Buccari's anger eclipsed her exhaustion; her fatigue overwhelmed her good sense. She stared into the swirling snows, frustration blossoming like a weed.
"MacArthur! Lieutenant!" O'Toole whispered urgently. "Behind you."
Buccari turned to see a cliff dweller ten paces away, its hands raised with empty palms. Buccari regained her composure and emulated the creature's actions.
"He looks familiar," Buccari remarked quietly. "Look at the scars."
"Yeah, we've seen him before," MacArthur replied, also bowing. "When we returned Tonto, he was there. He must be their leader—their captain. Look! He has Tatum's knife."
The cliff dweller stepped forward, looking agitated and frightened. Brandishing the man-knife, the animal pointed up the mountain and then to its own chest. It sheathed the knife and flashed the spindly fingers of both hands many times. The creature moved slowly toward them, palms forward, as if to push the humans backward, but it did not come too close. It pivoted its body up the slope and walked in place. The bewildered humans looked at each other trying to find meaning in the charade. Buccari approached the creature and pointed to herself and then to the rest of her patrol, and then turned uphill and marched in place, just as the hunter had done. The hunter looked around at the humans and impatiently repeated the pushing-back gesture.
"He wants us to move back, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "I concur," Buccari replied. "Let's do it."
The humans collected their gear and moved back into the thin line of fir trees. The creature whistled into the deadening snow; a muted answer sounded, and then several more whistles, each further away, diminishing in the distance. Moments later the first scouts hiked nervously by. After the scouts came the rest of the expedition, slowly, in single file, many bent grotesquely with huge bags on their backs. Dozens of cliff dwellers filed by—scores of them. They kept coming as the snow fell harder and the temperature dropped. And coming.
"Anyone been counting?" Jones asked.
"Somewhere around a hundred fifty," Buccari said.
"Hundred and sixty-two," MacArthur said. "About a third carrying bags."
"They look tired," O'Toole said. "Wonder what's in the bags?"
"Food, I guess," Buccari said. "Probably stocking up for the winter."
The long file of cliff dwellers came to an end. The last few, without bags, walked alertly past and disappeared into the vague whiteness. Three cliff dwellers, including their captain, remained stationary, dim forms in the falling snow. Buccari picked up her pack and struggled painfully into the straps. MacArthur supported its weight.
"Ooph! Thanks," she said, looking at his feet. She raised her head and ordered, "Let's move! They're waiting for us!" She turned and trudged up the steep hillside toward the waiting animals. When she had closed half the distance the cliff dwellers turned and started climbing.
Chapter 24
Aggression
General Gorruk braced himself as the command vehicle curved in an abrupt arc around an obstacle, the swaying motion quickly dampened by auto-stabilizers.
"Third Army was surprised in the desert by six divisions of tanks and is heavily engaged, General," shouted the helmeted adjutant. "It has taken heavy losses. Sixth Army will be in enemy radar range in fifteen minutes and is still undetected."
Gorruk, in full battle regalia, acknowledged with a nod. His command vehicle trailed the forward elements of the Sixth Army's attacking divisions. It rolled smoothly over the soft desert sands, its tank treads reaching down and pulling sand from the ground, propelling it backwards in a continuous rooster tail. Gorruk's attention drifted from the situation display on the computer screen in front of him to the panoramic viewscreens of the armored command vehicle. The featureless terrain was broken by the billowing dust of tanks and armored personnel carriers strewn solidly across the horizon. Broken-down troop carriers and supply lorries, overcome by the infernal elements, were passed with irritating frequency, their crews doomed to desiccation.
The equatorial deserts of Kon were continuous, blazing-hot belts of sterility, time-proven natural barriers between northern and southern interests. Conflicts, mostly petty economic squabbles, were frequent, but collision between hemispheres was almost impossible. Prior to the Rule of Generals commerce had leapfrogged the hemispheres, trade routes over the dead lands made possible by mutual benefit. Interhemispheric trade had been central to the worldwide economy during the timeless history prior to the Alien Invasion, and its absence was inevitably pointed to when explaining the moribund state of the economy ever since. Jook the First was convinced that reestablishing commercial links between hemispheres, forcibly or otherwise, would renew the international economy, thus solidifying and amplifying his power.