Taloned feet caught her attention, as did the spindly digits of its hands. Unbelievably, the little animal carried a bow and wore a leather garment. Dawson stared down at its long, narrow face, large black eyes unflinchingly locked into her own. She sensed intelligence and tried to say something, but her voice failed. Dawson exhaled—she had been holding her breath. The creature warily turned and waddled uphill, moving quickly over the rocks. Dawson swallowed, took a deep breath, and reluctantly headed down the hill. O'Toole would be angry.

Braan circled back to maintain contact with the tall newcomer. The long-legs moved unsteadily downhill, carrying its container of rockberries. Berries—it was not a meat-eater. Braan was attracted to subtle movement on the hillside. Rockdogs—two of them—skulked along the shadows of boulders above and ahead of the long-legs. Stalking.

Rockdogs were cunning and dangerous, one of the most dangerous of adversaries. Braan looked around. There would be more than two to a pack. The rank and musty dog scent was strong,the animals directly upwind. Braan scanned the downwind rocks, looking for dogs still hidden. The hunter loosened his wings and pulled an arrow from his quiver, ready for fighting or fleeing. He climbed, watching the parallel paths of the animals below, but also watching for surprises from above. The waiting rockdogs held their positions, shiny pelts blending into rocky shadows. Two more rockdogs crept into view! Events were out of Braan' s control. If the long-legs were gods, they were about to be tested by the appetites of nature.

The long-legs walked awkwardly down the rocky hillside, using its hands to stabilize its clumsy bounds. It was only paces from ambush and looking at the ground, unaware of the impending danger. Braan noticed movement farther downhill.

Dawson stopped to catch her breath and to admire the view. The fog had blown clear. Sunlight reflected from the golden lake, and the rim of the plateau stretched starkly across the near horizon, delineating the immeasurable distance to the endless prairies beyond. She reached into the bucket and grabbed another handful of berries. Thirsty, she knelt by the sparkling stream and drank deeply of its icy water. The sun warmed the red lichen-streaked rocks, so many of them faceted with quartz and pyrite crystals.

Getting to her feet, she looked down the hill. The cave entrance was out of sight, but she saw Marines milling about, preparing for the hike to the lander site. She wanted to see the landing, but someone had to watch the radio. She stretched and stared into the blue skies, thinking about the peculiar animal. Perhaps her eyes had played tricks on her. She took a step forward and froze—thirty paces downhill, Tatum crouched behind a rock, his assault rifle aimed at her.

"Sandy, don't shoot! It's me—Nancy!" she shouted.

"Not aiming at you," Tatum replied in a throaty whisper. "Freeze."

Dawson looked up and saw two black shadows moving above Tatum.

"Behind you," she whispered, slowly pointing. Tatum turned. The closest dog lifted a grizzled muzzle and snarled, baring ferocious canines; its chewed and notched ears laid back on its head, and a magnificent mane of silvered hackles rose across its back. It sprang. Tatum swung his rifle, discharging it on full automatic. The leaping rockdog died before it fell to the ground, a volley of explosive slugs shredding its raven chest. Rifle blasts exploded the still morning, sending echoes bouncing through the valley and across the lake. The dog pack scattered like leaves before the wind, frightened by the detonations of man.

Braan's eardrums throbbed. Flames had belched from the stick held by the green-clothed long-legs. The rockdog had been slapped down in mid-air, and the vicious concussions had caused Braan pain. Braan was dizzy. Gods! The power of gods! Magic power—the power to kill! Frozen with awe, Braan watched the long-legs. The green-clothed one, the long-legs with the magic stick, even taller yet, put an arm around the obviously frightened sand-colored one. The green one scanned the rocks—a hunter. The sand-colored long-legs was not a hunter, much less a god. The sand-colored one pointed uphill. The long-legs-that-killed peered in that direction, and without looking down, leaned over and grabbed the carcass by its scruff. Together they dragged it down the hill, leaving a trail of blood. Meat eaters, after all.

"Would you look at that!" Fenstermacher gasped.

Dawson, holding her berry pail, followed Tatum as he lugged the trophy across the clearing. Tatum lifted the ebony carcass above his shoulders and dropped it in a splatter of gore and dust.

"Fresh meat," he shouted. The humans approached cautiously. The beast, even in death, was fearsome; fangs and claws sprouted from bloody black fur.

"Who knows how to skin it?" Gordon asked.

"Skin it? Why?" Dawson said. "Can we eat it?"

"I'll butcher it," Shannon announced from the cave terrace. "But it will be tougher than anything you have ever eaten."

"I bet it lived in the cave," said Tatum, squatting and examining the animals claws.

"Yeah," Shannon snapped. "While I'm gutting that SOB, I want you Marines to get your butts in gear and get the nav beacon out to the landing site. Tatum, get 'em going!"

"You bet, Sarge," said Tatum, standing erect. "It jumped us." "Used up enough friggin' ammo," Shannon snarled.

"There was three more of 'em, but this is the only one I shot," Tatum replied. "Dawson saw something else, too. Tell 'em, Nance."

Shannon bounded from the terrace to the tenting area. He unsheathed a jagged-edged survival knife and strode up to Dawson. He bent his head only slightly and stood nose-to-nose with the tall lady.

"What the hell you doing walking off by yourself? I told everyone to stay with the group at all times? I don't care if you have to take a crap. You do it with company, and that company will have a loaded weapon with them. You hear me?"

Dawson tried to return the sergeant's stare, but Shannon was too fierce, too belligerent; she could not maintain eye contact. His dark eyes were red-rimmed and sunken, surrounded with black shadows, his face and head covered with week-old stubble, thick and grizzled. Dawson unconsciously ran her hand down the nape of her neck feeling her own incipient crop of red hair. Averting his eyes, she meekly replied, "I hear you, Sergeant."

Shannon mercifully redirected his glare and squatted next to the carcass. He commenced to stab and tear at the animal's belly.

"So what else'd you see?" he asked softly. Before she could respond, Shannon looked up at the Marines still standing around, curiously awaiting Dawson' s story. "Am I going crazy, or did I not tell you leadbutts to get your asses in gear? Get moving, now!"

Everyone jumped. Petit and O'Toole, slinging rifles over their shoulders, grabbed the beacon and double-timed toward the lake. Tatum and Gordon followed. Mendoza, awkwardly carrying a rifle, and Fenstermacher, with a holstered pistol, moved off to take sentry positions above the cave. Leslie Lee stood on the cave terrace, watching and listening. Dawson looked up at the medic and then back down at Shannon's broad back.

"So what'd you see?" Shannon asked, as he yanked out entrails with a liquid, ripping sound. Dawson stared, fascinated at the gore. Feeling her stomach wamble, she swallowed; dizziness threatened to overcome her. Shannon's hands and wrists were crimson with blood, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled up to his meaty, tattooed biceps, as he tore the pelt from the back of the bloody carcass, using the knife to lever it free, leaving behind pink marbled flesh.

Dawson opened her mouth, but no words came forth. Tasting hot, acrid berries, she turned her head, put her hand over her mouth, and ran to the edge of the clearing.