In dim moonlight MacArthur made contact with the hunters approaching the cove beach. Together they walked across the narrow peninsula to the lake shore. Glittering stars and a haunting sliver of a moon sparkled from the velvet waters, and gentle waves lapped the rocky shore. A night creature hooted mournfully. As MacArthur' s eyes adapted, he detected other hunters moving wraithlike through the shadows.

Buccari and Shannon arrived. Under the insignificant light of the new moon Buccari rendered a formal greeting. Captain returnedher salutation and presented a parchment—a message from the elders. It was too dark to read; Buccari slipped it under her furs.

"Captain doesn't trust our new friends," Buccari said.

"The kones are the giants, the bear people in dweller mythology," said MacArthur. "The cliff dwellers are afraid of them."

"So am I," Shannon said.

"So should we all, if the dweller legends are true," Buccari said.

"Blasting the fleet into hyperlight wasn't a good start with us, either," Shannon said. "Do—"

A soft whistling caused Captain to turn abruptly. The hunter leader turned back to MacArthur and flashed adroit hand signals in the dim light. The cliff dweller leader had learned MacArthur' s sign language with ease and was as much teacher as student.

"Someone is coming. One of ours," MacArthur translated. A rustling noise marked the approach of a two-legged animal— Hudson.

"Did you put our friends to bed?" Buccari asked. "What was that all about?"

"Yeah, they're back in the tent. I'm not certain," Hudson replied.

"They act as if they've never seen children," Shannon said.

"I don't think they have," Hudson answered. "Kateos garbled something about konish children being taken from their mothers as infants, but she wasn't making much sense. They're very emotional. What's going on?"

"Captain delivered a letter," answered Buccari. "Let's find some light and decipher it. I have a feeling that it's a warning to avoid the kones—as if we could."

"The cliff dwellers know something we don't," MacArthur said.

"The kones seem peaceful," Hudson said. "They treated me well."

"All we've met are scientists," Buccari said. "Watch what happens when the political or religious leaders get involved."

"Lieutenant, are these the Killers of Shaula?" Shannon asked.

"It's a big galaxy, Sergeant. It sure smells like it, but who knows?" Buccari said. "Enough for now. Nash, I want you to notify each member of the crew they are not to discuss cliff dwellers around the kones. Top Secret. Let's learn as much as we can, and be as nice as we can—but try not to tell them anything. We've got three days of diplomacy ahead of us. Don't blow it."

Summer advanced; the settlement grew in steady stages but never fast enough for Buccari. Shannon knew he was in trouble before she spoke.

"Where the hell are they?" she snapped, flipping a thick braid of sun-streaked auburn over her shoulder. Lizard followed her like a dog, stylus in hand. Two other cliff dwellers—stone carvers— labored on the lodge foundation, setting stones and nervously watching the heated exchange. Whenever kones were present in the valley, the cliff dwellers became invisible, but with the kones gone, the knobby-headed creatures scurried about the settlement with characteristic single-minded purpose.

Shannon looked down at the striking, if stern, visage. "MacArthur thinks he can get close enough to the buffalo to get some of their hides. I gave him permission to take Tatum and Chastain across the river and give it a shot. I take full responsibility, sir."

"Sure, Sarge," she snapped, "you always do, but—dammit, I want this lodge and palisade up as soon as possible. With Hudson and Chief Wilson gone south, we're a bit short-handed, now aren't we?"

"Yes, sir. The rest of us will take up the slack, Lieutenant," Shannon continued. "We need the hides, sir. Mac doesn't want to shoot any more lake elk. Tatum says there aren't that many in the valley. Killing off the local herd won't help us in the long run."

"Okay, Sergeant," she exhaled, turning to continue on her rounds, the cliff dweller mimicking her movements. "It's a good call. I just hope they survive the stink. The musk is awful strong today."

"They'll do okay, sir," Shannon replied as Buccari marched downhill toward the planted fields on the margins of the cove.

"Whoee, Sarge," O'Toole whistled, "Thought you were buttburger."

Petit and Gordon, leaning against large rocks just transported from the quarry, laughed at Shannon's expense. Shannon's neck grew hot.

"You helmetheads better start putting real muscle on those rocks instead of just your fat asses," he snapped. "Move! You heard the Lieutenant."

The Marines crept over the low ridge and looked down upon endless herds. A rippling herd of gray-striped tundra gazelles bolted from their scent, and a giant eagle soared low over the downs, its monstrous wings flapping lazily. The river valley lay behind them. To the west, billowing ash and steam, were the twin volcanoes; beyond the volcanoes were the cliffs of the plateau; and beyond the cliffs were the perpetually snowcapped mountains, gracing the horizon with their ponderous majesty. A land of immense vistas— and immense odors.

"Good grief, Mac!" Tatum exclaimed, gagging. "How can you take this?"

The cinnamon-red and burnt-umber backs of musk-buffalo formed a placid sea of pelt and muscle. Interspersed at irregular distances were small concentrations of lighter-colored animals, muted straw-yellow and gold. MacArthur looked skyward and saw Captain and Tonto soaring overhead, the hunters his near constant companions. Returning his scrutiny to the grazing beasts, he pondered his options. He had to get closer. No wasted bullets! MacArthur could think of only one strategy.

"Stay put," he ordered, rising to his feet. "I'm walking until I get close enough to shoot."

"What!" Tatum exclaimed. "Closer? The smell will kill us." "I said stay put! I'm going solo. If it gets bad, I'll turn back." "I'd say it's bad enough now," Tatum groaned.

"Gotta kill him to stop him," Chastain said. "Careful, Mac!" MacArthur grinned as he checked the action of his assault rifle.

"Have to get damn close to hit anything with that," Tatum said.

"Then I better start walking," MacArthur muttered. He would go right at them, slow and steady. The smell was immense. His head throbbed, and his sinuses burned. His nose and eyes started to run; he worried that his eyesight would be too blurry, but he pressed forward, the musk-buffalo oblivious to his presence. At three hundred meters some animals lifted their massive heads. Still too far away. The first shot would stampede the herd. There would be no second chance.

The prodigious smell assaulted MacArthur' s sanity. He reeled with nausea, constantly shaking fuzziness from behind his eyes. He stopped, dropped to a knee, and threw up until his stomach was empty, and then he retched and gagged for many more minutes. His guts purged, he staggered to his feet and continued his drunken march toward the milling buffalo. He heard soft lowing and bellowing. He forced his vision to focus and noticed the nearest animals moving away, slowly, the press of the herd holding them in check. When would they spook? Could he get a shot off? Out of the corner of his eye he detected a motion; Captain and Tonto glided low over the tundra grasses, coming straight for him. The cliff dwellers landed at his feet, hopping to a halt, chattering and squeaking, flashing hand sign. MacArthur stared stupidly, unable to comprehend. His throat burned. With effort he recalled his mission and began walking, but immediately stumbled and fell, leg muscles stiffening and joints locking.