Ahead, the Bachelor River flowed through a stepped, steep-sided channel, its terrace forest jutting winter-bare treetops above the terrain break. Moments later the car crossed the break and skimmed down the forest-bordered road to the terrace, and thence to the wooded floodplain.

The river itself was about two hundred feet wide, crossed by a timbered bridge whose stone piers jutted from murky swirling water. On the other side, the car crossed the same levels in reverse order, until both road and forest spilled over the rim onto the plain above. Pak examined the open map book, checking road designations, and watched to be sure his driver turned west at the first crossroads. Corporal Muller was unfamiliar to him-a Burger assigned from the camp's driver pool, and supposedly familiar with the reservation's roads.

The river was like a boundary. The south side was mostly forest, the farms in small clusters, their buildings abandoned intact. A mile or so to the south, high hills rose, with forest shown as unbroken, except by occasional wet meadows. The car took them past several junctions, with rutted spur roads leading southward at half-mile intervals. According to the map, the spurs didn't reach the hills. Then they came to another road, this one graded. Muller turned onto it. When they reached the first ridge, the road angled up its long slope.

Stumps, most of them large and old, were scattered throughout the thick forest. Many of the remaining trees were quite large. Obviously the people here logged lightly, entering the forest now and then to harvest trees that met certain criteria, probably of species, size and condition. Here and there along the road were small openings, some overgrown by saplings, others with little more than coarse weeds matted down by winter's rains.

"What are the openings?" he asked the driver.

"Landings, sir."

"Landings?"

"Places where logs were decked, sir. Dragged out of the woods and piled. They load the logs on trucks there, and haul them to the railroad."

That, Pak thought, helps explain the railroad coming here. "Couldn't they float them down the river?" he asked.

"Most logs are sinkers, too heavy to float."

The forest changed little for several miles, then the road doubled back eastward. The driver surprised him by turning onto another spur road that went south, and the general unfolded another map.

"Where are we going now?" he asked.

"To the edge of the virgin reserves," said the corporal. "Captain Hippe said you'd ought to see it."

Hippe, Pak recalled, would be briefing officers today.

Half a mile later, the spur ended in a loop, a turnaround. The driver stopped, and they got out. "Everything south from here," Muller said, "is the reserve. That there," he added pointing, "is the boundary."

"That there" was an east-west line of blazes hacked on trees, apparently with an ax. South of it the forest had many large old trees. Slowly the two men strolled into it a short distance, their eyes exploring. It would, Pak thought, be beautiful in summer: green with foliage, and no doubt bright with birdsong.

"The number of people keeps growing," the corporal told him, "and the need for wood along with them." He gestured at the surrounding forest. "When it's needed, the government'll open it up for cutting, but for now it's wild; no farms, no roads, nothing but woods from here on. Folks hunt in here, of course, as much to keep down the wolves and lions and bears as for game." His right hand slapped his sidearm. "And boars; they're worser'n mean if you come across one. They can gut a man in a minute."

He pointed to a tree whose otherwise smooth bark was vertically scarred to about seven feet above the ground, as if by large claws. "That there is bear sign; made about two years back, judging by the callus. Some he-bear marked it to warn off others. Lions mark by spraying piss on things. Hasn't been a lion reported north of the river for ten, fifteen years; they don't much tolerate people. But they're in here. Folks hear one screech from time to time."

Wolves. Bears. Lions. Boar. Pak wondered what manner of beasts the Burgers applied those labels to. Nothing trivial, he supposed. He was surprised he hadn't been shown pictures of them. He'd have to correct that when they got back to camp.

"Hunting helps keep predators leery of folks," the young man went on, "and out of the livestock. It's rare that one of them jumps a person, but now and then they do raise Cain in a pasture or sheep pen, or paddock."

He grinned at the general. "Your Jerries need to be ready to switch their blasters to hard fire."

It occurred to Pak to wonder if Muller would dare pull a general's leg. It seemed unlikely. "Are you from around here?" he asked.

"Yessir, General. My family's steading was just about where division headquarters stands now."

"Ah. It must have hurt to have your land condemned for a military reservation."

The corporal shrugged big shoulders. "There's some folks sour over it. But if the Wyzhnyny get this far, we'll lose it anyway, and worse. As it is, Terra paid us good money for it, more'n anyone else would've. And when the war is won, if it gets won, we get it back for free."

The young man had seemed to turn inward as he talked. Now his eyes met the general's again. "Pastor Luneburger told us to care for the land, the planet, and treat it with respect. Not abuse it like our long-ago forefathers did on Terra." He shook his head. "But he never foretold any alien invasion."

Pak nodded. "Few did," he said. "Few did."

They walked back to the car in silence and continued the tour, getting back to camp for lunch. Pak realized more fully now how suitable a range of conditions Camp Bosler Nafziger provided: forest, open farmland, rugged hills, small and large streams, even swamps and marshes in the north. And a sizeable section that was essentially virgin. All in all, it resembled conditions described for New Jerusalem.

Reunion

Esau Wesley lay still on sodden leaves, peering across a forested draw. With the sun up, he told himself, they're not hard to see. Not this time of year, with the leaves down.

Not all the leaves were down, of course. There were patches of evergreen shrubs whose stiff leathery leaves looked nearly black at a hundred yards. And some trees had kept their leaves, mostly dead and brown. He could hear them rustling dryly in the breeze overhead, a breeze that scarcely touched the ground.

Much of the hundred-yard separation between ridgetops was unobstructed, for the two ridges were steep, and looking across the draw was mostly looking through empty air. His narrowed eyes could make out folks dug in over there, obscured by undergrowth and not moving around. If those are enemy, he thought, we could open fire and really play Tophet with them. Blasters, slammers… Heck, our grenade launchers would reach that far. The umpires would charge them heavy casualties.

Friend or foe, that was the nub of it. If this was for real, it'd be easy to tell. Something that walks on four legs with the top half of something like a man stuck on the front-that'd be easy to recognize. But playing war against other humans would have to do.

Just think of them as the enemy, he told himself. Whoever, whatever they were, they were dug in. Esau wondered if the real Wyzhnyny dug foxholes. It would, he thought, be awkward for folks like them. And how would they climb in and out?

"Can he get close enough without being noticed?" Ensign Berg murmured it from a corner of his mouth, as if for secrecy.

Hawkins too only murmured; a nod involved movement. "He scored higher than anyone on the stealth tests."

That didn't really answer the question, Berg thought, but visor magnification didn't fill the bill. Too much obscuring undergrowth. "All right," he said, and triggered his helmet mike with a syllable. "Esau," he murmured, "cross the draw farther up, and get close enough to see whether those are our people or enemy. Then back away and let me know. If they are enemy, and see you, cover yourself with a smoke grenade. Then we'll give them something else to worry about."