“Come in—come in!”
“TRI calling base camp—”
Hosteen leaped across the tent and tore the mike from Logan’s grasp.
“Storm here—come in TRI—”
“—sighted the LB. Going down for look—on side of mountain—” The din of static half drowned out the words.
Hosteen made an urgent hand signal to Logan and watched his brother snap on the locater. If Widders kept talking, that ought to give them a fix on the present position of the ’copter.
“LB all right—going down!”
“Widders—Widders, wait!” But Hosteen knew that his protest would never be heeded by the men out there. Logan’s fingers relayed the information to the Norbies.
“So he has found what he has sought,” the Drummer replied. “It may be that his quest wins the favor of the High Dwellers after all. We shall wait and see—”
Hosteen clung to the mike, calling at intervals, but without raising a reply—until, at last, it came with forceful clarity.
“We are going to look for evidence of any survivors. Forgee—Forgee!” The voice grew as shrill as a Norbie pipe, carrying a note of surprise that deepened to alarm. “No! Fire—fire down the mountain. Forgee—they’re coming—Storm! Storm!”
“Here!” Hosteen tried to imagine what was happening out there.
“Fire at ’em, Forgee. Got that one!”
“Widders! Are you under attack?”
“Storm—we can’t hold ’em off—the fire’s spreading too close. We’re going to make a run for it—can hold out in the cave—”
“Hold out against what?” There was no answer from the mike.
“Those-Who-Drum-Thunder have answered,” Krotag signed. “This is the end of the evil doer.”
“Not so. They may still be alive,” Hosteen protested. “We can’t leave them there—like that—”
“It has been decided.” Krotag’s reply was final.
“You,” Hosteen appealed to Ukurti, “have said this man is my burden. I cannot leave him there—without knowing the truth of what has happened to him—”
Again it was as if the two of them stood apart from space and time in some emptiness that held only Norbie medicine man and human—that they were in contact in a way Hosteen could never explain.
“The truth was spoken—the burden is yours, and you are not yet loosened from it. These off-worlders have no part of what lies in the Blue, and they have been punished. But I do not think that the pattern is yet finished. The road lies before you; take it without hindrance—”
“If my brother walks this road, then do I also,” Logan’s, hands flashed.
Ukurti turned on the younger man the measuring regard of his paint-ringed eyes. “It is said rightly that brother should shoulder brother when the arrows of war are on the bow string. If this is your choice, let this road be yours also and no one—save the High Dwellers—shall deny it to you.”
“This is spoken on the drum?” Using finger speech, Krotag asked Ukurti.
“It is spoken on and by the drum. Let them journey forth and do what is set upon them. No one can read the path of his beyond-travel. This is a thing to be done.” His fingers tapped a small patter of notes on the drum head, a rhythm that sent a crawling chill up Hosteen’s back.
From the dark beyond the doorway came Surra, slinking belly to earth, her eyes slitted, her ears tight to her skull. And behind her, Baku, her beak snapping with rage—or some other strong emotion. Last of all Gorgol, stalking like a sleep walker, his eyes staring wide before him. The Drummer gave a last tap and broke the spell.
“Go—you all have been chosen and summoned. Upon you the burden.”
“Upon us the burden,” Hosteen agreed for all that strangely assorted group of rescuers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mirage?” Logan asked dazedly, perhaps not of his gaunt, hard-driven companions but of the very world about them.
Having won through the cauldron of rocky defiles on foot, for the way they had come was not for horses, it was indeed hard to believe in this valley—the land sloping gently before them, widening out in the distance until they could no longer see the wall heights that guarded it to the west because here the yellow and yellow-green vegetation of the river lowlands was lush. There was no sign of the searing Big Dry cutting down grass and bush. And in the distance there was the shimmer of water—either a curve of river or a lake of some size.
Gorgol braced himself on his folded arms and surveyed the countryside with an expression of awe, while Hosteen sat up, his back against a rock wall still warm enough to feel through his shirt, though this was twilight. Three, four, five days they had spent in hiding, the nights in winning through to this point, where the Blue was at last open before them.
And on the last night only Gorgol’s knowledge of the outback had saved them. All water gone, the Norbie had searched the ground on hands and knees, literally smelling out a clue, until he scooped the soil from a small depression. He buried there a hollowed reed with a twist of dried grass about its tip, sucking at the other end with an effort that left him gasping, until after a half hour of such labor he brought liquid up from the source he alone suspected.
Surra whined, nudged against Hosteen, her nostrils expanding as she took in the scents arising from this oasis of the wild. At least to the cat, this was no hallucination, and Hosteen was willing to rely upon her senses sooner than upon his own. Gorgol opened a small pouch on his warrior belt and brought out a pencil-shaped object. He pressed it against one finger tip to leave a small dot of glowing green. Then he drew marks crisscross on his hollow cheeks, in no pattern Hosteen could see, that glowed, making of half his face a weird mask. He held the crayon out to the Terran.
“We go in peace, so this we must do—”
“For the wild men?”
“Not so. For them we must continue to watch. But for Those-Who-Drum, now we bear the marks of peace in their sight.”
Hosteen took the soft stick, applied to his own skin a netting of lines, and passed it along to Logan. To every race their customs, and he was willing to follow Gorgol’s lead here. The paste on his face stung a little and left the skin feeling drawn and tight.
Although they were now painted for peace, they entered the valley with the caution of raiders. Hosteen guessed that in spite of peace poles passed between age-old enemies, Gorgol’s distrust of the wild and rumored cannibal tribes, whose hunting territory this was, still guided his actions.
Baku had flown ahead to the water. Surra padded down the slope before them, blending, in the twilight, with the vegetation, until Hosteen could only follow her movements when she chose to establish mind contact with him. The cat was alert and wary, though she had found nothing suspicious. Now the men followed her, keeping to cover as much as possible.
If there was native life in this valley, it would locate not too far from the water. Yet, water they themselves must have and soon. The heat clung on the upper slope, harsh on their parched bodies. Then Hosteen noted that Gorgol was catching at the headed stems of tall grass, crushing them in his hands and holding the resultant mass to his lips, chewing, spitting. The Terran followed the Norbie’s example. He discovered the moisture so gained was a bitter juice, but it eased the dryness of his mouth.
As they went, he looked about them, trying to guess which of the mountains within sight could be that on which Widders had located the LB. The fix from the camp com had guided them here—but now they would have to find the actual wreckage—
Hosteen tensed. His hand went up in a gesture to freeze both of his companions. Surra had given warning. Between them and the water were strange natives. The three flattened against the ground, and now the Terran regretted the luminous paint on their faces, which might be a source of betrayal.