He began to suspect it might be.
* * *
Nyawk-Captain found Weaponsmaster's discarded armor through the emergency distress tone it was generating. From its position on the forest floor, with the helmet bent back and the visor digging a furrow in the dirt, he concluded that it had fallen out of the trees.
He studied the pattern of burn marks on the ablative surface. No blood or carbonized flesh on either, although the one at the throat smelled of burned hair. Clearly, Weaponsmaster had not been injured significantly while wearing the armor. Nor had he been wearing it when it fell.
Nyawk-Captain tilted his head back to study the underside of the roof layer. Nothing in its leaf pattern told him anything.
"My Captain!"
The voice was faint and coming from his left. Nyawk-Captain rose in a crouch and his armor prepared itself for violence.
Weaponsmaster limped forward from one of the rare patches of jungle growth on the forest floor. His gait reflected broken bones. He tended to circle to the right as he moved.
Weaponsmaster fell. Nyawk-Captain, moving toward him, caught his crewmate and lowered his body gently to the ground. Nyawk-Captain pawed at his belt for the field medical kit and began breaking ampoules of pain-reliever.
"Do not bother," Weaponsmaster grunted. "My head is cracked and my life is at an end."
"Did you fall? I found your armor. How did—?"
"One of the humans confronted me. He actually challenged me. It would have been dishonorable—to meet a naked combatant in armor. So I shed mine. . . . He fought well."
Nyawk-Captain heard this explanation but hardly believed it. The sons of Hanuman were known to fight by deceit and trickery, not by challenge in an honorable contest. And they did not kill adult kzinti in naked combat. This was most odd!
"Did you kill him?" Nyawk-Captain asked, feeling sure of the answer.
"I do not know. . . . Not for certain. But too much blood covers my paws, I think, for him to live."
"Was he alone?"
"I saw one only."
"That is never proof that there aren't others."
"I know. I failed you . . . should have . . ."
"Which way was it—were they—going?"
". . . East?"
The word ended with a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. A gout of blood came up in Weaponsmaster's throat, flowed over his tongue, and dripped between his teeth. The body went limp and, by reflex, the pink ears opened wide.
Nyawk-Captain smoothed them closed and lowered the great head to the ground.
Then the kzin considered his options. He had time, barely, to locate the humans, recover the contents of the Thrintun box, and still make his rendezvous at Margrave. But he would accomplish all this, he decided, even if it violated his margin for error on the mission. This was no longer just a matter of the box and its treasures. It was now an affair of honor.
* * *
"How far are we from the ship, do you figure?" Jook asked.
Cuiller looked up at his companion in surprise. "You're the navigator."
"Astrogation only. I'm a wreck in two dimensions."
"But I thought you were keeping track . . ."
The Wunderlander shook his head and looked down at his hands, massaging the bubble cast around his knee.
"Well, we were turning left all the time," Cuiller reasoned, "so we have to be somewhere south of Callisto."
"But how far?"
"Can't be more than two or three kilometers. We haven't traveled more than five or six altogether. And that wasn't in any kind of straight line."
"Are we lost?"
"Umm." Cuiller sucked his lips. "Which direction do you think the sun is?"
"Straight up."
"Then we're lost," the commander admitted. "But later on, when the sun moves west, we could work our way east and attempt to locate Sally and Daff."
"In this jungle, we could pass within forty meters of them and never know it."
"I guess it's time to try the radio." Cuiller raised the wrist unit, powered it up, and clicked the send key a couple of times.
"Captain?" from the speaker.
"Is that you, Sally?"
"Yeah. Where are you?"
"Somewhere south of the ship," he said. "I think."
"Me too. How are we going to link up?"
Cuiller thought for a moment. "One from each party should climb a tall tree, get above the forest canopy."
"It's just me now. Daff is dead. . . . What happens after I climb up there?"
"Burn some leaves or something with a rifle pulse. I'll do the same."
"All right. I'll be watching for you. Out."
Cuiller climbed while Jook stayed below. Daff was dead? As commanding officer, Cuiller would have pressed Krater for the details—except their messages had to be brief, to keep the kzinti from taking a radio fix. Anyway, Cuiller could well guess what had happened. One of the kzinti had caught up with them, and the Jinxian would not have run from that fight. Instead, with his lifetime of training, Daff had probably welcomed and invited it. And he had sent Krater on ahead, with the Slaver stasis-box, to safety.
Daff Gambiel had been a good man. Sober, quiet, strong, patient—and loyal. He never seemed to have much to say, but Cuiller knew the Jinxian was always working out problems in his head, so he would have the answers ready when needed. Callisto's crew was diminished by his loss, more than they knew. . . . Cuiller could only hope Gambiel was finally at peace with his fate.
When he at last broke through the top layer, Cuiller felt like a swimmer in a great, green ocean. The treetops swelled like rolling waves above the lower branches and netted vines. The lazy winds pushed them back and forth, like the conflicting chop around a point of land. He clung to his bole with one hand and held down the fine sprouts of greenery with the other. To look east and west, he had to climb around the tree.
He gave Krater ten minutes to settle into her treetop, then faced east, unslung his weapon, and took aim at the nearest clump of leaves. Cuiller fired a long burst, circling it
