"Cadmann." Stu's voice was urgent. "There must be a thousand of them out there. Not a hundred meters from you. Get out of there."

"Shit. Not until we get that fence fixed. Are they coming toward us?"

"Not yet—"

"Let us know. Hairy, get that damn fence taken care of. Move!"

"Slave driver—"

There were things out there, humping through the darkness.

A flash of movement near the fence. A tongue of flame licked out, caught the grendel in mid-charge. Coated with jellied gasoline, it bolted off into the ravaged fields, chased its tail in diminishing circles. Finally it lay on its side, jaws mindlessly snapping at its own smoldering limbs. Its hungry siblings ringed it, crawled closer, waiting patiently for the fire to die.

Harry fussed with continuity meters. "Weld there," he said. Mits Kokubun's torch flared briefly. "And there."

"You might get on with it," Greg said.

"God damn it, I'm doing all I can—"

"Sorry, Mits, didn't mean you to hear—"

"Shut up." Cadmann tried to see everything at once. Harry with his meters. Mits and his minitorch. Greg watching behind. Carlos and—

"They're moving in," Stu said. "Cadmann—"

"Got it," Hairy whispered. "Done!"

"Then let's get the hell out of here. Move away from the fence.

Everybody clear?" He touched the comcard. "Activate outer fence."

"What about the inner fence?"

"Leave it on. Gimme the speakers. HEAR THIS, BOTH FENCES ARE

ACTIVATED. TOUCH ‘EM AND DIE.

"Okay, now move. Greg, you're point man. Watch to the front. Carlos, you're watching our backs. Stay alert. Avalon needs all the lerts it can get. Mits, don't look at me, look off to the right! Now move."

Cadmann stared at his watch. Midnight? Dawn was hours away. It seemed a week since they'd repaired the fence break, but in fact no more than an hour had passed.

Greg's rifle spat once beside him. "Another one. Got him."

"Her," Cadmann said absently. The outer fence still held. Grendels must learn from other grendels: there hadn't been another mass assault on the fence. They still came by ones and twos over the pile of dead at the original fence break, but almost none got through alive: two lights and half a dozen rifles guarded that break.

It couldn't last. Half an hour. Give me that. Half an hour.

He got twenty minutes.

Cadmann was asleep standing up. A flurry of gunfire brought him awake.

"Thousands of them!" Greg was shouting. The searchlight jittered wildly. Black shapes darted over the bodies piled at the break. The light swung. Twenty meters to the left was another pile of still smoking bodies. Grendels came over that.

"South side. Fence is broken on south side."

"Break on the west side."

"The outer fence is shorted. No power left in the outer fence. All the circuit breakers have popped."

The searchlights swung through no-man's-land between the fences. Grendels swarmed there. Mines detonated. Pillars of fire rose from cans of buried kerosene. Rifles fired wildly into the melee.

No pattern. They come. They avoid each other, they'll attack the same target, but they don't cooperate. No strategy—

If you' re outnumbered bad enough, strategy doesn't matter. Who said that? My tac officer at the Point, or some ancient Trojan?

There were arcs from the inner fences. Not as many. Off to his left, Carlos was directing flame throwers through the fence. Someone else raced across camp to another fence break.

"Stu. Time to do your stuff," Cadmann said.

"Okay, but this is it for kerosene. And I'm at three-quarter charge."

"Charge you'll get. The outer fence isn't drawing power any more. Now

GO before we all do. Outer fence is gone. Protect the inner one."

"Roger."

The Skeeter rose into view. Stu must have lifted the instant he heard

Cadmann speak.

Once again the Skeeter whipped around the inner periphery as the crew dumped kerosene and other inflammables.

"FLARES," Cadmann ordered.

The fires leaped up. Grendels tore at each other, ran from the flame, leaped at the fence; the ground worked with grendels. And gradually the arcing at the fence stopped.

"Cadmann. I hear them, Cadmann. They're out there. We'll lose Minerva, and it's all your fault, you stubborn bastard—"

"Marty." It was a different voice. It took Cadmann a moment to realize: Geographic had come over the horizon, and Rachel was speaking. "Marty, just take it easy. Cadmann knows what he's doing."

They said more to each other, as if Cadmann couldn't hear. He turned off the speaker.

Cadmann knows what he's doing.

"Stu."

"Yeah?" Stu sounded sleepy again.

"Better start shuttling people out. Women and wounded first. Get ‘em up to the Bluff."

"Cad—you sure? You've held this long—"

"I've held this long, and Marty isn't about to sleep or relax or anything else. I want that Minerva out of here. It's one less damn thing to worry about."

"Okay, buddy. Can't even say I'm sorry."

"He will be," Jill said.

"Uh?" Cadmann frowned.

"No picnic at the Bluff. We can't hold them here, with the fences and minefields and power for the Skeeters. No picnic at the Bluff."

"Yeah. You don't need to tell everybody."

"I won't." She went back to the searchlight.

The Skeeter took off five minutes later.

Jill Ralston bit her lip, fighting through the pain. Her eyes were huge and frightened as Cadmann belted her into the Skeeter. She was the last female defender of the camp. Her burned left arm was wrapped in gauze; it looked like a big white pillow. Her thin face showed determination and an edge of pain. Her short mane of coarse red hair stirred in the Skeeter's turbulence.

Cadmann tested her belt, grunted in satisfaction. Jill flinched as he brushed her bandaged arm.

"What's my assignment once I get to the Bluff?"

"Have Jerry take care of that arm. Get some rest if you can. You're going to need it. By that time I'll be up there too."

"Don't be long," she said, settling back into the Skeeter seat, voice already becoming drowsy.

Cadmann slammed the Skeeter door closed. "Take it, Stu."

"Roger."

The autogyro's rotors whipped dust around him. It rose and peeled away.

"Precious cargo, amigo," Carlos said from behind him.

"One day you're going to sneak up on me and I'll shoot you. Precious.

Should she have been on Geographic?"

"No, no, she is not pregnant yet—"

"I see."

"But I did rescue her from the ridge."

"And heroes get their rewards." When her arm heals. If it heals. And if it doesn't, old Carlos may be the best medicine she'll ever find.

"Quiet."

"Too quiet. But I like it."

"Enough meat for all, I think," Carlos said. "They fight and they feed, but they prefer not to feed on each other."

"Son of a bitch. I think you've got it," Cadmann said. "But can they cooperate?"

"I do not know. Sometimes it seems they do. But Cadmann, they do not talk—"

"Not as we think of talking."

"Hah. Amigo, if you are willing to believe them telepathic—" "No, not telepathic. But—hell, Carlos, I don't know what I mean.

Let's walk around the perimeter."

"You put me in charge here. Recall?"

"Oh. All right, I'll go alone."

The view was much the same everywhere. The outer fence was gone, but the inner held; and the outer fence had lasted long enough to kill hundreds, perhaps a thousand grendels. The minefield had stopped more. Out beyond the inner electrified fence a mountain of grendel dead fed the living. They clumped by the hundreds: twisted, blackened, torn carcasses. Many were stripped to white bone. Tiny insects buzzed fiercely. By daylight the camp would be utterly infested. In days, the stench of rotting meat might poison the valley.

Greg was doing stretches, transferring his gun from one hand to the other for weight. "Quiet," he said without taking his eyes from the grendel-infested wilderness. "Maybe they don't make deals with each other, but they do stir each other up."