That sigh of displaced air was not as loud as a breeze, but it echoed
monstrously in Shann's ears. He could not believe in his luck as that
sound grew fainter, drew away into the valley he had just left. With
infinite caution he raised his head from his arm, still hardly able to
accept the fact that he had not been sighted, that the Throgs and their
flyer were gone.
But that black plate was spinning out into the sun haze. One of the
beetles might have suspected that there were Terran fugitives and
ordered a routine patrol. After all, how could the aliens know that they
had caught all but one of the Survey party in camp? Though with all the
Terran scout flitters grounded on the field, the men dead in their
bunks, the surprise would seem to be complete.
As Shann moved, Taggi and Togi came to life also. They had gone to earth
with speed, and the man was sure that both beasts had sensed danger. Not
for the first time he knew a burning desire for the formal education he
had never had. In camp he had listened, dragging out routine jobs in
order to overhear reports and the small talk of specialists keen on
their own particular hobbies. But so much of the information Shann had
thus picked up to store in a retentive memory he had not understood and
could not fit together. It had been as if he were trying to solve some
highly important puzzle with at least a quarter of the necessary pieces
missing, or with unrelated bits from others intermixed. How much control
did a trained animal scout have over his furred or feathered
assistants? And was part of that mastery a mental rapport built up
between man and animal?
How well would the wolverines obey him now, especially when they would
not return to camp where cages stood waiting as symbols of human
authority? Wouldn't a trek into the wilderness bring about a revolt for
complete freedom? If Shann could depend upon the animals, it would mean
a great deal. Not only would their superior hunting ability provide all
three with food, but their scouting senses, so much keener than his,
might erect a slender wall between life and death.
Few large native beasts had been discovered on Warlock by the Terran
explorers. And of those four or five different species, none had proved
hostile if unprovoked. But that did not mean that somewhere back in the
wild lands into which Shann was heading there were no heretofore
unknowns, perhaps slyer and as vicious as the wolverines when they were
aroused to rage.
Then there were the "dreams," which had afforded the prime source of
camp discussion and dispute. Shann brushed coarse sand from his boots
and thought about the dreams. Did they or did they not exist? You could
start an argument any time by making a definite statement for or against
the peculiar sort of dreaming reported by the first scout to set ship on
this world.
The Circe system, of which Warlock was the second of three planets, had
first been scouted four years ago by one of those explorers traveling
solo in Survey service. Everyone knew that the First-In Scouts were a
weird breed, almost a mutation of Terran stock--their reports were rife
with strange observations.
So an alarming one concerning Circe (a yellow sun such as Sol) and her
three planets was not so rare. Witch, the world nearest in orbit to
Circe, was too hot for human occupancy without drastic and too costly
world-changing. Wizard, the third out from the sun, was mostly bare rock
and highly poisonous water. But Warlock, swinging through space between
two forbidding neighbors, seemed to be just what the settlement board
ordered.
Then the Survey scout, even in the cocoon safety of his well-armed ship,
began to dream. And from those dreams a horror of the apparently empty
world developed, until he fled the planet to preserve his sanity. There
had been a second visit to Warlock in check; worlds so well adapted to
human emigration could not be lightly thrown away. And this time there
was a negative report, no trace of dreams, no registration of any
outside influence on the delicate and complicated equipment the ship
carried. So the Survey team had been dispatched to prepare for the
coming of the first pioneers, and none of them had dreamed either--at
least, no more than the ordinary dreams all men accepted.
Only there were those who pointed out that the seasons had changed
between the first and second visits to Warlock. That first scout had
planeted in summer; his successors had come in fall and winter. They
argued that the final release of the world for settlement should not be
given until the full year on Warlock had been sampled.
But the pressure of Emigrant Control had forced their hands, that and
the fear of just what had eventually happened--an attack from the
Throgs. So they had speeded up the process of declaring Warlock open.
Only Ragnar Thorvald had protested that decision up to the last and had
gone back to headquarters on the supply ship a month ago to make a last
appeal for a more careful study.
Shann stopped brushing the sand from the tough fabric above his knee.
Ragnar Thorvald ... He remembered back to the port landing apron on
another world, remembered with a sense of loss he could not define. That
had been about the second biggest day of his short life; the biggest had
come earlier when they had actually allowed him to sign on for Survey
duty.
He had tumbled off the cross-continent cargo carrier, his kit--a very
meager kit--slung over his thin shoulder, a hot eagerness expanding
inside him until he thought that he could not continue to throttle down
that wild happiness. There was a waiting starship. And he--Shann Lantee
from the Dumps of Tyr, without any influence or schooling--was going to
blast off in her, wearing the brown-green uniform of Survey!
Then he had hesitated uncertainly, had not quite dared cross the few
feet of apron lying between him and that compact group wearing the same
uniform--with a slight difference, that of service bars and completion
badges and rank insignia--with the unconscious self-assurance of men who
had done this many times before.
But after a moment that whole group had become in his own shy appraisal
just a background for one man. Shann had never before known in his
pinched and limited childhood, his lost boyhood, anyone who aroused in
him hero worship. And he could not have put a name to the new emotion
that added so suddenly to his burning desire to make good, not only to
hold the small niche in Survey which he had already so painfully
achieved, but to climb, until he could stand so in such a group talking
easily to that tall man, his uncovered head bronze-yellow in the
sunlight, his cool gray eyes pale in his brown face.
Not that any of those wild dreams born in that minute or two had been
realized in the ensuing months. Probably those dreams had always been as
wild as the ones reported by the first scout on Warlock. Shann grinned
wryly now at the short period of childish hope and half-confidence that
he could do big things. Only one Thorvald had ever noticed Shann's
existence in the Survey camp, and that had been Garth.
Garth Thorvald, a far less impressive--one could say "smudged"--copy of
his brother. Swaggering with an arrogance Ragnar never showed, Garth was
a cadet on his first mission, intent upon making Shann realize the
unbridgeable gulf between a labor hand and an officer-to-be. He had
appeared to know right from their first meeting just how to make Shann's
life a misery.
Now, in this slit of valley well away from the domes, Shann's fists
balled. He pounded them against the earth in a way he had so often hoped
to plant them on Garth's smoothly handsome face, his well-muscled body.
One didn't survive the Dumps of Tyr without learning how to use fists,
and boots, and a list of tricks they didn't teach in any academy. He had
always been sure that he could take Garth if they mixed it up. But if he
had loosed the tight rein he had kept on his temper and offered that
challenge, he would have lost his chance with Survey. Garth had proved
himself able to talk his way out of any scrape, even minor derelictions
of duty, and he far out-ranked Shann. The laborer from Tyr had had to
swallow all that the other could dish out and hope that on his next
assignment he would not be a member of young Thorvald's team. Though,
because of Garth Thorvald, Shann's toll of black record marks had
mounted dangerously high and each day the chance for any more duty tours
had grown dimmer.
Shann laughed, and the sound was ugly. That was one thing he didn't have
to worry about any longer. There would be no other assignments for him,
the Throgs had seen to that. And Garth ... well, there would never be a
showdown between them now. He stood up. The Throg ship had disappeared;
they could push on.
He found a break in the cliff wall which was climbable, and he coaxed
the wolverines after him. When they stood on the heights from which the
falls tumbled, Taggi and Togi rubbed against him, cried for his
attention. They, too, appeared to need the reassurance they got from
contact with him, for they were also fugitives on this alien world, the
only representatives of their kind.
Since he did not have any definite goal in view, Shann continued to be
guided by the stream, following its wanderings across a plateau. The sun
was warm, so he carried his jacket slung across one shoulder. Taggi and
Togi ranged ahead, twice catching skitterers, which they devoured
voraciously. A shadow on a sun-baked rock sent the Terran skidding for
cover until he saw that it was cast by one of the questing falcons from
the upper peaks. But that shook his confidence, so he again sought
cover, ashamed at his own carelessness.
In the late afternoon he reached the far end of the plateau, faced a
climb to peaks which still bore cones of snow, now tinted a soft peach
by the sun. Shann studied that possible path and distrusted his own
powers to take it without proper equipment or supplies. He must turn
either north or south, though he would then have to abandon a sure water
supply in the stream. Tonight he would camp where he was. He had not
realized how tired he was until he found a likely half-cave in the
mountain wall and crawled in. There was too much danger in fire here; he
would have to do without that first comfort of his kind.
Luckily, the wolverines squeezed in beside him to fill the hole. With
their warm furred bodies sandwiching him, Shann dozed, awoke, and dozed
again, listening to night sounds--the screams, cries, hunting calls, of
the Warlock wilds. Now and again one of the wolverines whined and moved
uneasily.
Fingers of sun picked at Shann through a shaft among the rocks, striking
his eyes. He moved, blinked blearily awake, unable for the first few
seconds to understand why the smooth plasta wall of his bunk had become
rough red stone. Then he remembered. He was alone and he threw himself
frantically out of the cave, afraid the wolverines had wandered off.
Only both animals were busy clawing under a boulder with a steady
persistence which argued there was a purpose behind that effort.
A sharp sting on the back of one hand made that purpose only too clear
to Shann, and he retreated hurriedly from the vicinity of the
excavation. They had found an earth-wasp's burrow and were hunting
grubs, naturally arousing the rightful inhabitants to bitter resentment.
Shann faced the problem of his own breakfast. He had had the immunity
shots given to all members of the team, and he had eaten game brought in
by exploring parties and labeled "safe." But how long he could keep to
the varieties of native food he knew was uncertain. Sooner or later he
must experiment for himself. Already he drank the stream water without
the aid of purifiers, and so far there had been no ill results from that
necessary recklessness. Now the stream suggested fish. But instead he
chanced upon another water inhabitant which had crawled up on land for
some obscure purpose of its own. It was a sluggish scaled thing, an easy
victim to his club, with thin, weak legs it could project at will from a
finned and armor-plated body.
Shann offered the head and guts to Togi, who had abandoned the wasp
nest. She sniffed in careful investigation and then gulped. Shann built
a small fire and seared the firm greenish flesh. The taste was flat,
lacking salt, but the food eased his emptiness. Enheartened, he started
south, hoping to find water sometime during the morning.
By noon he had his optimism justified with the discovery of a spring,
and the wolverines had brought down a slender-legged animal whose coat
was close in shade to the dusky purple of the vegetation. Smaller than a
Terran deer, its head bore, not horns, but a ridge of stiffened hair
rising in a point some twelve inches about the skull dome. Shann haggled
off some ragged steaks while the wolverines feasted in earnest,
carefully burying the head afterward.
It was when Shann knelt by the spring pool to wash that he caught the
clamor of the clak-claks. He had seen or heard nothing of the flyers
since he had left the lake valley. But from the noise now rising in an
earsplitting volume, he thought there was a sizable colony near-by and
that the inhabitants were thoroughly aroused.
He crept on his hands and knees to near-by brush cover, heading toward
the source of that outburst. If the claks were announcing a Throg
scouting party, he wanted to know it.
Lying flat, with branches forming a screen over him, the Terran gazed
out on a stretch of grassland which sloped at a fairly steep angle to
the south and which must lead to a portion of countryside well below the
level he was now traversing.
The clak-claks were skimming back and forth, shrieking their staccato
war cries. Following the erratic dashes of their flight formation,
Shann decided that whatever they railed against was on the lower level,
out of his sight from that point. Should he simply withdraw, since the
disturbance was not near him? Prudence dictated that; yet still he
hesitated.
He had no desire to travel north, or to try and scale the mountains. No,
south was his best path, and he should be very sure that route was
closed before he retreated.
Since any additional fuss the clak-claks might make on sighting him
would be undistinguished in their now general clamor, the Terran crawled
on to where tall grass provided a screen at the top of the slope. There
he stopped short, his hands digging into the earth in sudden braking
action.
Below, the ground steamed from a rocket flare-back, grasses burned away
from the fins of a small scoutship. But even as Shann rose to one knee,
his shout of welcome choked in his throat. One of those fins sank,
canting the ship crookedly, preventing any new take-off. And over the
crown of a low hill to the west swung the ominous black plate of a Throg
flyer.
The Throg ship came up in a burst of speed, and Shann waited tensely for
some countermove from the scout. Those small speedy Terran ships were
prudently provided with weapons triply deadly in proportion to their
size. He was sure that the Terran ship could hold its own against the
Throg, even eliminate the enemy. But there was no fire from the slanting
pencil of the scout. The Throg circled warily, obviously expecting a
trap. Twice it darted back in the direction from which it had come. As
it returned from its second retreat, another of its kind showed, a black
coin dot against the amber of the sky.
Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any advantage and
perhaps all hope. The Throgs could box the other in, cut the downed ship
to pieces with their energy beams. He wanted to crawl away and not
witness this last disaster for his kind. But some stubborn core of will
kept him where he was.
The Throgs began to circle while beneath them the flock of clak-claks
screamed and dived at the slanting nose of the Terran ship. Then that
same slashing energy he had watched quarter the camp snapped from the
far plate across the stricken scout. The man who had piloted her, if not
dead already (which might account for the lack of defense), must have
fallen victim to that. But the Throg was going to make very sure. The
second flyer halted, remaining poised long enough to unleash a second
bolt--dazzling any watching eyes and broadcasting a vibration to make
Shann's skin crawl when the last faint ripple reached his lookout post.
What happened then the overconfident Throg was not prepared to take.
Shann cried out, burying his face on his arm, as pinwheels of scarlet
light blotted out normal sight. There was an explosion, a deafening
blast. He cowered, blind, unable to hear. Then, rubbing at his eyes, he
tried to see what had happened.
Through watery blurs he made out the Throg ship, not swinging now in
serene indifference to Warlock's gravity, but whirling end over end
across the sky as might a leaf tossed in a gust of wind. Its rim caught
against a rust-red cliff, it rebounded and crumpled. Then it came down,
smashing perhaps half a mile away from the smoking crater in which lay
the mangled wreckage of the Terran ship. The disabled scout pilot must
have played a last desperate game, making of his ship bait for a trap.
The Terran had taken one Throg with him. Shann rubbed again at his eyes,
just barely able to catch a glimpse of the second ship flashing away
westward. Perhaps it was only his impaired sight, but it appeared to him
that the Throg followed an erratic path, either as if the pilot feared
to be caught by a second shot, or because that ship had also suffered
some injury.
Acid smoke wreathed up from the valley making Shann retch and cough.
There could be no survivor from the Terran scout, and he did not believe
that any Throg had lived to crawl free of the crumpled plate. But there
would be other beetles swarming here soon. They would not dare to leave
the scene unsearched. He wondered about that scout. Had the pilot been
aiming for the Survey camp, the absence of any rider beam from there
warning him off so that he made the detour which brought him here? Or
had the Throgs tried to blast the Terran ship in the upper atmosphere,
crippling it, making this a forced landing? But at least this battle had
cost the Throgs, settling a small portion of the Terran debt for the
lost camp.
The length of time between Shann's sighting of the grounded ship and the
attack by the Throgs had been so short that he had not really developed
any strong hope of rescue to be destroyed by the end of the crippled
ship. On the other hand, seeing the Throgs take a beating had exploded
his subconscious acceptance of their superiority. He might not have even
the resources of a damaged scout at his command. But he did have Taggi,
Togi, and his own brain. Since he was fated to permanent exile on
Warlock, there might just be some way to make the beetles pay for that.
He licked his lips. Real action against the aliens would take a lot of
planning. Shann would have to know more about what made a Throg a Throg,
more than all the wild stories he had heard over the years. There _had_
to be some way a Terran could move effectively against a beetle-head.
And he had a lot of time, maybe the rest of his life to work out a few
answers. That Throg ship lying wrecked at the foot of the cliff ...
perhaps he could do a little investigating before any rescue squad
arrived. Shann decided such a move was worth the try and whistled to the
wolverines.