With a sigh, he swung himself onto the top of the container, took up his position next to Slick. He stuck his hand in his pocket, felt the reassuring heft of his Fichetti. (To his surprise, the Amerindian runners hadn’t asked about a weapon, and he sure as frag wasn’t going to volunteer the information.) The metal container was cold, leeching from his body what little heat remained. He arranged himself into the least uncomfortable position and settled down to wait.