ervation, 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 geek, headed for the Reservation."

"Maybe Firkked's army," von Schlichten thought aloud. "Or maybe a city
mob."

"Not quite noisy enough for a mob, is it, sir?"

"A tired mob," von Schlichten told him. "They'd start out on a run,
yelling '_Znidd Suddabit_!' By the time they got across the bridges to
this side of the river, they'd be winded. They'd stop for a blow, and
then they'd settle down to steady slogging to save their wind.
Sometimes a mob like that's worse than a fresh mob. They get stubborn;
they act more deliberately."

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 squeeking of Ulleran 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. Von
Schlichten peered into his all-armament sight, his foot on the
machine-gun pedal and his fingers on the rocket buttons. The highway
below was jammed with geeks, and they were all stopped dead and
staring upward, as though hypnotized by the lights. A second later,
they had recovered and were shooting--not at the airjeep, but at the
four globes of blazing magnesium. Then he had the close-packed mass of
non-humanity in his sights; he tramped the pedal and began punching
buttons. He still had four rockets left by the time the mob was behind
him.

"All right, let's take another pass at them. Same direction."

The driver put the airjeep into a quick loop and came out of it in