Six months later, forty kilometers north of Outskirts

A drop of sweat dripped in Mike’s eye, stinging. He didn’t dare move to wipe it away. Fifty yards in front of him at the edge of a meadow carpeted with giant ferns, a tyrannosaur-sized roc fed on a three-day old boser carcass. He’d been stalking for over an hour, and the moment was at hand.

The roc was a good-sized one, a full six meters high at the withers, maybe seventeen meters long. He still hadn’t gotten used to what was, by Earth standards, a pretty strange-looking beast. A male roc like the one before him stood on two strong, pillar-like legs with three-toed, clawed feet. A heavy, robust body covered in a hairy/feathery coat ended in a long, whip-like tail at one end, and a two-meter-long head with a razor-sharp hooked beak at the other. No front limbs were visible, having been reduced to a few residual bones deep in the chest. This male also sported the usual crest of meter-long, bright crimson plumes on his head.

He waited, hidden behind the bole of a massive conifer until the roc dipped his head to wrench loose another chunk of flesh. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, raised his Parks double rifle. The right barrel had a hi-explosive penetrator round loaded. When the sights came to rest on the roc’s chest, Mike carefully moved the selector to fire the right barrel and squeezed off his shot.

A thunderous BOOM roared through the forest. Mike rode out the recoil as the 15mm double rifle slammed back, the barrels rising past 45 degrees. The hi-ex round performed perfectly, slamming deep into the roc’s chest. A dull thump announced the warhead’s detonation, wrecking the great predator’s hearts and lungs and severing both spinal cords. With a squawk of surprise and shock, the great birdlike beast fell to one side, kicking.

With a grin, he grabbed his dressing knife and strode forward. The plumes this male roc sported would bring him a premium. Before he started dressing the giant carcass, he activated his locater beacon. A provisioning droid would take at least an hour to get there, and he would have the carcass ready by then.

The past six months had been the best of Mike’s adult life. The one close call he’d had, with a large female roc, had been close enough to be exciting but not close enough to be terrifying. The roc had been herding two horse-sized chicks, and he hadn’t wanted to get too close. He’d killed four of the giant predators, and a dozen or so of the smaller, herbivorous bosers. This, and the one trip he’d made back into Outskirts, had kept him in supplies and food. 

The boser that formed the roc’s habitual food source didn’t look any less outlandish. Only slightly smaller than a roc at fifteen meters long, bosers were herd-dwelling herbivores with a coat of brown-gray feathers, two stout legs, smaller arms used for stuffing branches into a turtle-like beak, and a short, thick tail. A fantastic frill of stiff dun-gray quills formed a crest behind a boser’s head, larger on the males than on the females; males also sported a small, sharp horn on the nose.

The truly gigantic, ill-tempered loggers were another herbivorous species, which roamed in small family groups instead of large herds. They stayed in the large open woodlands to the east of his usual haunts. He had seen two of them cropping trees a month earlier when he’d explored towards the east.

While the Mercantile listed loggers as a valuable species, he doubted even his big Parks double could handle the giants. Rocs, he’d been told, detoured far out of their way to avoid the armored beasts. A logger could easily measure twenty-five meters nose to tail, and with a short tail at that. They massed an average of twenty-five metric tons. But size alone wasn’t what made the loggers formidable. Beginning with a foreshortened, turtle-like beak that could snap a meter-thick pine trunk in half, continuing onto a short, thick neck with a projecting frill of spines, a heavy torso covered in chitin armor, and a short thick flattened tail with razor-edged chitin plates that transformed the tail into the natural equivalent of a broadsword; every inch of the logger was a walking weapon. Unlike the other large animals of Forest, they supported their bulk on all fours. Their front legs were longer, bearing meter-long claws protected by their knuckle-walking gait. The rear legs were shorter, thicker, column like, with short thick claws. The two he had watched were braced up on their hind legs, leaning back on their thick tails, using the long clawed front legs to pull down trees to easy browsing reach. He had watched the giants, fascinated, for half an hour before slipping silently away.

A cave in an overhanging cliff was now Mike’s home camp. A week’s work with axe and pack saw had provided rough but comfortable furniture. Roaming the woods for weeks at a time, he reveled in the warm climate, the clean air, the giant trees, and the plentiful game. 

Finishing his field-dressing job, he sat back to wait for the provisioning droid. This roc would go back intact. He had plenty of jerked meat, and he found roc meat unappealing. 

Twenty minutes later, the robotic hauler swooped in from the south. Powered by a tiny fusion reactor, the provisioning variant of the standard OWME heavy-service droid resembled a weird, flying dump truck. A camera eye scanned the ground beneath, settling finally on the downed roc. The droid came into hover at treetop height above the huge carcass. Three robotic arms unfolded, latched onto the roc’s legs and neck, and retracted, pulling the carcass into the cargo bay. The robotic voice boomed out, startling him as it always did:

“ROC, MALE, PLUMES RATED 2-A. 6 METRIC TONS, PAID AT STANDARD RATE, 1,200 CREDITS. 500-CREDIT BONUS FOR PLUMAGE. FUNDS DEPOSITED IN SETTLEMENT BANK ACCOUNT, M. CRIDER, 485957991303.”

A good day’s work, he thought to himself. In his solitary lifestyle, entire weeks went by in which he never heard the sound of his own voice, but he found that strangely satisfying.

Suppertime was coming on. The sun was sinking in the eastern sky. He had almost gotten used to the sun’s moving in the wrong direction across the sky, but not quite. Chewing a bit of jerked boser meat, Mike decided to hike on another kilometer or two before making camp.

At least the walking was easy in this stretch of woods. The last week had been spent exploring a large valley between two ranges of mountains, a few miles west of his home cave. The river that had cut the great valley sprawled out across the valley floor, creating a wide, flat floodplain heavily forested with giant conifers. Under the great trees the forest floor was mostly bare, but meadows of giant ferns grew as high as his waist. In the fern meadows, bosers grazed, and there the rocs hunted them. Since his day’s hunting had been successful, he headed back into the depths of the forest.

Lowering beams of sunlight struck spears of yellow down through the branches. A bevy of small, weird, flying creatures fluttered away as Mike looked for a good campsite. He didn’t know what the little fluttering things were called, but at roughly the size of an Earth chicken, they weren’t bad eating. Mike had a few shot shells for his 15mm Parks rifle, which made a moderately effective close-range shotgun when so equipped, although the rifled barrels tended to scatter the pattern of fine iron birdshot somewhat.

Tonight’s menu, though, consisted of boser jerky and cold water from a stream just ahead. A large pine (he hadn’t learned if there was a local name for the various trees, and so had fallen in the habit of thinking of them as the Earth tree they most resembled) leaned over the stream from a short way up the bank, shading a thick stand of ferns. A leaning tree made a good shelter, and the ferns would make a soft bed. Rocs weren’t a worry, as they were strictly daytime hunters. They seldom came this far into the deep woods either. Sheer size made it necessary for them to stay in the open spaces. As long as he was up and alert by sunrise, there was no worry about sleeping in the open.

The light was fading quickly now. He tromped down the ferns under the tree bole into a soft bed before dropping his backpack. His light bedroll was slung on the frame. He untied the bedding and spread the blankets out on the bed of ferns. After filling his canteens at the stream, he kindled a small fire and reclined on his bedroll, chewing another bite of boser jerky, and pondered his next day’s adventure.

I’ve been over this country pretty good, Mike reflected, looking over his map. I wonder how the hunting is closer into the mountains? There have only been a couple little farms out here, but I wonder if there’s anyone at all up that way. Not much shows on these maps.

The sun had slipped below the horizon now, so Mike fished a small popup light from his pack to continue his map reconnaissance.

Country opens up some over northeast, he noted to himself.  Might be more big stuff over that way; bosers like the fern meadows. Company’s paying good for boser meat. I could use some more jerky, too. He examined the intervening terrain closely. Not too rough a walk; looks like about twenty kilometers before you start to hit the open spots. A river to cross, but doesn’t look like a big one. Have to watch out for loggers, that’s the kind of country they like, too.

I’ll start out tomorrow. Figure a week to have a good scout through that country, and then back to the cave. If the hunting’s really good, I can always move base camp up that way for a while.

With that decided, he shut off his light, kicked off his boots, and closed his eyes. The forest’s night creepers and crawlers chattered and snapped in the darkness, forming a familiar evening chorus he had come to expect as he dropped off to sleep.

Morning came, as always, a little too soon. Mike opened his eyes and sat up, yawning.  He startled suddenly in the gathering morning light. A few feet away, one of Forest’s strange little arboreal herbivores sat watching him.

The dun-gray squirrel-like animal was about the size of an elongated Labrador retriever. Short-legged, rough-haired, the odd-looking animal had a long tail with a fringe of feathers extending to each side; long plumes on the animal’s legs combined with the tail to make the climbers fairly effective gliders over short distances, usually from tree to tree. He had seen a stuffed example of this critter in the store in Outskirts. The storekeeper informed him the creatures were called grilfens, prompting him to comment that whoever was naming Forest’s wildlife needed to grow a better imagination. They were common creatures in the deep forest, but he hadn’t seen one this close before.

“Hey!” he barked suddenly at the animal. The grilfen cocked its head, staring. This one hasn’t seen a human before, he decided.

The creature sat back on its hind legs, threw back its head, and squawked “Hey!” in a remarkably good imitation of his voice. 

Mike was unable to keep from laughing out loud. He wasn’t surprised when the grilfen imitated his laugh, too, before bounding away and scurrying into the nearest tree. The elongated gray mimic poked its head around the bole once to steal one last glance at the unfamiliar creature lying under the leaning pine, barked “Hey!” once more, and scurried off up the massive tree trunk.

Well, that was unexpected. Funny start to the day.  He hadn’t laughed out loud in quite a while; it felt good.

This morning he took time to kindle a tiny fire and cook a hot breakfast, dipping into his tiny supply of concentrates from his last trip to Outskirts. The dehydrated foods weren’t bad, and his hunting success gave him more than sufficient funds to indulge himself. After breakfast, it was only the work of moments to pack his gear, and he was off for new horizons once more.

He moved quickly, traveling, not hunting.  Four hours and sixteen kilometers later, the day had grown hot, he had grown sweaty in spite of having had to wade a hip-deep river, and as the map had predicted, the country had opened up some. Fern meadows now broke up the forest fairly regularly. He had encountered three herds of peacefully grazing bosers and detoured around one prowling female roc, whose attentions were luckily focused on the bosers. The fluttering chicken-like flyers of the deep woods had been replaced by a larger variety in this more open country, a birdlike thing that looked for all the world like the familiar sage grouse of Idaho. The walking was hot in the sunshine of the open areas, so Mike was glad for the shade of his old gray Stetson.

It was then that he crested a small knoll and saw the ruins of a family’s home.

Somehow, someone had gotten passage all the way up here, and built a small cabin on the edge of the woods bordering a large fern prairie. Four fields were cleared out of the ferns, but no crops would grow there this year. The cabin and one small outbuilding were wrecked, a tiny hydrogen-powered tractor was lying on its side, and the area was covered with unmistakable three-toed, clawed footprints. 

A roc. A big one. 

Mike instinctively checked the load in his Parks. Removing the shotshell from the left barrel, he replaced it with a hi-ex round. Both barrels were now ready for dangerous game. After examining the area carefully and seeing no sign of the roc, Mike sprinted for the ruins of the cabin.

A few feet from what was now a pile of scrap lumber, he came upon a man’s lower leg, severed neatly just below the knee, the pant leg and farmer’s boot still intact. He fought to keep his stomach contents down; the leg had obviously been sliced off by the razor-edge of a roc’s beak. There was no sign of any other remains.

A groan caught his attention; someone was still alive in the wreckage of the cabin!  Mike fell to the pile of wood, digging with his hands, throwing beams and siding to the side; slowly, he grew closer to the pained whimpers. A final beam with several large planks attached was flipped to the side, and Mike found the lone survivor.

It was a girl Mike’s age or a little younger, unconscious. Mike pried one last board off her legs, and gently pulled her to a sitting position. Clad in a brown, one-piece jumper of some sort, the girl was slightly built, tiny-boned and slim, no taller than most twelve-year olds. Her heart-shaped face was bloody on one side, but unmistakably pretty, framed by short, curly blonde hair, matted now with blood and dust.

“Miss?” he asked, shaking her shoulders slightly. “Miss? Can you hear me?”

A scream in the near distance, a roc. He knew the great predators habitually returned to kill sites, although he couldn’t imagine why it would return here, there was nothing left to eat.

Nothing but us, he thought. With one hand, he reached out and grabbed the barrels of the Parks double, pulling it closer. With the other, he supported the girl, calling to her more urgently. “Miss? Wake up! We’ve got to get out of here!”

The roc screamed again, closer now.

The girl’s china-blue eyes fluttered open. “Mom? Dad?” she groaned.

“Miss, your Dad is dead. I don’t know about your Mom. We’ve got to get out of here, Miss! The roc is coming back. We’ve got to get back into the trees!”

“No!” the girl blurted, disoriented. “I’ve got to find my Mom and Dad!” She struggled out of his grasp, attempting to stand but falling to one side.

“Not now!” Mike pleaded, but it was too late. The roc crested the ridge, coming in from the open prairie. It saw the two young people instantly.

The roc could strike quickly, but it had a hundred meters to cover, and Mike was a fast and accomplished shot. He stood, raising the Parks rifle just as the roc charged. The sights swung onto the roc’s chest with practiced ease, and Mike touched off the left barrel.

A thunderous BOOM sent the barrels skyward. The girl fell prone, screaming. Mike dragged the barrels down, sighting again on the charging predator. The familiar faint whump sounded as the charge detonated in the roc’s chest. The giant bird-beast staggered but came on.

Not good enough, Mike thought. Aim for the spines. He sighted again, carefully, higher up on the chest, nearer the neck. BOOM!  Whump! The roc stumbled, one leg went out from under it, and the great predator spun to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. One last kick and the beast lay still.

“Damn,” Mike breathed. His heart was hammering as though he’d just run a hard mile uphill. He broke the rifle, removed the spent rounds, and dunked two fresh high-ex rounds in the barrels. The roc might have a mate.

The girl! Mike dropped to his knees beside her. She was awake, but only just, her eyes glazed, her breath fast and shallow.

“Miss!” Mike pleaded. Her eyes focused, slowly, coming finally to meet Mike’s.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jenny,” the girl groaned. “Jenny Aggruder.”

“Jenny, I need you to help me, here. Was there anyone else here beside you and your folks? Is there anyone else around, Jenny?”

She was crying now. “No, just Mom, Dad and me…I saw the roc get Mom. She was in the garden when the roc came out of the trees. She never even saw it. I was in the house. I saw Dad running for the shed to get his gun. The roc ran right over the top of the house, and it fell down on top of me.

“I don’t remember anything after that. It got Dad, too, didn’t it?” Overcome, she collapsed, sobbing.

“Listen, Jenny, I can’t help your folks now, but I’ve got to get you out of here. It’s not safe to stay out on the plains too long. We’ve got a little time now that this roc is dead, but we need to move away from here soon.”

“I know,” Jenny sobbed. “I know.”

“Listen, my name’s Mike, Mike Crider,” he told her, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll get you back to Outskirts, you can get a skimmer-bus there back to Settlement.”

“What am I supposed to do in Settlement?” Jenny cried, tears streaming down her face.  “I don’t have any money! Dad wanted to homestead and farm, that’s why we came clear up here. He hasn’t sold any crops. We just barely raised what we could eat!”

“I know, Jenny, I know, but you can’t stay here!”

She clutched at his arm suddenly. “Take me with you?” she begged. “I can keep up!  You’re a pioneer, aren’t you? I’m a good shot!”

Mike frowned. For the moment, he didn’t see any real alternative. He’d seen the brothel in Settlement, legal on OWME planets, and with no money, the girl would have little choice but that. No, Mike thought, she’s too young to be a camp doxie. I can’t let her do that. Damn.

“OK,” he conceded, “I guess you should come with me for now. Get what stuff you can find. We’ve got to get moving.”

Together they dug through the ruins, uncovering a trunk containing Jenny’s clothing. In the shed, Mike found a leather knapsack and, more important, an ancient, battered Remington 700 rifle. Mike checked the chamber; the rifle magazine was full but the chamber empty. A moment’s scrounging uncovered five boxes of .338 Winchester Magnum ammunition. He examined the weapon with a critical eye. The old rifle’s stock was dented and scarred, and the bluing faded, but the arm seemed to be in good working order. It had obviously been well cared for, old as it was. Gathering his finds, Mike walked back to the wrecked cabin.

After changing into a blue cotton work shirt and knee-length brown shorts over stout work boots, Jenny had gathered what belongings she could find to take with her. Essential clothing, an extra pair of boots, a lantern, two books, and a small pile of what she thought of as “girl stuff,” a hairbrush, a tiny mirror, some soap, and two towels. She had a floppy brown leather hat, her short blonde hair spilled out in curls under the brim. She’d washed her face and hands, and looked much more composed now, in spite of the bandage on her temple.

Mike handed Jenny the knapsack and held up the old Remington.

“Can you shoot this?” he asked.

Jenny took the rifle, chambered a round. “See that jar?” she asked, inclining her head towards an empty glass jar on the ground. Mike nodded. “Throw it in the air, far as you can.”

Mike picked up the jar, wound up and shagged it towards the far tree line. Jenny shouldered the ancient rifle, followed the arc of the glass jar, and touched off one shot. The jar shattered into a thousand fragments in midair.

“Daddy taught me to shoot. The kick doesn’t even bother me anymore.” Jenny’s eyes were red, and her face was still tear-stained, but a stubborn pride shone through now.

Mike couldn’t help grinning. “That’ll do,” he assured her.

“I guess it wouldn’t have been much good against the roc, anyway, would it?” Jenny asked, regarding the antique arm with a grimace.

“Well, they’re awfully big. That’s a hell of an elk rifle where I come from on Earth, but here on Forest, it’s a popgun. That’s OK, popguns have their uses, too, and I bet your Dad got plenty of eating meat with this one, didn’t he?”

Jenny nodded, tears streaming anew.

“Well, as good as you can shoot, you’ll get plenty of eating meat for us, too, and you’ve seen that I can handle a roc, as long as I see him coming,” Mike assured her, patting the heavy Parks double. “But the best way to handle rocs is to stay out of their way, and that means staying in the woods.”

“You’ve killed rocs before, right?” she demanded. “You did that too well not to have.”

“Yeah, I’ve killed a few. But only when I’ve been able to set up the stalk just right and catch them from a tree line. They’re too big to come into the woods much, and I only shoot from a tree line. They’re too big to take chances with, and that’s why we’ve got to get out of here now.”

Nodding her assent at last, Jenny bent to stuff her belongings in the leather knapsack. In a moment, they were on their way.

“So where do you come from? On Earth, I mean,” Jenny asked as they retreated into the safety of the deep forest.

“Challis, Idaho.” Mike replied. “Well, near there, anyway. I had a place up in the Salmon River Mountains. I grew up there, inherited the place after my Ma and Pa died.”

“Why’d you leave?” Jenny lengthened her stride to catch up with Mike. 

“Too many people, I guess. Condos going up all over. How about you? Where did you come here from?”

“We came from Armstrong City.” 

“The Moon, huh?”

“Yeah. Daddy grew up on a corn farm in Iowa. He took a mining job in Armstrong, but gypsum mining wasn’t his thing, I guess. He wanted to get back to farming, and not hydroponics farming in a pressure dome, either. One day he saw an OWME poster for Forest, and off we went, three days after my sixteenth birthday.” Jenny used one hand to pantomime a lunar shuttle blasting from the surface.

“We’ve been here two years now.” That, Mike figured, would make Jenny right around nineteen, when you figured in transit time. Two years younger than he was, more or less.

“I’ve been here six months,” Mike offered. “My folks have been dead three years now. Remember the semi-ballistic that went up over the Atlantic a few years back? Liquid oxygen leak?” Jenny nodded. “Well, they were on it. Pa was fixing to look at some land in Africa.”

“I’m sorry,” Jenny offered.

“S’alright,” Mike assured her. “I stayed in the place outside Challis for a while. But shoot, it was just more people all the time. The hunting was about gone, the deer and elk are almost finished. No place for wildlife on Earth anymore.”

“I guess we’re both the same, then,” Jenny said, looking down at her boot tips as she walked. “We’re both orphans. We both lost our homes.”

Mike hadn’t thought of it in those terms before.

“I guess you’re right,” he answered, “but my home is wherever I am, now. As long as I’ve got enough to eat, a place to sleep and a good rifle,” he patted the Parks double, “I’m at home.”

“That’s OK for a pioneer,” Jenny said, “but what about when you get older? You can’t live in the open and dodge rocs forever.”

“Cross that bridge when I come to it,” Mike demurred.

They walked throughout the remainder of the morning, stopping finally in a tiny glen in the deep woods, along a tiny trickle of a stream. Mike filled his canteen cup with the ice-cold water, and brought the drink to Jenny where she lay, exhausted, in the ferns.

“Here, have a drink,” he offered, holding out the cup. Jenny took the cup and drank thirstily. One good thing about this planet was the water. Back in Idaho, Mike would have boiled the water first. There was no Giardia on Forest. In fact, no hostile pathogens had been found at all, according to the briefings.

“I’m tired,” Jenny confessed. “I thought all the farm work had me in shape. I guess not in enough shape to be a pioneer.”

“You’re doing fine,” Mike assured her.  “You know, we’re pretty deep in the woods, I think we’ll make camp here. It’s a little past mid-day, so we can rest up the rest of the afternoon, lounge around a little, and think about what to do next.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Hungry?” Mike asked, holding out a strip of jerked boser meat. She seized the tidbit, tearing at it with even, white teeth.

“What is this?” she asked around a mouthful.

“Boser jerky. Made it myself. They aren’t bad eating at all, but they’re better fresh. If we keep on north, we’ll hit some open country; I’ll see if I can bring one down, and I’ll chop off a back strap before we send the carcass back. I wouldn’t mind a bit of fresh meat, would you?”

“I guess not!”

Mike smiled.

Jenny suddenly dug into her backpack. Pausing in her search, she looked up at Mike where he sat in the ferns. “Close your eyes!” she ordered. Mike complied.

A small, hard object landed in his lap; he picked it up, opening his eyes. 

“A Nutty Crunch Bar?” he exclaimed. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d pulled out a folding video monitor and a series of movie disks. “I love these things!”

They shared the sweet. “That’s the only one I found, so enjoy it. Daddy got a box of them on the one trip he made into Outskirts.”

“This almost feels like a picnic,” Mike grunted contentedly. He leaned back on his elbows, squinting up at the sun from under the brim of his gray Stetson. “I’m exhausted.” Jenny lay back in the ferns.

“You know,” she reflected, “It’s like it’s been ten years since the roc came in. It was only this morning. I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet.” 

Mike nodded; he wasn’t quite sure what to say. A moment later he looked over, Jenny was asleep.

Exhausted, he told himself. OK, Mike, you’re not on your own anymore. What are you going to do now? Jenny was undeniably pretty, her heart-shaped face was peaceful in sleep now, with only a slight frown furrowing her brow. She’d tied the ends of the blue cotton shirt up above her waist in the heat of the day, and now as she slept, her bare, flat little stomach rose and fell gently with her breathing. He felt a slight physical reaction but pushed it away. She’s in no condition to be thinking about that, he reminded himself harshly. Standing up suddenly, he grabbed the Parks and went to sit by the stream bank. He’d keep an eye out until dark fell. 

Jenny awoke towards evening, just as the shadows were lengthening. She sat up, stretching her arms and yawning. A few feet away, Mike squatted next to a tiny, smokeless fire, stirring something in a tiny folding metal pot.

“What have you got there?” she asked, walking up behind him.

He looked around, grinned. “A little boser jerky, stewed in creek water, with a few dehydrated vegetables tossed in. Doesn’t make a bad stew. Feeling better? You slept a good while.”

“My legs are sore, but I’ll be alright. Where are we going from here?”

The ‘we’ wasn’t lost on Mike. They were partners now.

“Well, look here,” he replied, drawing her attention to an unfolded map lying in the ferns next to him. “We’re right about here,” he explained, pointing. “Now as we go north, we cross these open areas I told you about, and then back into heavy woods again right at the foot of the New Pyrenees Mountains. I was thinking of going up in there a while. I know mountains better than any other kind of country.”

“How long will that take?”

“Well, from what I understand, we’re getting into the dry season now, and things will get hotter. No rain for six months or so, and the fern prairies will pretty much dry up. I had figured on staying up in there most of the dry season, it’d be cooler if nothing else.”

“Sounds good to me. It’s not like I’ve got any other plans,” Jenny answered, a little downcast now. She sat down across the fire from Mike. “How long till supper? It smells good.”

“Should be ready now. Here,” he handed her a small stainless-steel bowl and spoon. Retrieving the pot from the coals, he dished her up a portion. He only had one bowl, and so ate directly from the pot himself with a spoon he’d whittled from a piece of dry wood while Jenny slept.

“It’s good,” Jenny said around a mouthful. Mike nodded.

After they ate, Jenny insisted on taking the few dishes to the tiny stream to clean them. “You cooked, I’ll clean up,” she pointed out. “It’s only fair.” The darkness was gathering when she finished.

The fire was burned down to a faint bed of glowing coals. Mike kicked some dirt over them. Jenny asked, “Won’t we want a fire going? For animals?”

“Well, back home I would have,” he explained, “but the only predators here big enough to hurt you are only active in daylight. I haven’t kept a fire at night since I’ve been here. It’s sure warm enough without one.” He retrieved his bedroll from the backpack and was a bit surprised when Jenny came to spread her blankets beside his.

“I’d feel better if you were close by, if it’s OK with you.” Mike nodded assent and proceeded to pull his boots off. He tossed his Stetson with practiced skill to the top of his backpack where it sat a meter or so away, and lay down, sighing. Jenny silently wrapped up in her blanket beside him.

The night gathered around them, punctuated as always by the chittering and scrambling sounds of Forest’s nocturnal creepers and crawlers. Mike lay awake, listening; he always enjoyed the sounds of the woods at night, whether on Earth or here on Forest. After a few moments, he became aware of another, less familiar sound. Jenny was crying, softly, in her blankets. Her sobbing was barely audible, but Mike had a hunter’s ears.

“Jenny,” he asked gently, reaching one hand to touch her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She turned suddenly, throwing the blanket off and burying her face in Mike’s chest. She clutched him with both arms, crying fiercely now. “I was just standing there looking out the cabin window,” she sobbed, “and the roc just burst out of the trees and ran Mom down. It grabbed her up and she was just gone, just like that; there just wasn’t anything I could do! I heard Dad yell; he’d been out in the field on the other side of the house. He ran for the shed, I could hear him running, but the roc saw him, and it just ran right over the house. Its foot came right through the wall, just missed me, and the whole thing fell down. I guess that’s when it got Dad, too.”

Mike wrapped his arms around Jenny and hugged her hard, speaking urgently. “Jenny, if you hadn’t stayed in the house, it would have just eaten you, too!” he reminded her. “Your parents would have wanted you to stay alive, Jenny. And I promise you, I’ll make sure that you are OK, you hear? I’ll take care of you, Jenny. Your folks are gone, but you aren’t alone, you hear me?” He felt her nod, even as she cried against his chest. 

She cried for a good while; Mike guessed half an hour or more. Finally, the storm passed. She lay quietly at last, her head on his chest as he lay on his back on the blankets.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized.

“Hey, you needed to do that,” Mike reassured her. “You need to feel bad before you can feel better.”

She raised her head, looking into Mike’s eyes; her face was framed, faintly, against the starlight that drifted through the trees. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be feeling anything. I’d be dead, too. I’d be dead without you.”

“Lucky I came along just then, huh?” Mike added, trying to lighten the moment.

“Yes…Very lucky, for me.” She raised herself up on her elbows, squinting at Mike in the faint gleam of starlight. 

Mike felt himself falling into her eyes for a moment. Jenny had loosened her clothes for sleeping, and as she leaned forward her cotton work shirt gapped open, revealing a glimpse at the feminine curves within. A violent physical reaction seized Mike, forcing him to tear his gaze away from her with an effort. 

“We’d better try to get some sleep,” he husked. “Lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

Jenny nodded, smiling a small, secret smile. She wiped her eyes again, lay back, and was asleep again in a few moments.

I sure wasn’t counting on this, he thought, watching again her sleeping form. The night passed with agonizing slowness. The western sky was beginning to show pale traces of dawn before he finally fell asleep.