"Mighty low orbit, Commander," Rhodes interrupted the checklist.

Quinn looked up from his console. They were already in a rapidly decaying orbit.

"Yeah…low," Quinn said. "So we pick up the apple and boost back to orbit, where we load it with a full bag of fuel and head for the deck, to live happily ever after. If that song breaks down, we'll have to come up with a new verse."

"I'm ready to sing," Rhodes replied tensely.

Quinn took a deep breath and commenced the countdown. It was only a two-second burn with one percent power—a pat on a baby's ass.

"…three…two…one…zero." Quinn hit the ignition switch. The engines fired and held for two seconds, and then extinguished as programmed. Both men screamed in delight.

Quinn hit the transmit button. "We're coming, darling!" he shouted.

After a pause Buccari responded, her voice theatrically stiff: "Excuse me, Commander, but were you addressing yourself to me?"

The soft rumbling had grown steadily over the past kilometer, sometimes eclipsed by the gravelly cacophony of the individual streams, but never completely lost. It was a distinct noise—a vibration, a loud, crashing background ambiance. MacArthur crested a gravel bar to gain a vantage point. He peered into the misty gloaming and saw the river—the real river. Its primary channel spread before him, perhaps three hundred meters across, moving smoothly and with obvious power. Upstream and downstream MacArthur saw white water—cascades of turbulence bounding over and around large boulders—the source of the ambient roar that had been haunting them.

It was their last hurdle; the bank opposite rose steeply, and the foothills beyond were tantalizingly close. The men moved across the bar, curious to approach their challenge. MacArthur stopped at the edge, his confidence slipping. The river churned and roiled, moving swiftly to their left. Downstream, surging white waves seasoned with crystalline humps of green-black water crashed and rattled over a spectacularly rugged section of rocks.

"Let's walk downstream. If we cross here and don't make it, it'll be a rough ride." MacArthur had to repeat himself because of the noise.

They hiked over slippery rocks, past angry sections of chewed-up water crashing around jagged pinnacles. The noise was deafening, the air thick with mist. MacArthur' s apprehension grew. He began to doubt their ability to make it across at all, much less before nightfall. They confronted a barricade of debris, an accumulation of bleached-out limbs and logs impeding their progress, but as they worked through it MacArthur registered an idea. Wood! They would make a raft of driftwood. It would be ungainly, but if they could find a calm stretch of river, they could make it. It would not have to be a big raft, just enough to take their weight.

"Jocko, start collecting wood," MacArthur ordered. Grimacing, he slid straps from his aching shoulders and deposited his load on the rocks. Feeling suddenly and deceptively springy-legged with the lightening of his load, he stretched his back and shoulders. They were reasonably high above the water. If he could not find a likely spot to cross the river, they would camp here for the night. "Try to find some large pieces. Couple of meters long. Enough for a raft. I'll check out the river." Chastain shucked his immense pack onto the rocks with a crunching thud.

Gloomy dusk was fast surrendering to impatient night. MacArthur scanned the river downstream, searching for telltale spumes of luminescence indicating rocks and rapids. The crescendo of the tortured water abated; he could hear the torrent at his feet, and the river flowed more gently, still with good speed but without the urgency associated with turbulence. He walked farther; the loudness receded. The river melded into darkness, but the low cliffs of the far bank gave him a dim perspective of distance. He slowed his pace. The river could be crossed with a raft. He stopped and stared one last time into the darkness—the decision made.

As he peered into the murk, clouds to the south pulsated with flickering blue light. A low rolling cannonade of thunder echoed up the river valley. He turned and headed back, leg-weary, stumbling over loose river rock.

Council chambers echoed with clicking talons. The hunters were ushered before the elders, unusual at this late hour—the elders fatigued easily. But the explosions from the sky, louder even than thunder, had reached the cliff dwellers' deepest fears. It had started again! The elders were frightened. The hunters lined up before the council, and Braan moved into the dock. For once he waited to be addressed, as was proper.

"I bid brave warriors welcome. Braan, leader-of-hunters, of clan Soong, please speak," said Koop-the-facilitator politely.

"Long life, excellency, I am humbled," Braan said with unusual ceremony. A cool breath of air fluttered through the chamber, causing spirit lamps to gutter and dim. The storm rolling up the river valley was a severe one—brilliant threads of lightning had guided the hunters' flight down the cliff face. Raindrops had pattered on them as they approached the portal of the grand assembly. An angry night.

"Braan and his hunters have returned," the facilitator said, his expression intense, "and the mysterious thunder plagues us still. What news of its source?"

"Visitors.. powerful visitors, elder," said the somber Braan. "Loud noises come from their flying machine. Each time it soars, noise rends the air and more strangers are come."

"Bear people?" the facilitator asked.

"Not bear people," Braan replied. The hunter leader proceeded with his detailed report, rapidly exceeding the limits of cliff dweller knowledge. Braan was interrupted with astonished exclamations. The hunter leader begged to proceed, endeavoring to answer with the whole tale. There were mysteries for which he had no answers.

"They are not gods. They are tall and strong and have clear eyes, but they fear injury and death," Braan stated, hearkening to the rockdog incident. "Yet they kill like gods—from a distance, using sticks that spout loud noise and flame. Weapons we cannot match."

"'Tis the stick that kills, not the being?" a steam user asked. "The long-legs kill with the stick," Braan affirmed.

"Have they wings?" a fisher asked. "Did not initial reports attribute to them the power of flight?"

"No wings. With the exception of the silver machine, they cannot fly or soar. Or at least were not seen doing so. They walk slowly and clumsily wherever they go."

"Thy recommendation, Braan, leader-of-hunters?" Koop asked.

Braan pondered and said nothing. This was not rude, for a direct question was an invitation to consider deeply. The facilitator sat back, content that he had asked an important question.

Braan's answer, when it came, was not unexpected. "Our knowledge is insufficient to make a choice. Our alternatives are to kill them or to become their allies. Both alternatives offer consequences. Killing them could only be done at dear price, for they have powerful weapons. Yet kill them we can, for they are few, and we are many." Braan paused and looked about the chamber. The elders each fixed him with a stare of undiluted fear. Braan worried for the future.

"Becoming allies is likewise a dangerous path," Braan continued, "because it can only be done if the long-legs so desire. By offering ourselves to their compassion, we lose the advantage. If they prove treacherous, the cost in dweller lives would ultimately be far greater."

"Should we not attack immediately, before more long-legs arrive?" Bott'a-the-hunter asked impetuously—and rudely. The elders stirred.

"The young warrior's question is appropriate," Braan said. "To attack swiftly would increase the likelihood of victory. But it would also eliminate all other options. We would become enemies—a difficult condition to alter."