When he'd finished he was embarrassed.
The others were just as shameless. Nightingale's voice got deeper, MacAllister tried to suck his belly in, Kellie talked as if they didn't have a care in the world. And even Hutchins, their forthright captain, couldn't resist preening. They were for the moment famous, and it was affecting them.
Canyon talked to them individually. As he finished with them they drew around the fire and tried to pretend that nothing unusual had just happened. He was still on the circuit with Kellie, getting what he liked to call context.
Chiang disliked the forest at night. There was no way to maintain security. It would have required three guards to keep the possibility of a surprise attack to a minimum.
This was their eighth night out. He thought the count was right, but everything was beginning to run together and he was no longer sure. To date, no predator had tried a night assault. The probability, therefore, was that, if it were going to happen, it would have already occurred. Nevertheless, Chiang worried and fretted, as was his nature.
He could see Canyon's image seated on a log facing Kellie. He was asking his questions, and she listened attentively, sometimes nodding, sometimes growing thoughtful. "Oh, yes,"she might be saying, "we're confident we can get the lander working once we get there." Or: "No, we really haven't discussed that possibility. We don't expect it to happen that way." Although there was no logical basis for jealousy, Chiang was irritated anyhow. There was something in Canyon's manner that seemed like a clumsy attempt at seduction.
In addition, Canyon couldn't hide the fact that he really had no idea what the people on the ground were feeling. And he also revealed that his primary concern in all this was to ring up high numbers back home, to please his bosses, to move up the food chain. Taking pictures of a collision between two worlds had been precisely the right assignment for him. He could have delivered himself of a few generalities, It looks as if it's going to be an incredible smash-up, call in, say, a couple of the astrophysicists on Wendy for color commentary, and it would all have worked fine.
But he just wasn't the person to talk to people in trouble.
This was Chiang's last thought. He'd been standing at the edge of the firelight, surveying the surrounding darkness, occasionally flashing his lamp into the night. And suddenly the world vanished, as if someone had folded it up and put it away.
MacAllister was also bored with Canyon. The previous night's interviews had been transmitted a few hours later to Earth. It was a long ride, even at hypercom, and they would not appear on anybody's screen for another day and a half. By then, probably, they would have found Tess, and the issue of survival would have been resolved. In their favor, he hoped. He imagined them spotting the abandoned spacecraft, hurrying toward it, climbing inside, pumping power into it, and flying back in the luxurious comfort of its passenger cabin to the tower. He could see them setting down and recovering the capacitors. Hutch and Kellie would install them with a minimum of fuss. Then they'd cheer as Tess lifted off and soared into orbit.
The trees sighed in the wind, and the fire crackled. He watched Kellie talking with Canyon, saw her pause, saw Canyon ask another question. He knew precisely what it would be.
"What are your thoughts when Morgan's World rises every night, and you see that it keeps getting bigger?" (Tonight it would, he suspected, look like a Chinese balloon.)
"Is there anything you'd like to say to the folks back home?"
Yes, thought MacAllister. In spades, there is. Life is sweet.
The image of the newsman appeared solid, and even a trifle back-woodsy by firelight. He leaned toward Kellie, apparently listening intently, although MacAllister knew he was formulating his next question.
And in the middle of this pacific, sleepy scene, there came a sudden shriek.
Something sailed past MacAllister's head. A few days earlier he'd have sat dumbfounded, wondering what was happening. But his reflexes had improved considerably. He shouted a warning and threw himself on the ground.
Rocks whipped past them. One hit his shoulder, and another struck his skull. There were more screams, high-pitched, rather like those of angry children. He was fumbling for his cutter. Somebody's laser blazed out, and bushes erupted in fire. A tree, ripped through by a cutter beam, crashed to the ground.
A dart thunked into one of the fire logs. MacAllister saw movement in the trees; then crickets in furs charged into the camp. They were impossibly ugly savages, not at all like the robed figure who'd occupied the country chapel.
He got his weapon up just in time. Two of them were after him, with javelins. He cut them in half, the crickets and the javelins. He took out another, who was about to stab Kellie from behind. Hutch directed them to back into a tight circle, but MacAllister was too busy defending himself to try to get into a formation. Everything was utter confusion.
The crickets never stopped shrieking. Somebody cut one in two, from skull to sternum. Nightingale stepped into the middle of a charge and swung his cutter left and right. Limbs flew and the attack disintegrated. As suddenly as they'd come, the crickets broke and melted back into the forest.
Several bushes were ablaze. Something fell out of a tree and crashed beside him. It was carrying a javelin. It tried to get up and run, but MacAllister, enraged, slashed it anyhow, and the creature screamed and lay still.
Hutch and Kellie pursued the fight to the edge of the trees. Nightingale stood among those he'd killed, legs spread, cutter raised, like a modern Hector. The heroic stance was a bit much, but MacAllister was nonetheless impressed by his behavior. Well, put a man's life on the line, he thought, and most of us can perform at a fairly high level.
The attack had disintegrated, and the sounds of battle seemed to be receding. Through it all, unfazed, Canyon remained seated in his armchair. He couldn't see beyond the narrow range of the link, which had been set up on a stump. He simply kept demanding over and over to be told what was happening.
Universal News Network on the spot, thought MacAllister.
Nightingale finally explained they were being attacked.
Canyon kept talking, asking for details. Attacked by whom? Had anyone been hurt? MacAllister shut off the sound feed from the newsman and rubbed his head. It hurt, but he couldn't tell through the field whether he was bleeding. Otherwise, he thought he was okay. Couple bumps, nothing more.
Marcel was back on the circuit, asking the same questions. "Crickets," Kellie responded, although he couldn't see her. "Talk in a minute."
MacAllister was swept up in a curious combination of horror and exhilaration. By God, that had felt good. We're all savages at heart, he thought.
Hutch came back into the camp, looked at him, and glanced around. "Everybody okay?" she asked.
Nightingale signaled he was fine. He was shining his lamp into the trees, assuring himself they were gone. "I guess we just met the locals."
"How about you, Mac?"
"Alive and well," said MacAllister. "I don't think those little sons of bitches will be back soon."
"Where's Chiang?" she asked.
MacAllister stared down at one of the bodies. It had sickly pale skin with a greenish tint and a hairy ridged skull. Its eyes were open, but it seemed dead.
It would have stood not quite as high as his hip. When he poked it, the creature stirred and made a sad mewling sound.
Kellie's voice broke in, subdued. "Over here," she said. "I found him."
Chiang lay still. Blood poured down inside his e-suit, leaking out of half a dozen wounds.
"Kill the suit," said MacAllister.