"I'm going to," he told her.
"We'll be next!"
"Nonsense! Those flapper-footed devils can't climb! They're too heavy,
too clumsy!"
She caught at his weapon wrist, but he had fired.
The Skygor weapon was a wondrous one. Even an indifferent shot like
Planter could not miss with it. The Skygor beside Disbro seemed to
burst into flame around his flat, bushel-mouthed face, and then he
collapsed and lay still. His companions swarmed to his side, rending
the air with their horrid yells.
Planter chuckled, and Mara moaned. The man moved forward among the
branches, to a place where he could be seen.
"Hai, Disbro!" he trumpeted, as loudly as any Skygor. "Max! It's David
Planter! Run while you have the chance, I'll pick those toads off!"
But neither of his friends offered to escape. They only stood and gazed
at him.
"You idiots!" blazed Planter, and then saw that two of the Skygors on
the inflated boat were aiming weapons at him. He sent a silver pen
at their craft, and it melted abruptly as its air escaped from the
puncture. A third shot took one of the Skygors splashing in the water.
"Run, you two!" Planter bade his companions once more.
He felt a grip on his ankle, and glanced down. Mara had crouched low,
was trying to pull him back from view. As soon as she had his eye, she
let him go, and thrust both fingers into her ears in some sort of a
sign he did not comprehend.
Understanding dawned suddenly, and too late.
The mist trembled and swirled at a sudden outburst of sound louder than
even a Skygor chorus. Planter dropped his weapon, began to lift his
hands to his ears in imitation of Mara. But he could not!
The noise possessed him, as a rush of electric current might course
through a body, paralyzing and agonizing it. He swayed and floundered
among the branches. His hair bristled, his ears rang, his blood
coursed, every fiber of him vibrated. Yet something about it was
vaguely familiar, as though it was something he had experienced, or a
magnification of such a something.
Yes, of course ... the uneasiness that Mara called the "spell." Some
device made a noise-vibration, normally sub-audible but unpleasant
enough to warn aliens away. In a time like this, when attack came, it
could be intensified to the point of striking the enemy stupid.
Meanwhile, he was falling, through branches and leafage, to splash
clumsily into the water of the pool. Abruptly the noise ceased. The
Skygors were around him, their flipper-hands fastening upon him, and he
was too wrung out, too grateful for silence, to resist.
* * * * *
He may have fainted. Later on, he could not be sure. But his next clear
memory was of lying in one of the inflated paddle-boats, in which sat
Skygors with weapons. There also sat Disbro, watching him intently.
"Disbro!" muttered Planter. "They got you, too?"
"No, they didn't get me, too," mimicked Disbro. "I'm in the racket with
them, understand?"
Planter sat up, and two Skygors half-drew their weapons to warn him. "I
thought you were captured," he mumbled.
"Not me. I do things neatly. Showed I could be an enemy, but would
rather be a friend. You butted in, killing two of them. Someone says
you got two others earlier today. They're holding you a prisoner, and
probably you'll be killed."
Planter studied Disbro. "Easy does it," he said softly. "Better not act
as if you know me. You might get mixed up in--"
"No chance!" snarled Disbro. "I told them that you were an enemy of
mine. I'm not mixed up in anything."
Planter subsided. Plainly Disbro was able to take care of himself.
Plainly Planter must do the same, with no help from anyone. He
wondered about Mara, with a sudden chilled pang. The brave girl
had guided him here, despite her knowledge that Skygor country was
dangerous. She had done it to please him, because she liked him. He
wondered what had happened to her.
He lounged under the Skygor guns, thinking of Mara. In his mind he saw
the light of her steady blue eyes, felt the touch of her slim, strong
hand. His heart quickened.
"Hang it," he told himself, "you aren't in love with her. She's a
savage, and you only met her a few hours ago! You're only worried
because you feel responsibility."
But he knew he lied.
The boat brought them to an entrance-hole at water-level, in a large
cylindrical structure. Disbro swaggered inside, with his new friends.
A guard prodded Planter with his pistol-barrel to follow. As Planter
obeyed, he saw behind him another boat, in which rode Max with all the
baggage he had been carrying. Skygors sat with Max, plainly on good
terms. Max saw Planter, too, and his face twitched and scowled as in an
effort to rationalize.
Inside, he found himself in a large bare room with dry, rough-cast
walls. Disbro waited there, with a Skygor whose elaborate chain-mail
suggested that he was an officer.
"Disbro," boomed this individual cordially, "You say this is your
enemy? What shall be done to him?"
"I leave that to you, Phra," answered Disbro, with the grand manner of
bestowing gifts. "You have your own ways of handling such problems. I
am content."
Another Skygor approached, and the officer discussed the case in
deafening Skygor language. Then, facing Planter, he resumed English:
"Your life is forfeit, but you look strong. Perhaps you can prove
yourself worth keeping. Join the slaves."
He struck his webbed hands together. A human man ran in.
Like Mara and the other crossbow-girls, this man was blond, but the
resemblance ended there. He wore loose, brief garments of elastic
fabric, no weapons, and his face was mild and servile. Phra pointed to
Planter.
"Below with him! Put him to the spring mill!"
The slave beckoned, and led Planter away, studying him curiously.
Planter spoke at once: "You have many friends here, in slavery? Perhaps
I can get you out of this."
"Out of this!" The echo was horrified. "To starve in the jungle? Marry,
sir, art mad or sick to say such a thing! Come, down these stairs."
* * * * *
Planter obeyed his new companion. They went down a dim, stone stairway,
lighted with green bulbs. From below came sounds of mechanical action.
"What's your name?" Planter asked the slave.
"Glanfil. And you?"
"David Planter. How many slaves are there here? Human slaves?"
"Two hundred, belike. Half as many as the Skygors."
That was a new thought to Planter. On Earth, races were numbered in
the millions--here, by the scores. Of course, this might not be the
only Skygor city. Mara had mentioned the difficulty of exploring any
distance from this habitable pole. For a moment he felt the thirst
for knowledge. Wasn't this world as large as his own planet? Might it
not have continents, oceans, mountain ranges, whole genera of strange
species, perhaps other civilizations and climates? Then he remembered.
He was a slave. And a booming voice drove the memory home.
"Below, men," thundered a Skygor guard. "You are not fed and lodged to
be idle."
"Pardon," mumbled Glanfil, and quickened his descent. Planter followed,
beating down a rage of battle at the rough shouting of the guard.
The under-water levels were not flooded, though the walls were gloomily
damp. Planter found himself in a great rambling chamber, bordered and
cumbered with machines, at which men toiled. Glanfil was presenting him
to a Skygor, who made notes with a crayon-like instrument on a board.
"New?" he questioned in his ear-dulling roar. "Whence came he? Never
stop to answer--show him how to work your machine."
Glanfil led him to a cylindrical appliance against a wall. It had a
multitude of levers and push-buttons, and lights shone in its glassed
forefront. Most of these were green, but one turned red as they
approached. Glanfil pushed a button and turned a lever. The light
switched to green again.
"The red means a faulty rhythm somewhere in the light system,"
explained Glanfil. "Fix it by manipulating the buttons and levers near
the red lights--yes, so. It takes not skill, but wary watching."
Planter took over. He found time to observe the rest of the
slave-teemed basement.
Some operated a treadmill, others wound at keys or turned cranks. The
machines were strange but not mysterious. He judged that they pumped,
elevated, and modelled. Glanfil answered his questions:
"'Tis the Skygor method. We supply power by our labors. Springs,
levers, such things, are worked."
"Springs and levers?" repeated Planter. "Is this a clockwork town? Why
not fuel? Steam?"
Glanfil shook his head. "We men make small fires, but the Skygors not.
Their nature is moist, they want such things not. As you say, clockwork
is the use of this place."
"If you refuse to do this slave work, what then?"
Glanfil shrugged, and shuddered. "If the sin is not too great, you go
to a level below this. Men drag upon a capstan, to wind the mightiest
of springs for town works."
"Like rowing in a galley!" Planter summed up wrathfully. "But if the
sin is pretty sinful?"
A Skygor overseer came close, saw that Planter had learned the simple
machine, and called Glanfil to some other task. Planter worked until
such time as a raucous voice bade another shift take over. Marshalled
with twenty or more slaves, he was led away to a musty vault, one side
of which was lined with cell-like sleeping quarters. Here was a brick
oven--perhaps those in the Nest were designed from it--over which two
sturdy women toiled at cookery. As the slaves entered, these women
quickly passed out stone plates and metal spoons. Into these were
poured generous portions of hot, appetizing stew.
"They feed you well, these Skygors," commented Planter to Glanfil as
he finished his plateful.
"'Tis their fashion. They seek to make us happy."
Planter went to the kettles for another helping of stew, and ate more
slowly. "I'd rather eat in freedom," he commented, half to himself.
"Freedom?" echoed Glanfil, as if scornful. "We hear of what freedom can
be. Scant commons, rough beds, danger and damp. Better to toil honestly
and fare well."
"Aye," said a bigger slave, with a spade beard of reddish tinge. "Did
not the Skygors help our first fathers, stranger, as now they help you?"
"I've heard otherwise," Planter rejoined. "It seems there was a
fight--the men were licked--the survivors made captive and put to work.
That's what happened to me."
"Best be silent," murmured Glanfil, bending close. "That talk makes few
friends."
* * * * *
Planter changed the subject, asking various questions about Venus. His
companions eyed him strangely as he displayed his ignorance, but made
cheerful answer.
The noise that had overwhelmed him was a vibrating metal instrument,
they said. Their description made it sound like an organ of sorts. As
he had surmised, it was always in some sort of operation, and could
be turned on full force if need be. The Skygors, with senses meant to
endure great noises, were not hurt by such a din, but human ears would
be tortured if not quickly closed. "Our labors give the instrument
power," informed Glanfil, rather proudly.
Planter thought over his experiences of the day. "The Skygors have many
human devices," he ventured.
"Aye, that," agreed the big bearded one. "In the first days, our
fathers brought many articles, which the Skygors developed and used."
"There's what I'm driving at!" Planter broke in, forgetting Glanfil's
council to be cautious. "They not only enslaved you, they took your
ideas and improved themselves. I'll wager they were savages to begin
with! And you're actually grateful for the chance to crawl at their
big, webbed feet!"
"This world belongs to the Skygors," spoke up one of the women as she
washed dishes. "Without them we would be shelterless and foodless, like
the weaklings they drove forth."
Planter refrained to tell what he knew of the crossbow-girls. Plainly
he was up against an attitude of content from which it would be hard
to free his new companions--harder than to free them from guards and
prison walls.
He slept that night in a hammock-like bed, and next day worked at the
machine. His toil was long, but not sapping, and food was good. Once
a Skygor came to take his clothing, shoes and possessions, giving him
a sleeveless shirt and shorts instead. Otherwise he was not bothered
by the masters of the city. For days--perhaps ten--he followed this
routine, masking his feeling of revolt.
Then came a Skygor messenger to lead him away along under-water
corridors to someone who had sent. At the end of the journey he entered
an office. There sat the person he least expected to see.
Disbro.
"You rat," Planter began, but Disbro waved the insult aside.
"Don't be a bigger ape than usual," he sniffed. "I've been able to do
you a favor."
"You didn't do me much of a one when I was captured," reminded Planter.
"How could I?" argued Disbro, in the charming fashion he could
sometimes achieve. "I was only on probation. If I'd tried to help you
then, we'd both be dead, instead of both on top of this Turkish Bath
world. Sit down." They took stools on opposite sides of a heavy, wooden
table. "Planter, how would you like to help me run Venus?"
"You're going to get away from these Skygors?"
Again Disbro waved the words away. "Why should I? I'll run them, too.
Look, we landed safely, didn't we? Observations on Earth will show
that, won't they?"
"Right," agreed Planter, mystified. "There'll be more ships coming, to
look for us and maybe set up a colony."
"That's it. We'll ambush those ships."
"Ambush?" repeated Planter sharply. "Losing your mind, Disbro?"
"No. I'm only thinking for all of us. Ships will come, I say. Loaded
with supplies, valuables all sorts of things. We can overwhelm them as
they land. Some of their crews will join us--the others can be rubbed
out. And the law can't touch us, Planter! Not for a minute!"
"What are you driving at?" Planter demanded.
"I'm the law," said Disbro, tapping his chest. "Just now I string
with the Skygors. Later I may knock 'em off. But anyway, I'm the
commander of the first expedition to land on Venus. I have a right to
take possession, in my own name." He got up, his voice rising clear
and proud. "Possession, like Columbus! Not of a continent--of a whole
world!"
* * * * *
Planter, leaning forward on his stool, clutched the edge of the table
so strongly that his knuckles whitened.
"And what," he asked slowly and quietly, "do you want me to do?"
"I'm coming to that," said Disbro, smiling with superior craftiness.
"You're going to help me solidify these loud-mouthed Skygors."
"They hold me for a slave," reminded Planter harshly, for he did not
like the life as well as Glanfil and the others who toiled among the
clockwork. But Disbro brushed the complaint aside.
"That's because they don't know what I know. Your lady friends, I mean."
Planter glanced up sharply. Disbro chuckled.
"I talk a lot with these Skygors. Not bad fellows, if you muffle your
ears. Anyway, they tell me about a herd of wild girls that bushwacks
them constantly, and which they hope I'll find and destroy. Lately
some of those girls have been scouting around, yelling for something.
The Skygors haven't the best of English, and don't know what the words
mean. But I do. Those girls are calling your name. David Planter."
Mara had come back for him, then. She braved the terrors of the Skygor
fortress, trying to get him back. Planter felt warmth around his heart.
He faced Disbro and shook his head.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "You must be
getting drunk with your Skygor friends."
"They don't have any kind of liquor, only some sort of sniff-powder I
wouldn't touch. And you're a cheerful liar, Planter. You know all about
those girls, and you're probably good friends with them. Don't be a
fool, I'm offering you a slice of my empire!"
"Empire!" echoed Planter, honestly scornful. "You really think you'll
go through with this idea of grabbing Venus for yourself?"
"I know all the angles. Back on Earth I was boss of quite an
organization."
"And ended up in jail, buying your way out by gambling your life on
this voyage!" Planter rushed those words into speech, but made them
clear, biting and passionate. "You're a case for brain doctors, not
jail wardens. I don't know why I listen to you."
"I know why," hurled back Disbro. "Because I'm already quite a pet
among these Skygors. I can kill you or save you. Meanwhile, we're
changing the subject. I want you to lead me to these wild girls, and
after we're solid with them, a bunch of Skygors will come--"
"Nothing doing!"
"In other words, you now admit that there is such a group! And you'll
take orders, Planter. I'm still chief of the expedition."
Planter shook his head. "I can give you arguments on that. You've
betrayed the trust of the Foundation back home. That lets you out. You
don't have authority over me."