As Braan worked his way back to the lake he observed the green-garbed long-legs making their way along the northern edge of the lake. Braan reached the high rocks above the lake, unlimbered his wings, and leapt out over the sparkling green water. The hunter glided most of the way to the island and then let himself settle onto the clear surface. The waters were warm. Braan landed softly and folded his wings, catching enough air to maintain buoyancy and, with only his eyes and nostrils exposed, paddled to the island. Craag awaited.

The explosive reports had frightened the hunters. They feared for their leader's well-being, but their fears had been assuaged on seeing Braan traversing the cliff face. The commotion in the aliens' camp had also attracted their attention, and they watched the strange beings depart for the high plateau. The hunters listened in awe as Braan related his adventure.

"The long-legs are powerful," Braan said.

"Why were you not harmed, Braan-our-leader?" Bott' a asked, a bold question.

"The sand-colored one had not a magic stick, and I made no move to attack. The rockdogs attacked," Braan replied. The longlegs had not desired to harm him; the long-legs did not perceive him to be a threat, even though he was clearly armed. A good portent.

The silent hunters pondered the events. Braan suddenly deduced why the strangers were returning to the plateau rim: the thunderous craft would return. The aliens were being delivered to the plateau by the silver ship. Every explosion heralded the arrival of more long-legs.

"Today there will be great noises, as yesterday and the day before. The flying object will return. More long-legs will be among us," Braan announced. The hunters marveled at their leader's prediction.

The second landing was not routine. Penetration and approach were normal, and transition was routine, but touchdown was rough.

The lander wavered severely, skidding and tottering. Buccari felt lateral forces tilting the nose of lander. With lightning reactions she disengaged the autopilot and jammed in a hard control input, offsetting the unprogrammed yaw. She was lucky, catching the excursion in time. A split second later and the lander would have toppled from its skids and exploded with a full load of fuel, killing crew, passengers, and all Marines in the vicinity. The corvette crew stranded in orbit would also have died, only more slowly.

As she waited for the lander skin temperature to stabilize, Buccari checked her instruments and command programs. With tertiaries still turning, she and Jones ran a diagnostic on the control systems but could find no indication of what had caused the unruly control inputs. When the skin temps fell within limits, the Marines and passengers moved the bulky cargo clear of the lander and staged it for transportation back to camp. Quinn had surprised Buccari by insisting that the planet survey package be transported to the planet. Buccari had not argued; they would need the medical supplies, the seeds, the raft, and the tools.

Reluctantly, Buccari shut the lander down. She checked her chronometer; the corvette would be overhead in fifty minutes. She took off her helmet, unstrapped from her station, rolled out of her seat, and climbed clumsily down the steeply slanted center passage to the aft cargo door. Gravity felt as welcome as a headache. Buccari stepped heavily onto the surface of the planet and recoiled at the bright sunlight. She was uncomfortable—a hatched fledgling, raw and exposed. Buccari took a deep breath of natural atmosphere into her lungs, so different from the insipid air of space. She could taste moistness. A sweet, humid scent flooded her sinuses. She sniffled.

Buccari scanned the exhaust-blasted rock at the base of the lander, her vision unaccustomed to focusing at a distance and reluctant to range outside of a narrow realm. Forcing herself to squint outward, she saw yellow and white blossoms clinging in profusion to the granite slabs of the plateau. Obsessed with the thought of touching real flowers, she trudged from the blackened rock to the nearest cluster of blossoms, knelt stiffly beside them, and delicately immersed her face in the shallow garden. The odor was euphoric. The quartz-shot rock beneath her was warm and smooth; her discomfort melted into the receptive granite.

An impatient buzzing caused her to sit upright, as a tiny yellow bee retreated from her newly claimed flower patch. A clutch of saffron butterflies flitted nervously about, moving unsteadily against a gentle headwind. She laughed aloud and fell on her side, head on an elbow, to watch the offloading of cargo; but then she noticed Shannon rounding the lander, headed in her direction. Reluctantly, and with dismaying effort, she pushed to her feet and met him halfway.

"Nice planet, Sergeant," Buccari said.

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but I had very little to do with it," Shannon replied. "Big autopilot in the sky, you know?"

"Touchй, Sergeant." She walked in step with him toward the lander. "Well, something's wrong. Had a secondary control input at engine cut-off. I was lucky to catch it, and even luckier not to overcorrect."

"What's your plan, Lieutenant?"

"Don't think there's an option. Unless Jones can find something mechanically wrong and fix it, we'll be going for orbit as she stands." Buccari blinked at the horizon, still finding it difficult to look to a distance. "We'll fly it out manually. Fuel's no problem."

They walked up to the lander as Jones was shutting the access hatch. Jones pulled off his helmet and disconnected his suit power umbilical.

"Nothing, Lieutenant," Jones announced. He smiled at Shannon and nodded a greeting. "Gyros check out, and the thruster servos check good. No leaks. I'll keep looking, but all the obvious things pass muster. You sure it was the port side that fired? Playback shows nothing."

"No, Boats, I'm not sure. It happened too quickly to check instruments. I just jammed power. Maybe I dreamed it. It happened so fast," she said.

"Nah, we was definitely slewing. You saved the ship, Lieutenant."

Buccari smiled and flexed her biceps. She turned to Shannon. "Let's prepare a sitrep for Commander Quinn."

Hudson read Buccari's message aloud over the general circuit. References to the possibility of intelligent life captured Quinn's attention, but only momentarily. Quinn's focus—the focus ofeveryone on the corvette—was the status of the EPL. The lander was their bridge to existence, their ladder to life. The corvette was starting to feel like a coffin.

Rhodes and Wilson, at their respective watch stations, were playing chess on one of the corvette's computers. Quinn brought up the three-dimensional representation of their game on his own monitor. It was nearing end game. Rhodes, playing black, was vulnerable to white's rook and pawn attack. It looked like mate in less than five moves. Quinn changed screens and ran a systems check, sardonically chuckling at the ruinous state of his ship. His thoughts wandered involuntarily back to the motherships and to his wife. With conscious effort, he swept away the depressing thoughts and returned to the chess game.

"Sir, I downlinked the diagnostics and EPL maintenance data. Anything else?" Hudson asked, sitting at his watch station on the flight deck.

Quinn sat silently. Buccari and Jones were the best apple crew in the fleet. It was up to them to get the lander back to the corvette. There was nothing more he could do.

"Tell her good luck," Quinn replied, staring through the viewscreen. He shook off his dread and returned to the instruments.

"Fifteen down safe and six to go…counting Buccari and Jones," Hudson chattered over the intercom. "This planet looks more like home every day. Not paradise—whatever that is—but fresh air and water, and life. Flatulent flowers, big bats with bows, and fifty kilo carnivores."