Just short of the mouth, he paused. Lowering himself carefully from the cradle-lip, he tested the ground.
It had the slightly spongy feel of thick carpeting, but there was no question but that it would hold his weight. Spraying the light out in a quick arc, he checked for other dangers—of just what sort he wasn't sure—and then helped Eileen down.
Already, he felt better; perhaps even a trifle chagrined at the emotions that had brought him here.
But it wasn't in him to show that now. Crossing to the nearest flower-clump, he spread the petals of a half-opened bud.
They were gigantic—three times the size of any he'd ever seen before. Within the corolla lay half-a-dozen concentric rings of thread-like, sharply differentiated tendrils.
He frowned; spoke half to himself: "Which are the stamens?"
"Or are there any?" Eileen slid a fingernail across the rippling tendrils. "Maybe this is a different kind of plant than we know—one based on six sexes instead of two."
"Maybe." Still frowning, Boone picked another flower to study. Again, as earlier up in the carrier-cradle, he was acutely conscious of the blackness pressing in about them; the utter silence. It brought a queer prickling along his spine.
Eileen brushed against him. "Fred, why can't we let this wait till morning? After all, what do we know about this place, or the Helgae?" There was a tremor in her voice.