GENELLAN: PLANETFALL(28)

He crawled away, scanning the skies, pistol cocked upward. Blood flowed down his shoulder. Cuts and abrasions stung palms, elbows, and knees. His head reeled and sparks danced before his eyes. He put a hand to his helmet—the headgear was cracked, shattered through the crown. A cold breeze seeped around his sweaty head. MacArthur pulled the helmet off and cast it aside. Worthless now, it had saved his life. His body ached; he trembled. Chilly air and the first stages of shock took over. Still on his knees, he darted nervous, ducking glances between the skies overhead and the mass of feathers lying on the ground.

Clambering to his feet, MacArthur staggered to the bird's head and gingerly poked at it with the barrel of his pistol. It was dead, its yellow eyes staring but not seeing. Tentatively, MacArthur grabbed hold of a wing and lugged it out to its full extent. It was three times as long as a man was tall. He moved around the carcass and repeated the process with the other wing. Wingtip to wingtip the span measured fifteen paces across! The gaudy orange beak, fiercely hooked like an eagle's, was as long as his leg! He stood erect over his fallen foe, amazed at the power and substance of his attacker, but also feeling an atavistic flush of victory. He shook himself and returned the pistol to its holster. Drawing his survival knife from its ankle scabbard, he hacked off chunks of the eagle's proud breast and carried them away in his shattered helmet. Tonight they would have something beside berries to eat with their field rations.





Chapter 8





Second Landing


"Welcome to Hudson's Plateau," O'Toole grinned, standing on the cave terrace. Petit and Gordon carried the injured Rennault on a stretcher; Lee and Fenstermacher supported each other, while Goldberg and Dawson plodded in the rear. O'Toole scurried down to help with the litter.

"Hot damn, solid ground!" Fenstermacher blubbered, a grin creasing his exhaustion.

"Nancy spotted a flight of birds way up in the sky," Goldberg said.

"Oh yeah? Sarge wants to report all animal sightings," said O'Toole. "Say, did you hear the noises? The groaning sounds?" "You mean the flowers?" Dawson replied.

"Huh?" O'Toole replied.

"The big white flowers," Lee joined in. "We checked them out. The flower grows out of a bladder that holds air, until the sun warms it up enough to force out the air. Must be a pollination mechanism. We already gave them a name."

"Fartflower," Fenstermacher deadpanned.

"You little jerk," Dawson laughed. "Leslie has a better name."

"Looks like we'll be naming a lot of plants," Lee said quietly.

"So what's its name—" O'Toole started to ask, and then he remembered Shannon's instructions. "Oh, Sarge wants tents set up in the clearing. The cave's too small for everyone. Sarge wants us to double up. He says we got to post sentry right away. Petit, you and Gordon get your helmets on and post watch. Show Gordon the rotation."

Petit and Gordon stood to put their gear in order. As Petit walked close to Goldberg, he bumped into her, catching her arm.

"It's going to be cold in these tents," he said with a grotesque smile. "If any of you ladies was interested in sharing my sleeping bag, it would be my pleasure to double up."

Dawson, too tired to speak, threw a rock at the Marine. "Knock it off, Petit!" O'Toole snarled. "You know the damn rules."

"Moaning glories," Lee said wistfully, breaking the uneasy silence. "We're going to call them moaning glories."

* * *

After sunset Braan spiraled down to the big island. The rest of the hunters descended in pairs at cautious intervals. Silently, they glided from the ridge top, hidden by darkness, neither moon yet visible in the night sky. At the base of the island's rocky spire, Craag and Tinn'a carefully rolled back small boulders revealing a tight cave. Cliff dwellers had been to this island before, many times. Caches had been excavated, their entrances carefully camouflaged, to be used by fishing parties. Braan assigned watches, and the hunters settled into their duties.

Morning arrived still and cold, a patina of frost glazing the rocks. The lake was invisible, shrouded in a blanket of fog, the islands jutting eerily into the clear air above. Fish rippled the water, but Braan insisted on maximum stealth, forbidding fishing. They would eat roots and grubs.

With alarming abruptness sounds from across the water broke the muted silence—clanking sounds, metal striking metal, groans and protestations, loud yawns, and a steady gabble of voices. A fire flickered orange in the gray shroud of dawn. The hunters, even those scheduled to sleep, took covert positions on the high ground to witness the gods. What clamorous gods!