And five of the attack craft had been destroyed. Five of the twenty-four; he'd made the humans pay. Perhaps the remaining nineteen were all there were. He wasn't about to take it for granted, but he could hope.

Pak, on the other hand, knew. He also knew that three other Dire Wolves had been damaged, though they remained spaceworthy. Everything considered, that was a bargain, but it wasn't one he rejoiced over.

Briefly he considered sending a squadron of his own fighters to harass the withdrawing infantry, but thought better of it. After the marine heavyweights, his craft would be a weak anticlimax. Not the right note to close on.

The evacuated units en route to the backup base location were ordered to return. News of the marine raid and the destruction of the howitzer battalion more than made up for the rush and hard work of packing and unpacking gear.

The Pecan Orchard

Pak stood in his somewhat crowded briefing room, speaking. In a dual role: as Liberation Corps commander, and chief of airborne planning. His listeners were his general staff; several officers of B Company, 2nd Regiment; and the leaders of three platoons belonging to other companies. The wall screen showed a map, and Pak held a pointer in his hand, moving an arrow on the screen.

"The buoys gave us several candidate targets," he was saying. "The one I've chosen is a harvest camp, in a cultivated lacustrine plain fifty-six miles east-southeast of here. The crop resembles grain, and since most of their harvest machinery was destroyed, they have a large crew harvesting with hand tools. It's one of a number of such operations scattered around the colony."

The window changed from a map to a live view from 360 miles up, greatly enlarged. It showed a large field centered on an orchard. Lines of minute figures could be discerned, advancing slowly. The arrow pointed, and magnification jumped, showing a segment of one line, with Wyzhnyny swinging harvest implements. In front of them, the crop stood higher than their withers. Behind them lay swaths of cut grain, with another line of Wyzhnyny wielding what had to be large, long-tined rakes. "A count shows two hundred twenty workers, almost surely soldiers," Pak said.

Again the picture changed. Now the orchard occupied most of the screen. "Notice the three openings where trees have been removed. The object in the center opening is a rather small floater, parked, and almost certainly serves as the command center. The other two hold what seem to be mess tents." Again the magnification jumped, and the arrow pointed. "If you look carefully, you can discern what appear to be smaller tents beneath the trees, probably squad tents and latrines."

The focus and magnification changed. Around the orchard was a band of stubble field where the grain had been cut. The arrow pointed again, and again. "These are two flakwagons, two hundred feet from the orchard, one at each of two diagonally opposite corners. They can target any air attack-or ground attack-from any side. But you will notice"-the focus moved to one of the flakwagons and enlarged it-"that they are not presently manned. Presumably their crews have duties within the orchard, perhaps in the kitchen-somewhere from which they can run to their guns quickly.

"Presumably the work crew has weapons, but they do not carry them in the field. Probably they're kept in their tents. But you've seen Wyzhnyny run. Even in New Jerusalem's gravity, they can be armed and fighting within a minute or so.

"They muster each morning at 0911 hours to begin cutting." He gestured at his science officer. "Major Pelletier suggests the lateness is to let the sun dry the dew off the grain before they start cutting it. At 1308 they take a fifty-minute meal break, then return to the field and work until 1722. After another meal, most of them work until 2107."

Pak looked his people over. "That's a long day, and the work is clearly hard labor. They should sleep heavily."

He paused. "You're all aware that there are three different Wyzhnyny physical types, one larger, with blue fur, another reddish-brown and not so large, and a smaller, dun-colored type." The blues were few, and apparently high-ranking, while the reds seemed to be elite troops. Though experience showed reds in formations of the duns, perhaps as officers.

He went on. "Major Naguib says he hasn't spotted any blues with the harvest crews, but he can distinguish both reds and duns down there. They're on separate work crews. There are somewhat fewer reds, and they don't work after supper. It's been asked why elite troops would be assigned to a harvest crew. They don't appear to be a punishment detail; their hours are shorter, and their work supervisors go unarmed. They may simply be undergoing reconditioning, after wounds or other injuries, or illness.

"I told War House about this last night, and this morning they told me they want six prisoners of each type. That may complicate collection, but there are plenty of both kinds available, so it shouldn't be a serious problem."

Actually Pak didn't like it; his audience read it in his face. The mission didn't need added complications. "Any questions so far?" he asked. "Comments? All right, let's look at the action plan…"

Jerrie troops were excellent squatters, as Jerrie farmers had been, when there were Jerrie farmers. Their legs were thick and strong, the knees and muscles limber and enduring. And at Forest Base there were no benches, so 2nd Platoon squatted a lot. Squatted during occasional field lectures and while yakking on breaks. Just now they squatted for a talk from their ensign.

With replacements drawn from other companies, 2nd Platoon was back at full strength, the only full-strength platoon in B Company. Nearly half of them were unfamiliar to Esau Wesley, who stood, not squatted, in front to one side, facing them. His hands were no longer bandaged. The new skin on his palms was bright pink.

"You may wonder why 2nd Platoon has been brought to full strength," said now-Ensign Hawkins, "when the rest of B Company is so shorthanded. And you new men may wonder why you were pulled out of your old companies. Last evening, Division gave us their reasons, to share with you.

"But first I want to introduce someone to the new people." He gestured at Esau. "Staff Sergeant Esau Wesley has replaced me as your platoon sergeant."

Esau colored visibly. It occurred to him he didn't look like a platoon sergeant. B Company's senior noncoms were of every human pigmentation, but all of them, the survivors and the dead-were or had been tall. At least taller than his own five-eight. He nodded acknowledgement of the introduction, telling himself the Sikhs had chosen him for the job. That should be enough for anyone. And it was a job he'd wanted from the beginning, though he hadn't envisioned someone dying to make it available.

"Esau's here to meet you, and to hear what I'm about to say," Hawkins went on. "Then he's going back to rehab. He'll be with us for good in two or three days. For you newcomers, Sergeant Esau got his job the hard way. He excelled throughout training, was my senior squad leader… and… at the tank park he took out the southwest flak tower single-handed. With covering fire from Corporal Jael Wesley and an unidentified trooper from another platoon. He climbed a rope ninety feet under fire, threw a phosphorous grenade in the firing port to suppress defense, and then, to make sure the guns would be out of service when our floaters arrived, he opened the turret door and threw in a thirty-pound satchel charge he'd carried up the rope on his back. Then he came back down." Hawkins grinned. "Fast, because he was being shot at. Left the skin from his palms and fingers on the rope, when he gripped it to keep from splattering on the concrete ground slab. It's hard to imagine anyone tough enough to do that on purpose. Great job, Sergeant."