"The rest of us are less adapted to running and fighting," she continued. "Sooner or later we'll leave a trail that brings them to us. When that time arrives, when they show up, we must show strength, strength of character. And then be prepared for the worst."

"It's better to fight," Tatum said. "Can't the rest of you adapt?"

"Look at Goldberg and that little baby! Look at Dawson!" Buccari almost shouted. "Try to tell me you can run and fight with that on your hands."

Tatum looked at his feet.

"Once you start shooting at them, you become their enemy," Buccari said, pressing the point. "And they will hunt you down."

"But they shot at us, in space," Chastain complained.

"It's their system. They make the rules," Buccari answered. "We have a chance of convincing them we mean no harm. That's our best hope. You shoot at them, and I guarantee you'll piss them off, and then we're all dead. Or worse."

"Shouldn't we go looking for them—the aliens?" O'Toole asked. "I'd rather find them before they found us."

"Yeah! We could take them out!" Tatum said, fire in his eyes. His tone surprised Buccari. Tatum, even with one arm, was transforming back into a soldier, a trained performer of mayhem. She looked at the Marines and noted similar transformations in all of them; an enemy was near. They were not listening. She looked to Shannon for support.

"O'Toole!" Shannon snapped. "How much ammunition—?"

"Sergeant!" Buccari snapped louder. "Come with me." She pivoted on her heel and marched to the cove beach. Shannon followed.

"Bad move, Sergeant," Buccari said when she was out of earshot of the crew. "You don't know where the plane went, or even if it landed." The waters of the cove were mirror flat. Two gaudy ducks navigated across the serene cove opening, creating smooth and persistent wakes. On the far bank of the lake, seen through the opening of the cove inlet, a herd of lake elk watered, at peace and unafraid.

"Sir," Shannon insisted, "there can't be many bugs on this planet. We take out the airplane, we buy time—weeks, maybe months. Perhaps the difference between being rescued or not."

"I understand. I don't agree, but I understand. Why not just lay low?" she asked, trying to stay calm.

"And I understand your point of view, Lieutenant," Shannon said. "Commander Quinn told me I needed to make the decisions for the Marines. I would like to exercise that professional discretion, sir. We're not in a Legion spacecraft, now. We're fighting for our lives—on the ground. That's my job."

Buccari looked up at the square-jawed Marine and realized his ego and sense of purpose were sitting squarely on his brains. That he would invoke Quinn's name was a clear signal he was not ready to accept her leadership.

"Sarge," she said. "Only one of us can be in charge of this mess. Go play your games. But remember, if you start a war, my friend, you better head for the hills. Don't come back. I don't care how much we need you."

"Sir, what if we make peaceful contact?" Shannon asked. "I know you'll try, Sergeant. That's my hope."

Shannon's Marines jogged over the rocky terrain, marching along the cliff-sided riparian valley. The angry river crashed and tumbled on their right hand; white-water rapids filled the air with noise and moisture. Shannon looked backwards, checking the disposition of his men. A gaggle of hunters waddled far to the rear, struggling to keep up. It was too early for thermals. Eventually they would take to the air and leave him behind. He resumed his fast march.

The white aircraft appeared overhead. The tumult of the cataracts overwhelmed its engine noises, and the alien craft was on them. It jerked abruptly and banked hard on a wing.

"Hold your fire!" Shannon shouted over the crashing water.

"They know where we are," MacArthur yelled. The plane angled around for another look, climbing to a higher altitude.

"Hell!" Petit shouted, lowering his rifle. "I could've blown them out of the sky."

"Hold your fire! Don't even aim your weapons!" Shannon bellowed. If they attempted hostile action now, it was unlikely to succeed, and their hostility would be reported back to the alien authorities. Buccari' s words haunted him.

"What now?" MacArthur shouted.

"Nothing," Shannon said. "We stay right here until it goes away. I don't want to give them an indication of which way to go. Just stand here and look friendly, like the lieutenant told us to do in the first place." Shannon raised his arm and waved. MacArthur nodded in agreement and held his open hand tentatively in the air.

Lollee flew low so they could see the wildness of the river. "Look!" he shouted. "Hiding in the rocks! Next to that waterfall— aliens!"

The stick-legged, green-clothed creatures with white upturned faces were clearly visible, scrambling along the rocks. Some attempted to hide, though two aliens stood conspicuously in the open.

"They are so thin," Et Avian said, peering through binoculars. "They have weapons."

"Interesting they would just stand there," Kateos remarked.

"What else can they do?" Dowornobb replied. "There is no cover, and we know they are of high intelligence—running around like frightened beasts would not make sense. They know they have been seen."

"Careful, they could fire their weapons," Kateos said.

"No! They are waving!" Et Avian said. "Rock your wings, Lollee!"

The pilot complied, banking his craft back and forth. They flew over the aliens again, their flight path taking them down the river to the mouth of a spreading lake valley. The richness and grandeur of the sun-washed valley registered with Et Avian. He realized that the valley was where the aliens had settled. It was beautiful, the early morning sun flowing golden across its width and breadth.

"Land there!" Et Avian ordered. "Over there, on the far side of that valley, above the tree line. It is the closest point on this side of the river." Lollee followed the noblekone's pointing finger, adjusting his course for the eastern slope of the valley.

"Wait, shh!" Hudson whispered. "The airplane! Hear it?" Buccari, heart pounding in her chest, listened to the stillness.

And then her heart stopped; a whining engine growled ever louder. "It's coming!" she said, sick to her stomach.

Nerve-tugging noises echoed across the lake and reflected between the valley flanks. Louder and louder! There it was, flying low over the lake. It came abreast the cove inlet and banked sharply. The straight lines and right angles of the stone foundation were like signals from a beacon. The plane climbed and flew two wide observation circuits. The humans, some hiding under trees, a few peeking from the tents, some frozen at their task, watched helplessly. Buccari stood in the middle of the clearing. After the second circuit the plane flew to the east, disappearing over the tree tops climbing the side of the valley. The faint sound of its engine altered abruptly.

"It landed on the ridge!" Fenstermacher shouted. "The damn thing landed!" He came running up from the lake, joining the distraught humans gathered around the cold ashes of the fire pit.

"Gunner," Buccari barked, moving into action. "I'm going to meet them. I want you to collect everyone and move out. Grab as much food as you can carry. Break down the tents and stand ready. If all goes well, I'll come back with our visitors. If you hear gunfire, get moving—fast! Head for the cliff dweller colony. Rendezvous with Shannon."

"Nash—" She turned to Hudson. "Get two pistols. Let's go greet them."

"Me, too. I'm with you, Lieutenant!" Jones insisted.

Buccari looked at the broad-shouldered boatswain. The man was balding on top; the hair along the sides of his head had bushed out, and his gray-shot beard was full. Jones wore baggy elk skin leggings and a parka made from rockdog pelts. He looked every bit the savage.