Moses led a small band of his more courageous followers downspiral to shaft base. Nothing. The entire city was being slowly starved by Big ES. Not even water flowed in the bubblers. Refreshers filled with offal.
“Are these citizens being cut off with us?” asked Hugh.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Moses. “When we move on they’ll get their usual basic rations. We’ll have to hurry to 50:00 now. We’ll be needing food.”
Moses stood on the canal bank shouting up to Hugh.
“Get the antenna?”
“Right.”
Hugh sat down on Irrigator’s trellis back and directed the spray nozzles with firm words. The meck did its best. The canal waters rained on the foam—melting it away. Soon the hungry army had a soggy path south. Moses put troops on both sides of the canal. They followed the waterway—spraying foam away—and drinking from the Irrigator’s nozzles.
“At least there’s water up here. Those poor bastards down in the hive aren’t so lucky. That last city we went into had bodies on the spiral,” said Hugh.
Moses shrugged.
“We can’t be too concerned for them. They’d kill us if they could.”
The columns of Agromecks trundled south. Moses’ army marched in little companies now—each managing its own food and water problems—each taking its turn on the perimeter—and each caring for its sick and wounded. Efficiency improved.
The army flowed into a wide, shallow depression that ran north-south. It was cultivated now, but in the past it had carried fresh waters from the polar ice cap.
“This the river?” asked Moses.
Toothpick studied the sun’s arc in the sky.
“No,” said the cyberspear. “This should lead to it though. We have several more days’ travel.”
Moses, Toothpick and Hugh rode point on Tiller.
“Looks like a river bed to me.”
“Just an old dry canal. Toothpick is looking for the geological memory of a real river. It used to be the principle river on the continent—The River,” explained Moses.
That night, as the main army bedded down, Tiller rolled on south several miles and climbed a hill. Toothpick studied the stars.
Harvesters cleared and Agrifoam flowed. Sitting on Tiller’s chassis kept them dry, but landmarks were masked by the white fluff, and they had to travel slowly—carefully.
At dawn Moses looked hopefully at the southern horizon—jumbled boulders and skeletons of derelict mecks—the socio-political moraine that marked the border at 50:00.
“There it is,” said Toothpick confidently. “Our troubles are over.”
“And none too soon,” said Hugh. “A few more days and we’d be losing people to hunger.”
The horde cut its way out of the encircling foam and quickened its pace, but it stopped at sundown, exhausted, hungry and still half a day’s march from its goal.
“Sent runners to scout ahead,” said a left flank group leader. “Had lots of volunteers—there are few rations in camp.”
“I’d like to go too,” said a voice across the fire. “I’m anxious to see those bountiful crops Toothpick has been promising.”
“Maybe the Big ES has harvested them too—it’s keeping well ahead of us, here. Nothing edible for miles.”
“Don’t worry. Toothpick will take care of us.”
Noisy Agromecks patrolled the perimeter of the huge encampment.
“Bountiful—food. Squeak,” said Toothpick. “Many of my circuits were damaged. Memory shot full of holes. Squeak! Bountiful food at fifty-oh-oh.”
Moses listened to his companion cyberspear. He was a little apprehensive. Toothpick’s information about 50:00 lacked the usual convincing details that his other predictions had had. Moses wouldn’t relax until his people were safe.
Dawn brought the return of the scouts.
“Ambush!” shouted the first scout. “There is an army waiting for us. If we want the food we’ll have to fight for it.”
“How many?” asked Hugh.
“Thousands. An army the size of ours.”
Hugh glanced at Moses questioningly. Toothpick squeaked. Other scouts came in with a similar report.
“We’ll fight. What other choice is there?” said Hugh, waving his bludgeon. The battle cry passed from man to man—driven by hunger.
Toothpick tried to scan but the EM upheaval was free from Huntercraft communication efforts.
“Wait,” said Toothpick. “I do not detect hunters. Whose army can it be?”
The scouts glanced at each other. Gradually they put together their fleeting observations.
“No craft or equipment—just spears. No hive helmets. Heads hairy. Uniforms tattered like our own. Deployed like an experienced army—holding high ground—patrols out.”
“No craft—” mumbled Moses. He swung up onto Tiller’s back. “Let’s take a meck force and scout ahead—take a close look during the daylight. Toothpick thinks we may not have to fight.”
Hip stood with flowing robes and outstretched arms facing the sunrise—mists masked the face of the sun. Ball glinted on a cairn in front of him. Beyond Ball, in the dry river bed, his throng of buckeye followers repeated after him—his holy words.
“This is The River,” he intoned.
“The River—The River—” they chanted.
“Soon we will be with Olga.”
“With Olga—with Olga.”
“Olga is Love.”
“Love—Love.”
Tinker and Mu Ren picked their way along the rocky river bed to their shelter. Tinker Junior slept on their packs.
“Are you sure this is the right river? It seems so narrow,” said Mu Ren.
Tinker shrugged. “One place is as good as another for Hip’s ceremonies. I think he used the stars to find the right latitude. I’m worried that he has bit off a little more than he can chew. His little tricks were enough for our villagers, but buckeyes from all over the continent are here now—hundreds of thousands. They are expecting a pretty big show—and they could get nasty if they don’t get it.”
Mu Ren sat down on her bundle. Her belly was growing again. Their third child—if they hadn’t lost one.
“I don’t need a big show,” she said. “I’d be happy if we were back on Mount Tabulum. At least we had food.”
Tinker patted her on the head. “The Hip has promised bountiful food at The River. He hasn’t been wrong before. Let’s trust him a while longer. There will always be time to start back for home, if this doesn’t work out. The Huntercraft aren’t too efficient these days. Everything will work out.”
He was interrupted by distant wild screams. The calloused and sinewy army of buckeyes seldom reacted with such emotional sounds. Something must be terribly wrong, he thought. Clutching his spear he ran toward the disturbance.
The buckeyes had cleared away from a shaft cap. They stood in a sullen ring fifty yards from the closed garage door. Outside the door were bodies. About thirty buckeyes lay writhing with arrow wounds. Many of the wounded had more than one bloody shaft in their bodies. Some lay still.
Tinker ran out alone onto the field of carnage. Buckeyes, coweyes, jungle bunnies—a random sample of their people. Whoever shot the arrows certainly didn’t aim. Then he looked back at the circle of faces watching—many more had arrows dangling from superficial punctures—walking wounded.
“There must be a hundred arrows!” he exclaimed. “What happened?”
One of the older buckeyes approached. His left biceps was transfixed by a bloody shaft.
“The garage door. It opened suddenly. There were three rows of hunters with bowstrings pulled way back. They fired, and the door closed.”
“Watch out!”
The door hissed open. Tinker dove to the ground. A volley of arrows passed over. The old man was too slow and caught one in the chest. Most of the other arrows flew the fifty yards and stuck ineffectually into tough hides—barely penetrating.