They meet atop the sixth of eleven mounds, the reliefs cut into their chalky flesh buried in the howling storm. The great dogs bell and shake off the snow already crusting on their flanks; Dog Shouting and See Me grip their saddle horns to stay seated.

“There isn’t enough life on this ice-rock to fill a cruiser’s hold,” snorts Dog Shouting. “The traps are set. I’m going back.”

“I’ll follow shortly. There’s a piece of moonstone that hit the ground near here.”

Dog Shouting frowns at him.

“I want to check it out,” shrugs See Me. “It won’t take long.”