slope miles to the south of the village.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of panting and of dragging footsteps as Karen, Polf, and two other Skirkhi followed. The slope leveled off to a plateau. Something too big and solid to be a tree loomed up against the horizon.

"There it is!" Guthrie gasped.

The darkness was relieved only slightly by the stars, but there was no mistaking that silhouette. Guthrie stumbled the last hundred yards and came to a halt beside one big fin.

He stretched out a hand and accounted for the others by touch as they arrived. The rocket was canted slightly because one of the fins had sunk a little way into the ground, and the hatch half-way up the hull had been left open with the exit ladder extended to the surface.

"We'd better catch our wind before trying to climb up," he said.

He knelt on the grassy ground and rolled wearily over to a sitting position.

"How could I do it?" he murmured.

"What? You speak wrong talk, Gut'rie," panted Polf. "Like you talk to the good one before they start celebration. What you say to fool him?"

"What does he say?" whispered Karen anxiously.

"Wants to know what I said to Trent," he answered, tugging the frayed cuff of his trousers away from his leg. He seemed to be mud to the knees.

"When you came along as he was getting ready for the ceremony? You told him to dump the fancy costume and run for it."

"I did?" mused Guthrie. "Yes, I forgot. Well, he wouldn't listen, would he?"

"No, and he wanted me to go with him. You got mad because he thought they were taking him into the tribe."

"He's being taken, all right," muttered Guthrie. "There's no moon up yet."

He crawled to his feet and groped through the dark to the ladder.

"What are you doing?" asked Karen.

"Gonna take a look. Hope there's fuel to bounce her off this mudball."

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