"No! That's not safe. If there's a stampede, they'll run right over it. Over us. Find yourself a tree."

"I'm not sure…" He was gazing uncertainly at a tall hardwood. "They're too big to climb."

"Get back of one."

Hordes of the creatures wobbled past them. They ran in a pseudo-mechanical fashion, legs synchronized, mandibles pointed front as if they were expecting resistance. Those that moved too slowly or got in the way of bigger animals had their legs or antennas sheared off. One crashed into Nightingale, went down, and before it could get to its feet, was trampled. Another blundered into the fire, whistled pitifully, and ran on, trailing smoke.

When the panic was over, the dead and dying hardshells were heaped on all sides.

A straggler appeared. It was having a hard time getting onto level ground. After an interminable struggle, it succeeded, and they saw why: Two of its legs and several antennas were gone.

"What happens when they come back?" asked MacAllister.

"It won't be the same," said Nightingale. "It won't be a stampede."

"That doesn't mean they won't be dangerous."

"That's true. Also, they could be looking for a snack by then. It might be prudent to clear out of the area."

Mac was looking both ways along the rim. "I agree. Which direction? Back the way we came?"

"That doesn't sound like Gregory MacAllister."

Mac laughed and shouldered his pack. "All right then," he said, "onward it is."

Both were refreshed by their long rest at the summit, and they set out at a steady pace. The arc of the gas giant was rising behind them, and the forest grew so bright they didn't need their lamps. Not much longer.

A fresh voice broke into his thoughts. Canyon.

"I hear things are happening, Dr. Nightingale," he said. "I wonder if you'd care to describe them for us?"

"This is not a good time, August," Nightingale said, and severed the connection.

"Exactly the right way to deal with the media," said MacAllister.

"Hell, Mac, I thought you were the media."

"I am indeed," he said.

They stayed close to the rim of the escarpment. The bay spread out below them, a vast arm of the sea, smooth and hazy in Morgan's light. Along the shore, large tracts of woodland were in the water.

"Tide's come pretty far in," said Nightingale.

It was rising visibly as they watched. "You figure we're really high enough, Randy?"

Nightingale laughed. They were a long way up. "I have to think that's the celebrated MacAllister wit."

"Oh, yes. It is that."

The forest literally went over the edge of the summit in some areas, and they were often so close to the precipice that a misstep could have ended in disaster. But occasionally the foliage opened out as much as a half kilometer. The glare of the giant planet had become so bright they were able to switch off their lamps.

MacAllister touched Nightingale's shoulder and pointed out over the water. A light was burning.

"It just came on," he said.

And while they watched, it went off.

They peered into the semi-dark, but could make out nothing.

The light came back on.

"What do you think it is?" asked MacAllister.

"Marine life."

It went off. Nightingale lifted his lamp, pointed it out to sea, and blinked it.

The light in the water blinked back.

Mac frowned. "I do believe somebody's saying hello."

That hardly seemed possible. "It's a luminous squid or something," he said. "We're looking at a mating call."

"It wants to mate with us?"

"It wants to mate with the lamp." Nightingale blinked again. A complicated series of longs, shorts, and mediums flashed back.

Mac got dangerously close to the edge. "It looks like a code."

"Did you know," asked Nightingale, "that some of the fireflies back home are really imitating other species of fireflies? Mimicking a desire to mate? When the recipient shows up for a big time, he gets eaten." He narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness. It appeared to be simply a light on the surface. He imagined a hand raising a lantern from the depths.

"Can you make it out, Randy?"

"Just water."

MacAllister blinked his light and looked expectantly seaward. There was, Nightingale thought, an element of play in his manner. He was enjoying this.

A reply came back, another complicated series.

"I can't tell what's doing it," Nightingale said. "It looks as if the light's in the water." He stared at it. "We should record it."

MacAllister nodded. "It almost seems like a fishing boat out there trying to talk to us."

The ground shook. Somewhere below, a piece of rock broke off and fell down the face of the cliff into the bay.

Nightingale caught his breath, moved well back from the precipice, and waited for more shocks. When none came, he directed his scanner to record. At his signal, MacAllister blinked a couple of times, and again the lights flashed. One. Followed by two. Followed by three.

Nightingale felt a chill run down his back.

"Your squid can count," said Mac. "Do you think that intelligent life might have developed at sea?"

Well, it had back home. But it had taken a long time to recognize because it was nontechnological. Dolphins and whales were clever. And squids. But they didn't take to mathematics without prodding. "It's had a long time to evolve," Nightingale said.

Mac flashed once.

The answer came back: Two.

Nightingale pushed Mac's lantern down, and raised his own. He sent Three.

It answered: Four.

He looked through the glasses again. "My God," he said. "We're going to come back with this story and no answers and people are going to scream."

The ground trembled again, more intensely this time. "Randy," said Mac, "this is not a good place to be right now."

"I know."

MacAllister took his shoulder. "Come on. Before we both go into the pond."

Nightingale nodded, pointed his lamp at the light source, and blinked again. Once. Good-bye.

The offshore light blinked back. Twice.

"They're still counting," said Nightingale.

"How you guys doing?" Kellie's voice, sounding cheerful and relieved.

"Okay," said Nightingale, who could not take his eyes off the bay. "Good. I thought you'd want to know. We'll be in the air in a few minutes."

Thank God,

"They're good babes," MacAllister told him on the private channel.

XXIV

Good fortune is less a product of talent or energy than it is a matter of timing. Being at the right place when the watermelon truck flips. This is how promotions happen, and how fortunes are made. Arrive at the intersection a minute behind, when the police are on the scene, and everything is undone.

— Gregory MacAllister, Lost in Babylon.

Hours to breakup (est): 63

Kellie looked down at Bad News Bay and sucked in her breath. The entire lower coastline had gone underwater, and the cliff top along which they'd walked was now not much more than a promontory.

"What do you think?" asked Hutch. She was referring to the diagnostic, and not the state of the bay.

"I don't know why the Al is disabled. Probably general degradation."

"Okay. What else?"

"We've got problems with temp controls. Onboard communications are okay. Capacitors are at max, but we've only got twenty-one percent That's all they'll take, apparently. Sensors are out. Forward dampers are down. We're getting a warning on the electrical system."

Hutch made a face. "Not imminent shutdown, I hope?"

"Negative."

"Okay. When we get time I'll take a look at it. We've got plenty of spare parts on board."

Normally, the pilot would run the diagnostic herself, but normally the AI would be operating the spacecraft. Hutch was busy.

Kellie ticked off a series of other problems, mostly minor, others potential rather than actual. "We wouldn't want to do a lot of flying in this buggy. But it should get us to the tower."