Lamm threw the plasma gun down and sailed off toward the shuttle alone, swearing loudly

over the open channel on which Yalson was still trying

to call the Bratsilakins.

They waded through the tall cane grass and bushes under the

whoosh

ing trails of plasma bolts, as Jandraligeli gave them cover.

They had to duck occasionally as small-bore projectile fire tore through the greenery around them.

They sprawled in the hangar of the

Clear Air Turbulence,

beside the still warm shuttle as it clicked and creaked, cooling down again after its

high-speed climb through the atmosphere.

Nobody wanted to talk. They just sat or lay on the deck, some with their backs against the side of the warm shuttle. Those

who had been

inside the temple were the most obviously affected, but even the others, who had only heard the mayhem over their

suit communicators,

seemed in a state of mild shock. Helmets and guns lay scattered about them.

“ ‘Temple of Light,’ " Jandraligeli said eventually, and gave what sounded like a mixture of laugh and snort.

“Temple of fucking Light," Lamm agreed.

“Mipp," Kraiklyn said in a tired voice to his helmet, “any signals from the Bratsilakins."

Mipp, still on the

CAT

’s small bridge, reported that there was nothing.

“We ought to bomb that place to fuck," Lamm said. “Nuke the bastards." Nobody replied. Yalson got up slowly and left the hangar,

walking

tiredly up the steps to the upper deck, helmet dangling from one arm, gun from the other, her head down.

“I’m afraid we’ve lost that radar." Wubslin closed an inspection hatch and rolled out from underneath the nose of the shuttle.

“That first bit of

hostile fire…" His voice trailed off.

“Least nobody’s injured," Neisin said. He looked at Dorolow. “Your eyes better." The woman nodded but kept her eyes closed.

Neisin

nodded, too. “Actually worse, when people are injured. We were lucky." He dug into a small pack on the front of his

suit and produced a little

metal container. He sucked at a nipple at the top and grimaced, shaking his head. “Yeah, we were

lucky. And it was fairly quick for them, too."

He nodded to himself, not looking at anybody, not caring that nobody seemed

to be listening to him. “See how everybody we’ve lost all shared

the same… I mean they went in pairs… or threes… huh." He

took another slug and shook his head. Dorolow was nearby; she reached over

and held out her hand. Neisin looked at her in

surprise, then handed the small flask to her. She took a swig and passed it back. Neisin looked

around, but no one else wanted

any.

Horza sat and said nothing. He was staring at the cold lights of the hangar, trying not to see the scene he had witnessed

in the hall of the

dark temple.

The

Clear Air Turbulence

broke orbit on fusion drive and headed for the outer edge of Marjoin’s gravity well, where it could engage its warp

motors.

It didn’t pick up any signals from the Bratsilakins and it didn’t bomb the Temple of Light. It set a course for the Vavatch

Orbital.

From radio transmissions they had picked up from the planet they worked out what had happened to the place, what had caused

the monks

and priests in the temple to be so well armed. Two nation states on the world of Marjoin were at war, and the temple

was near the frontier

between the two countries, constantly ready for attack. One of the states was vaguely socialist; the

other was religiously inspired, the priests in

the Temple of Light representing one sect of that militant faith. The war was

partly caused by the greater, galactic conflict taking place around it,

as well as being a tiny and approximate image of it.

It was that reflection, Horza realized, which had killed the members of the Company, as

much as any bounced laserflash.

Horza wasn’t sure how he would sleep that night. He lay awake for a few hours, listening to Wubslin having quiet nightmares.

Then the cabin

door was tapped lightly. Yalson came in and sat on Horza’s bunk. She put her head on his shoulder and they

held each other. After a while she

took his hand and led him quietly down the companionway, away from the mess—where a splash

of light and distant music witnessed that the

unsleeping Kraiklyn was unwinding with a drug flask and a holosound tape—down

to the cabin which had been Gow’s and kee-Alsorofus’s.

In the darkness of the cabin, on a small bed full of strange scents and new textures, they performed the same old act, theirs—they

both

knew—an almost inevitably barren cross-matching of species and cultures thousands of light-years apart. Then they slept.