Seeing Chastain loosened a surge of warmth through MacArthur' s body. The big man had become a part of his being; they had shared too much. MacArthur felt the infinite obligation of owing his life to the gentle giant, and Chastain was simple enough not to care. Chastain looked up and his features erupted in an immense grin. MacArthur felt his own face stretch with happiness. The big man lifted the gray bag over his head like a trophy.
With startling clarity MacArthur understood the passing sequence of emotional transactions. His own fears over Chastain' s well-being and the subsequent joy felt at seeing him whole were cathartic. MacArthur realized Buccari had suffered a similar catharsis and that he was the focal point of her emotions. He was warmed by the thought—and confused. He looked up the trail and saw the lieutenant, hands clasped over her chest. MacArthur waved—a subdued wave, a subtle signal. Buccari waved back in kind, quickly and easily.
MacArthur looked back at Chastain. The big man trudged upward, the bag slung effortlessly over his shoulder.
"Ho, Mac!" he shouted. "This bag's filled with salt!"
"Salt?" MacArthur replied, grabbing Chastain' s arm. "These guys are risking their lives for salt?" Yet as he spoke he realized how much they, too, needed salt.
"I heard you yell," Chastain said proudly. "I look up and see the bat sliding down the mountain. He's holding on to the bag with his feet—flapping his wings hard. Stubborn—like you, Mac. But he's coming straight down and the bag starts bouncing, so he lets go. The bag rolled right into my arms. It was going pretty fast, but I had a wide spot to stand on. But then the little bat flew right by me, screaming so loud I almost jumped off the trail."
"You did great, Jocko!" MacArthur slapped the big man on the chest. Chastain glowed with pride. "I'd like to hear the bat's version. I'll bet it was falling like a son-of-a-bitch."
Captain and X.O. glided into the snow above the switchback and hopped down, showing no fear. Captain chirped and whistled to the cliff dwellers trailing behind the humans and then moved directly in front of Chastain, bowing deeply. The other animals, catching up with Chastain, also bowed.
"Bow, Jocko," MacArthur ordered gently. "You're a hero, my friend."
"Cut it out, Mac." Chastain smiled self-consciously and bowed awkwardly. He offered the salt bag to the little animal. Captain bowed deeply again. Chastain, confused, returned the bow. MacArthur smiled at Chastain's gracelessness. X.O. stepped forward and accepted the bag. The creatures all bowed yet again.
"Okay." MacArthur laughed. "Everybody bow one more time, real low."
* * *
Swirls of first-magnitude stars dotted the velvet skies. The last murky hints of dusk revealed a line of salt bearers winding along the brink of the plateau far ahead of the exhausted earthlings. The humans trudged upward, miserably chilled by plummeting temperatures and rising winds. A full moon elevated into the eastern skies, outshining the stars and casting an eerie light over the snowy landscape. The river falling over the cliffs had lost much of its volume and voice, but its cascading spray spread phantasmically in the soft light. Silky sheets of gossamer snow sifted across the crusty whiteness, drifting into patterned dunes of sugar dust. MacArthur worried the drifting snows would mask the trail. He stumbled faster, pulling the patrol with him.
"What's your plan, Mac?" Buccari panted.
"Not sure, Lieutenant," he huffed, his breath emanating in huge, moonlit puffs. "Maybe—we can find where they go over the edge. Maybe they'll invite us for dinner."
"What.. .a...dreamer," she wheezed.
"Dreams.. .are all we have," he grunted.
"Philosophy again!" she said, stopping to catch her breath.
"Why...is it so cold when that subject comes up?" he gasped, pushing unmercifully, opening on the others. The dwellers were almost to the stream gorge, surprising MacArthur by staying so close to the plateau's edge. They should be heading away from the cliffs, to ford the stream.
They did not cross the stream. As MacArthur approached the point where the stream fell over the cliff, the snow-blown tracks moved sharply down, toward the brink. For twenty nerve-wracking paces the trail descended and swung to the left, over the cliff edge. MacArthur followed the trail, knees quaking from fatigue and from acrophobic terror. Wind tugged at his clothes. The pack dragged on his shoulders.
The trail veered hard left beneath an outcropping of rock. The rocks under his feet were suddenly hard, gritty, and clear of snow. He looked back to see Buccari and the rest of the patrol tentatively pursuing. He turned to the trail and looked ahead. The path, slipping further beneath the overhang of the cliff, continued to curve until, fifty paces ahead, he could see the stream waters exploding into the river canyon. The trail led under the moving water! Needles of spray stung his face and patches of ice threatened his footing. He plodded forward. Jagged icicles hung like fangs, glinting dully in the moonlight.