Esau pulled his mind away from that, and back to the hills they flew over. Hills not fit for farms, he told himself. Best left to God's livestock, not man's.
They were getting close now. The floater icon almost touched the X. Down there were folks who'd stayed behind. He wondered how they'd fared the past year, and how they felt now about those who'd left. Not that it matters greatly, he told himself. Leastways it shouldn't. As Speaker Crosby had said: "God made diversity amongst his people for a reason. They will disagree, but He loves them all." Speaker Crosby had stayed, but he'd wished them well. "I'm too old to go flying off to the stars," he'd said. "And my flock needs me."
Some of that flock had already condemned him for "encouraging desertions."
Esau called up a quadrangle page, its much larger scale showing considerable detail, including a second, smaller X. He guessed the larger was a camp, and the smaller a hunting party, now about a mile west of it. The smaller X moved slightly while he watched, still westward toward a meadow. "Go to the smaller X first," he told the pilot. "Before they get any more separated than they are."
"Right," the pilot said. Esau went aft to the open hatch, hooked his safety line, then knelt, leaning out. He'd already keyed the speech output of his helmet comm to the floater's bullhorn. Below, all he could see was treetops.
"Helloo!" he called. "You down there! An army's come to clean out the Wyzhnyny-the aliens. If you hear me, fire a gun. We can pick you up at that meadow off west."
He heard no gunshot, and the APF's gravdrive produced only a low hum; if there'd been a shot, he'd have heard it. Maybe, he thought, they've run out of powder. There'd always been folks, a few, who preferred a crossbow or longbow for hunting. They'd have an advantage now.
"Fine," he called. "We'll go to your camp and wait there."
The pilot heard, and swinging the floater in an easy curve, headed for the larger X, where the map showed a creek along the foot of a ridge. Trees overhung it, but in places the water was visible from overhead, milky green like the river. Probably, Esau thought, there was a cave there.
He tried the bullhorn again. "Helloo! You down there! An army's come to clean out the aliens. I'm coming down to talk with you. If you want, we can take you to camp with us. Feed you up proper. Fix you up with shoes, and new clothes."
He could imagine what they looked like after hiding out in the wilderness all that time. They'd hardly have a shoe between the lot of them. Maybe moccasins. He disconnected from the bullhorn and spoke to his squad.
"Talbott, I'm leaving you in charge. Turner, you'll come down with me."
Turner nodded, and Esau turned to the pilot. "Sergeant Pindal," he said to the Indi flyer, "find a place close by, where we can let down."
The pilot glanced back, nodding. "Right, Sergeant," he answered, and in a few seconds had parked his aircraft over a small blowdown gap. "Will that do?"
The two Jerries were snapping on letdown harnesses as Esau looked down. "Yup. Good enough." There wasn't much visibility through the gap; branch growth was filling it. But it would do. Two letdown spars had emerged from their housings, one on each side of the floater, above the door. Esau stepped out backward and began his descent, controlling it by voice while signaling with his arms to refine the centering. It was something they'd all done before at Camp Nafziger. Then he was through the gap and into the trunk space. No one was waiting. When his feet touched the ground, he pulled the safety clip and slapped the release. "All clear," he said.
His harness disappeared upward on its cable; meanwhile Turner had landed beside him. They were about a hundred feet upslope of the stream, and seventy or eighty yards downstream from the X. "We'd better take our helmets off," Esau said. "Otherwise no telling what these folks will think we are."
Both men tipped their helmets back, letting them rest on their light field packs. Then they went downslope to the creek. From there they could see a young boy waiting a couple hundred feet upstream on the far bank. Esau started toward him, waving. "Howdy!" he called. "I'm Esau Wesley, from Sycamore Parish. This here's Malachi Turner, from Tanner's Run."
The boy didn't answer, just watched their approach, his eyes feral in a thin face. He wore only a loin cloth; his wide frame all sinew and bone. Too much bone. About ten years old, Esau decided, thinking in New Jerusalem years. Perhaps thirteen in Terran years. Hasn't been eating any too good. Looks like a string of eels hung on a rack.
Esau stopped. "Malachi," he muttered, "get me a couple rations out of my pack." Turner gave them to him, and they went on. When they reached the boy, they could see he was frightened. Esau reached a hand to him. "My name's Esau," he said. "What's yours?"
"Zekial. Zekial Butters."
"That hunting party off west-I talked to them from the, uh, the airboat that brought us. Told them I was coming here. They should be along directly. You're not here alone, are you?"
A quick headshake.
"Is your mamma here? Or your grampa?"
He began to tremble! "My mamma-and my sisters."
Esau frowned. "What's the matter, Zekial?"
"We don't have no hunting party out. Some men came here yesterday. They… " He choked, his face writhing like a nest of snakes. "They… " Abruptly, unexpectedly, he burst into tears and fled up the slope, disappearing behind a laurel brake. Esau had backed off a step, glanced thunderstruck at Turner, then looked around. A footpath angled upslope from the stream toward a bluff, and the two troopers strode up it. Soon Esau saw a wide opening in the rock face. Without slowing he called.
"Helloo! No need to worry! Help's acoming!" From behind him, Malachi could hear what else he said, half under his breath. "This better not be what I'm afraid it is."
The cave began as a sort of open-sided gallery that narrowed inward. A small mound of embers glowed beneath the overhanging rock shelf. There were sleeping furs, and on the ground, a patch of dried blood three feet across. Esau swore again, and gestured toward the narrow gap that led deeper into the limestone. "They must have gone farther back in, scared spitless." If they're still alive. "Go back in there a little ways and see if you can talk them out. I'm going to call Sergeant Pindal, and find out where those others are."
He seated his helmet again. He didn't need it to radio the floater-his throat mike would serve-but he wanted its HUD. "Sergeant Pindal," he said, "this is Sergeant Wesley. We've got a situation here, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. Where's that party I talked to first? What way are they going now? Over."
"They're about a quarter mile west-northwest of where they were before. They're bypassing the meadow, as if they didn't want to be picked up. Over."
"So they're still headed away from here. All right. Jael, do you read? Over."
"I read. Over."
"I may need a woman's help here. I'm not sure, but I'm afraid I do. I want Sergeant Pindal to let you down by the creek, just below the big X. I'll be there to meet you. Pindal, are you still reading? Over."
"Still reading. Over."