"Aliens—saved my life," he gasped. "One of them died—ddied in our behalf. We—must be—"
Et Avian fainted—merciful unconsciousness.
Brappa gained altitude on the rising currents. He dropped a wing and crabbed to the north, toward Craag's marshaling signal and the rest of the hunter scouting party. Brappa knew not what to make of the furious activity. The flying machine was ominous enough, but the incredible death struggle was frightful beyond words. Short-one-who-leads was again proven to be a brave and fierce warrior. They would have much to report. Brappa wished he understood more about what he had seen. Of one thing only was he certain: the bear people had returned.
MacArthur, lungs burning, topped the spruce-lined ridge and stopped short as Tatum ran up his heels. He recoiled at the carnage spread across the clearing below; the blend of putrescent odors was staggering. He detected a human body—Jones—laid out on the opposite side of the clearing, not far from a trio of cubs whining among the fly-infested carcasses of three adult bears; but it was the monstrous, gory mass of a dead alien that dominated MacArthur's attention. The hulking creature lay slumped at the base of small tree, its thick spacesuit shredded, its bowels eviscerated, its fleshy, gross-featured face contorted in death. Chastain, gasping and sucking for air, joined MacArthur and Tatum, breaking their morbid trance. The Marines stumbled across the bloody clearing and up the wooded slope opposite, following the trail of blackened needles and leaves—and the horrible smell.
They climbed upward for an eternity. MacArthur's frantic thoughts focused only on Buccari. He burst from the tree line, and stopped—relieved and astounded. Tatum and Chastain staggered to a halt behind him. In the distance, walking through knee-high grass,
Buccari, Hudson, and two hulking alien beings struggled under the weight of a third alien. A crisp breeze had risen, but the bitter, cloying stink hung in the air. MacArthur, forgetting his cramping muscles and burning lungs, sprinted toward Buccari, shouting her name.
Buccari snapped around, dark hair swirling in the breeze, glinting copper in the sunlight. "Stop!" she yelled. "Put down your weapons. We need to help them." They set the injured alien next to the airplane. Buccari and Hudson stepped quickly away from the aircraft. The ponderous aliens stood with their backs to the plane, watching nervously.
"Put down your rifles!" Buccari ordered. "Drop the damn rifles, now!"
MacArthur let his piece fall and signaled for the others to drop theirs. Tatum and Chastain carefully placed their rifles on the ground.
"Damn!" MacArthur gasped, stepping away from his weapon. The fetid smell was overwhelming. "They're smelly. And big! What happened?" He approached Buccari, observing her carefully. The thick fabric of her underwear was torn away from her pale shoulder, and a bloody contusion glared angrily through the opening. Her left arm hung straight, immobile. MacArthur winced in empathy, feeling her pain and wishing he could transfer it to his own body, sparing her.
"You okay?" he asked, returning a wary eye to the aliens.
"I'll live," she said, her voice barely audible. "I think my shoulder's dislocated. One of those bears took a swipe at me."
"You sure made them pay for it," MacArthur blustered, striving to overcome his own fear. "Don't ever get that mad at me." He peeled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, daring to put an arm around her waist. She accepted his embrace.
"Geezus, Mac! Boats is dead!" she suddenly cried, tears gushing. She clenched her eyes shut and twisted away, holding her face with a grimy, blood-stained hand. MacArthur withdrew his arm and watched as she waged an internal battle to regain her composure.
The aliens stirred; they opened the plane's cargo door and bent to pick up their injured comrade. Buccari, her emotions under control, stepped forward to help, but MacArthur gently pulled her away. He and Hudson each grabbed a tree trunk leg and assisted in hoisting the injured alien into the aircraft's commodious cargo area. The aliens began administering medical aid while the curious humans milled around outside. The cargo door eased shut.
Suddenly the door swung open. One of the aliens, holding Buccari' s blood-stained jumpsuit, tentatively stepped from the aircraft. MacArthur stared at the alien. It was huge! Taller even than Chastain or Tatum and easily twice Chastain's bulky weight! Its face could be discerned through the wide helmet visor—a gentle monster's face, with fleshy, rounded bovine features. Its skin resembled grainy leather—hairless except for wiry tufts over bulging brown eyes. Its mouth was a lipless gash under a bulbous snout with widely spread nostrils. The alien handed the bloody garment to Buccari and leaned over onto its front legs, putting its face on the ground. Buccari looked at MacArthur in embarrassed confusion and then cautiously tapped the creature on its tremendous shoulder, indicating it should return to the airplane. With surprising agility, the massive alien hopped aboard the aircraft.
Kateos pulled Et Avian's garments from his wounds and was encouraged. The bleeding had abated, and the noblekone' s pulse was steady, albeit weak. She cleansed the wounds with antiseptic, applied a sterile dressing, and covered his prostrate form, trying to keep him warm.
"He is in great pain but seems to be resting now," she said as Dowornobb climbed into the airplane, shutting the cargo door to keep in the warmth. Kateos had taken note of her mate's activities, with approval. They owed much to the tiny, long-haired alien.
"More aliens approach!" Dowornobb reported, his fear smell gushing forth. Kateos saw aliens in dark green striding across the field. All carried weapons, and Kateos discerned fear in their features. The little long-haired one walked up to the newcomers and began talking, pointing down the hill. The green-garbed alien with one arm grabbed a weapon and waved it fiercely at the abat.
"Now's our chance!" Tatum shouted, brandishing his rifle. "They're helpless. We got 'em! I say we kill the bugs and push the plane into the trees. They'll never be found." The Marines nodded in affirmation.
"At ease, Tatum!" Buccari ordered.
"Put the rifle down, Sandy," Shannon ordered softly, inspecting the airplane. The aircraft was huge, with long, drooping slab wings and massive low-pressure tires—representations of a technological society capable of employing deadly weapons and effective search techniques.
"You might be right, Sandy," Shannon said, "and then again, they may have already reported in on the radio. Listen to the lieutenant. There's no harm in checking things out first, and everyone on their toes—these guys have lasers."
"Bullshit, Sergeant!" Buccari barked, the sun reflected angry red highlights from her hair. "We've already gone over this ground!" She snatched Hudson's pistol and walked up to Tatum. Tatum stood his ground.
"Anyone even thinks about hurting these—these bugs, is going to have to come through me." Her eyes were furious. Shannon stepped toward the confrontation, but Buccari took another step closer to Tatum. She pounded the pistol butt against the tall Marine's chest, pointing the barrel straight up to Tatum' s chin. Tatum did not move.
"Tatum, think about it!" she cried. "We saved an alien's life. Now we have to help them, so their leaders will know we mean no harm. It's the clearest, most unambiguous message we can send. We got real lucky, and Bosun Jones has already paid with his life. Jones doesn't need revenge. We both know what Boats would have wanted us to do. Think about it, Tatum! Think! Don't screw it up!"