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up at a respectable altitude."

"Kind of makes me wonder whether we ought to land at all. What about transmissions?"

"None, sir, not even in response to our own."

Garibaldi blew out a long breath. "Huh. What the hell?"

"I'm going down," Lyta said. "He's down there. I feel him - there, where the reactor is."

"Who?"

"A Vorlon. Or something that feels like a Vorlon. And doesn't. I don't know, but I have to find out."

"Are you sure this is a good idea? Something sure took a bite out of our Psi Corps buddies."

"I have a strong feeling that if whoever is down there wanted us dead, we already would be," Lyta countered.

"Well, your feelings and a credit, after taxes, comes to about half a credit," Garibaldi muttered, "But I have the same feeling. Now we have a credit between us. Okay, let's hit it."

"You don't have to go, Michael."

"Sure I do. I don't trust you, remember?"

"Well - feels like home, anyway," Garibaldi said, a little weakly. He'd spent the last half an hour anticipating the particle beam or warhead that would scatter them onto the bits of the other lander. Now that they were on the ground he felt almost giddy. And it did feel a little like home - it was cold. Not as cold as Mars, where Garibaldi had grown up, but still pretty chilly.

They had landed on the shore of an iced-over lake that Firth assured them was no more than seven years old, the result of a river being diverted by a catastrophic impact or clean fusion explosion some 80 kilometers South. Beyond the lake, battered umber mountains cut against a pearl sky veined with dark jade.

Inland from the lake were artificial domes of various sizes, pushing out of the ground like young mushrooms. Some were no larger than a groundcar, but the largest could have contained their
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