“We must go near to the camp of the Middle Sun,” he announced. “The speaker-to-air cannot sing so far.” His skilled eyes read the signs of the clouds and the fern tops far below, seeking the currents he wanted. It was too bad that Dalehouse could so seldom soar with the flock these days because of the hated ha’aye’i of his own kind, but Charlie knew that once they were in line of sight the speaker-to-air would bring his song.

“Follow!” he sang. He swarmed the flock around him. They dropped, all fourteen of them, through a fast-moving layer of stratus cloud into the backflow near the surface.

When they emerged, old Blue-Rose Glow was gone, the leaks in her bag finally too great to allow her to remain airborne. So was the young female called Shrill-Squeal, nowhere in sight, even her song no longer audible.

By the time they approached the camp of the Middle Sun and Charlie began to sing through the radio to Dalehouse, there were only twelve left in the flock.

Marge Menninger looked up as Kappelyushnikov came in from the orderly room, closing the flap to her private office behind him. “Any word?” she asked.

“Danny has had radio from gasbag, yes. Your friend was seen to descend near Greasies, all in order.”

“How long ago?”

“With gasbags, who can say? Perhaps some hours. Not long after I departed spy-drop scene.”

“All right. Thanks.” After he left, Marge started to call the communications tent, then decided against it. If the Greasies radioed that they had rescued Tinka, blown helplessly off course, the communications clerk would let her know. And he hadn’t. So the Greasies were playing it covert and slick, and what was Tinka up against in their camp? Had they figured out that she really wasn’t there by accident? Could she… ? Were they… ? Wasn’t it… ? Questions multiplied themselves in Margie’s mind endlessly, and there was no straightforward way of getting answers. You could get your ass lost in those swamps of contingencies and subjunctives.

That was not the way Marge Menninger ran her life. She made a decision. In one hour exactly she would have the comm clerk radio a query to the Greasies, and until then she would put it out of her mind. Meanwhile, lunch was fifty minutes away, and what to use that time for?

The fifteen notes she had made to herself on this morning’s calendar had all been checked off. All current projects were on schedule, or close enough. Everyone had been assigned tasks. The first hectare of wheat was in the ground, sixteen different strains competing to see which would thrive best. The perimeter defenses were in order. Three turrets still sat on the beach, ready to be put where needed when she wanted to expand the perimeter or establish another post. She looked at the 1:1000 map, two meters long and a meter high, that covered almost all of one wall of her office. That was something! It showed every feature within a kilometer of where she sat — seven creeks or rivers, a dozen hills, two capes, several bays. Grid references were not enough, they needed names. What better way to name them than to let individual members of the camp pick them? She would organize a drawing; each winner could name something, and that would give them something to do. She called in her temporary orderly and dictated a short memo for the bulletin board. “Check it with the communications section,” she finished. “Make sure we list all the features worth naming.”

“Yes’m. Colonel? Sergeant Sweggert wants to see you. Says it’s not urgent.”

Margie wrote Sweggert on her calendar. “I’ll let you know.” Then she put Sweggert out of her mind, too. She had not yet decided what to do about Sweggert. She had a wide variety of options, from laughing it off to court-martialing him for rape. Which she elected would depend a lot on how Sweggert conducted himself. So far he had had the smarts to keep a low profile around her.

On the other hand, she thought, her authority to court-martial anybody for anything rested on the military chain of command, which extended up from her through the tactran link to higher authority on Earth. And who was to say how long Earth would give a shit about backing her up? Or about whether the colony lived or died? The news from home was bad, so bad that she had not passed all of it on to the camp. The tactran message acknowledging her shopping list had advised that it was touch and go whether she would get everything she had asked for. And requests for further supplies after that shipment were, quote, to be evaluated in terms of conditions at the time of receipt of requisition, unquote.

It was what she had expected. But it was sobering.

On her pad for the afternoon she made two notes: Medic. — bank okay? Food — 6 mos. estimate firm? Stretch 1 yr w rationing?

It was a damn nuisance that the agronomists all seemed to be Canadian! Margie needed some smart and private help — smart, because how they managed their crops was quite likely to be life-and-death for the colony; private, because she didn’t want the colony to know that just yet. If she got everything on her shopping list she would have plenty of seed stock. But who knew whether she had the ones that would grow best?

Dismiss that thought, too.

Forty minutes left.

She unlocked the private drawer of her desk and lit a joint. Assume the shopping list all gets delivered. There was enough on it for pretty fair margin against most kinds of disasters, she thought, and there was no sense worrying until she had to.

The requisition list included a good chunk of personal things for Margie herself: clothes, cosmetics, microfiche sewing patterns. With the patterns there would be enough variety in styles to suit everyone in the camp, male or female, for a good long time, assuming they found some way of producing fabrics to make the patterns on. It would be nice to have some pretty clothes. She was already beginning to feel the absence of Sakowitz, Marks and Sparks, Sears, and Two Guys. One day, maybe, she thought, drawing a deep hit. Not Sakowitz, no. But maybe a few boutiques. Maybe some of the people in the camp had sewing or tailoring skills, and maybe it was about time she started locating them. She flipped the calendar ahead a few pages and made a note on a virgin page. That Bulgarian prunt was the kind of girly-girl who would like to sew, possibly even as much as Margie did herself; she had been pretty morose after her long walk in the countryside, but she did her work and might need something to occupy her mind. It didn’t seem that she wanted a man for that purpose; at least, she had thoroughly discouraged Guy Tree and Gappy and Sweggert…

Sweggert.

“Jack, send the sergeant in,” she called.

“Yes’m. He’s gone back to the perimeter, but I’ll get him.”

As she leaned back, marshalling her thoughts about Sweggert, the handset buzzed; it was the communications clerk. “Colonel? I was just talking to the Greasies about Sergeant Pellatinka.”

“I didn’t tell you to ask them.”

“No’m. But I kept sending on her frequency like you ordered, and their radioman cut in to ask if we had lost her. So I said she didn’t answer. So they said they’d send out a party to look for her.”

Margie sat back and took a thoughtful drag on the joint. According to the balloonists, there was no way the Greasies couldn’t have seen her come down. So now they were overtly lying.

Sergeant Sweggert shared a number of traits with Marge Menninger. One of them was that he was willing to go to a lot of trouble to get things right, and then if he saw a chance for improvement he was willing to do whatever it took to make them righter. When he perceived that moving the Number Three machine-gun emplacement two meters toward the lake would improve the field of fire, he moved it. Or his squad did. The fact that it took five hours of backbreaking work did not affect his decision. He lent a hand to put the HMG on its tripod and swung it to check the field. “Fucking lousy,” he told the crew, “but we’ll leave it for now. Get that ammo restowed.”