“On Malay?” Chuck Kimmage jumped to his feet, his wife clutching his arm, both of them horrified. Phas had managed to find and warn all the other stakers at Malay and Mexico, but Chuck and Chaila had arrived just before the meeting, too late to be privately informed.

“And all of us will help preserve your stakes,” Emily Boll said in a loud firm voice.

Paul jumped up on the platform, raising his hands and glancing at Cabot for permission to speak. “I’m asking for volunteers to man sleds and flamethrowers. Kenjo and Fulmar have worked out a way of mounting them. Some are already in place on what sleds they could commandeer. Those of you with medium and large sleds just volunteered them. The best way to get the Thread is while it’s still airborne, before it has a chance to land. We will also need people on the ground, mopping up what does slip through.”

“What about the fire-lizards, or whatever you call ’em? Won’t they help?” someone asked.

“They helped us that day at Landing,” a woman added, a note of fearful apprehension making her voice break.

“They helped at Sadrid Stake two days ago,” Wade said.

“The rain helped a lot, too,” Kenjo added, not at all convinced of assistance from a nonmechanical quarter.

“Any of you with dragonets would be very welcome in ground crews,” Paul went on, willing to entertain any possible reinforcements. But he, too, was skeptical; he had been too busy to attach a dragonet, though his wife and older son had two each. “I particularly need those of you who’ve had any combat or flight experience. Our enemy isn’t the Nathi this time, but it’s our world that is being invaded. Let’s stop it, tomorrow and whenever it’s necessary!”

A spontaneous cheer went up in response to his rousing words and was repeated, growing in volume as people got to their feet, waving clenched fists. Those on the platform watched the demonstration, relieved and reassured. Perhaps only Ongola took note of those who remained seated or silent.

Chapter 11

If Dieter and Boris were correct, the oncoming Fall would give the Kahrain peninsula a near miss, beginning at approximately 1630 hours, roughly 120 klicks northwest of the mouth of the Paradise River, 25 degrees south. Dieter and Boris were not sure if the Fall would extend as far southwestward as Mexico on Lake Maori, but precautions were being taken there as well.

Acting Commander Kenjo Fusaiyuki assembled his squadrons at the required point. Though Thread drowned in the sea, his teams would at least have some practice throwing flame at the “real thing.”

“Practice” was not the appropriate term for the chaos that resulted. Kenjo was reduced to snarling preemptory orders over the comm unit as the inept but eager sled pilots plummeted through the skies after Thread, frequently favoring one another with a glancing touch of thrown HNO3.