Five days later they came up from the south so that this time Shann's
view of the Terran camp was from a different angle. At first sight there
had been little change in the general scene. He wondered if the aliens
were using the Terran dome shelters themselves. Even in the twilight it
was easy to pick out such landmarks as the com dome with the shaft of a
broadcaster spearing from its top and the greater bulk of the supply
warehouse.
"Two of their small flyers down on the landing field...." Thorvald
materialized from the shadow, his voice a thread of whisper.
By Shann's side the wolverines were moving restlessly. Since Taggi's
attack on the Throg neither beast would venture near any site where they
could scent the aliens. This was the nearest point to which the men
could urge either animal, which was a disappointment, for the wolverines
would have been an excellent addition to the surprise sortie they
planned for tonight, halving the danger for the men.
Shann ran his fingers across the coarse fur on the animals' shoulders,
exerting a light pressure to signal them to wait. But he was not sure of
their obedience. The foray was a crazy idea, and Shann wondered again
why he had agreed to it. Yet he had gone along with Thorvald, even
suggested a few modifications and additions of his own, such as the
contents of the crude leaf sack now resting between his knees.
Thorvald flitted away, seeking his own post to the west. Shann was still
waiting for the other's signal when there arose from the camp a sound to
chill the flesh of any listener, a wail which could not have come from
the throat of any normal living thing, intelligent being or animal.
Ululating in ear-torturing intensity, the cry sank to a faint, ominous
echo of itself, to waver up the scale again.
The wolverines went mad. Shann had witnessed their quick kills in the
wilds, but this stark ferocity of spitting, howling rage was new. They
answered that challenge from the camp, streaking out from under his
hands. Yet both animals skidded to a stop before they passed the first
dome and were lost in the gloom. A spark glowed for an instant to his
right; Thorvald was ready to go, so Shann had no time to try and recall
the animals.
He fumbled for those balls of soaked moss in his leaf bag. The chemical
smell from them blotted out that alien mustiness which the wind brought
from the campsite. Shann readied the first sopping mess in his sling,
snapped his fire sparker at it, and had the ball awhirl for a toss
almost in one continuous movement. The moss burst into fire as it curved
out and fell.
To a witness it might have seemed that the missile materialized out of
the air, the effect being better than Shann had hoped.
A second ball for the sling--spark ... out ... down. The first had
smashed on the ground near the dome of the com station, the force of
impact flattening it into a round splatter of now fiercely burning
material. And his second, carefully aimed, lit two feet beyond.
Another wail tearing at the nerves. Shann made a third throw, a fourth.
He had an audience now. In the light of those pools of fire the Throgs
were scuttling back and forth, their hunched bodies casting weird
shadows on the dome walls. They were making efforts to douse the fires,
but Shann knew from careful experimentation that once ignited the stuff
he had skimmed from the lip of one of the hot springs would go on
burning as long as a fraction of its viscid substance remained
unconsumed.
Now Thorvald had gone into action. A Throg suddenly halted, struggled
frantically, and toppled over into the edge of a fire splotch, legs
looped together by the coils of the curious weapon Thorvald had put
together on their first night of partnership. Three round stones of
comparable weight had each been fastened at the end of a vine cord, and
those cords united at a center point. Thorvald had demonstrated the
effectiveness of his creation by bringing down one of the small "deer"
of the grasslands, an animal normally fleet enough to feel safe from
both human and animal pursuit. And those weighted ropes now trapped the
Throg with the same efficiency.
Having shot his last fireball, Shann ran swiftly to take up a new
position, downgrade and to the east of the domes. Here he put into
action another of the primitive weapons Thorvald had devised, a spear
hurled with a throwing stick, giving it double range and twice as
forceful penetration power. The spears themselves were hardly more than
crudely shaped lengths of wood, their points charred in the fire.
Perhaps these missiles could neither kill nor seriously wound. But more
than one thudded home in a satisfactory fashion against the curving back
carapace or the softer front parts of a Throg in a manner which
certainly shook up and bruised the target. And one of Shann's victims
went to the ground, to lie kicking in a way which suggested he had been
more than just bruised.
Fireballs, spears.... Thorvald had moved too. And now down into the
somewhat frantic melee of the aroused camp fell a shower of slim
weighted reeds, each provided with a clay-ball head. The majority of
those balls broke on landing as the Terrans had intended. So, through
the beetle smell of the aliens, spread the acrid, throat-parching fumes
of the hot spring water. Whether those fumes had the same effect upon
Throg breathing apparatus as they did upon Terran, the attackers could
not tell, but they hoped such a bombardment would add to the general
confusion.
Shann began to space the hurling of his crude spears with more care,
trying to place them with all the precision of aim he could muster.
There was a limit to their amount of varied ammunition, although they
had dedicated every waking moment of the past few days to manufacture
and testing. Luckily the enemy had had none of their energy beams at the
domes. And so far they had made no move to lift their flyers for
retaliation blasts.
But the Throgs were pulling themselves into order. Blaster fire cut the
dusk. Most of the aliens were now flat on the ground, sending a creeping
line of fire into the perimeter of the camp area. A dark form moved
between Shann and the nearest patch of burning moss. The Terran raised a
spear to the ready before he caught a whiff of the pungent scent emitted
by a wolverine hot with battle rage. He whistled coaxingly. With the
Throgs eager to blast any moving thing, the animals were in danger if
they prowled about the scene.
That blunt head moved. Shann caught the glint of eyes in a furred mask;
it was either Taggi or his mate. Then a puff of mixed Throng and
chemical scent from the camp must have reached the wolverine. The animal
coughed and fled westward, passing Shann.
Had Thorvald had time and opportunity to make his planned raid on the
supply dome? Time during such an embroilment was hard to measure, and
Shann could not be sure. He began to count aloud, slowly, as they had
agreed. When he reached one hundred he would begin his retreat; on two
hundred he was to run for it, his goal the river a half mile from the
camp.
The stream would take the fugitives to the sea where fiords cut the
coastline into a ragged fringe offering a wealth of hiding places.
Throgs seldom explored any territory on foot. For them to venture into
that maze would be putting themselves at the mercy of the Terrans they
hunted. And their flyers could comb the air above such a rocky
wilderness without result.
Shann reached the count of one hundred. Twice a blaster bolt singed
ground within distance close enough to make him wince, but most of the
fire carried well above his head. All of his spears were gone, save for
one he had kept, hoping for a last good target. One of the Throgs who
appeared to be directing the fire of the others was facing Shann's
position. And on pure chance that he might knock out that leader, Shann
chose him for his victim.
The Terran had no illusions concerning his own marksmanship. The most he
could hope for, he thought, was to have the primitive weapon thud home
painfully on the other's armored hide. Perhaps, if he were very lucky,
he could knock the other from his clawed feet. But that chance which
hovers over any battlefield turned in Shann's favor. At just the right
moment the Throg stretched his head up from the usual hunched position
where the carapace extended over his wide shoulders to protect one of
the alien's few vulnerable spots, the soft underside of his throat. And
the fire-sharpened point of the spear went deep.
Throgs were mute, or at least none of them had ever uttered a vocal
sound to be reported by Terrans. This one did not cry out. But he
staggered forward, forelimbs up, clawed digits pulling at the wooden pin
transfixing his throat just under the mandible-equipped jaw, holding his
head at an unnatural angle. Without seeming to notice the others of his
kind, the Throg came on at a shambling run, straight at Shann as if he
could actually see through the dark and had marked down the Terran for
personal vengeance. There was something so uncanny about that forward
dash that Shann retreated. As his hand groped for the knife at his belt
his boot heel caught in a tangle of weed and he struggled for balance.
The wounded Throg, still pulling at the spear shaft protruding above the
swelling barrel of his chest, pounded on.
Shann sprawled backward and was caught in the elastic embrace of a bush,
so he did not strike the ground. He fought the grip of prickly branches
and kicked to gain solid earth under his feet. Then again he heard that
piercing wail from the camp, as chilling as it had been the first time.
Spurred by that, he won free. But he could not turn his back on the
wounded Throg, keeping rather a sidewise retreat.
Already the alien had reached the dark beyond the rim of the camp. His
progress now was marked by the crashing through low brush. Two of the
Throgs back on the firing line started up after their leader. Shann
caught a whiff of their odor as the wounded alien advanced with the
single-mindedness of a robot.
It would be best to head for the river. Tall grass twisted about the
Terran's legs as he began to run. In spite of the gloom, he hesitated to
cross that open space. At night Warlock's peculiar vegetation displayed
a very alien attribute--ten ... twenty varieties of grass, plant, and
tree emitted a wan phosphorescence, varying in degree, but affording
each an aura of light. And the path before Shann now was dotted by
splotches of that radiance, not as brilliant as the chemical-born flames
the attackers had kindled in the camp, but as quick to betray the unwary
who passed within their dim circles. And there had never been any reason
to believe that Throg powers of sight were less than human; there was
perhaps some evidence to the contrary. Shann crouched, charting the
clumps ahead for a zigzag course which would take him to at least
momentary safety in the river bed.
Perhaps a mile downstream was the transport the Terrans had cobbled
together no earlier than this afternoon, a raft Thorvald had professed
to believe would support them to the sea which lay some fifty Terran
miles to the west. But now he had to cover that mile.
The wolverines? Thorvald? There was one lure which might draw the
animals on to the rendezvous. Taggi had brought down a "deer" just
before they had left the raft. And instead of allowing both beasts to
feast at leisure, Shann had lashed the carcass to the shaky platform of
wood and brush, putting it out to swing in the current, though still
moored to the bank.
Wolverines always cached that part of the kill which they did not
consume at the first eating, usually burying it. He had hoped that to
leave the carcass in such a way would draw both animals back to the raft
when they were hungry. And they had not fed particularly well that day.
Thorvald? Well, the Survey officer had made it very plain during the
past five days of what Shann had come to look upon as an uneasy
partnership that he considered himself far abler to manage in the field,
while he had grave doubts of Shann's efficiency in the direction of
survival potential.
The Terran started along the pattern of retreat he had laid out to the
river bed. His heart pounded as he ran, not because of the physical
effort he was expending, but because again from the camp had come that
blood-freezing howl. A lighter line marked the lip of the cut in which
the stream was set, something he had not foreseen. He threw himself down
to crawl the last few feet, hugging the earth.
That very pale luminescence was easily accounted for by what lay below.
Shann licked his lips and tasted the sting of sap smeared on his face
during his struggle with the bushes. While the strip of meadow behind
him now had been spotted with light plants, the cut below showed an
almost solid line of them stringing willow-wise along the water's edge.
To go down at this point was simply to spotlight his presence for any
Throg on his trail. He could only continue along the upper bank, hoping
to finally find an end to the growth of luminescent vegetation below.
Shann was perhaps five yards from the point where he had come to the
river, when a commotion behind made him freeze and turn his head
cautiously. The camp was half hidden, and the fires there must be dying.
But a twisting, struggling mass was rolling across the meadow in his
general direction.
Thorvald fighting off an attack? The wolverines? Shann drew his legs
under him, ready to erupt into a counter-offensive. He hesitated
between drawing stunner or knife. In his brush with the injured Throg at
the wreck the stunner had had little impression on the enemy. And now he
wondered if his blade, though it was super-steel at its toughest, could
pierce any joint in the armored bodies of the aliens.
There was surely a fight in progress. The whole crazily weaving blot
collapsed and rolled down upon three bright light plants. Dull sheen of
Throg casing was revealed ... no sign of fur, or flesh, or clothing. Two
of the aliens battling? But why?
One of those figures got up stiffly, bent over the huddle still on the
ground, and pulled at something. The wooden shaft of Shann's spear was
wanly visible. And the form on the ground did not stir as that was
jerked loose. The Throg leader dead? Shann hoped so. He slid his knife
back into the sheath, tapped the hilt to make sure it was firmly in
place, and crawled on. The river, twisting here and there, was a
promising pool of dusky shadow ahead. The bank of willow-things was
coming to an end, and none too soon. For when he glanced back again he
saw another Throg run across the meadow, and he watched them lift their
fellow, carrying him back to camp.
The Throgs might seem indestructible, but he had put an end to one,
aided by luck and a very rough weapon. With that to bolster his
self-confidence to a higher notch, Shann dropped by cautious degrees
over the bank and down to the water's edge. When his boots splashed into
the oily flood he began to tramp downstream, feeling the pull of the
water, first ankle high and then about his calves. This early in the
season they did hot have to fear floods, and hereabouts the stream was
wide and shallow, save in mid-current at the center point.
Twice more he had to skirt patches of light plants, and once a young
tree stood bathed in radiance with a pinkish tinge instead of the usual
ghostly gray. Within the haze which tented the drooping branches,
flitted small glittering, flying things; and the scent of its half-open
buds was heavy on the air, neither pleasant nor unpleasant in Shann's
nostrils, merely different.
He dared to whistle, a soft call he hoped would carry along the cut
between the high banks. But, though he paused and listened until it
seemed that every cell in his thin body was occupied in that act, he
heard no answering call from the wolverines, nor any suggestion that
either the animals or Thorvald were headed in the direction of the raft.
What was he going to do if none of the others joined him downstream?
Thorvald had said not to linger there past daylight. Yet Shann knew that
unless he actually sighted a Throg patrol splashing after him he would
wait until he made sure of the others' fate. Both Taggi and Togi were as
important to him as the Survey officer. Perhaps more so, he told himself
now, because he understood them to a certain degree and found
companionship in their undemanding company which he could not claim from
the man.
Why _did_ Thorvald insist upon their going on to the seashore? To
Shann's mind his own first plan of holing up back in the eastern
mountains was better. Those heights had as many hiding places as the
fiord country. But Thorvald had suddenly become so set on this westward
trek that he had given in. As much as he inwardly rebelled when he took
them, he found himself obeying the older man's orders. It was only when
he was alone, as now, that he began to question both Thorvald's motives
and his authority.
Three sprigs of a light bush set in a triangle. Shann paused and then
climbed out on the bank, shaking the water from his boots as Taggi might
shake such drops from a furred limb. This was the sign they had set to
mark their rendezvous point, but....
Shann whirled, drawing his stunner. The raft was a dark blob on the
surface of the water some feet farther on. And now it was bobbing up and
down violently. That was not the result of any normal tug of current. He
heard an indignant squeal and relaxed with a little laugh. He need not
have worried about the wolverines; that bait had drawn them all right.
Both of them were now engaged in eating, though they had to conduct
their feast on the rather shaky foundation of the makeshift transport.
They paid no attention as he waded out, pulling at the anchor cord as he
went. The wind must have carried his familiar scent to them. As the
water climbed to his shoulders Shann put one hand on the outmost log of
the raft. One of the animals snarled a warning at being disturbed. Or
had that been at him?
Shann stood where he was, listening intently. Yes, there was a splashing
sound from upstream. Whoever followed his own recent trail was taking no
care to keep that pursuit a secret, and the pace of the newcomer was
fast enough to spell trouble.
Throgs? Tensely the Terran waited for some reaction from the wolverines.
He was sure that if the aliens had followed him, both animals would give
warning. Save when they had gone wild upon hearing that strange wail
from the camp, they avoided meeting the enemy.
But from all sounds the animals had not stopped feeding. So the other
was no beetle-head. On the other hand, why would Thorvald so advertise
his coming, unless the need for speed was greater than caution? Shann
drew taut the mooring cord, bringing out his knife to saw through that
tough length. A figure passed the three-sprig signal, ran onto the raft.
"Lantee?" The call came in a hoarse, demanding whisper.
"Here."
"Cut loose. We have to get out of here!"
Thorvald flung himself forward, and together the men scrambled up on the
raft. The mangled carcass plunged into the water, dislodged by their
efforts. But before the wolverines could follow it, the mooring vine
snapped, and the river current took them. Feeling the raft sway and
begin to spin, the wolverines whined, crouched in the middle of what now
seemed a very frail craft.
Behind them, far away but too clear, sounded that eerie howling, topping
the sigh of the night wind.
"I saw----" Thorvald gasped, pausing as if to catch full lungfuls of air
to back his words, "they have a 'hound!' That's what you hear."