Beastchild

looked as if the storm could last another six or eight hours and put down another half foot of the white stuff. Not only was it a record breaker in duration and amount of precipitation (in naoli experience) but also in the area it blanketed. It stretched all along the top of what used to be called the States, from the Mid West to the New England coastline. It would have held the traumatist enthralled, had not the Hunter also fascinated him.
        The copter drifted on, flying itself, only twenty-five feet above the land.
        They were almost to the top of the mountain when Docanil opened his eyes, leaned forward, kicked the automatic pilot off, and took control of the machine.
        "What is it?" Banalog inquired.
        Docanil did not answer. He brought the copter around, headed back down the mountain for a few hundred feet, then set the machine to hover.
        Banalog looked out the windscreen, studied the area that seemed to concern the Hunter. He could make out only what appeared to be a few guardrails thrusting above the snow, a tangle of safety cable, and a great deal of drift.
        "What?" he asked again. "I'm supposed to help you if I can."
        He thought the Hunter almost smiled; at least he came closer to it than any Hunter the traumatist had ever seen.
        "You help me to think ahead of Hulann. I can pick up the trail myself. But since you are curious… Do you see the rails and the cable?"
        "Yes."
        "The rails are crooked, as if they have been partially uprooted or bent out of shape. The cable is broken. See how it meanders across the snow. Something has struck here. Perhaps they have already died. See the drift ahead? They could have swerved to miss that."
        Banalog licked his lips. He wanted to twine his tail about his leg, but knew the Hunter would see. "I didn't know you were so sensitive to clues this small or to-"
        "Of course," Docanil the Hunter said.
        He took the copter over the rails and down the side of the mountain, handily avoiding the pipes, swerving through breaks in them that Banalog did not even see until they were upon them, zigging and zagging, using the stiff wind that tried to batter their craft, moving with it instead of against it.
        "There," Docanil said.
        Banalog looked. "What? I see nothing."
        "Between the two columns of rock. The car."
        If the traumatist looked closely, strained his big eyes until they watered, he was able to make out pieces of a shuttlecraft body peeking through the snow, no section more than a few inches square.
        "The vehicle is on its side," Docanil said. "And it is the one they escaped in."
        "They're dead?"
        "I don't know," the Hunter said. "We will stop and look."
        Leo was roused by the stuttering blades of a copter. He sat up on the plush couch and listened closely. The noise was gone now, but he was certain he had not dreamed it. He sat very tensely for a time. At last, he got up and went to the windows, walked from one to the other. There was nothing but the trees, the snow, and the hotel grounds.
        Then the sound came again.
        A helicopter. Close.
        He ran across the room to where Hulann slept, shook the naoli's shoulder.
        Hulann did not respond.
        "Hulann!"
        Still, he did not move.
        The sound of the copter faded, then came back again. He could not tell if it was coming closer or not. But he knew it was almost a certainty that the passengers of that machine were looking for he and Hulann. He continued to harass the sleeping alien, but with no more luck than before. There are only three ways to wake a naoli from his nether world slumber…
        Docanil the Hunter clambored out of the smashed shuttlecar, walked across the side of the twisted wreck, and jumped to the ground, sinking in snow up to his knees. Despite the difficult conditions, he moved with grace and catlike quiet.
        "Are they dead?" Banalog asked.
        "They are not there."
        Banalog managed to keep his relief from showing. He should have been anxious for the Hunter's success and against anything that benefited the renegades. Irresponsibly, he felt just the opposite. He wanted them to escape, to find refuge, to survive. Deep within, he was aware of what the Phasersystem said would happen if humans survived. A hundred years from now, two hundred, and they would find a way to strike back. His