Jem

Morrissey was crouched over his pictures and diagrams when Da

“Harriet says we must know how serious the poisoning is.”

“We already know that, man. They got real sick. But they didn’t die.”

“Harriet says you can at least analyze them.”

“For what? I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“Harriet says—”

“Oh, screw Harriet. ’Scuse me, Da

“It hasn’t stopped, Jim.”

“It’s slowing down. When it does stop, Boyne’s going to be coming around to collect the backhoe I borrowed from him. I want to use it first.”

“For what?”

“For digging up some of our light-fingered friends.” He pointed straight down at the floor of the tent. “The ones that swiped Harriet’s radio.”

“We already tried that.”

“Yes, we did. We found out that the important thing is speed. They’ll close up the tu

“Is that all you think of — killing?” Dalehouse flared.

“No, no. I wasn’t suggesting it. I was excluding it. I know you don’t like killing off our alien brothers.”

Dalehouse took a deep breath. He had seen enough of the balloonists to stop thinking of them as preparations and learn to consider them, almost, as people. The burrowers were still total unknowns to him, and probably rather distasteful — he thought of termites and maggots and all sorts of vile crawling things when he thought of them — but he wasn’t ready for genocide.

“So what were you suggesting?” he asked.

“I borrowed a backhoe from Boyne. I want to use it before he takes it back. The thing is, I think I know where to dig.”

He gathered up a clump of the papers on the upended footlocker he was using for a desk and handed them over. The sheets on top seemed to be a map, which meant nothing to Dalehouse, but underneath was a sheaf of photographs. He recognized them; they were aerial views of the area surrounding the camp. Some he had taken himself, others were undoubtedly Kappelyushnikov’s.

“There’s something wrong with them,” he said. “The colors look fu

“It’s false-color photography, Da

Dalehouse turned the pictures about in his hands and then asked, “Why?”

“Well, see if you figure it out the same way I did. Look at the one under it, in orthodox color. You took that one. Turn it so it’s oriented the same way as the false-color print — there. Do you see those clumps of orangey bushes? They seem to extend in almost straight lines. And those bright red ones? They are extensions of the same lines. The bushes are all the same plant; the difference is that the bright red ones are dead. Well, doesn’t it look to you like the pale lines in the false-color pictures match up with the lines of bushes in the ortho? And I’ve poked a probe down along some of those lines, and guess what I found.”

“Burrows?” Dalehouse hazarded.

“You’re so damn smart,” grumbled Morrissey. “All right, show me some real smarts. Why are those plants and markings related to the burrows?”

Dalehouse put down the pictures patiently. “That I don’t know. But I bet you’re going to tell me.”

“Well, no. Not for sure. But I can make a smart guess. I’d say digging out tu

He sat back on his folding campstool and regarded Da

Dalehouse thought for a second, listening to the dwindling plop of raindrops on the tent roof. “You tell me more than I want to know, Jim, but I think I get your drift. You want me to help you dig them up. How are we going to do that fast enough? Especially in the kind of mud there is out there?”

“That’s why I borrowed Boyne’s backhoe. It’s been in position ever since the rain began. I think the burrowers sense ground vibrations; I wanted them to get used to its being there before we started.”

“Did you tell him what you wanted it for? I got the impression they were digging burrows themselves.”

“So did I, and that’s why I didn’t tell him. I said we needed new latrines, and by gosh, we do — sometime or other. Anyway, it’s right over the best-looking patch of bushes right now, ready to go. Are you with me?”

Da

“Sure,” he said.

Morrissey gri

Harriet was every bit as tough as advertised. “You don’t seriously mean, ” she began, “that you want to drag everybody out in a downpour just for the sake of digging a few holes?”

“Come on, Harriet,” said Morrissey, trying not to explode. “The rain’s almost stopped.”

“And if it has, there are a thousand more important things to do!”

“Will be fun, Gasha,” Kappelyushnikov chipped in. “Digging for foxholes like landed oil-rich English country gentlemen! Excellent sport.”

“And it isn’t just a few holes,” Morrissey added. “Look at the seismology traces. There are big things down there, chambers twenty meters long and more. Not just tu

Harriet said cuttingly, “Morrissey, if you wonder why none of us have any confidence in you, that’s just the reason. You’ll say any stupid thing that comes into your head. Cities! There are some indications of shafts and chambers somewhat bigger than the tu

“All right, all right. They’re not cities. Maybe they aren’t even villages, but they’re something. At the least, they are something like breeding chambers where they keep their young. Or store their food. Or, Christ, I don’t know, maybe it’s where they have ballet performances or play bingo — what’s the difference? Just because they’re bigger, it follows that they’re probably more important. It will be less likely, or at least harder, for them to seal them off.”

He looked toward Alex Woodring, who coughed and said, “I think that’s reasonable, Harriet. Don’t you?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Reasonable? No, I certainly wouldn’t call it reasonable. Of course, you’re our leader, at least nominally, and if you think it wise for us to depart from the—”

“I do think it’s a good idea, Harriet,” Woodring said boldly.

“If you’ll let me finish, please? I was saying, if you think we should depart from the agreement we all made that group decisions should be arrived at unanimously, not by a vote or some one person throwing his weight around, then I suppose I have nothing further to say.”

“Gasha, dear,” said Kappelyushnikov soothingly, “shut up, please? Tell us plan, Jim.”