They climbed slowly from the edge of the marshland toward a saddle marking a low point between the end of the ridge that they had followed from Serengeti and the lower hills continuing southward. The river that they were seeking lay in that direction, to the west, below the saddle on the far side. The grass was coated with coarse hairs that rasped at their trouser legs, dragging at every step and disgorging clouds of flies. Leathery leaves swished at their faces and stuck to their clothing. The heavy, humid air was dulling and draining of strength. A noisy flock of birds returned to circle and caw at them. Odd forms of life hopped away or slithered among the rocks in the creek beds. Once they spotted a couple of deer-like creatures watching them from a knoll, but the animals kept their distance and it was impossible to make out any details. Keene was beginning to realize that the years not only marked a long absence from laboring under Terran gravity but had taken their inevitable toll in other ways as well. Every effort of dragging a leg upward past the other became a small triumph of will in itself. His breath was coming in quick, painful gasps. Charlie had been right. They would never have made it on foot the whole way.
The light was fading by the time the slope eased and they came over the top of the saddle. It was one of those rare moments when the evening sky actually showed some orange toward the west. But better was the sight that rewarded them when they trudged on over the pebble slopes and runoff gullies at the saddle’s high point until the view down the other side opened out before them. They found themselves looking down over the gentler, open folds sloping away to the west. And curving toward them through the gathering darkness and haze lower down was a broad sweep of the river. But there could be no question of completing the journey down to it that night. They would have to bivouac up on the saddle until first light.
They found a dry spot in one of the gullies, sheltered by rocks from the winds, which were strong and gusting from the west. Their first craving was for something hot and fortifying to drink. While Charlie unpacked coffee and mugs and fiddled around assembling the spirit stove—made specially to order for the Earth mission, since nobody at Kronia camped out or had any use for such a thing—Keene scouted around and collected enough twigs, roots, and bush branches to get a fire of sorts going. They concocted a stew of chicken meat, greens, and reconstituted potato with gravy, accompanied by bread wafers and cheese, followed it with boiled jam pudding, and by the time they sat warming their hands with a second mug of coffee, were finally feeling some relief after the day’s shock and tension.
“I was thinking of Reynolds on the way up,” Keene said. “Remember him?”
“One of Mitch’s guys? The one who was on the shuttle up from Montemorelos? Sounded like Bible Belt.” Harvey Mitchell had been the major in command of the Special Forces squad that Cavan had brought from Washington to California.
“Yes.”
“What made you think of him?”
“Nothing in particular. Your mind wanders over all kinds of things in a place like this. I think it was something he said about the world starting all over again. It just struck me as ironic. All the fighting that used to go on about old-Earth, young-Earth. Maybe there never was any real conflict. They just weren’t talking about the same thing. The same as with so many things.”
“What happened to Mitch? Did you keep track of him?” Charlie asked.
“He joined the Security Arm. What else was a guy like Harvey supposed to find to do on Kronia? Cavan said he was earmarked for the Trojan mission at one point, but then it was rescinded for some reason. I’m not sure where he went afterward.”
Charlie sipped his drink and fell silent for a short while. Then he said, “It makes it sound even more as if Trojan is another part of the pattern, doesn’t it?”