The hunter led them down a winding ramp. Before long they exited into a modest, busy avenue. Not far above them lay the frozen, clith-coated wastes of Hivehom’s hostile arctic. For the moment, though, it was as if they were back in Daret.

Military personnel scurried everywhere, emerald and crimson insignia sparkling from shoulders and foreheads. Only rarely did they espy a civil worker. The three oddly garbed strangers drew only occasional stares, testament to Tor’s frequent visits.

Their guide knew precisely where they were headed. From time to time he stopped to chat briefly with passersby he knew. Soon they stopped for a drink at a concession. From his observation of the crowd and the size of the corridors they’d already traversed, Ryo guessed that the base was much larger than Sed-Clee itself.

Later they strolled down a corridor that paralleled an immense artificial cavern filled with hybrid aircraft and military shuttles. The latter, part of the planetary defense network, were narrow, round-winged craft armed with missiles and energy weapons. To Ryo’s amateur eye they looked almost new, and, indeed, none had been flown on anything more strenuous than training flights.

Having lived through an off-world attack, Ryo felt a surge of confidence at the sight of the deadly craft, hibernating peacefully beneath the clith but ready to leap spaceward in defense of the mother world. Everything required to mount such a defense was here, safely underground, except for the ventilators and the forest of electronic receptors that doubtless lay camouflaged somewhere above.

If only we’d had two or three of these warcraft when the AAnn attacked, he thought Those broken-plated invaders would have received a lot more than a simple diplomatic reprimand!

Dwelling on the past was useless, he reminded himself. There was nothing constructive in retained bitterness. He forced the incident from his thoughts, concentrated on admiring the ranks of gleaming ships. Then they’d passed beyond the hangar and were once more making their way through the warren.

They’d been walking for some time and Ryo’s feet were beginning to hurt around the single footpad and trimmed claw, for his feet were still swathed in the fur shoes Tor insisted they wear to complete their hunter’s garb. He moved next to Tor. “I know we must be headed somewhere—but where? If this is a tour, I’ve seen enough.”

“It’s no tour. Our roundabout course is intentional. So is our walking instead of taking an internal module. Walking can’t be traced.