eating."

Braan and three warriors soared silently over the casements of the redoubt. They presented themselves with imposing dignity to the watch adjutant, who reciprocated with equal carriage, alertly sending for the sentry captain. Young sentries stared in unabashed awe at the fierce presence of armed veterans. The adjutant, seeing disarray on the sentry common, correctly ordered the piper to sound "Assembly." The screeching call catalyzed the buzzing and chirping groups; the milling crowd became a formation of sentries wearing freshly tanned leather armor and carrying shortbows and pikes. In contrast, Braan and his seasoned companions wore thick, sweat-darkened battle hides and carried iron knives in addition to their thick attack bows.

Braan's comrades were famous warriors. Braan had wisely gone to old Botto, clan of Botto, and requested assistance. The venerable Botto, once leader of hunters but now too old to journey down the cliffs, was held in great esteem for past deeds and good manners. Botto would have suffered insult had his clan been excluded, and he had directed his two eldest sons, Bott'a and Tinn'a, to be Braan's lieutenants. The third stalwart was Craag, clan of Veera, the clan of Braan' s wife. The tall, grizzled Craag was second only to Braan in hunter hierarchy.

Kuudor, clan of Vixxo, captain-of-the-sentry, an old campaigner and mentor, marched in their direction. Kuudor' s gait revealed a severe limp, and his left shoulder was scarred and barren of fur. The crippled veteran halted smartly, front and center of the assembled sentries, adjutant at his side. Braan and his company approached. The blooded warriors exchanged formal greetings, their eyes sparkling with memories of shared danger.

Braan spoke first, as was fitting: "Kuudor, captain-of-thesentry, three sentries are requested in service of the elders. We foray to the northwest, to the vicinity of Three-Island Lake, to conduct reconnaissance. To return before the large moon is new."

"Braan, leader-of-hunters," Kuudor responded. "This mission feels of grave import, or such proven warriors would not be commissioned. It is an honor to assign sentries to this endeavor, and three worthy novices have been chosen." Kuudor turned to his adjutant and gave orders.

Brappa, clan of Braan, was first called; Sherrip, clan of Vixxo, Kuudor' s grandson, capable and strong—one of the best flyers— was next called; and the adjutant, Kibba, clan of Kiit—clever and a leader of his peers—trilled his own name last. All marched forward proudly.

The strongest and bravest were going forth. Kuudor turned to his remaining charges and gave a short, impassioned exhortation. A new adjutant directed the gathered in singing the death song—a series of mournful, haunting wails—and as the somber notes faded in the rising wind, the adjutant thrust his pike skyward, commanding a round of lusty hurrahs. With the cheers of the formation resounding in their ears, the patrol formed up, warrior and sentries shoulder-to-shoulder. Braan, at the formation's head, screamed a command and marched to the precipice. The others followed, unfurling membranes in time-honored syncopation, hopping from the cliff's sheer edge and launching on the urgent winds, tremendous wings cracking like thunder as they sought out the impatient breezes. Burdened with leather and iron, the seven cliff dwellers sailed into the void—and sharply upward. Upward they spiraled, the strong northwest wind blowing them out over the river chasm. Braan countered the wind by slipping and skidding against it, trading vertical lift to maintain his position over the ground. Upward the hunters soared, until they were but motes in the blue sky, soaring on rising air currents, landbound creatures no more.