Thou must now look to the needs of the nation;

Here dwell I no longer for Destiny calleth me!

Bid thou my warriors after my funeral pyre

Build me a burial-cairn high on the sea-cliff's head;

So that the wayfarers Beowulf's Barrow

Henceforth shall name it.

Thou art the last of all the kindred of Wagmund!

Wyrd has swept all my kin all the brave chiefs away!

Now I must follow them!

Beowulf, King of the Geats

CAMELOT

They do not preach that their god will rouse them, a little before the nuts work loose.

KIPLING, "The Sons of Martha"

"Cadzie! Wait up!"

Cadmann Weyland chuckled to himself and dug his heels into the slope, slowing his descent.

He politely busied himself, adjusting the rangefinder on his camera. After months on Avalon he still found the shadows too sharp and the sunlight too blue, subtle things, noticed only when he used familiar equipment like the camera.

The Colony sprang into high relief, and the recorder in his backpack vibrated noiselessly to make a holotape recording of the network of buildings and plowed fields and animal pens that stretched out in the valley below. The Colony was ten kilometers farther on, but the electronically enhanced lenses brought its low buildings close enough to touch.

The image jolted as Sylvia slid into him. She caught herself with a palm against his back. "Ouch. Sorry."

"Here." He handed her the camera. "See what we've built." She gratefully accepted the excuse to rest. Her short brown hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and her freckled cheeks were flushed.

Six miles, downhill, and Sylvia was tiring. In the last hour she'd found a dozen reasons to stop. Stones in her walking shoes. Burs inside her blouse.

Cadmann chuckled inwardly. The Colony's biologist was tough, and as stubborn about admitting fatigue as he. She's also three months pregnant. Won't admit there are real differences between the sexes. So be it.

Ernst loped down the slope. A brace of the large silver fishlike creatures the Colony had dubbed "samlon" slapped against his muscular back. His grin split his broad face from ear to jug ear. "Tiring out, Sylvia! You ought to work out! Exercise! I can show you."

Sylvia laughed. "Not right now, thanks, Ernst."

"Later."

Poor bastard. Ernst Cohen had been the solar system's leading authority on reproductive biology, and brighter than hell. You could watch it at cocktail parties: everyone else talking, and suddenly Ernst would say maybe two sentences, and half the room would go silent as the rest of them digested the implications. That was ten light-years ago. Ernst had come out of frozen sleep with the mind of a child.

Sylvia scanned the valley, gave a sigh of pleasure.

"Terrific shot, isn't it?" Cadmann's voice, ordinarily a hoarse rumbling sound, was quietly thoughtful. "National Geographic will love it." He squatted next to her. "Are you all right?"

"Just fine," she murmured. She turned, warming him with her smile.

"But I'll be happy to get back home."

She was almost twenty years younger than he. Sylvia was all quick wit and golden eyes that glowed with life above a galaxy of freckles. Her pregnancy changed nothing. It was wonderful, it was frustrating: being with her made him forget the years and the aches. It's the eyes. She's plain except for the eyes. God help me.

The pass they traversed was at the base of the tallest mountain on the island. The highest of its double peaks was just above thirty-two hundred meters. Both were shrouded with mist. The delicate bat shapes of the pterodons glided in and out of the cloud cover with barely a flutter of their membranous wings. Ernst stared up at them, his face a mask of puzzled concentration. What would Dr. Ernst Cohen have made of them? They aren't really pterodons. There are other oddities. He'd have loved it here—

"They woke him twice," Sylvia said. "Maybe if they'd just left him cold—"

"We did need him. We did," Cadmann said. But Ernst wasn't crew. He could have slept through, but they had a problem with one bank of frozen embryos and woke him, and he'd solved that, and they'd chilled him again, and then there was another problem—And as good a man as ever lived follows me around to carry samples. Son of a bitch—

A square kilometer of plastic-coated solar cells glittered silver on the hills above the Colony. Today's sunshine meant independence from the fission power plants of the landers. An actual fusion plant would be constructed within the next four months. Then the Colony would be fully established, and the spread of man across the face of Tau Ceti Four could really begin.

Across Camelot, anyway. Eighty kilometers of stormy ocean separated the island from the mainland. A New Guinea-sized island was quite ambitious enough for humankind's first interstellar colony. Zack had known what he was doing. Isolate the problems...

So where were the problems?

"Snow up there," Cadmann said, shading his eyes as he gazed up into the eternal clouds at the top. Skis. We didn't bring skis. We have plastics. Carlos can make me a pair of skis.

Sylvia handed him back his camera. Voice carefully neutral, she said, "You don't have to go to the continent, Cadmann. There's plenty for you to do around the camp."

"Nothing that any other able body couldn't do."

"You're not a geologist. You'd be doing grunt work anyway." She looked down at him, sighed in exasperation and gave him her hand for balance as he stood. "Do you just want to go hunting dinosaurs?"

"Sure! What boy doesn't want to bag a brontosaurus?" He slipped the camera back into its holster at his side. "Sometimes I wish we'd brought fetuses for a kodiak, or a few mountain lions..."

He was smiling as he said it, but Sylvia wondered.

Cadmann brushed his hand through thick black hair. There was no gray in it, but his face was sun-cured leather. His body was as young as a daily hour of intensive exercise could make it. He could remember when he hadn't needed regular exercise to maintain the natural tone. Now, at the adjusted age of forty-two, he was seriously considering nudging that up to an hour and a half. I'm slowing down, he thought. She's carrying another man's baby, and I'd rather be with her than... Mary Ann Eisenhower? He thought of four or five women who had made their intentions clear. Phyllis McAndrews. Jean Patterson, willowy blond agronomist rumored to give the best massage on the planet. He just wasn't interested. Time wounds all heels. The glands must be drying up.

Sylvia grinned back. "Only real gentlemen refuse to notice when a lady is slowing them down." Ernst stood carefully out of earshot. His intelligence was gone, but not his manners. She jerked her thumb at the pair of freshly caught silver-and-black torpedo shapes hanging over Ernst's back. Fifteen and twenty pounds, at a guess. One still gaped; the gills still fluttered, too far back on its body... they didn't look that much like earthly salmon, but no other creature of Earth fit either . ...Tell you what. I'll fix dinner tonight. Everybody to the beach for a samlon roast."

She linked her arm with Cadmann's as they marched down the side of the hill. He grinned maliciously. "Are you sure Terry won't mind that?"

"Oh, come now. I'm just a poor pregnant lady biologist who appreciates the presence of a strong man—and Terry's known you for years."

"I may not be as safe as you think."

She snorted. "Fat chance. When I'm sure you want my body and not my mind, I'll faint."