Esau and his team had each flown a floater, with a certified pilot beside him. And, on each subsequent day a new floater was brought, each with the control system differently rigged, for them to figure out if they could. Only once did the Indi floater tech have to solve a problem for them.

And every raider became proficient with the short bola-a tough, slender, thirty-nine-inch cord with weights on both ends. Properly thrown, they tangled the legs of rustled Wyzhnyny livestock. Coupled with a quick, aggressive, three-man follow-up, and tough plastic tape, the bola would hopefully serve in lieu of stunners.

On the last night at the prairie bivouac, Esau and Jael walked out of camp beneath a richness of stars that both beggared and lifted the soul. The Candle had set, and the Lamp wouldn't rise till near dawn. Esau had carried a poncho and an insect repellent field generator, and they'd gone to a cedar grove, to make love in the privacy of its deeper darkness.

Afterward they walked slowly back to camp, holding hands.

"Do you recall," Esau said, "what I asked you after the Tank Park Raid?"

She didn't answer at once. Not as if she didn't remember, but as if she was thinking about it. "I remember," she murmured at last.

"What do you think?"

Again her answer lagged, then finally she told him. "I'm still against it, for me. But if you want to, I won't complain or say you shouldn't, because in most ways, to sign up is a good thing."

His only reply was a nod, and after a moment she spoke again. "I read something when I was a child, in Elder Hofer's Contemplations on the Testaments. Even then it struck me as right, and I've reread it since. `Beware what you set your mind on, lest you thereby create it in the world of phenomena.' He was writing about wishing ill on people you don't like, and the debt it might create for you in the eyes of God. But it seemed to me the meaning went beyond that.

"And I'm afraid if I sign a bot agreement, I might bring harm on myself, and maybe those around me, in order to fulfill it."

Esau frowned. He didn't find it convincing, but again said nothing. After a minute they made out the darkness of tents beneath the stars. "But if you want to," Jael repeated softly, "I won't say you shouldn't. Because… because I may be worrying about nothing."

He turned, gripped her shoulders. "I'll let be," he said, "for now at least. And if I change my mind, I'll tell you before I sign."

"Thank you, Esau," she said, and reaching up, pulled his face down and kissed him. "You're a good husband, a good person, and I love you dearly."

Two nights later, at 2350 hours, the Candle was well down, and high thin clouds screened the stars. Esau was planing in from the north, navigating by his HUDs. Now, by night vision, he could see the orchard itself.

What he didn't see were the sparks and vivid flashes far above.

As he drew nearer, he watched for the edge of the uncut grain. It wouldn't do to overshoot it. His night vision showed the standing crop darker than the stubble field. Ensign Hawkins had explained it-something about dew and "evaporative cooling"-but it hadn't meant anything to Esau. He could also make out the broad path a crew had trod through the stubble, and steered so he'd land near it, but in the uncut crop. He could see two others who'd landed ahead of him. They were stuffing gear.

His encased blaster and stuffbag dangled on a line below his feet. The ground leaped upward, the 1.42 gees of gravity jarring him even as he rolled. Then he knelt and looked around. He was, he decided, about three hundred yards from the orchard. Looking back he saw two more jumpers incoming. Their chutes and thermal coveralls were black, but by night vision the coveralls shone faintly golden, barely perceptible.

After pulling in his blaster, stuffbag and chute, he shucked out of his coverall, removed his musette bag and gear, and stuffed chute and blaster case into the stuffbag. It took seconds. By then two more troopers were on the ground. Another was coming in fast, and still another was in sight.

He called up a time readout; keeping on schedule was more important than having the full team. "Bag your gear," he murmured into his helmet mike, "and be ready to move. And keep low." The ripe grain was pale. Their black night-fatigues would be conspicuous against it. Dismissing the no-show from his mind, he murmured, "I'm moving out. Keep twenty-yard intervals crossing the stubble." After two weeks of rehearsal they knew what to do, but reminders were standard.

He straightened just enough to locate the path through the stubble field again, then moved through the crop on all fours. Thirty yards brought him to the stubble's edge, where he paused, prone. The footpath didn't reach the uncut crop. He had twenty yards to go through pale stubble eight to ten inches high. There was no way to avoid it. Leaving his bulky stuffbag just within the crop, he began creeping, pulling with his elbows, pushing with his feet, blaster cradled on his forearms. Then he reached the footpath, where Wyzhnyny feet had scuffed and trod the stubble down, baring dark earth.

Once more he paused, scanning for a sentry along the orchard's edge, a sentry on four legs, with a muscular torso rising from the shoulders like a short-furred neck with arms. When he'd finished his scan, his night vision had found just one. The Wyzhnyny stood unmoving, perhaps forty yards left of where the path led.

The sonofabitch could be looking at me right now, Esau thought. If I was him, I'd let me crawl closer, wait till I was almost there. Meanwhile, all he could do was keep crawling and watching, and if the Wyz raised his blaster, pot him first.

That was the first serious complication the captain had thrown into the drills: premature firing. If it happened, he'd have to change his team mission, and speed things up as much as possible. Until then, slow and easy were the key words.

Before he reached the orchard, he could see the sentry's head hanging. The sonofabitch was dozing on his feet! That was bound to be a bigger problem with four-legged sentries than with two.

Within the orchard's edge, Esau rose, moved ten yards to his right, then knelt waiting by a tree while Morris and Avery crossed, and spaced themselves. Only then did Esau start slowly through the orchard, threading his way among tents, avoiding tent ropes. He heard no sound, not even a Wyzhnyny snore.

The control center, if that's what it actually was, sat in the middle of the orchard. Timbers had been set as a foundation, keeping the chassis twenty inches or so above the ground. No tents stood within ten yards. Its door was closed, but light shone weakly through the windscreen. There was no sentry. When Morris and Avery had reached the small opening and stopped, Esau lowered himself and crept slowly to the floater, belly to the ground. The floater was light-enough green, he didn't want his two-legged form outlined against it. When he reached the door, he looked around, then rose to one knee, slung his blaster, drew his stunner, and tried the external latch. It seemed to work like those on Terran floaters. Within the orchard there was no discernible breeze. Very slowly, very carefully, he opened the door half an inch. Dull light emerged. Quickly he stood, pulled it wide and stepped in.

The Wyzhnyny charge of quarters had heard something. His torso turned, their eyes met, and Esau pressed the firing stud. The stunner's almost inaudible condenser hummed, the upright torso folded slowly, and the seated body fell sideways, toppling the low, padded chair.

Esau closed the door, and after a moment's fumbling, locked it. Less than ten seconds had elapsed since he'd entered. Judging from marine experience on Tagus, the stunned CQ would never waken. There'd been no alarm, and the control screen was serenely featureless. So far, so good, he thought. Let's just hope no Wyzhnyny radios in now.