Raf, squatting on a small, padded platform raised some six inches from
the floor, tried to study the inhabitants of the room without staring
offensively. At the first glance, in spite of their strange clothing
and their odd habit of painting their faces with weird designs, the
city people might have been of his own species. Until one saw their
too slender hands with the three equal-length fingers and thumb, or
caught a glimpse, under the elaborate head coverings, of the stiff,
spiky substance which served them for hair.
At least they did not appear to be antagonistic. When they had reached
the roof top where the Terrans had landed their flitter, they had come
with empty hands, making gestures of good will and welcome. And they
had had no difficulty in persuading at least three of the exploring
party to accompany them to their own quarters, though Raf had been
separated from the flyer only by the direct order of Captain Hobart,
an order he still resented and wanted to disobey.
The Terrans had been offered refreshment--food and drink. But knowing
the first rule of stellar exploration, they had refused, which did not
mean that the hosts must abstain. In fact, Raf thought, watching the
aliens about him, they ate as if such a feast were novel. His two
neighbors had quickly divided his portion between them and made it
disappear as fast, if not faster, than their own small servings.
At the other end of the room Lablet and Hobart were trying to
communicate with the nobles about them, while Soriki, a small palm
recorder in his hand, was making a tape strip of the proceedings.
Raf glanced from one of his neighbors to the other. The one on his
right had chosen to wear a sight-torturing shade of crimson, and the
material was wound in strips about his body as if he were engulfed in
an endless bandage. Only his fluttering hands, his three-toed feet and
his head were free of the supple rolls. Having selected red for his
clothing, he had picked a brilliant yellow paint for his facial
makeup, and it was difficult for the uninitiated to trace what must be
his normal features under that thick coating of stuff which fashioned
a masklike strip across his eyes and a series of circles outlining his
mouth, circles which almost completely covered his beardless cheeks.
More twists of woven fabric, opalescent and changing color as his head
moved, made a turban for his head.
Most of the aliens about the room wore some variation of the same
bandage dress, face paint, and turban. An exception, one of three
such, was the feaster on Raf's left.
His face paint was confined to a conservative set of bars on each
cheek, those a stark black and white. His sinewy arms were bare to the
shoulder, and he wore a shell of some metallic substance as a
breast- and back-plate, not unlike the very ancient body armor of Raf's
own world. The rest of his body was covered by the bandage strips, but
they were of a dead black, which, because of the natural thinness of
his limbs, gave him a rather unpleasant resemblance to a spider.
Various sheaths and pockets hung from a belt pulled tight about his
wasp middle, and a helmet of the metal covered his head. Soldier? Raf
was sure that his guess was correct.
The officer, if officer he was, caught Raf's gaze. His small round
mouth gaped, and then his hands, with a few quick movements which Raf
followed, fascinated, pantomimed a flyer in the air. With those
talking fingers, he was able to make plain a question: was Raf the
pilot of the flitter?
The pilot nodded. Then he pointed to the officer and forced as
inquiring an expression as he could command.
The answer was sketched quickly and readably: the alien, too, was
either a pilot or had some authority over flyers. For the first time
since he had entered this building, Raf knew a slight degree of
relaxation.
The wrinkleless, too smooth skin of the alien was a darkish yellow.
His painted face was a mask to frighten any sensible Terran child; his
general appearance was not attractive. But he was a flyer, and he
wanted to talk shop, as well as they could with no common speech.
Since the scarlet-wound nobleman on Raf's right was completely
engrossed in the feast, pursuing a few scraps avidly about the dish,
the Terran gave all his attention to the officer.
Twittering words poured in a stream from the warrior's lips. Raf shook
his head regretfully, and the other jerked his shoulders in almost
human impatience. Somehow that heartened Raf.
With many guesses to cover gaps, probably more than half of which were
wrong, Raf gathered that the officer was one of a very few who still
retained the almost forgotten knowledge of how to pilot the remaining
airworthy craft in this crumbling city. On their way to the building
with the curved roof, Raf had noted the evidences that the inhabitants
of this metropolis could not be reckoned as more than a handful and
that most of these now lived either within the central building or
close to it. A pitiful collection of survivors lingering on in the
ruins of their past greatness.
Yet he was impressed now by no feeling that the officer, eagerly
trying to make contact, was a degenerate member of a dying race. In
fact, as Raf glanced at the aliens about the room, he was conscious of
an alertness, of a suppressed energy which suggested a young and
vigorous people.
The officer was now urging him to go some place, and Raf, his dislike
for being in the heart of the strangers' territory once more aroused,
was about to shake his head in a firm negative when a second idea
stopped him. He had resisted separation from the flitter. Perhaps he
could persuade the alien, under the excuse of inspecting a strange
machine, to take him back to the flyer. Once there he would stay. He
did not know what Captain Hobart and Lablet thought they could
accomplish here. But, as for himself, Raf was sure that he was not
going to feel easy again until he was across the northern mountain
chain and coming in for a landing close by the _RS 10_.
It was as if the alien officer had read his thoughts, for the warrior
uncrossed his black legs and got nimbly to his feet with a lithe
movement, which Raf, cramped by sitting in the unfamiliar posture,
could not emulate. No one appeared to notice their withdrawal. And
when Raf hesitated, trying to catch Hobart's eye and make some
explanation, the alien touched his arm lightly and motioned toward one
of the curtained doorways. Conscious that he could not withdraw from
the venture now, Raf reluctantly went out.
They were in a hall where bold bands of color interwove in patterns
impossible for Terran eyes to study. Raf lowered his gaze hurriedly to
the gray floor under his boots. He had discovered earlier that to try
to trace any thread of that wild splashing did weird things to his
eyesight and awakened inside him a sick panic. His space boots, with
the metal, magnetic plates set in the soles, clicked loudly on the
pavement where his companion's bare feet made no whisper of sound.
The hall gave upon a ramp leading down, and Raf recognized this. His
confidence arose. They were on their way out of the building. Here the
murals were missing so that he could look about him for reference
points.
He was sure that the banquet hall was some ten stories above street
level. But they did not go down ten ramps now. At the foot of the
third the officer turned abruptly to the left, beckoning Raf along.
When the Terran remained stubbornly where he was, pointing in the
direction which, to him, meant return to the flitter, the other made
gestures describing an aircraft in flight. His own probably.
Raf sighed. He could see no way out unless he cut and ran. And long
before he reached the street from this warren they could pick him up.
Also, in spite of all the precautions he had taken to memorize their
way here, he was not sure he could find his path back to the flyer,
even if he were free to go. Giving in, he went after the officer.
Their way led out on one of the spider-web bridges which tied building
and tower into the complicated web which was the city. Raf, as a pilot
of flitter, had always believed that he had no fear of heights. But he
discovered that to coast above the ground in a flyer was far different
than to hurry at the pace his companion now set across one of these
narrow bridges suspended high above the street. And he was sure that
the surface under them vibrated as if the slightest extra poundage
would separate it from its supports and send it, and them, crashing
down.
Luckily the distance they had to cover was relatively short, but Raf
swallowed a sigh of relief as they reached the door at the other end.
They were now in a tower which, unluckily, proved to be only a way
station before another swing out over empty space on a span which
sloped down! Raf clutched at the guide rail, the presence of which
suggested that not all the users of this road were as nonchalant as
the officer who tripped lightly ahead. This must explain the other's
bare feet--on such paths they were infinitely safer than his own
boots.
The downward sloping bridge brought them to a square building which
somehow had an inhabited look which those crowding around it lacked.
Raf gained its door to become aware of a hum, a vibration in the wall
he touched to steady himself, hinting at the drive of motors, the
throb of machinery inside the structure. But within, the officer
passed along a corridor to a ramp which brought them out, after what
was for Raf a steep climb, upon the roof. Here was not one of the
tongue-shaped craft such as had first met them in the city, but a
gleaming globe. The officer stopped, his eyes moving from the Terran
to the machine, as if inviting Raf to share in his own pride. To the
pilot's mind it bore little resemblance to any form of aircraft past
or present with which he had had experience in his own world. But he
did not doubt that it was the present acme of alien construction, and
he was eager to see it perform.
He followed the officer through a hatch at the bottom of the globe,
only to be confronted by a ladder he thought at first he could not
climb, for the steps were merely toe holds made to accommodate the
long, bare feet of the crew. By snapping on the magnetic power of his
space boots, Raf was able to get up, although at a far slower speed
than his guide. They passed several levels of cabins before coming
out in what was clearly the control cabin of the craft.
To Raf the bank of unfamiliar levers and buttons had no meaning, but
he paid strict attention to the gestures of his companion. This was
not a space ship he gathered. And he doubted whether the aliens had
ever lifted from their own planet to their neighbors in this solar
system. But it was a long-range ship with greater cruising power than
the other flyer he had seen. And it was being readied now for a voyage
of some length.
The Terran pilot squatted down on the small stool before the controls.
Before him a visa plate provided a clear view of the sky without and
the gathering clouds of evening. Raf shifted uncomfortably. That
signal of the passing of time triggered his impatience to be
away--back to the _RS 10_. He did not want to spend the night in this
city. Somehow he must get the officer to take him back to the
flitter--to be there would be better than shut up in one of the alien
dwellings.
Meanwhile he studied the scene on the visa plate, trying to find the
roof on which they had left the flitter. But there was no point he was
able to recognize.
Raf turned to the officer and tried to make clear the idea of
returning to his own ship. Either he was not as clever at the sign
language as the other, or the alien did not wish to understand. For
when they left the control cabin, it was only to make an inspection
tour of the other parts of the globe, including the space which held
the motors of the craft and which, at another time, would have kept
Raf fascinated for hours.
In the end the Terran broke away and climbed down the thread of ladder
to stand on the roof under the twilight sky. Slowly he walked about
the broad expanse of the platform, attempting to pick out some
landmark. The central building of the city loomed high, and there were
any number of towers about it. But which was the one that guarded the
roof where the flitter rested? Raf's determination to get back to his
ship was a driving force.
The alien officer had watched him, and now a three-fingered hand was
laid on Raf's sleeve while its owner looked into Raf's face and
mouthed a trilling question.
Without much hope the pilot sketched the set of gestures he had used
before. And he was surprised when the other led the way down into the
building. This time they did not go back to the bridge, which had
brought them across the canyons of streets, but kept on down ramps
within the building.
There was a hum of activity in the place. Aliens, all in tight black
wrappings and burnished metal breastplates, their faces barred with
black and white paint, went on errands through the halls or labored at
tasks Raf could not understand. It now seemed as if his guide were
eager to get him away.
It was when they reached the street level that the officer did pause
by one door, beckoning Raf imperiously to join him. The Terran obeyed
reluctantly--and was almost sick.
He was staring down at a dead, very dead body. By the stained rags
still clinging to it, it was one of the aliens, a noble, not one of
the black-clad warriors. The gaping wounds which had almost torn the
unfortunate apart were like nothing Raf had ever seen.
With a guttural sound which expressed his feelings as well as any
words, the officer picked up from the floor a broken spear, the barbed
head of which was dyed the same reddish yellow as the blood still
seeping from the torn body. Swinging the weapon so close to Raf that
the Terran was forced to retreat a step or two to escape contact with
the grisly relic, the officer burst into an impassioned speech. Then
he went back to the gestures which were easier for the spaceman to
understand.
This was the work of a deadly enemy, Raf gathered. And such a fate
awaited any one of them who ventured beyond certain bounds of safety.
Unless this enemy were destroyed, the city--life itself--was no
longer theirs--
Seeing those savage wounds which suggested that an insane fury had
driven the attacker, Raf could believe that. But surely a primitive
spear was no equal to the weapons his guide could command.
When he tried to suggest that, the other shook his head as if
despairing of making plain his real message, and again beckoned Raf to
come with him. They were out on the littered street, heading away from
the central building where the rest of the Terran party must still be.
And Raf, seeing the lengthening shadows, the pools of dusk gathering,
and remembering that spear, could not resist glancing back over his
shoulder now and then. He wondered if the metallic click of his boot
soles on the pavement might not draw attention to them, attention they
would not care to meet. His hand was on his stun gun. But the officer
gave no sign of being worried; he walked along with the assurance of
one who has nothing to fear.
Then Raf caught sight of a patch of color he had seen before and
relaxed. They _were_ on their way back to the flitter! He had come
down this very street earlier. And he did not mind the long climb
back, ramp by steep ramp, which brought him out at last beside the
flyer. His relief was so great that he put out his hand to draw it
along the sleek side of the craft as he might have caressed a
well-loved pet.
"Kurbi?"