Meantime, Hutch and Nightingale collected background information from the ships. They cut three slabs of rock from the tower walls to serve as markers and engraved them. They wrapped the bodies in plastic brought originally for the artifacts. By then night had fallen, and their colleagues had returned. They stored the coffins inside the tower, posted a guard, built a fire, and slept in the open.

There was a ghostly quality to it all. Ordinarily, Flickinger fields were invisible, but they tended to reflect light in the 6100–6400 angstrom range. Orange and red. So they all developed a mild glow whose gradations varied with the intensity of the flames. When occasionally the fire flared, golden auras became visible, providing a flavor of the angelic. Or of the demonic, if one preferred. In either case, Hutch hoped it would be more than enough to keep whatever creatures might haunt the neighborhood at a respectful distance.

She took the first watch. They were well away from the tower, to ensure that the guard, equipped with night goggles, had a good view

in all directions. Nothing moved in that vast wasteland, and after two hours she wearily turned the duty over to Nightingale and curled up in a snowbank.

But she couldn't sleep, and for a time she watched him pacing nervously around the camp. It was snowing lightly, and the sky was overcast.

It had been a mistake to bring him. Even the news that help was on the way had failed to cheer him measurably. While the others had collectively taken a deep breath, and Hutch herself had shed the pall of concern that came with knowing it could easily have gone the other way. Nightingale had seemed not to react. "Good," he'd said. "Thank God." But his tone had been flat, as if it didn't really make much difference.

Nightingale wasn't young, and the next few days, with no food, were going to be difficult. She wondered how he'd hold up. Wondered how any of them would hold up. They had nobody, as far as she knew, with the kind of background they were going to need to make themselves reasonably comfortable. They had only the donuts and a few other assorted snacks. But hell, how hungry could they get in four days? If necessary, maybe they could nibble on leaves. It would be just a matter of putting something into their stomachs.

Nightingale stood in the glare of the fire, scanning the area. He seemed discouraged. Part of that obviously stemmed from the casual-ties they'd taken, and she wondered whether he was shocked by their loss, or whether he was sensing a kind of parallel with his earlier ex-perience on this world. She also knew he had no confidence in her. He hadn't said anything overt, but she could read his feelings in his eyes. Especially since their situation had turned difficult. Who are you, his attitude asked, to be making decisions? What's your de-gree? Your level of expertise in these matters? You're not even an archeologist.

A mild tremor rolled through the night. It was barely discernible, but she wondered whether it wouldn't be a good idea to head out somewhere tomorrow. Get a reading from Marcel and make for a safer place.

Nightingale knelt close to Chiang and brushed snow away from his converter. They were in no danger even if the device did become buried, of course. If the air flow into the Flickinger field were cut off, an alarm would sound.

Hutch's heat exchanger put out a barely audible hum as it warmed the envelope of air circulating inside her suit. She heard it change tone and looked at her link. The outside temperature was fifteen below. A fairly constant wind was blowing out of the northwest, and the snow was getting heavier.

Four and a quarter days until help came. It wasn't exactly a hardship situation. The e-suits would protect them from the cold, but it would occasionally be necessary to shut them off, when eating or performing other basic functions. They'd established a privacy area behind the tower. It wasn't very private, though, because Hutch insisted no one go back there without an escort. MacAllister, who had often remonstrated against the foolishness of puritanical ideals, seemed particularly upset by the arrangement. If one had to use the facility during the night, it was necessary to wake one of the others. It was not a circumstance that would help morale, he pointed out.

"Getting eaten," Hutch told him, "does nothing for morale either."

In the morning, under lowering skies, they held a farewell ceremony. Kellie recorded it for the next of kin.

Toni had been a Universalist, Wetheral a Methodist. And Casey was not known to be affiliated with any religious group.

Hutch spoke for Toni, a difficult assignment because Universalists did not believe in mantras or formal prayers. One always spoke from the heart. They all mourned the loss of one so young, she said. Nothing they could recover from the site would be worth the price they'd paid. She added that she personally would always remember Toni, who had refused to allow her to come alone to the tower.

Captain Nicholson, using VR, performed the ceremony for Wetheral. He spoke of selfless service, dedication to duty, a willingness always to put forth extra effort. Hutch concluded that Nicholson and his officer were strangers, and it seemed to her particularly painful that the man had died with no one present who knew him as a human being. His first name, she'd discovered, was Cole. She wished, at least, that they could have recovered his body.

The marker for Toni read Faithful Unto Death. Wetheral's might easily have read Buried by Strangers.

MacAllister surprised her by asking to speak for Casey.

"I knew her only briefly," he said. "She seems to have been an honest woman in an honest profession. Maybe no more need be said. Like Toni Hamner, she was only at the beginning of her life. I will miss her."

He stared down at the marker, which at his suggestion had been engraved with only her name and dates, and the single word Journalist.

When they were finished, they put the two coffins in the graves and replaced the soil.

"Wait a minute," said Helm. "Tell me again what we're going to do?"

"Five people are stranded on the surface of Maleiva III. It's the world that's going to-"

"I know about Maleiva HI. Why are we going there?"

"To rescue them," Penkavic said.

A chessboard was set up on his desk. Helm sat behind the black pieces, but his cold blue eyes had locked on Penkavic. He ran long fingers through thick gray hair and nodded, not to the captain, he thought, but to some inner compulsion of his own.

They were in Helm's private quarters. The tabletop that supported the chessboard was buried under disks, notes, schematics, printouts. "Why is that our concern?" he asked, keeping his tone polite. As if he was honestly curious. "We're, what, several days away, aren't we?"

"Yes, sir."

Helm was Kosmik's chief engineer and director of the terraform-ing project at Quraqua. "So why do they need us?"

"They need the lander. They don't have any way of getting their people off the surface."

"What happened to their lander?"

"It got wrecked. In a quake."

"That seems shortsighted."

"I don't know the details. In any case, we've already jumped out of hyper. We're maneuvering onto a new heading, and as soon as we have it we'll make the jump again. The sooner we-"

"Wait just a minute. We're carrying a full load of equipment, supplies, people. All needed at Quraqua. We have constraints on when we have to get there, Eliot. We can't just go wandering around the region."

"I understand that, sir. But there's nobody else available to do this."

Helm's tone suggested a gentle uncle trying to reason with an adolescent. "Surely that can't be."

"I checked it, sir. We're the only ship close enough. The only one with a lander."

"Look, Eliot." He got up, walked around the table, sat down on it, and pointed to a chair. Penkavk stayed on his feet. "We can't just hold up the cargo. Or the people." He leaned forward and looked at the captain. "Tell me, if we were to do this, make the run, how late would we be getting into Quraqua?"