Then, two miles east of the Reservation, he caught a new sound--the
flowing, riverlike, murmur of something vast on the move.
"Hear that, lieutenant?" he asked. "Head for it, at about a thousand
feet. When we're directly above it, let go some flares."
"Yes, sir." The younger man had lowered his voice to a whisper.
"That's geeks; headed for the Reservation."
"Maybe Firkked's army," von Schlichten thought aloud. "Or maybe a city
mob."
* * * * *
The noises were growing clearer, louder. He picked up the phone and
punched the wavelength of the military airport.
"Von Schlichten; my compliments to Colonel Jarman. Tell him there's a
geek mob, or possibly Firkked's regulars, on the main highway from
Skilk, two miles east of the Reservation. Get some combat
contragravity over here, at once. We'll light them up for you. And
tell Colonel Jarman to start flying patrols up and down along the
Hoork River; this may not be the only gang that's coming out to see
us."
The sounds were directly below, now--the scuffing of horny-soled feet
on the dirt road, the clink and rattle of slung weapons, the clicking
and squeaking of Ullran voices.
The lieutenant said: "Here go the flares, sir."
Von Schlichten shut his eyes, then opened them slowly. The driver,
upon releasing the flares, had nosed up, banked, turned, and was
coming in again, down the road toward the advancing column.
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