hands shook at his shoulder, dragging him awake. lanny's foster father was bent over him, whispering urgently, "get up, boy. we have to leave."
groggily lanny pushed himself into a sitting position. he had been sleeping in his earth burrow beside gill, outside juan's cottage. hazily lanny remembered being carried home from the canyon after the explosion, but he could recall nothing else.
it was an hour before dawn. gill was dressing; his shoulder was wrapped in a homespun bandage. lanny got up, staggering a little, and helped his brother put on his leather jacket and his weapon belt.
"thanks, lan," his brother said.
lanny touched the bandage. "shouldn't you heal the cells, gill?"
"i have to expose it to the sun first. i didn't catch it soon enough last night, and too many germs infested the wound." to their foster father, gill added, "i still think you should leave me here. i may not—"
"you're both my responsibility," juan pendillo answered. "we'll survive together, gill, or die together."
"what happened?" lanny asked as he pulled on his breeches and pushed his stone knife and his wooden club through the loops of his weapon belt.
silently juan pointed toward the dawn sky. high above them lanny heard the whine of a score of enemy police spheres. "they insist on the surrender of all eight hunters who went out last night."
gill said, "but tak laleen killed barlow with her energy gun. why are they blaming us?"
"barlow was working for them as a spy," lanny put in. it was a convenient explanation, but vaguely he knew he was lying. he felt a pang of guilt, but he couldn't understand why. what had he done that he should be ashamed of?
what had happened last night? lanny wracked his brain, trying to remember.
eight hunters had been sent out to bring in a cache of rifles which lanny's brother, gill, had found in the rubble of santa barbara. it was risky business, because under the terms of the surrender treaty men were prohibited the use of all metals in the prison compounds. but the younger generation—boys like lanny and gill, born since the invasion—were more fiercely determined to resist the almost-men than their elders. armed with fifty rifles, they thought they would be strong enough to attack the chapel of the triangle.
the almost-men: the children had coined the word, subtly asserting the pride of man. yet they knew it was a semantic trick they played upon themselves. it changed nothing. the conquerors were physically identical to men; their enormous superiority was entirely technological.
as the eight hunters crept toward the ruins of santa barbara, through a narrow canyon, old man barlow suddenly emerged from the brush and stood grinning at them. it was his privilege to join the hunters; any citizen of the settlement could have done so. but the younger generation hated barlow. he was the practical man; he called himself a realist. he never allowed them to forget they were defeated, imprisoned and without weapons; he took savage delight in poking holes in their plans for resistance.
"what are you doing here?" lanny's brother demanded.
"i came to watch the fun, gill."
"we're going to bring back fifty rifles; that's all—"
"right under the noses of our masters? don't be naive."
"there's only one way the almost-men would find out—"
