“You are responsible for my appearance, Dr. Myakovsky,” Norbert said.

“I think you're beautiful,” Stan said. “Don't you think so, Julie?”

“I think you're both pretty cute,” she said.

In the forward cabin of the lander, the five volunteer crew members were sitting as comfortably as they were able in the cramped confines. Morrison, big and blond, an Iowa farmboy, had unwrapped an energy bar and was nibbling at it. Beside him, Skysky, fat and balding with a walrus mustache, decided to eat an energy bar of his own and fumbled it out of his pocket. Eka Nu, a flat-faced Burmese with skin a shade lighter than burned umber, was mumbling over the wooden beads of his Buddhist rosary. Styson, his long face as mournful as ever, was playing his harmonica, monotonously repeating one phrase over and over. And Larrimer, a city boy from New York's south Bronx, was doing nothing at all except licking his dry lips and brushing his long lank hair out of his eyes.

They had been excited when they volunteered. It was a chance for some action, after the confines of the ship. They'd heard stories about the aliens, of course, but none of them had seen one. They hadn't even been born at the time of the alien occupation of Earth. Aliens now seemed an exotic menace, a weird kind of big bug that would fall easily to their guns. Morrison was fiddling with his carbine. He decided to insert a new feed ramp. He stripped the receiver and replaced the ramp, then snapped the connector into place. The ramp toggled through a diagnostic code and then clicked into place. He shoved a magazine into the carbine, touched the bolt control, and cycled a round into the firing chamber. The magazine's counter showed an even one hundred antipersonnel rounds ready to go.

“Hey, farm boy,” Skysky said, “you planning to shoot something?”

“If I get the chance,” Morrison said, “I'm going to bag me one of them aliens and bring home his horns.”

Eka Nu looked up from his rosary. “Aliens no got horns.”

“Well, whatever they got, I want to bring a piece of it home. A piece of skull maybe. Wouldn't that look good mounted over the mantel?”

Styson said, “You better just hope one of them critters doesn't nail your hide up over the mantel.”

“What're you talking about?” Morrison asked. “Them creatures ain't civilized. They ain't got mantels.”

Just then Stan's voice came over the loudspeaker. “You men! Get ready to embark into a pod. Check your weapons.”

“Okay,” Morrison said, getting to his feet. “Time we had ourselves a little hunting.”

The men were all on their feet, checking their weapons and talking excitedly. They were clumsy, some of them seeing modem weaponry for the first time. Morrison — who was their natural leader due to his size and self-confidence, though he was of the same rank as the rest of them — had to show Styson how to release the safeties. He was beginning to wonder if the guys would be all right, but he figured as long as they knew which end to point and what to pull, they'd be fine. What creature could stand up against military caseless ammunition?

The number-one lander had three escape pods. These were used for close-up maneuvering, in order not to jeopardize the lander itself by piloting it around poorly mapped ground features. This standard-model pod was shaped like an enormous truck tire. Its circular form allowed for the miles of complex wiring that took up most of its interior and allowed it to ride the planet's electromagnetic currents with some success.

Norbert fitted himself in, and Mac nestled up to his chest.

“Comfortable?” Stan asked, peering in.

“The question has no relevance for me,” Norbert replied. “When your body is electronically operated, one posture is as good as another. But Mac is fine, Dr. Myakovsky.”

“Glad to hear it,” Stan said. “Good luck, Norbert. I'll be sending down the five crew volunteers in a separate pod. This moment brings us to the whole point of this operation — getting you and Mac and the men to the surface of AK-32 near the alien hive. Have you got all the stuff you'll need? Did you remember to check the charge in the inhibitors?”

“Of course, Dr. Myakovsky. They should give me enough time to do what I have to do.”

“Okay,” Stan said. “Good-bye, Mac. You're a nice little dog. I hope I see you again one of these days.”

“Not likely, Doctor,” said Norbert.

Suddenly Stan was furious.

“Just get the hell out of here!” he said, slamming the pod's hatch shut. “I don't need your comments. Did you hear that, Julie?”

“Take it easy, Stan,” Julie said. “Norbert didn't mean anything. He only states facts. Anyway, what's the big deal?”

Norbert's voice came over the radio. “I am ready for the descent, Dr. 'Myakovsky.”

Stan turned to Gill. “Cut the pod loose. And then get the volunteers into their own pod.”

Gill, seated at the control panel, turned a switch. The pod came loose from the landing platform with a soft explosive sigh of power. It ejected straight into the air, dipped for a moment then its electromagnetic receptors came up to full and the pod darted across the stormy landscape of AR-32 toward the distant hive.

Badger and Glint left the workshop and entered crew country from the corridor into the crew's commissary. A wave of sound and smell hit them. The sound was of fifteen men and women, mostly young, celebrating their arrival at AR-32 with song and booze, hamburgers and pizza (these latter accounting for the smell), and a level of noise that had to be heard to be believed.

Celebrating landfall was an old custom among ship's crews. Columbus's men had celebrated in the same way, their arrival in the New World offering them a good excuse for a spree. That's what the arrival at AR-32 meant to the crew of the Dolomite, too: a chance to cut loose and tie one on in the secure surroundings of the commissariat, where officers were not permitted and where scanning procedures were prohibited by the strong Spacemen's Union.

Here the men could say what they wanted, and there were no ship's officers nearby or at the end of an electronic listening device ready to take their names and report them for summary discipline. The union wouldn't allow it, and Red Badger had counted on that when he made his entry.

Long Meg, a wiper third class from Sacramento back on Earth, slapped Badger on the back and pushed a bulb of beer into his face. “Where you been, Red? Not like you to miss a spree!”

“I been out to the wreck,” Red said.

“What wreck? They didn't tell us about no wreck.”

“No, they didn't,” Red said. “That's very like them, isn't it?”

Meg pushed her face close to Badger's. “None of your bullshit. What wreck are you talking about?”

Badger grinned at her easily. “That's what the captain sent me and Glint here to investigate. It showed up on the radar and he sent me to get the flight recorder.”

“Oh. Is that all?” Meg asked. “I guess the captain will tell us what was on it all in good time.”

“I don't think so,” Badger said. “If we knew what was on that recorder, it might change our minds about a few things.”

“Come out with it, Red! What are you talking about?”

“Suppose that flight recorder showed a freighter just like ours, poking around here just like we are, then being blasted to hell by someone who didn't want them here? What about that, huh?”

“That would be serious,” Meg admitted, and several other crewmen nodded agreement. “Are you saying that's what it said?”

“I'm not saying nothing,” Badger said. “You can decide for yourselves.”

“You took the flight indicator?”

“I listened to it in the workshop. And now I'm going to play it for you. Once you've heard it, you can come to your own conclusions.”