All the same, even if the Age of Materialism should turn out to have been overhasty and based on misplaced confidence, it would be wrong to conclude that no good had come of it. Blair had never understood what the horrors of the Inquisition, wars of extermination, and witch burnings had to do with a creed supposedly based on tolerance, kindness, and compassion. Perhaps a pause in social evolution to forget the old vengeful, spiteful god hadn’t been such a bad idea.
Earth had invented religion, even to the extent of turning its science into one. The Hyadeans had produced a science free of unsupported beliefs and irrational convictions, and now they wanted to project religion into it. Maybe the future would see a merging of the two: the Hyadean form of science, restrained by the notions of modesty and humility that stemmed from an awareness of powers greater than oneself—what earlier ages had idealized but never been able to make a reality. There was so much that they could be working toward together, instead of the conflict that seemed to be relentlessly approaching.
An incoming call sounded. Blair swung his feet down and sat forward to take it. It was Wyvex, in the communications room on the floor above. “We’ve just heard from Vrel again,” he announced. “A direct call this time.”
“Okay! Are they still in South America?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t specific about where. He said something about being in a village and trying to get a flight from Ecuador.”
“You mean they’re on their way back?”
“It sounds like it—soon, anyway. They’ve added more to the party. The journalist who made that documentary is there. Her name is Luodine. Her associate, Nyarl, was here a while ago.”
“I remember him. Striking hair—kind of green and black.”
“Yes. And there’s another Hyadean woman, called Yassem. None of us knows her. Some kind of communications specialist.”
“So when should they be here? Any idea?”
“As soon as they’re sure there’s no problem entering Federation territory. We can’t think of any reason why there should be, but we don’t really know. Orzin is checking with Sacramento now.”
“Of course there won’t be a problem. They’re heroes. Roland and his ex are celebrities.”
There was an unnaturally long pause. Then Wyvex said heavily, “She’s there, but Roland isn’t. Apparently, he was in a helicopter that got shot down over a combat zone. Yassem and Marie were there too. As far as they know, they were the only survivors.”
Blair exhaled shakily, and then nodded. “I see.” He had to swallow a lump in his throat
“I’m not sure how Terran social conventions work with regard to Julia,” Wyvex said. “What’s the way to handle her situation?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Blair told him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CADE’S GRAY PRISON GARB was gone, and in its place he had acquired a pair of baggy white peasant-style trousers, a colorfully embroidered shirt something like a vest with sleeves, and a coarse woolen cloak that also doubled as a blanket at night. He even had a floppy, flat-topped hat with a brim. As his faculties slowly returned sufficiently for him to be able to follow, Hudro told him the story.
The helicopter had been downed by a proximity burst and crashed in a rocky ravine full of fallen trees, spilling bodies as it tumbled down the side. Rocco had found himself thrown out near Cade and dragged him clear. Hudro joined them, hauling another of the occupants, also unconscious. They found another stumbling around, dazed, and another impaled on a shattered tree limb—he died later that day. And that was it. There had not been time to search for any more. They had come down under fire in an area where MOPAN guerrillas were retreating before part of the government force that was endeavoring to encircle Segora, where the helicopter had been heading. A group of MOPAN had gotten to them before the regular soldiers and rushed them away.
Faced by regular troops deploying Hyadean weapons that they had not encountered before, and for the first time in some places by Hyadean ground troops who turned out to be not especially adept at using the terrain but commanded fearsomely effective firepower, the guerrillas had been routed. What remained of them were straggling southward, still hunted and harassed, to regroup. Besides Hudro, Rocco, and the two other survivors from the crash, one of whom was immobilized with leg injuries, a local MOPAN leader called Miguel was riding in the same truck, along with five of his troops—three youths and two girls. The truck was also laden with a miscellany of weapons, equipment, and supplies lashed to the sides and the cab roof, or piled in the rear with the passengers underneath netting woven with leaves that were changed twice a day. The local population had long been in the habit of aiding in concealment by lighting plenty of fires to clear undergrowth and burn trash, and scattering incendiary devices about to confuse infrared imagers. The high-resolution satellites had to be told where to look, so that with experience it was possible to remain invisible to a surprising degree. Even so, Miguel was wary of moving when the skies were clear of cloud cover.