He crouched behind the gun, swiveling it through full traverse. It was an act that gave him pleasure. As far as the shore of the lake on the extreme left and the beginning of the fern forest on the right, there was no way that any sizable creature could approach without being a clear target for the gunner. The claymores and smoke bombs were emplaced and fused, and his command-post detonating radio was keyed to each of them. The floodlights were in position, with quadruple redundancy. At any given moment only a quarter of them were lit, searching the entire area around the perimeter. Every hour that quarter went off and the next quarter came on so that any burned-out bulbs or wiring deficiencies would distribute themselves equally and could be fixed in the downtime. In actual combat, of course, they would all be on. Most would be shot out, but not in time to let anyone cross that perimeter. Not alive.

Although, he admitted to himself as he climbed out of the dome, the chances that anyone would try a straightforward frontal attack were very small. Maybe an attack from the sky. Maybe by long-range rocket fire. Maybe not at all. This whole fucking shoot-up was crazy, if you asked Sergeant Sweggert. What the fuck was there to fight about in this asshole place without a bar or a town or even, for God’s sake, a decent tree or field? If you had asked him, that was what he would have said, in total sincerity, but it would not have stopped him from fighting for it.

And inside he was swearing. The colonel wouldn’t have kept him waiting like this a week ago. If she was going to shaft him, what was she waiting for?… “Sarge.” He looked up. “They’re calling you from the orderly room.” He turned idly and saw the corporal waving.

“Aggie, take over,” he ordered. “If I come back and that ammo isn’t restowed, it’s all your asses.”

He strolled back toward the HO tent and walked in. Marge Menninger was eating out of a mess kit, reading from a small-screen viewer. She didn’t look up. “The perimeter’s looking good, Sweggert,” she said. “Got that machine gun back in place?”

“Yes’m. Colonel? There’s a bunch of gasbags around, and that one we been using is about used up. We’ll be relieved in a couple of minutes. Can we get a fix from the new ones?”

She put down her spoon and looked at him. After a moment, she said, “Just who do you mean by ‘we,’ soldier?”

“Oh, no, ma’am!” Jesus, she was touchy! He knew he was close to trouble. “I don’t mean nothing, ma’am, just that the detail’s been working hard and they need a little break. We’ll — they’ll come out of it in an hour, and the relief’ll be there anyway.”

She studied him for a moment. “That’s four-oh, Sweggert, but only half the detail. Keep the rest sober.”

“Sure thing, colonel. Thank you, colonel.” He got out of there as fast as he could. Shit, he should’ve been more careful, knowing how she felt and all. Not that she was all wrong. If he hadn’t been drunk he wouldn’t have done it. But, shit! It was worth it. Remembering the way she had been with a skin full of the balloonist mist, his groin grew heavy.

When he got back to the detail he looked at them with some disapproval. Corporal Kristianides was skinny and had sideburns all down her cheeks, but she was the best he had to pick from. “Aggie, take Peterson and four others; you’re on duty till the relief shows up. Kris, you and the rest come along with me. We’re gonna take ourselves a jizzum break. Anybody don’t want to come, switch with somebody don’t want to stay. Let’s move it.”

The balloonists were out over the ocean-lake now, half a kilometer away and low. Sweggert marched his dozen troops across the camp to the empty tents at the end of the company street; he would do it in the open if he had to, but damned if he wouldn’t take a little privacy when he could get it. The tethered balloonist, further than ever from recuperating, had been moved there days since, along with the strobe light.

Sweggert stopped, swearing. Nan Dimitrova and Dalehouse were talking to the balloonist, and only a few meters away the Russian pilot, Kappelyushnikov, was complaining about something to Colonel Tree. Privacy, shit. But it didn’t matter; he had Colonel Menninger’s permission, and she was the one who counted. He retrieved the strobe and pointed it toward the hovering swarm.

Predictably, Dalehouse butted in. “What do you think you’re doing, Sweggert?”

Sweggert took time to aim the strobe and flash it to bring them in before he answered. “Gonna have a little fun. The colonel said it was okay.”

“Hell she did! Anyway—”

“Anyway,” Sweggert interrupted, “why don’t you go check with her if you don’t believe me? Would you move a little, sir? You’re getting between them and the light.”

Ana Dimitrova laid her hand on Dalehouse’s arm to keep him from replying. “It is not fun for the balloonists, Sergeant Sweggert. To experience sexual climax is very painful and debilitating. As you can see, this one is seriously affected. It may die.”

“What a way to go, hey, Ana?” Sweggert grinned. “Take it up with the colonel — hey, Dalehouse! What are you doing?”

Dalehouse had switched on his radio and was singing softly into it. Colonel Tree, beginning to pay attention, walked toward them, and Sweggert turned to him. “Colonel! We have Colonel Menninger’s permission to get the Loonies in for a fix, and this guy’s telling them to screw off!”

Tree stopped with his hands clasped behind his back and nodded gravely. “A dilemma,” he said in his soft child’s voice. “It will be quite interesting to see what they do.”

What they were doing was spreading themselves all over the sky, some dropping lower to catch the onshore breeze, others hesitating. They were singing loudly and discordantly, and the sounds came distantly from the sky and tinnily from the radio in Dalehouse’s hand. Sweggert stood rock-still, controlling the rage that was building up in him. Fucking Cong! When you had the CO’s permission, that was all you were supposed to need! Why wouldn’t Tree back him up?

“Gimme that,” he growled, reaching out for Dalehouse’s radio.

But Dalehouse’s expression had changed. “Hold it,” he snapped, and sang a quick phrase into the radio. The answer came back as a cascade of musical phrases; Dalehouse looked startled and Ana Dimitrova gasped, her hand to her lips. “Tree,” he said, “according to Charlie, there’s some Krinpit down the beach, and they’re eating a couple of people.”

“But Krinpit do not eat human beings,” objected Colonel Tree, and Sweggert chimed in: “There’s nobody down there. Nobody’s gone through the perimeter all day.”

Dalehouse repeated his question into the radio and shrugged. “That’s what he says. He could be wrong about the eating part, I guess — he doesn’t have a very clear concept of killing, except to eat.”

Sweggert put down the strobe. “We better tell the colonel,” he said.

Colonel Tree said, “That’s correct. You do so, Dalehouse. Sergeant, form your squad on the beach in thirty seconds, full combat gear. We’re going to see what’s happening.”

Half an hour later Marge Menninger herself, with thirty armed grunts behind her, met the first party coming back along the beach. There were no casualties, or at least none from the Food Bloc, but they were carrying two people. One was in a sort of sling made from two jackets knotted together, the other on Sergeant Sweggert’s shoulder, fireman-carry. They were both dead. When Sweggert put his burden down it was obvious why he had been easy to carry. Both legs were missing, and so was part of his head.

The other body was less mutilated, so that Marge Menninger recognized her at once.

It was Tinka.

Marge stood numbly while Sweggert made his report. No Krinpit in sight; they had got away, so far that they couldn’t even be heard. Both people were dead when they got there, but recently; the bodies were still warm. For that matter, they were still warm now. And the man had had a packet in a waterproof wrapping inside his shirt. Margie accepted it and tore it open. Microfiches — scores of them. The man’s ID card, which showed that he was the Indonesian Tinka had gone to contact. A pair of child-sized spectacles — flat glass, not optically ground. Why glasses? For that matter, how had the two got here? Had they been caught as spies and then somehow escaped? And how had they come the long distance from the Greasy camp to the beach where they died?