Sera found the first warning in a bowl of uneaten leaves.
The bowl stood beside the southern contact station, where Lori had left it after asking what food the visiting native body would accept. The leaves were fresh. Their cut stems remained wet. Nothing had touched them.
Beyond the shaded contact court, the immense body called Near-the-Cold-Ridge rested along the feeding hollow, its distant plates rising like broken hills. One sensory fringe reached the court below its forward crown. Two days earlier it had shifted that receiving edge from the exposed stone where Iven had sent his small, agreed signal. The new contact position was sheltered from the afternoon glare. The adjustment itself had gone well.
Now its contact folds were held apart, showing a pale inner surface that Kesh had never seen displayed for so long.
Jalem waited beside the ordinary stop handle.
“The local warning ran twice in the night,” he said. “No regional message. I checked.”
Sera put down her bag. “What changed?”
“The body asked for quiet.”
