"More aliens approach!" Dowornobb reported, his fear smell gushing forth. Kateos saw aliens in dark green striding across the field. All carried weapons, and Kateos discerned fear in their features. The little long-haired one walked up to the newcomers and began talking, pointing down the hill. The green-garbed alien with one arm grabbed a weapon and waved it fiercely at the abat.

"Now's our chance!" Tatum shouted, brandishing his rifle. "They're helpless. We got 'em! I say we kill the bugs and push the plane into the trees. They'll never be found." The Marines nodded in affirmation.

"At ease, Tatum!" Buccari ordered.

"Put the rifle down, Sandy," Shannon ordered softly, inspecting the airplane. The aircraft was huge, with long, drooping slab wings and massive low-pressure tires—representations of a technological society capable of employing deadly weapons and effective search techniques.

"You might be right, Sandy," Shannon said, "and then again, they may have already reported in on the radio. Listen to the lieutenant. There's no harm in checking things out first, and everyone on their toes—these guys have lasers."

"Bullshit, Sergeant!" Buccari barked, the sun reflected angry red highlights from her hair. "We've already gone over this ground!" She snatched Hudson's pistol and walked up to Tatum. Tatum stood his ground.

"Anyone even thinks about hurting these—these bugs, is going to have to come through me." Her eyes were furious. Shannon stepped toward the confrontation, but Buccari took another step closer to Tatum. She pounded the pistol butt against the tall Marine's chest, pointing the barrel straight up to Tatum' s chin. Tatum did not move.

"Tatum, think about it!" she cried. "We saved an alien's life. Now we have to help them, so their leaders will know we mean no harm. It's the clearest, most unambiguous message we can send. We got real lucky, and Bosun Jones has already paid with his life. Jones doesn't need revenge. We both know what Boats would have wanted us to do. Think about it, Tatum! Think! Don't screw it up!"

Tatum retreated a half step and nodded sharply. Shannon eased closer, took the rifle from Tatum' s hand, and softly clasped the Marine's shoulder. MacArthur gingerly reached in and removed the pistol from Buccari's grasp.

"What transpires?" Dowornobb asked. "How can they stand the cold?"

"The smallest one argues our cause," Kateos replied, donning a spare breathing unit. "But what now? How will we get Et Avian back to Ocean Station? He needs medical assistance. The cold will kill him if his injuries do not."

"They are coming in," Dowornobb said. He shut off the cargo section, sealing in warm air for Et Avian, and opened the smaller crew door forward. He stepped back from the door and watched the aliens climb awkwardly up the forward ladder. They were so delicate, their legs and arms like plant stems, their skulls unbelievably tiny. They chattered rapidly, frequently at the same time. Showing great curiosity, they looked everywhere. They gawked at the flight deck and, using crude sign language, requested permission to go forward. Dowornobb did not know what to do. He nodded.

The aliens moved into the seats. They pointed at instruments, and then the small one, using only one arm, pulled on the flight controls. The taller one, using both arms, was able to move them full travel. It was impossible for the small one to see over the instrument panel, or to reach the foot pedals. The taller one could just manage, but his attention was captured by a map case.

"The small one is female," Kateos said knowingly.

"Whew, it's stuffy," Buccari said. "Why don't they open a window?"

"Look! Charts!" Hudson cried. "Take a look! They aren't stopping us."

"You're right. Wha—Wait a minute!" Buccari exclaimed, glancing at the monsters. "Something's wrong. They should be in a hurry to take off. Their friend's seriously hurt. Why aren't they pushing us out of here? Why aren't they starting the engines?"

"Maybe he's not hurt that bad?" Hudson said with a shrug.

"He's in bad shape," Buccari said. "I don't care how big and strong he is. He's going to die without some medical treatment. And soon." She stood and approached the aliens. Grimacing in pain, she used her hands to make takeoff motions. The aliens watched her carefully and talked anxiously. She was not getting through. She pulled the charts from Hudson—satellite composite topography overlaid with a nav grid and strange markings. One was dog-eared from use, a flight track lined across it. Buccari recognized the scratches and notations, not understanding the words but knowing for certain their purpose: landing points, fuel consumptions, enroute times, headings. She traced the flight track to its origin, noting that it followed the river all the way. The chart hypnotized her; she stared with fascination at the depiction of the terrain and the scaled distances.

Buccari broke her concentration from the chart and confronted the smaller giant. She pushed the chart in front of the alien, her finger on the point of origin. She dragged her finger along the flight track on the chart and pointed to the controls. She pointed at each of the aliens, making flight control motions with her hands. The smaller alien looked at Buccari and pointed in the distance, downhill in the approximate direction where the murdered member of their crew still lay, and then the alien pointed to the pilot's seat. After a short hesitation, the alien pointed at the injured alien and immediately thereafter to the other forward seat.

"They have no pilot," Buccari moaned. "Tatum' s going to get what he wants."

Hudson sat silently. His face brightened. "We could fly it back. It's an airplane isn't it?" he asked.

Buccari stared straight ahead. "You're right! Damn straight! You can fly it back," she said, turning toward Hudson. "But you'll have to do it alone, Nash. I can't go with you."

"Me? Alone? Without you?"

"Yes! Yes, it's got to be," she insisted. "Nash, they need me here, and my shoulder's screwed up! I'd be worse than useless. I'd be in your way. I can't reach the rudders. I can't even see over the panel. You can fly this truck. We have to get the injured alien to a doctor, and fast!" She moved from the pilot's seat, making room for Hudson.

"Sharl!" he cried. "I need help to figure out the systems."

Buccari patted him on the head as if stroking a spaniel. "You've already figured most of them out. Once you get this hog into the air, all you have to do is follow the river."

"What about fuel?" Hudson asked. "This thing's going to need refueling."

"I bet that's what these markings indicate here, here, and here," she said, excitedly pointing to the chart. "They have prestaged fuel, or airfields, and I bet these two can help. Get in that seat and figure out how to start the engine. I'm going to tell Mac to bring up your gear and some food. I'll be back. Okay?"

Hudson looked down at the chart and then out the front windshield.

"Sharl! This is crazy," he groaned, sliding into the pilot's seat. "It was your idea," she shouted as she went out the crew door.

Dowornobb followed the alien's uncertain movements. The engine was revved high, vibrations rattling the abat. Dowornobb watched the alien fumble with the controls, apparently looking for the parking brake. Dowornobb reached down and disengaged the lever. The plane lurched forward. As the craft bounced and jostled down the grassy hill the skinny alien retarded the throttle, shouted with glee, and slapped Dowornobb on the shoulder. The alien chattered to himself, and Dowornobb answered, so as not to seem rude. The alien looked at him strangely, and Kateos giggled.