After a long pause, the scouts radioed back the reason for the unbroken silence of Station 6:
"They're all dead — wiped out!"
Sixteen
The vultures thronging Station 6 were having a great time, one of the best feast days ever. What looked like hundreds of them littered the ground around Station 6. They must have been there for some time. There wasn't much flesh remaining on the four clean-picked skeletons they were mobbing.
The real horror was in the mess hall. It was filled with vultures, too, smart ones who had figured out that walking inside the blockhouse would take them where the real action was.
Somebody had tried to burn down the station, but dried mud-brick doesn't burn too easily. Scorch marks framed square windows. Wooden doors, shutters, and roof beams were charred, blackened. The scent of burning was perfume compared to the indescribable stench within.
The mess hall was the scene of sudden, violent death. That's where most of the soldiers sprawled, amid the overturned tables and chairs. The sights, the stink, the blankets of flies…
The men hadn't died by shooting, stabbing, or bludgeoning. Despite theirorted postures, there wasn't a mark on them. Investigation of the kitchen told the tale.
Poison.
Still standing on a wooden table was the means of death: a ten-gallon metal bucket with a long-handled ladle resting in it. It contained karkade, a refreshing soft drink made from raspberries. Its surface was coated with thick black scum, the bodies of innumerable insects who came to drink the poisoned sweet brew and, drinking, died. Just like the station personnel.
Carter told Major Namid the story that old Salah had recounted to him on that faraway morning at SB headquarters in Tel Aviv, about the clan of Reguibat males exterminated by a poisoned banquet.
Scanning the rugged black highlands, Carter said, "He's here. Somewhere not far from here, we'll find Reguiba."
Nothing is less romantic than a camel ride at night. Some few miles west of Station 6, a bedraggled trading post hung like a blister on the lip of the Sawda Hamadi. Here mounts were acquired for the trek, one for each of the travelers, plus two more as pack animals.
Major Namid gave final instructions to Lieutenant Osmanli, charging him to establish a base camp, set up his defenses, and maintain regular radio contact with the town of Dunqul, keeping them apprised of the situation.
"And above all, maintain a constant watch over the foodstuffs and the water supply," Namid cautioned.
Unnecessary advice, since the lieutenant had been profoundly shocked by the atrocity at Station 6.
Osmanli was not happy with the situation. He trusted Zarak not at all, Carter very little, and he was suspicious of the woman too. But his orders were clear, and he would obey them.
The little band waited until nightfall before setting out on their journey. Not only because it was cooler, though the sun's absence was a blessing, but because there was less chance of stumbling into a Crime Patrol ambush. Those renegades moved freely by day, but the night belonged to the Nefrazi.
This was not the first time the Killmaster had ridden a camel, but the experience was no more pleasant than the last time. His mount was surly, sullen, and balky, with all the maliciousness for which the so-called "ship of the desert" is famed.
Major Namid was reminded by his mount of another nasty trait of camels. They spit.
"Major, shhhhhh!" Khamsina said. "We will be heard all over the range if you do not control your temper!"
"My temper? Did you see what that brute did to me? He did it on purpose, I know it. Look at him, the devil's laughing at me!"
Carter noticed that Zarak, for the first time, was laughing too.
The Nefrazi bandit was enjoying himself hugely. They were in his world now, a world of harsh extremes and constant struggle.
Which described the Killmaster's world as well.
Carter had to agree with Namid. Even in the dull moonlight cast by a slivered crescent, the camel seemed to be giving the befouled Namid the horselaugh.
Once they were all mounted, they moved out on the trail in single file, Zarak in the lead. Hooves clip-clopped on the narrow, stony trails.
A rough ride got worse almost immediately, and Carter was reminded of yet another painful memory, namely, that camel saddles are damned uncomfortable. The camel's pitching, rolling gait rocked him from side to side in the saddle, soon making him wish he'd sewn a pillow to the seat of his pants.
The route passed through a gorge, across a stony flat, into a steeply rising, ever-narrowing wadi. Beyond the valley was a hill with a rounded dome, which they circled. The trek was no different from one taken a thousand years ago by the savage nomads who made this wasteland their own.
Within two hours they were deep in the Black Highlands. Zarak was in his element, and knew every inch of it, picking out trails no one else could find.
Carter oriented himself by moon and stars, but the trail took so many twists and turns that he was hard pressed to keep track of them. If he absolutely had to, he thought he could find his way back. He hoped he didn't have to.
Once, they saw a fire burning on a distant hilltop. It was extinguished almost as soon as they caught sight of it.
Occasionally Zarak paused, using all his senses, watching, listening, even sniffing the air as if to catch some elusive scent. At one passage he cautioned them to avoid making any betraying noises or talking. After twenty minutes they passed out of the tense danger zone.
By midnight the trail grew so rough that they, all dismounted and led their camels by the bridles. Major Namid was careful to stay well clear of the beast's spitting range.
Eventually the ground leveled off and they remounted. They were on a sprawling plateau. For the first time in many a mile, there was the fresh scent of green growing things.
Zarak was true to his oath to lead them to the oasis of the Nefrazi. They arrived shortly after two o'clock, according to Carter's watch.
They entered a high-walled, narrow gorge. Overhanging ledges blocked the moonlight, locking the pass in inky darkness.
Was that an animal cry? Or someone imitating an animal?
There was a sense of movement, furtive, swift, all around them. Above them. But there was nothing to be seen.
The gorge widened, opening out into a bowl-shaped plateau hemmed in by cliffs. It was a vest-pocket oasis, dropped as if by mistake into the heart of stone. There was the smell of water. The bowl sported scrub grass, bushes, and small scraggly little trees.
At the left side of the bowl, the herd animals were hobbled, camels, sheep, and goats, sounding off with dull bleats, baas, and lowing.
And there were tents, ghostly gray, peaked, integrated into the landscape to take advantage of all possible cover. Clusters of them dotted the bowl, further camouflaged by the tiger-stripe pattern of moonlight and shadow.
"But where are the people?" Namid wondered.
Carter said, "They're here."
"No, it's deserted!"
There were no fires, no voices, and no one to be seen but the foursome, their mounts, and the distant grazing flocks.
But Carter knew better. He told Major Namid, "Take a good look around you. They're here."
"Yes, we are here." Zarak laughed. Not a pleasant laugh, but then he was not a pleasant fellow.
The Nefrazi appeared.
As if by magic, or mutual instinct, some common signal, figures erupted out of nowhere. Dozens of them, popping up like a few score jack-in-the-boxes, surrounding Carter and his party.
Tribal warriors, young and old. They all had rifles, and all of them were pointed at the intruders. Rifles bristled like quills on a porcupine.
Major Namid fidgeted as if he were thinking of making a play for his rifle.