MacArthur came upon old lava flows and steaming vents. Despite his exertions and the unaccustomed gravity, he felt comfortable; the sun was slow in chasing the shade from the north face of the mountain, but humid steam vents smelling strongly of minerals and sulfur provided welcome warmth. MacArthur worked his way around the side of the mountain, across a surface of unrelieved igneous rock and congealed lava flows, sterile and bleak, until the distant plateau came into view. He checked his chronometer—fifteen minutes to go. Two hundred meters from the summit, the terrain changed dramatically: a small crater dominated the landscape, the truncated tip of what once had been the mountain's summit, its sides steeply banked with hardened lava flows. Thin streams of smoke and steam drifted up from its depths. Clammy, sulfurous currents caused him to blink, but fresh winds flushed the summit, making it only a nuisance.
MacArthur settled in position. At five seconds to the hour he turned on his radio, listened briefly, and broadcast: "Alpha Site, Alpha Site, Insertion Six. Alpha Site, Alpha Site, this is Six. Do you copy?"
* * *
Everyone else was at the landing site. O'Toole reclined next to the radio, having little to do but listen to static. The transmission jerked him to attention. It was weak, almost indecipherable. It was MacArthur.
"Roger Six, this is Alpha. You are weak and broken. How do you read, Mac? Over."
"Loud an ...ear, Alpha. I rea ...five by fi..." MacArthur' s reply was cracked and whispery.
"Roger, Six. You are unreadable. Hold while I get Shannon. Break. Insertion One, Alpha Site. Insertion One, this is Alpha. I got MacArthur," O'Toole broadcast.
"Roger, Alpha. One here. I hear you loud and clear, but you're all I hear," Shannon replied. "MacArthur' s batteries must be low, or he's just too far away. Ask him how Chastain is."
O'Toole played with the squelch and turned up the volume. "Okay, Six," he said. "Give me your report, but talk slow. You are very weak. How is Chastain?"
The reply was unreadable. O'Toole could decipher nothing. Shannon jumped into the confusion and told O'Toole to ask only questions with yes or no answers and to have MacArthur answer with discrete transmission pulses: one for yes, two for no. With frustrating effort O'Toole was able to comprehend a portion of MacArthur's report—Chastain' s injuries were minor, that they had seen animal life, and that they were not in danger—but little else.
"Enough," Shannon transmitted. "Terminate the connection. All we're doing is wearing down his batteries and giving the bugs a signal to localize. Order him to proceed to Alpha and to communicate, if able, at standard times."
O'Toole complied. He could no longer hear MacArthur.
* * *
MacArthur stood and stared across the distance, the magnitude of their challenge apparent. The elevation of Hudson's Plateau was much higher than his current position, and there was still the river to cross, a serious hike. Heading straight for the plateau would require skirting the plains herds and their overwhelming musk; and, once arrived at the base of the plateau, they would have to ford the river. Then, once across the river, they would have to make a direct ascent on vertical cliffs. Perplexed, he looked to the south and saw the rising hills beyond the river.
Something passed between him and the sun. MacArthur squinted into the brightness but saw nothing. He thought to remove his helmet, to widen his field of vision, but as he lifted his hand to the fitting, a fierce blow struck the back of his head. He tumbled down the steep lava slope, his head slamming to a jarring halt. Dazed, he shook his head to clear his vision and looked around, trying to find his assailant. The shadow again! MacArthur looked up.
A Gargantuan bird with an astonishing wing span dove from the sky, monstrous talons swinging menacingly. Instinctively, MacArthur pulled in his feet and, a split second before the gigantic bird tore into his chest, leapt to the side, receiving a painful, glancing blow to his left shoulder. Talons gored flesh and knocked him sprawling in the brittle cinders. Stunned, MacArthur rolled onto his knees and drew his pistol. The giant raptor wheeled for the kill. Huge! Black-bodied with white and tan pinions, its reptilian yellow eyes fixed in predatory stare. MacArthur squatted and clasped the service automatic in both hands. With cool urgency he elevated the weapon's sights and aimed at the feathered breast filling the skies. Three rounds exploded from the pistol, each slug pounding into the big bird. The eagle fell from the skies like a feathered stone.
From the bottom of a black well his thoughts returned—and his pain—and panic! He could not see. He could breathe only with difficulty. Something heavy and warm pressed his body into the rocks. A breeze caressed his hand—the hand holding the pistol. He dropped the weapon, pulled his hands and legs beneath him, and pushed to his knees; the weight on his back grudgingly lifted. Blinding sunlight struck bleary eyes. Dizzy and bedraggled, MacArthur squirmed from beneath the feathery carcass, retrieving the pistol as he struggled clear.