"I had nothing to do with it, Sergeant. Autopilot does all the work," Buccari said. "I have six new inhabitants and equipment to offload. I plan to rendezvous with the 'vette on the next orbit."
"Piece of cake, Lieutenant. As soon as we can touch you. You're pretty hot, er… the ship, I mean, is hot…er, as soon as we can touch you, uh… the ship. 'Sorry, sir. We'll get…" He stopped, bemused with the laughter coming over the radio.
"Relax, Sarge," the pilot finally replied. "I copy."
"You aren't powering down, Lieutenant?" Shannon asked after several minutes. The lander's skin temperature was stabilizing rapidly in the cool, breezy air.
"I'm running tertiaries at idle so I can keep a generator on line. I need to keep the fuel pressures up—takes too much fuel and time to re-ignite otherwise, and too many things can go wrong doing a cold start," she answered. "I'm pretty comfortable right here. This gravity isn't bad, if you can stay on your back. I might just take a snooze."
"You saw what?" MacArthur asked, dropping the dried branches.
"A bear!" the big man exclaimed. Purple stains colored his lips and tongue. Sonic booms echoed in the valley. Both men jerked to the noise and stared at the sky, searching for the lander. Only the twin plumes of thin smoke from the volcanoes on each side of the valley marred the deep blue heavens.
"What the hell you been eating?" MacArthur sighed, bringing his eyes back to the surface of the planet. "Geez, Jocko, it could be poisonous."
"Berries," Chastain replied, dropping his eyes and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "They're all over the place. I picked a bunch for you, too. They're real good."
"Yeah, well, let's see how good you feel in a couple of hours," he said, falling to his knees next to the small fire. "A bear, eh?"
"Looked like a bear," Chastain said. "Up there, on the ridge."
MacArthur looked up at the ridge climbing in the distance, winding to the summit of the westernmost volcano. Smoke and steam rose from the blunt pinnacle, shredding into the stiff breeze that held the stink of the buffalo herds at bay.
"On its hind legs, next to that humpy rock pile," Chastain said. "It was twice as tall as the rocks. It disappeared over the ridge." Chastain stood, hunched over. "It was reddish-brown colored, sorta."
"How's your back?" MacArthur asked, still looking at the mountain.
"Hurts when I move wrong, but it ain't as bad as yesterday. I could try and carry my pack." Chastain's face twitched in discomfort.
"We'll wait one more day," MacArthur said, staring uphill. "I got the fire going, like you told me."
"Huh, Jocko?…oh, good," MacArthur replied, turning from the mountain. "Let's cook up some field rations to go with these berries. As soon as I eat some real food I'm going to do some climbing."
"Can I go with you, Mac? I don't want to stay…by myself." "No, Jocko. We got a big hike in front of us, and I want you ready."
An hour later MacArthur neared the ridge where Chastain had seen the animal. The location was above the tree line, devoid of vegetation, but cut with ravines, affording abundant places of concealment. MacArthur climbed until he reached the distinctive pile of boulders. He halted and looked back at the camp. Chastain, no larger than half a fingernail held at arm's length, waved enthusiastically. MacArthur waved back and somberly considered what Chastain had said about the size of the animal. Twice the size of the rock pile? The rocks came up past MacArthur' s shoulders. He threw Chastain a final wave and resumed hiking.
After three hours of climbing, the ridge faded into a shoulder of the mountain; talus and scrabble gave way to rocky slabs and short vertical ascents. MacArthur traversed the northern face of the mountain, endeavoring to get a clear view of the plateau. To the north, the rolling plains, alive with herd animals, stretched into the haze. MacArthur was hypnotized by the splashes of mixed golds and browns. The herds moved slowly around and through each other—countless animals, their ranks stretching to the limits of vision, their scent only a memory.
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.