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.
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!
The first golden rays of sunshine illuminated the peaks of the snow-mantled mountains. A breeze stirred. Kibba whistled softly and pointed. On the lakeshore, less than a bowshot away, stood three strange beings, their long legs hidden in lingering mists. Two were extremely tall; the third was smaller, but still easily the height of a guilder. They had white, round heads covered with caps the color of yellow rock flowers. The large ones wore forest-green garb, while the shorter one wore a sand-colored covering. The short one bent, scooped a small container in the water and lifted it to eye level. One of the big ones pointed, and all three walked down thebeach, the smaller one struggling to keep pace with the long strides of the other two.
The creatures rounded a bend in the shoreline and approached the rocky tumble from which fell a small waterfall. One of the green-clad giants clambered up the boulders and moved along its face until it straddled the descending streamlet. It bent and put a hand in the water and then stood erect, shaking its head vigorously. It returned to the beach, and after several minutes, the strange beings turned and headed away from the waterfall, returning along the shoreline to their camp.
Braan threw his body from the island peak and swooped low over the foggy lake. The visitors did not look back. Using his speed, Braan heaved air downwards, laboring to the top of the sheltered waterfall. He perched next to the small cascade and observed it tumbling into the lake below. A profusion of wildflowers clung to crevices and crannies, and gnarled fir trees stubbornly hugged the rocks. Higher up, two twisted and weather-whitened snags leaned over the feeder brook. At that moment, the sun broached the rim of the plateau to the east and cast the pure light of morning over the scene. But Braan barely noticed. Breathing heavily, the hunter sought a vestige of the alien presence. He could smell them—a curious, sour scent. He sniffed the air for other reasons—another scent, the stale spoor of rockdogs, assaulted his awareness. Danger was near.