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The Killers, a male coalition of four, earned their name with lethal attacks on females. They almost killed their rival C-Boy too. Because good territory is a precious resource, fighting and displacing competitors are part of the natural struggle.


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That night the Killers made another move into new territory. They had rested all day by the riverbank, letting the sun cook their faces and dry their sores. About two hours after sunset, they started roaring. Their joined voices broadcast a message of some sort—maybe, Here we come! Then they set out, all four together, on what looked like a purposeful march. Rosengren and I got the word by walkie-talkie from Nichols, who had been keeping vigil. There was no moon. Nichols had night vision goggles and an infrared camera. His assistant and videographer, Nathan Williamson, sat ready to capture sound or deploy the infrared floods.

We were a journalistic gunship, bristling with armaments, rolling slowly along behind the lions. They showed no concern whatsoever about our presence. They had other things in mind. We followed them up an old buffalo track, then through a tight grove of fever trees, Peck coaxing the car patiently around aardvark holes, over crunching thorn branches, across a sumpy stream bottom.

With four Killers nearby, nobody wanted to climb out and push. The lions walked in single file, steady, unhurried, neither waiting for us nor trying to lose us. Suddenly another large figure swung up alongside us, its eyes shining orange when I swept it with my headlamp. It was a lioness, making herself known to the Killers.

So she was taking sex-mad risk, probably larger than she could guess, given the record of these particular males. When they noticed her, and wheeled toward her, she ran off coyly, pursued by all four, and for a moment we thought we had lost them. The other three reassembled themselves, after this flirty distraction, and continued their march. They paused here and there to scent mark, rubbing their foreheads against bushes, scratching and spraying the ground. During this hiatus, just before midnight, Nichols and his team went back to camp.

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Rosengren and I, having retrieved the other vehicle, stayed with the Killers. He took the first sleeping shift, snoring gently in the back of the Land Rover, while I sat up, keeping watch. Half an hour later the lions stood and began moving again; I woke Rosengren, and we followed. Occasionally, during a stop, they let their voices rise in another chorus of roars.

The roar of three lions heard at close range, let me tell you, is an imposing sound: high in decibels but throaty and rough, as though scraped up from a deep iron bin of primordial power and confidence and threat. No one answered these calls. One tommy, divided three ways, was scarcely worth the trouble. As dawn came, they were back on the road after their big loop through Vumbi territory, strolling casually west toward a familiar kopje where they would find shade or the day. It was Saturday morning. Rosengren and I left them there.

The wounds on their faces, and the absence of C-Boy, were still unexplained. Lion politics along the Ngare Nanyuki River seemed to be in flux. Late Saturday afternoon, we found the Vumbi pride at Zebra Kopjes, a couple of miles south of where the Killers had made that intrusive circuit. Maybe the pride had been driven down there by the minatory roaring, or maybe they had just wandered. We counted three females, resting contentedly amid the shaded lobes of granite, and all eight cubs.

Another female, we knew, was off on a mating foray with lover boy Hildur. No sign of C-Boy. His absence seemed slightly ominous. Sunday afternoon, back to Zebra Kopjes.

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Hildur and his female had rejoined the group, but not C-Boy. So we drove southwest, rising and descending gently across the swales of grassland, while Rosengren listened in his headphones for the bleeps of Simba East.

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At a small kopje near the main Gols we located them: three females and three large cubs, lounging amid the radiant rocks. But again, no sign of C-Boy. Rosengren, at this point, admitted to some worry.

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His job was not to root for favorites, of course, but to monitor events, including the natural phenomena of lion-on-lion violence and pride takeover; but he had his sympathies. With a lavender Serengeti sunset painting the horizon behind us, we drove back to Zebra Kopjes. Nichols and Peck were still there, with the Vumbis, who had hunkered together in the grass and begun roaring—one voice, then another, then three together, rumbling out across the plains beneath a now darkening sky and a small waxing crescent of moon.

Lion roars can carry a range of meanings, and this chorus bore a mysterious, lonely tone. When they fell silent, we listened with them. No response. A male often asserts his prerogatives. C-Boy feasts on a zebra while the Vumbi females and cubs wait nearby, warned off by his low growls. Their turn will come. Nichols and Peck departed for camp. Rosengren circled our vehicle into a spot just beside the reclining Vumbis.

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He wanted me to experience the fearsome thrill of taking lion roars point-blank in the face. This time Hildur joined in, his deep male basso rasping and thundering, almost shaking the car. Once they finished, we again listened intently. And again nothing.

Now I was ready to leave. Wait, Rosengren said. There was a scuffle in the darkness around us. Give me your headlamp, he said. Swinging the beam from left to right, across Hildur and the others, Rosengren brought it to rest on a new figure, a large one, with a very dark mane: C-Boy. He was back. He had come running to the sound of their roars. His face was smooth. His flanks and buttocks were intact. He settled comfortably beside the collared female. Margaret Race looked in detail at the legal processes that would have to be completed before we can return a sample from Mars to Earth, even to a purpose built receiving facility.

She found that under the National Environmental Policy Act NEPA which did not exist in the Apollo era a formal environment impact statement is likely to be required, and public hearings during which all the issues would be aired openly.

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This process is likely to take up to several years to complete. During this process, she found, the full range of worst accident scenarios, impact, and project alternatives would be played out in the public arena. Other agencies such as the Environment Protection Agency, Occupational Health and Safety Administration, etc, may also get involved in the decision making process. The laws on quarantine will also need to be clarified as the regulations for the Apollo program were rescinded.

In the Apollo era, NASA delayed announcement of its quarantine regulations until the day Apollo was launched, so bypassing the requirement for public debate - something that would be unlikely to be tolerated today. It is also probable that the presidential directive NSC will apply which requires a review of large scale alleged effects on the environment and is carried out subsequent to the other domestic reviews and through a long process, leads eventually to presidential approval of the launch.

Then apart from those domestic legal hurdles, there are numerous international regulations and treaties to be negotiated in the case of a Mars Sample Return, especially those relating to environmental protection and health. She concluded that the public of necessity has a significant role to play in the development of the policies governing Mars Sample Return. Margaret Race does not estimate a total time for all this. But we need a figure to work with here, so let's say, as a a rough estimate, that a decade would seem optimistic to complete it all.

Once the legal situation is sorted out and the design requirements of the facility are required the next steps are:. That add up to an extra 11 - 20 years after the legal process has completed.