"Anything is better than slow death in a tin can," Rhodes responded over the intercom. Quinn brought the chess game back up. Rhodes made a defensive move.

"Ah, Virgil, my friend," said Wilson over the intercom. "We don't know what we'll find down there now, do we? It may well turn out in a few days we'll wish we had the privilege of dying in space, surrounded by things we understand."

"Horsebleep, Gunner!" responded Rhodes. "You're dead for sure in this bucket. It's only a matter of weeks before it falls out of orbit, and we'll be dying of thirst long before that. I don't care what you say, you're like the rest of us; if you can delay pain and death, you will."

The intercom went silent. Hudson finally reported back: message to Buccari received and understood. Quinn acknowledged and returned to monitor the game. Rhodes's defensive situation was getting worse. Wilson's rook relentlessly menaced the black king, leaving Rhodes's position untenable. Yet Rhodes refused to concede, desperately seeking a counter that would take the pressure from his king and shift the weight of the attack to his opponent.

"Same-day rule!" Wilson needled. "You still there, Virgil?" Rhodes grunted an obscenity over the circuit. Wilson continued. "No, I reckon survival instinct says it's better to get off this burned-out pile of metal and to live for as long as we can. I feel it, too. I want to get down. But just wait—it's warm here. I don't want to die in the cold."

"You're wearing your helmet too tight," answered Rhodes's disembodied voice. "You're going to live fifty more years, Gunner, and we'll find you a regular tropical island down there. It's a whole new world. No people… except us. Here's my move."

"You know, Virgil," Wilson said quietly. "Chess is a lot like life. You start off with lots of power, but it ain't developed—you can't use it. You have to try things. Some things work, some don't. If you use your pieces well, you get to play longer, but there's no getting around it—sooner or later you start to lose your pieces, your fuel, your power. And after a while, you're down to the endgame, making do with only the last few pieces, kinda like getting the most out of an old dog, or an old horse—or an old beat up corvette." Wilson made a seemingly distant and unrelated move.

Rhodes advanced a piece. "Okay, Gunner. Enough bullshit. Your move."

Quinn watched as Wilson moved the white bishop with tantalizing slowness across the board, attacking the black king. "Time to start another game, Virgil. Checkmate."

She strapped into the cockpit. All systems were responding, but there was no hint of what had caused the lander to misbehave. Buccari read through the ignition and takeoff checklists. She was nervous. She had performed full-manual takeoffs, but only from Earth. Earth, even with its encompassing strife and poverty, had abundant recovery fields, and the penalty for failing to make orbit was simply coasting to a runway, refueling and trying again, or worst case—having someone do it for you. This was her first cold-iron restart from the surface of an alien planet. She would get only one chance to do it right. Fuel was critical, and anything short of complete success would mean leaving four men stranded on the corvette for the rest of their very short lives.

She peered out. The sky was a glorious mixture of coral and orange, with violet and gray-scalloped clouds spaced evenly overhead, a splendid reward for the coming of night. A solitary erect figure stood in the distance, fading into the dusk—Shannon. The other Marines were not visible, but she knew they were there, deployed as guards around the EPL. Guards against what?

She was anxious to return to the planet; she had seen flowers and smelled natural air. The corvette was dying, and life in space was a poor substitute for living under the warm sun of a virgin planet. But then she put her hands on the controls and felt the narcotic thrill of latent speed and power. The heavy, trigger-laden control stick transmitted an electric sensation, a stimulation resonating deep within her. The massive throttle accepted her strong grip and promised explosive acceleration beyond dimension. She donned her helmet and secured the fittings; the hiss of air brought back her professional world, like a light switch illuminating a dark room.

"Okay, Boats. Ready for ignition. Checking good."

"Checking good, Lieutenant," Jones responded. "Temperatures and pressures in the green. Starting injector sequence."

Jones read off the checklist and Buccari responded with the countdown. At time zero Jones initiated ignition sequence; fuel pressures climbed into actuator ranges; the tertiaries ignited, providing power and superheat. At ignition plus three seconds main igniters commenced detonating in stages; a low-level static rasped in Buccari's helmet speakers. The hover blaster screamed their high-pitched screech, and the secondaries fired from the tail. The EPL slowly lifted from the exhaust-battered rocks. The annunciator panel indicated the landing skids and stabilizer nozzles were stowed. The main engines gimbaled to line up with the lander's arcing center of gravity as the nose of the craft searched for vertical. Buccari's firm hands rode the controls, balancing the craft on a column of fire. At ignition-plus-six, the lander's main engines exploded with a monstrous kick of power, crushing Buccari into her seat. She grasped the catapult handles adjacent to throttle and sidestick, acceleration forces clawing at the muscles of her forearms and neck. Fighting the leaden inertia of her body and the dullness of her mind caused by the compression of her brain, she forced herself to concentrate on the lancing flight of the lander. Her vision tunneled, eradicating peripheral vision; her eyeballs rattled in her skull. Seconds seemed like hours, but they were mere seconds. The acceleration schedule altered dramatically; she adjusted g-loading, dropping it consistent with dynamic pressure optimizations. Buccari flexed her arms and shoulders against the cramping strain.

"Nice job, Lieutenant," Jones said. "Never wavered from profile. Escape velocity in fifteen. Temperatures stable. Checking good."

"Roger, Boats," she exhaled. "Checking good." She smiled, proud of herself. Full-manual takeoffs from planetary gravity were done only in an emergency. Things could go very wrong, very fast. She peered ahead, into the deep purple of the thinning atmosphere.

The hunters breathlessly watched the phosphorescent fireball scream into the pastel heavens, a white-hot exhaust trailing an immense tongue of orange flame. As the silver-tipped explosion neared the high wispy clouds, the roaring missile brush-stroked brilliant shades of red and yellow instantaneously across their dark undersides. The glowing rapier leapt from the planet's shadow and into direct sunlight, trailing a glorious and starkly white plume. Braan rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe out the fiery ghost images. Gradually they faded, allowing his night vision to adapt to the descending dusk. Braan hopped from the rocks. Hunters not on watch followed, congregating in the rocky clearing adjacent to their cave. They sat dumbly.

"Even if not gods, they are frightening beyond comprehension," Craag spoke at last.

"Gods would be less frightening," Bott'a said.

"They are not gods," Braan added softly. "I have been near to them. They are frightened. perhaps more frightened than we."

"Then they are dangerous, for the frightened eagle crushes its own egg," Craag said. Silence returned to the little clearing. Bott'a jumped lightly to his feet and motioned to Kibba. The watch mates wordlessly departed through the bushes. It was their turn to collect food, and fishing was too good to sit around talking. Brappa followed. Craag remained.