Freedom's Landing by Anne McCaffrey

membranous wings that felt slimy. No meat on such wings but she was told to save these, too.
    â€œDid you get something to eat?” Sandy asked her at one point.
    â€œYes, something from one of the squatty things, I think.”
    â€œIf we had a pot to stew in, we could make everything go further,” Sandy said with a rueful smile. “Bob the Herb,” and she grinned back at Kris’ startled expression, “well, he knew Terran herbs and he found some root sorts of things that oughtn’t to poison us. And some rather delicious sharp-tasting berries. At least, the Cat thought they’d be edible. He ate ’em and didn’t get the trots but Cats can eat a lot that’d give us the green apple two-step.”
    Kris paused, another trick coming to mind. She sat backon her heels. “We got any natural holes anywhere? I mean, holes with floors so they wouldn’t leak?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, they’d make a self-contained stew pot. Fill one with water, then drop in clean heated stones. That’d boil the water and whatever else you had in it.”
    â€œIt would?”
    â€œI haven’t done it, but the theory’s sound. A pot’s only something you can move around.”
    â€œWhat heathen country did you get that from?”
    Kris laughed. “The old Irish used to do that. I saw the places in the south of Ireland. Great tourist attractions but the guide swore that was what field workers used when they didn’t want to trek all the way back to their homes.”
    â€œWell, I never,” Sandy said and went off, cocking her head this way and that.
    â€œHey, gal, you made it up,” a cheerful voice said and Kris looked up from the animal she had just eviscerated to see Jay Greene making his way to her. He had a brace of avians in each hand. From the angle of their heads, their necks had been broken.
    â€œHi, Jay. Say, just how are these things being caught, or killed?”
    â€œSnares work as well on this planet as any other,” he said, looking pleased. “Probably better. Fortunately for me, these fowls are stupider’n turkeys and will eat anything edible, especially ration bar crumbs.”
    â€œYou knew about snares?”
    â€œâ€˜Semper Paratus,’ like the Boy Scouts used to say,” he said modestly. “I worked one out and Mitford showed us how to use a slingshot. A crack shot, too.” He was properly respectful. “Haven’t got any elastic, but with a little practice and the right flick of the wrist, you can aim pretty accurate. The rocksquatters haven’t got sense enough to be scared, so they sit there and die young! Hey, you’re pretty good with that knife!”
    â€œYeah, I am,” she said blithely. “Yours next?” Shereached for his burden while she honed the tip of her knife on the rock of her table.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said, and, pretending extreme caution as she sharpened, deposited the bodies on the other side of her table.
    The heat of the sun made her stop, mop her sweaty forehead on her sleeve, and realize that she’d been working steadily for long enough to get a crick in her neck and more blood than she liked on her coverall. Blood always attracted insects. At least on Earth and Barevi it had.
    She finished the rocksquat she was currently cleaning and stood up, taking the result to the next in the line of preparation.
    â€œI want a wash, a drink, and some time off,” she told Sandy.
    Sandy gave her directions to find the underground lake. More torches had been installed, so the path was well enough lit to keep Kris from stumbling down the uneven levels of the path. When she reached the end, she saw the viney rope, with knots in it to help you shinny up. Peering over the edge, she saw that there was sand to cushion the shock of the jump, which was roughly two meters down. The torch showed her the perceptible movement of the water flowing past