GENELLAN: PLANETFALL(107)

* * *

Large downy flakes sifted gracefully from an amorphous ceiling. The snows would last until the full moon, maybe longer. Old Kuudor, wearing black otter fur, slogged between posts through the delicate shroud of snow. The guard had been doubled, and he was checking sentry stations for vigilance. The pointillistic forms of two other hunters materialized from the textured curtain of snowflakes—Craag and Braan, in white growler skins and nearly invisible.

Braan spoke first, as was fitting. "Tidings, Kuudor, captainof-the-sentry."

"Hail and well met, Braan-our-leader. Greetings, brave warrior Craag," returned the sentry commandant, using ancient forms.

"All is in order," Craag said. "Thy sentries are well-taught and serious."

The old warrior swelled with pride. "But this storm is ominous," he responded. "It will last many days."

"No, and the long-legs are not yet within hail," Braan replied. "Daylight endures but one more hour. After dark the growlers will have their way."

"Perhaps they are not coming," Craag offered. "To wait would be wise."

"Perhaps," Braan replied. "But I think not. Short-one-wholeads said they would return this day. That creature seems sure-minded."

"I am told Short-one-who-leads is a female of the race," Kuudor said.

"It would be true," Braan stated.

"Strange beings, allowing smaller and weaker females to lead," Craag ventured.

"Perhaps their females are the more intelligent, as with guilders and hunters," Braan responded.

"We would never allow a guilder to lead us into battle!" Kuudor exclaimed. "Guilders have neither the will nor the means to fight, and they lack courage."

"Evidently female long-legs have the necessary attributes," Braan answered. "I doubt not their courage."

"Most curious. You will pardon me, warriors, for I must complete my rounds," Kuudor said. He saluted and stepped away and was immediately swallowed in a white matte curtain of snow.

* * *

MacArthur checked his compass and refigured his reckoning. The snow masked all directional references. He looked about, his anxiety rising. Goldberg was done—Mendoza was bodily carrying her. Lee and Fenstermacher tried to help, but it was all they could do to help each other. Shannon had his hands full with Dawson, but at least he was keeping her moving. Tatum was the problem; too heavy to carry, he fainted with disturbing frequency. It took two men to keep him moving. MacArthur, recalling the delirium and fever of his own infected shoulder, knew how his friend felt. The dwellers would heal Tatum—if only they could get there in time.

"How's Tatum doing?" MacArthur asked. Chastain, carrying an enormous backpack, also supported Tatum' s lanky weight. Hudson attempted to help, but Tatum's sagging body and the absence of a left arm made it awkward.

"Dunno, Mac," the big man gasped. "He ain't stirring." "How're you doing, Jocko?" MacArthur asked. "You need a relief?"

"I'm okay," Chastain wheezed, plowing through the yielding whiteness.

"I'll take a break," Hudson gasped.

"Sure thing, Mr. Hudson. I'll tag O'Toole," MacArthur said. He hated to take O'Toole off guard detail; he wanted his best guns on the line. MacArthur walked toward the rear of the refugee column. The column was stringing out dangerously.

There was movement to his right! Something vague and without definable shape. MacArthur halted and stared into the downy precipitation, straining to distinguish what his peripheral vision had discerned; but he could see nothing. He shook his head to clear his tired brain, and he pulled his face protector away from his eyes, giving him a wider field of vision, but to no avail. His five senses could tell him nothing, and yet he was certain something was lurking in the drifts, only paces away. Buccari, walking on snowshoes alongside the column, came up to him.

"I don't like you staring like that," she said. "What'd you see?"

"Something...maybe," MacArthur responded. He looked at her. She looked away.

"The last time we made this trip was more fun," he said, smiling behind his scarf. "I only had you to worry about.""Thanks a bunch," she replied sarcastically, turning face him.

"Don't get me wrong," he protested. "I worried about you at first, a lot! But after the first night, I worried more for the nightmares."

"Flattery!" she said. "I accept your praise, fierce warrior." "Praise easily given, fair damsel."

They touched shoulders as they turned and walked together, trudging along the column to where Tookmanian and Schmidt, struggling under their large backpacks, kicked through the snow. Petit and Gordon followed, also heavily burdened, wallowing in the whiteness.