The dull pain which throbbed through Dalgard's skull with every beat
of his heart was confusing, and it was hard to think clearly. But the
colony scout, soon after he had fought his way back to consciousness,
had learned that he was imprisoned somewhere in the globe ship. Just
as he now knew that he had been brought across the sea from the
continent on which Homeport was situated and that he had no hope of
rescue.
He had seen little of his captors, and the guards, who had hustled him
from one place of imprisonment to another, had not spoken to him, nor
had he tried to communicate with them. At first he had been too sick
and confused, then too wary. These were clearly Those Others and the
conditioning which had surrounded him from birth had instilled in him
a deep distrust of the former masters of Astra.
Now Dalgard was more alert, and his being brought to this room in what
was certainly the center of the alien civilization made him believe
that he was about to meet the rulers of the enemy. So he stared
curiously about him as the guards jostled him through the door.
On a dais fashioned of heaped-up rainbow-colored pads were three
aliens, their legs folded under them at what seemed impossible angles.
One wore the black wrappings, the breastplate of the guards, but the
other two had indulged their love of color in weird, eye-disturbing
combinations of shades in the bandages wrapping the thin limbs and
paunchy bodies. They were, as far as he could see through the thick
layers of paint overlaying their skins, older than their officer
companion. But nothing in their attitude suggested that age had
mellowed them.
Dalgard was brought to stand before the trio as before a tribunal of
judges. His sword-knife had been taken from his belt before he had
regained his senses, his hands were twisted behind his back and locked
together in a bar and hoop arrangement. He certainly could offer
little threat to the company, yet they ringed him in, weapons ready,
watching his every move. The scout licked cracked lips. There was one
thing they could not control, could not prevent him from doing.
Somewhere, not too far away, was help ...
Not from the merpeople, but he was sure that he had been in contact
with another friendly mind. Since the hour of his awakening on board
the globe ship, when he had half-consciously sent out an appeal for
aid over the band which united him with Sssuri's race, and had touched
that other consciousness--not the cold alien stream about him--he had
been sure that somewhere within the enemy throng there was a potential
savior. Was it among those who manned the strange flyer, those the
merpeople had spied upon but whom he had not yet seen?
Dalgard had striven since that moment of contact to keep in touch with
the nebulous other mind, to project his need for help. But he had been
unable to enter in freely as he could with his own kind, or with
Sssuri and the sea people. Now, even as he stood in the heart of the
enemy territory completely at the mercy of the aliens, he felt, more
strongly than ever before, that another, whose mind he could not enter
and yet who was in some queer way sensitive to his appeal, was close
at hand. He searched the painted faces before him trying to probe
behind each locked mask, but he was certain that the one he sought was
not there. Only--he must be! The contact was so strong--Dalgard's
startled eyes went to the wall behind the dais, tried vainly to trace
what could only be felt. He would be willing to give a knife oath that
the stranger was within seeing, listening distance at this minute!
While he was so engrossed in his own problem, the guard had moved. The
hooped bar which locked his wrists was loosened, and his arms, each
tight in the grip of one of the warriors were brought out before him.
The officer on the dais tossed a metal ring to one of the guards.
Roughly the warrior holding Dalgard's left arm forced the band over
his hand and jerked it up his forearm as far as it would go. As it
winked in the light the scout was reminded of a similar bracelet he
had seen--where? On the front leg of the snake-devil he had shot!
The officer produced a second ring, slipping it smoothly over his own
arm, adjusting it to touch bare skin and not the wrappings which
served him as a sleeve. Dalgard thought he understood. A device to
facilitate communication. And straightway he was wary. When his
ancestors had first met the merpeople, they had established a means of
speech through touch, the palm of one resting against the palm of the
other. In later generations, when they had developed their new senses,
physical contact had not been necessary. However, here--Dalgard's eyes
narrowed, the line along his jaw was hard.
He had always accepted the merpeople's estimate of Those Others, that
their ancient enemies were all-seeing and all-knowing, with mental
powers far beyond their own definition or description. Now he half
expected to be ruthlessly mind-invaded, stripped of everything the
enemy desired to know.
So he was astonished when the words which formed in his thoughts were
simple, almost childish. And while he prepared to answer them, another
part of him watched and listened, waiting for the attack he was sure
would come.
"You--are--who--what?"
He forced a look of astonishment. Nor did he make the mistake of
answering that mentally. If Those Others did not know he could use
the mind speech, why betray his power?
"I am of the stars," he answered slowly, aloud, using the speech of
Homeport. He had so little occasion to talk lately that his voice
sounded curiously rusty and harsh in his own ears. Nor had he the
least idea of the impression those few archaically accented words
would have on one who heard them.
To Dalgard's inner surprise the answer did not astonish his
interrogator. The alien officer might well have been expecting to hear
just that. But he pulled off his own arm band before he turned to his
fellows with a spurt of the twittering speech they used among
themselves. While the two civilians were still trilling, the officer
edged forward an inch or so and stared at Dalgard intently as he
replaced the band.
"You not look--same--as others--"
"I do not know what you mean. Here are not others like me."
One of the civilians twitched at the officer's sleeve, apparently
demanding a translation, but the other shook him off impatiently.
"You come from sky--now?"
Dalgard shook his head, then realized that gesture might not mean
anything to his audience. "Long ago before I was, my people came."
The alien digested that, then again took off his band before he
relayed it to his companions. The excited twitter of their speech
scaled up.
"You travel with the beasts--" the alien's accusation came crisply
while the others gabbled. "That which hunts could not have tracked you
had not the stink of the beast things been on you."
"I know no beasts," Dalgard faced up to that squarely. "The sea people
are my friends!"
It was hard to read any emotion on these lacquered and bedaubed faces,
but before the officer once more broke bracelet contact, Dalgard did
sense the other's almost hysterical aversion. The scout might just
have admitted to the most revolting practices as far as the alien was
concerned. After he had translated, all three of those on the dais
were silent. Even the guards edged away from the captive as if in some
manner they might be defiled by proximity. One of the civilians made
an emphatic statement, got creakily to his feet, and walked always as
if he would have nothing more to do with this matter. After a second
or two of hesitation his fellow followed his example.
The officer turned the bracelet around in his fingers, his dark eyes
with their slitted pupils never leaving Dalgard's face. Then he came
to a decision. He pushed the ring up his arm, and the words which
reached the prisoner were coldly remote, as if the captive were no
longer judged an intelligent living creature but something which had
no right of existence in a well-ordered universe.
"Beast friends with beast. As the beasts--so shall you end. It is
spoken."
One of the guards tore the bracelet from Dalgard's arm, trying not to
touch the scout's flesh in the process. And those who once more
shackled his wrists ostentatiously wiped their hands up and down the
wrappings on their thighs afterwards.
But before they jabbed him into movement with the muzzles of their
weapons, Dalgard located at last the source of that disturbing mental
touch, not only located it, but in some manner broke through the
existing barrier between the strange mind and his and communicated as
clearly with it as he might have with Sssuri. And the excitement of
his discovery almost led to self-betrayal!
Terran! One of those who traveled with the aliens? Yet he read clearly
the other's distrust of that company, the fact that he lay in
concealment here without their knowledge. And he was not
unfriendly--surely he could not be a Peaceman of Pax! Another fugitive
from a newly-come colony ship--? Dalgard beamed a warning to the
other. If he who was free could only reach the merpeople! It might
mean the turning point in their whole venture!
Dalgard was furiously planning, simplifying, trying to impress the
most imperative message on that other mind as he stumbled away in the
midst of the guards. The stranger was confused, apparently Dalgard's
arrival, his use of the mind touch, had been an overwhelming surprise.
But if he could only make the right move--would make it--The scout
from Homeport had no idea what was in store for him, but with one of
his own breed here and suspicious of the aliens he had at least a slim
chance. He snapped the thread of communication. Now he must be ready
for any opportunity--
Raf watched that amazing apparition go out of the room below. He was
shaking with a chill born of no outside cold. First the shock of
hearing that language, queerly accented as the words were, then that
sharp contact, mind to mind. He was being clearly warned against
revealing himself. The stranger was a Terran, Raf would swear to that.
So somewhere on this world there was a Terran colony! One of those
legendary ships of outlaws, who had taken to space during the rule of
Pax, had made the crossing safely and had here established a foothold.
While one part of Raf's brain fitted together the jigsaw of bits and
patches of information, the other section dealt with that message of
warning the other had beamed to him. The pilot knew that the captive
must be in immediate danger. He could not understand all that had
happened in that interview with the aliens, but he was left with the
impression that the prisoner had been not only tried but condemned.
And it was up to him to help.
But how? By the time he got back to the flitter or was able to find
Hobart and the others, it might already be too late. _He_ must make
the move, and soon, for there had been unmistakable urgency in the
captive's message. Raf's hands fumbled at the grid before him, and
then he realized that the opening was far too small to admit him to
the room on the other side of the wall.
To return to the underground ways might be a waste of time, but he
could see no other course open to him. What if he could not find the
captive later? Where in the maze of the half-deserted city could he
hope to come across the trail again? Even as he sorted out all the
points which could defeat him, Raf's hands and feet felt for the
notched steps which would take him down. He had gone only two floors
when he was faced with a grille opening which was much larger. On
impulse he stopped to measure it, sure he could squeeze through here,
if he could work loose the grid.
Prying with one hand and a tool from his belt pouch, he struggled not
only against the stubborn metal but against time. That strange mental
communication had ceased. Though he was sure that he still received a
trace of it from time to time, just enough to reassure him that the
prisoner was still alive. And each time it touched him Raf redoubled
his efforts on the metal clasps of the grid. At last his determination
triumphed, and the grille swung out, to fall with an appalling clatter
to the floor.
The pilot thrust his feet through the opening and wriggled
desperately, expecting any moment to confront a reception committee
drawn by the noise. But when he reached the floor, the hallway was
still vacant. In fact, he was conscious of a hush in the whole
building, as if those who made their homes within its walls were
elsewhere. That silence acted on him as a spur.
Raf ran along the corridor, trying to subdue the clatter of his space
boots, coming to a downward ramp. There he paused, unable to decide
whether to go down--until he caught sight of a party of aliens below,
walking swiftly enough to suggest that they too were in a hurry.
This small group was apparently on its way to some gathering. And in
it for the first time the Terran saw the women of the aliens, or at
least the fully veiled, gliding creatures he guessed were the females
of the painted people. There were four of them in the group ahead,
escorted by two of the males, and the high fluting of their voices
resounded along the corridor as might the cheeping of birds. If the
males were colorful in their choice of body wrappings, the females
were gorgeous beyond belief, as cloudy stuff which had the changing
hues of Terran opals frothed about them to completely conceal their
figures.
The harsher twittering of the men had an impatient note, and the whole
party quickened pace until their glide was close to an undignified
trot. Raf, forced to keep well behind lest his boots betray him,
fumed.
They did not go into the open, but took another way which sloped down
once more. Luckily the journey was not a long one. Ahead was light
which suggested the outdoors.
Raf sucked in his breath as he came out a goodly distance behind the
aliens. Established in what was once a court surrounded by the towers
and buildings of the city was a miniature of that other arena where he
had seen the dead lizard things. The glittering, gayly dressed aliens
were taking their places on the tiers of seats. But the place which
had been built to accommodate at least a thousand spectators now
housed less than half the number. If this was the extent of the alien
nation, it was the dregs of a dwindling race.
Directly below where Raf lingered in an aisle dividing the tiers of
seats, there was a manhole opening with a barred gate across it, an
entrance to the sand-covered enclosure. And fortunately the aliens
were all clustered close to the oval far from that spot.
Also the attention of the audience was firmly riveted on events below.
A door at the sand level had been flung open, and through it was now
hustled the prisoner. Either the aliens still possessed some idea of
fair play or they hoped to prolong a contest to satisfy their own
pleasure, for the captive's hands were unbound and he clutched a
spear.
Remembering far-off legends of earlier and more savage civilizations
on his own world, Raf was now sure that the lone man below was about
to fight for his life. The question was, against what?
Another of the mouthlike openings around the edge of the arena opened,
and one of the furry people shambled out, weaving weakly from side to
side as he came, a spear in his scaled paws. He halted a step or two
into the open, his round head swinging from side to side, spittle
drooling from his gaping mouth. His body was covered with raw sores
and bare patches from which the fur had been torn away, and it was
apparent that he had long been the victim of ill-usage, if not
torture.
Shrill cries arose from the alien spectators as the furred one blinked
in the light and then sighted the man some feet away. He stiffened,
his arm drew back, the spear poised. Then as suddenly it dropped to
his side, and he fell on his knees before wriggling across the sand,
his paws held out imploringly to his fellow captive.
The cries from the watching aliens were threatening. Several rose in
their seats gesturing to the two below. And Raf, thankful for their
absorption, sped down to the manhole, discovering to his delight it
could be readily opened from his side. As he edged it around, there
was another sound below. This was no high-pitched fluting from aliens
deprived of their sport, but a hissing nightmare cry.
Raf's line of vision, limited by the door, framed a portion of scaled
back, as it looked, immediately below him. His hand went to the blast
bombs as he descended the runway, and his boots hit the sand just as
the drama below reached its climax.
The furred one lay prone in the sand, uncaring. Above that mistreated
body, the human stood in the half-crouch of a fighting man, the puny
spear pointed up bravely at a mark it could not hope to reach, the
soft throat of one of the giant lizards. The reptile did not move to
speedily destroy. Instead, hissing, it reared above the two as if
studying them with a vicious intelligence. But there was no time to
wonder how long it would delay striking.
Raf's strong teeth ripped loose the tag end of the blast bomb, and he
lobbed it straight with a practiced arm so that the ball spiraled
across the arena to come to rest between the massive hind legs of the
lizard. He saw the man's eyes widen as they fastened on him. And then
the human captive flung himself to the earth, half covering the body
of the furred one. The reptile grabbed in the same instant, its
grasping claws cutting only air, and before it could try a second time
the bomb went off.
Literally torn apart by the explosion, the creature must have died at
once. But the captive moved. He was on his feet again, pulling his
companion up with him, before the startled spectators could guess what
had happened. Then half carrying the other prisoner, he ran, not
onward to the waiting Raf, but for the gate through which he had come
into the arena. At the same time a message beat into the Terran's
brain--
"This way!"
Avoiding bits of horrible refuse, Raf obeyed that order, catching up
in a couple of strides with the other two and linking his arm through
the dangling one of the furred creature to take some of the strain
from the stranger.
"Have you any more of the power things?" the words came in the archaic
speech of his own world.
"Two more bombs," he answered.
"We may have to blow the gate here," the other panted breathlessly.
Instead Raf drew his stun gun. The gate was already opening, a wedge
of the painted warriors heading through, flame-throwers ready. He
sprayed wide, and on the highest level. A spout of fire singed the
cloth of his tunic across the top of his shoulder as one of the last
aliens fired before his legs buckled and he went down. Then,
opposition momentarily gone, the two with their semiconscious charge
stumbled over the bodies of the guards and reached the corridor
beyond.
16