All he himself could hope was that Rekchellet was not hidden in one of the squalls, where even the Habras could hardly fly, or buried too deeply for his individual charge pattern to be perceptible to them.
The four natives had arranged a pattern reaching fifty kilometers to each side of the line running west from the point where the wrapper had been found. With their sensory range and flying speed, they were moving along it at less than ten kilometers an hour. This was a discouraging speed; it seemed quite possible that even a starving Rekchellet might have flown on for well over a hundred. Time and again Hugh felt tempted to suggest a narrower sweep, and each time told himself firmly that the Habras should know what they were doing. If anyone was qualified to suggest a change, it was the Crotonites, not he. They should be best able to guess what the missing one might have accomplished; but even they could only guess, and the natives knew what their own senses could do.
Two hours. Three hours. Four. The low-flying searchers came in for food, finished it quickly, and launched themselves once more from the air lock; the Crotonites went back to the cache in shifts for the same purpose. Hugh had almost definitely decided to order that the pattern be narrowed when a message was relayed back through one of the Crotonites that the natives were widening it; they were now so far from the originally unsure starting point of the lost being that this was the only reasonable thing to do. The Erthumoi digested this for half an hour.
Hugh was about to enforce his own emotions anyway when a light blinked far to the flier’s left. Others repeated the signal closer to the aircraft and he dived toward the nearest, slowing to match velocities a few meters from a Crotonite. The latter’s voice was picked up by the outside microphones.
“They’ve found something. It’s buried. It can be uncovered faster if you get over there. Go to the farthest blinker, and follow its carrier down.”
Hugh obeyed without answering, hoping silently that all the Crotonites at this level were carrying lights, and was at the indicated one in a few seconds.
“Where?” he asked the single word. The broad wings tilted and began a steep glide even farther to the left of the original pattern. They were down to half a kilometer — two hundred meters — one hundred — a Habra was suddenly visible in their own lights, and the Crotonite spoke as he or she peeled away to circle, light blinking a new pattern, above the area.
“Follow Holly.”
The native led them only a few more meters, into a narrow cleft between two unusually steep hills. She paused, hovering, over a spot not much wider than the flier itself. Hugh settled the machine under her, and all three emerged. Holly’s voice had started before they opened the lock; the flier’s hull did not block radio.
“I’d almost bet this was the right place. The hills to either side are solid ice, as though a glacier had come up and split. The space between is snow which has blown in and not packed very closely. I guess Rekchellet decided that any snow which blew over him here could not bury him very deeply; any that piled past the top of the ice would blow away.”
“Doesn’t it look like Rekchellet?”
“It doesn’t look like anything. I can’t see it. It’s an area of different charge — it’s colored differently from what’s around it, but you know that’s a poor word. I don’t know the size; it could be very small with one sort of charge difference, and very large with others. I can only say it isn’t ice or snow, and we’ll have to dig to be certain.”
“Do we have any digging tools?” asked S’Nash, presumably remembering the incident at the waste hill. Hugh smiled grimly.
“We do. This isn’t just what I expected to use them for, but we have them.” He returned to the flier and emerged almost at once with two extremely broad-bladed shovels, one of which he handed to Janice. “Sorry, S’Nash, I don’t know what you could use for this purpose. We start — where, Holly?”
The native took a few steps and indicated. “The center of the field is immediately under this point. As I said, I can’t guarantee how far it spreads.”
The Erthumoi started moving ice dust with all the speed consistent with the possibility of a living body’s being at risk from their blades. After the first two or three scoops, Janice asked, “Where’s S’Nash?”
Hugh looked around; the Naxian had indeed disappeared.
“Back in the warmth, I suppose,” he answered. “He couldn’t have blown away now. Did you see him go, Holly?”
Before the Habra could answer, an armored serpentine head popped out of the snow directly in front of the Erthumoi.
“The ice is loose all the way down,” it/he said. “It’s Rekchellet, or at least a Crotonite, apparently unconscious. You can dig for about a meter and a half before there’s any risk of cutting him with your tools. Go to it.”
The shovels moved briskly, their wielders thankful for the brief lack of wind, and within minutes part of the hidden being could be seen. Hugh laid his shovel down, gestured to his wife to do the same, brushed ice dust away with his hands, and presently had uncovered enough of the body to provide a handhold.
Crotonites are light, even in decent gravity. Hugh needed no help, once he had his arms around the still form, though there were no projecting arms or legs to seize. It was completely wrapped in its wings. With a brief, “Come on!” he started back to the aircraft with his burden. Janice picked up the shovels and followed; the Naxian went ahead, finding a little trouble with the loose ice dust but managing to reach the air lock first.
Holly hesitated, then spoke. “Shall I tell the rest we’ve found him?”
“Yes, please,” answered Hugh without turning. “And please have someone stay near us. I’ll probably want everyone to go, or come, back to Pitville, but will be too busy to organize for a few minutes.”
“I understand. We will tell everyone.” Even Janice had forgotten the other Crotonite who must still be overhead. She did not know his or her name, but spoke aloud.
“Please come to the flier — you who led us down with your light. We need your help. Rekchellet may be in very bad shape.”
Moments later the broad wings of the Crotonite showed in the flier’s lights, and their owner settled at the air lock. Janice, who had remained outside, waved him or her in, and followed.
“Your name, please?” she asked as the hatch closed.
“I’m Reekess. We’ve talked before.”
“Yes. Thank you. Rekchellet may owe you his life, if we can save it. Hugh and I know little of Crotonite physiology, not enough for common-sense first aid.” She opened the inner panel, and both entered, halting abruptly at the sight meeting their gaze.
Rekchellet, if it were he, had been deposited as gently as Hugh could manage on one of the padded benches. He was still wrapped in his wings, and there was no obvious way to unwrap them; the membranes were stiff and brittle, and cracks up to several centimeters in length showed in them. A number of small detached fragments, the largest several centimeters square, had fallen to the seat and one to the floor in front of it.
“They’re frozen,” said Hugh, “so I can t unwrap them even to tell whether he’s alive. What can we do for him, Reekess?”