There were patches of light in the inner valley marking the
phosphorescent plants, some creeping at ground level, others tall as
saplings. On other nights Shann had welcomed that wan radiance, but now
he lay in as relaxed a position as possible, marking each of those
potential betrayers as he tried to counterfeit the attitude of sleep and
at the same time plan out his route.
He had purposely settled in a pool of shadow, the wolverines beside him.
And he thought that the bulk of the animal's bodies would cover his own
withdrawal when the time came to move. One arm lying limply across his
middle was in reality clutching to him an intricate arrangement of small
hide straps which he had made by sacrificing most of the remainder of
his painfully acquired thongs. The trap must be set in place soon!
Now that he had charted a path to the crucial point avoiding all light
plants, Shann was ready to move. The Terran pressed his hand on Taggi's
head in the one imperative command the wolverine was apt to obey--the
order to stay where he was.
Shann sat up and gave the same voiceless instruction to Togi. Then he
inched out of the hollow, a worm's progress to that narrow way along the
cliff top--the path which anyone or anything coming up from that sea
gate on the beach would have to pass in order to witness the shoreline
occupied by the half-built outrigger.
So much of his plan was based upon luck and guesses, but those were all
Shann had. And as he worked at the stretching of his snare, the Terran's
heart pounded, and he tensed at every sound out of the night. Having
tested all the anchoring of his net, he tugged at a last knot, and then
crouched to listen not only with his ears, but with all his strength of
mind and body.
Pound of waves, whistle of wind, the sleepy complaint of some bird.... A
regular splashing! One of the fish in the lagoon? Or what he awaited?
The Terran retreated as noiselessly as he had come, heading for the
hollow where he had bedded down.
He reached there breathless, his heart pumping, his mouth dry as if he
had been racing. Taggi stirred and thrust a nose inquiringly against
Shann's arm. But the wolverine made no sound, as if he, too, realized
that some menace lay beyond the rim of the valley. Would that other come
up the path Shann had trapped? Or had he been wrong? Was the enemy
already stalking him from the other beach? The grip of his stunner was
slippery in his damp hand; he hated this waiting.
The canoe ... his work on it had been a careless botching. Better to
have the job done right. Why, it was perfectly clear now how he had been
mistaken! His whole work plan was wrong; he could see the right way of
doing things laid out as clear as a blueprint in his mind. A picture in
his mind!
Shann stood up and both wolverines moved uneasily, though neither made a
sound. A picture in his mind! But this time he wasn't asleep; he wasn't
dreaming a dream--to be used for his own defeat. Only (that other could
not know this) the pressure which had planted the idea of new work to be
done in his mind--an idea one part of him accepted as fact--had not
taken warning from his move. He was supposed to be under control; the
Terran was sure of that. All right, so he would play that part. He must
if he would entice the trapper into his trap.
He holstered his stunner, walked out into the open, paying no heed now
to the patches of light through which he must pass on his way to the
path his own feet had already worn to the boat beach. As he went, Shann
tried to counterfeit what he believed would be the gait of a man under
compulsion.
Now he was on the rim fronting the downslope, fighting against his
desire to turn and see for himself if anything had climbed behind. The
canoe was all wrong, a bad job which he must make better at once so that
in the morning he would be free of this island prison.
The pressure of that other's will grew stronger. And the Terran read
into that the overconfidence which he believed would be part of the
enemy's character. The one who was sending him to destroy his own work
had no suspicion that the victim was not entirely malleable, ready to be
used as he himself would use a knife or a force ax. Shann strode
steadily downslope. With a small spurt of fear he knew that in a way
that unseen other was right; the pressure was taking over, even though
he was awake this time. The Terran tried to will his hand to his
stunner, but his fingers fell instead on the hilt of his knife. He drew
the blade as panic seethed in his head, chilling him from within. He had
underestimated the other's power....
And that panic flared into open fight, making him forget his careful
plans. Now he _must_ wrench free from this control. The knife was moving
to slash a hide lashing, directed by his hand, but not his will.
A soundless gasp, a flash of dismay rocked him, but neither was his gasp
nor his dismay. That pressure snapped off; he was free. But the other
wasn't! Knife still in fist, Shann turned and ran upslope, his torch in
his other hand. He could see a shape now writhing, fighting, outlined
against a light bush. And, fearing that the stranger might win free and
disappear, the Terran spotlighted the captive in the beam, reckless of
Throg or enemy reinforcements.
The other crouched, plainly startled by the sudden burst of light. Shann
stopped abruptly. He had not really built up any mental picture of what
he had expected to find in his snare, but this prisoner was as weirdly
alien to him as a Throg. The light on the torch was reflected off a
skin which glittered as if scaled, glittered with the brilliance of
jewels in bands and coils of color spreading from the throat down the
chest, spiraling about upper arms, around waist and thighs, as if the
stranger wore a treasure house of gems as part of a living body. Except
for those patterned loops, coils, and bands, the body had no clothing,
though a belt about the slender middle supported a pair of pouches and
some odd implements held in loops.
Roughly the figure was more humanoid than the Throgs. The upper limbs
were not too unlike Shann's arms, though the hands had four digits of
equal length instead of five. But the features were nonhuman, closer to
saurian in contour. It had large eyes, blazing yellow in the dazzle of
the flash, with vertical slits of green for pupils. A nose united with
the jaw to make a snout, and above the domed forehead a sharp V-point of
raised spiky growth extended back and down until behind the shoulder
blades it widened and expanded to resemble a pair of wings.
The captive no longer struggled, but sat quietly in the tangle of the
snare Shann had set, watching the Terran steadily as if there were no
difficulty in seeing through the brilliance of the beam to the man who
held it. And, oddly enough, Shann experienced no repulsion toward its
reptilian appearance as he had upon first sighting the beetle-Throg. On
impulse he put down his torch on a rock and walked into the light to
face squarely the thing out of the sea.
Still eying Shann, the captive raised one limb and gave an absent-minded
tug to the belt it wore. Shann, noting that gesture, was struck by a
wild surmise, leading him to study the prisoner more narrowly. Allowing
for the alien structure of bone, the nonhuman skin; this creature was
delicate, graceful, in its way beautiful, with a fragility of limb which
backed up his suspicions. Moved by no pressure from the other, but by
his own will and sense of fitness, Shann stooped to cut the control line
of his snare.
The captive continued to watch as Shann sheathed his blade and then
held out his hand. Yellow eyes, never blinking since his initial
appearance, regarded him, not with any trace of fear or dismay, but with
a calm measurement which was curiosity based upon a strong belief in its
own superiority. He did not know how he knew, but Shann was certain that
the creature out of the sea was still entirely confident, that it made
no fight because it did not conceive of any possible danger from him.
And again, oddly enough, he was not irritated by this unconscious
arrogance; rather he was intrigued and amused.
"Friends?" Shann used the basic galactic speech devised by Survey and
the Free Traders, semantics which depended upon the proper inflection of
voice and tone to project meaning when the words were foreign.
The other made no sound, and the Terran began to wonder if his captive
had any audible form of speech. He withdrew a step or two then pulled at
the snare, drawing the cords away from the creature's slender ankles.
Rolling the thongs into a ball, he tossed the crude net back over his
shoulder.
"Friends?" he repeated again, showing his empty hands, trying to give
that one word the proper inflection, hoping the other could read his
peaceful intent in his features if not by his speech.
In one lithe, flowing movement the alien arose. Fully erect, the
Warlockian had a frail appearance. Shann, for his breed, was not tall.
But the native was still smaller, not more than five feet, that stiff V
of head crest just topping Shann's shoulder. Whether any of those
fittings at its belt could be a weapon the Terran had no way of telling.
However, the other made no move to draw any of them.
Instead, one of the four-digit hands came up. Shann felt the feather
touch of strange finger tips on his chin, across his lips, up his cheek,
to at last press firmly on his forehead at a spot just between the
eyebrows. What followed was communication of a sort, not in words or in
any describable flow of thoughts. There was no feeling of enmity--at
least nothing strong enough to be called that. Curiosity, yes, and then
a growing doubt, not of the Terran himself, but of the other's
preconceived ideas concerning him. Shann was other than the native had
judged him, and the stranger was disturbed, that self-confidence a
little ruffled. And also Shann was right in his guess. He smiled, his
amusement growing--not aimed at his companion on this cliff top, but at
himself. For he was dealing with a woman, a very young woman, and
someone as fully feminine in her way as any human girl could be.
"Friends?" he asked for the third time.
But the other still exuded a wariness, a wariness mixed with surprise.
And the tenuous message which passed between them then astounded Shann.
To this Warlockian out of the night he was not following the proper
pattern of male behaviour at all; he should have been in awe of the
other merely because of her sex. A diffidence rather than an assumption
of equality should have colored his response, judged by her standards.
At first, he caught a flash of anger at this preposterous attitude of
his; then her curiosity won, but there was still no reply to his
question.
The finger tips no longer made contact between them. Stepping back, her
hands now reached for one of the pouches at her belt. Shann watched that
movement carefully. And because he did not trust her too far, he
whistled.
Her head came up. She might be dumb, but plainly she was not deaf. And
she gazed down into the hollow as the wolverines answered his summons
with growls. Her profile reminded Shann of something for an instant; but
it should have been golden-yellow instead of silver with two jeweled
patterns ringing the snout. Yes, that small plaque he had seen in the
cabin of one of the ship's officers. A very old Terran legend--"Dragon,"
the officer had named the creature. Only that one had possessed a
serpent's body, a lizard's legs and wings.
Shann gave a sudden start, aware his thoughts had made him careless, or
had she in some way led him into that bypath of memory for her own
purposes? Because now she held some object in the curve of her curled
fingers, regarding him with those unblinking yellow eyes. Eyes ...
eyes.... Shann dimly heard the alarm cry of the wolverines. He tried to
snap draw his stunner, but it was too late.
There was a haze about him hiding the rocks, the island valley with its
radiant plants, the night sky, the bright beam of the torch. Now he
moved through that haze as one walks through a dream approaching
nightmare, striding with an effort as if wading through a deterring
flood. Sound, sight--one after another those senses were taken from him.
Desperately Shann held to one thing, his own sense of identity. He was
Shann Lantee, Terran breed, out of Tyr, of the Survey Service. Some part
of him repeated those facts with vast urgency against an almost
overwhelming force which strove to defeat that awareness of self, making
him nothing but a tool--or a weapon--for another's use.
The Terran fought, soundlessly but fiercely, on a battleground which was
within him, knowing in a detached way that his body obeyed another's
commands.
"I am Shann--" he cried without audible speech. "I am myself. I have two
hands, two legs.... I think for myself! I am a _man_----"
And to that came an answer of sorts, a blow of will striking at his
resistance, a will which struggled to drown him before ebbing, leaving
behind it a faint suggestion of bewilderment, of a dawn of concern.
"I am a _man_!" he hurled that assertion as he might have thrust deep
with one of the crude spears he had used against the Throgs. For against
what he faced now his weapons were as crude as spears fronting blasters.
"I am Shann Lantee, Terran, man...." Those were facts; no haze could
sweep them from his mind or take away that heritage.
And again there was the lightening of the pressure, the slight recoil,
which could only be a prelude to another assault upon his last
stronghold. He clutched his three facts to him as a shield, groping for
others which might have afforded a weapon of rebuttal.
Dreams, these Warlockians dealt in and through dreams. And the opposite
of dreams are facts! His name, his breed, his sex--these were facts.
And Warlock itself was a fact. The earth under his boots was a fact. The
water which washed around the island was a fact. The air he breathed was
a fact. Flesh, blood, bones--facts, all of them. Now he was a struggling
identity imprisoned in a rebel body. But that body was real. He tried to
feel it. Blood pumped from his heart, his lungs filled and emptied; he
struggled to feel those processes.
With a terrifying shock, the envelope which had held him vanished. Shann
was choking, struggling in water. He flailed out with his arms, kicked
his legs. One hand grated painfully against stone. Hardly knowing what
he did, but fighting for his life, Shann caught at that rock and drew
his head out of water. Coughing and gasping, half drowned, he was weak
with the panic of his close brush with death.
For a long moment he could only cling to the rock which had saved him,
retching and dazed, as the water washed about his body, a current
tugging at his trailing legs. There was light of a sort here, patches of
green which glowed with the same subdued light as the bushes of the
outer world, for he was no longer under the night sky. A rock-roof was
but inches over his head; he must be in some cave or tunnel under the
surface of the sea. Again a gust of panic shook him as he felt trapped.
The water continued to pull at Shann, and in his weakened condition it
was a temptation to yield to that pull; the more he fought it the more
he was exhausted. At last the Terran turned on his back, trying to float
with the stream, sure he could no longer battle it.
Luckily those few inches of space above the surface of the water
continued, and he had air to breathe. But the fear of that ending, of
being swept under the surface, chewed at his nerves. And his bodily
danger burned away the last of the spell which had held him, brought him
into this place, wherever it might be.
Was it only his heightened imagination, or had the current grown
swifter? Shann tried to gauge the speed of his passage by the way the
patches of green light slipped by. Now he turned and began to swim
slowly, feeling as if his arms were leaden weights, his ribs a cage to
bind his aching lungs.
Another patch of light ... larger ... spreading across the roof over
head. Then, he was out! Out of the tunnel into a cavern so vast that its
arching roof was like a skydome far above his head. But here the patches
of light were brighter, and they were arranged in odd groups which had a
familiar look to them.
Only, better than freedom overhead, there was a shore not too distant.
Shann swam for that haven, summoning up the last rags of his strength,
knowing that if he could not reach it very soon he was finished. Somehow
he made it and lay gasping, his cheek resting on sand finer than any of
the outer world, his fingers digging into it for purchase to drag his
body on. But when he collapsed, his legs were still awash in water.
No footfall could be heard on that sand. But he knew that he was no
longer alone. He braced his hands and with painful effort levered up his
body. Somehow he made it to his knees, but he could not stand. Instead
he half tumbled back, so that he faced them from a sitting position.
_Them_--there were three of them--the dragon-headed ones with their
slender, jewel-set bodies glittering even in this subdued light, their
yellow eyes fastened on him with a remoteness which did not approach any
human emotion, save perhaps that of a cold and limited wonder. But
behind them came a fourth, one he knew by the patterns on her body.
Shann clasped his hands about his knees to still the trembling of his
body, and eyed them back with all the defiance he could muster. Nor did
he doubt that he had been brought here, his body as captive to their
will, as had been that of their spy or messenger in his crude snare on
the island.
"Well, you have me," he said hoarsely. "Now what?"
His words boomed weirdly out over the water, were echoed from the dim
outer reaches of the cavern. There was no answer. They merely stood
watching him. Shann stiffened, determined to hold to his defiance and
to that identity which he now knew was his weapon against the powers
they used.
The one who had somehow drawn him there moved at last, circling around
the other three with a suggestion of diffidence in her manner. Shann
jerked back his head as her hand stretched to touch his face. And then,
guessing that she sought her peculiar form of communication, he
submitted to her finger tips, though now his skin crawled under that
light but firm pressure and he shrank from the contract.
There were no sensations this time. To his amazement a concrete inquiry
shaped itself in his brain, as clear as if the question had been asked
aloud: "Who are you?"
"Shann...." he began vocally, and then turned words into thoughts.
"Shann Lantee, Terran, man." He made his answer the same which had kept
him from succumbing to their complete domination.
"Name--Shann Lantee, man--yes." The other accepted those, "Terran?" That
was a question.
Did these people have any notion of space travel? Could they understand
the concept of another world holding intelligent beings?
"I come from another world...." He tried to make a clean-cut picture in
his mind--a globe in space, a ship blasting free....
"Look!" The fingers still rested between his eyebrows, but with her
other hand the Warlockian was pointing up to the dome of the cavern.
Shann followed her order. He studied those patches of light which had
seemed so vaguely familiar at his first sighting, studying them closely
to know them for what they were. A star map! A map of the heavens as
they could be seen from the outer crust of Warlock.
"Yes, I come from the stars," he answered, booming with his voice.
The fingers dropped from his forehead; the scaled head swung around to
exchange glances, which were perhaps some unheard communication with
the other three. Then the hand was extended again.
"Come!"
Fingers fell from his head to his right wrist, closing there with
surprising strength; and some of that strength together with a new
energy flowed from them into him, so that he found and kept his feet as
the other drew him up.