Shann was thrust down into the operator's chair, his bound arms still
twisted behind him so that he had to lean forward to keep on the seat at
all. Then the Throg who had pushed him there, roughly forced a set of
com earphones and speech mike onto his head.
"Call ship!" clicked the alien officer.
So time must be running out. Now was the moment to bluff. Shann shook
his head, hoping that the gesture of negation was common to both their
species.
"I don't know the code," he said aloud.
The Throg's bulbous eyes gazed, at his moving lips. Then the translator
was held before the Terran's mouth. Shann repeated his words, heard them
reissue as a series of clicks, and waited. So much depended now on the
reaction of the beetle-head officer. Would he summarily apply pressure
to enforce his order, or would he realize that it was possible that all
Terrans did not know that code, and so he could not produce in a
captive's head any knowledge that had never been there--with or without
physical coercion?
Apparently the latter logic prevailed for the present. The Throg drew
the translator back to his mandibles.
"When ship call--you answer--make lip talk your words! Say bad sickness
here--need help. Code man dead--you talk in his place. I listen. You say
wrong, you die--you die a long time. Hurt bad all that time----"
Clear enough. So he had been able to buy a little time! But how soon
before the incoming ship would call? The Throgs seemed to expect it.
Shann licked his blistered lips. He was sure that the Throg officer
meant exactly what he said in that last grisly threat. Only, would
anyone--Throg or human--live very long in this camp if Shann got his
warning through? The transport would have been accompanied on the big
jump by a patrol cruiser, especially now with Throgs littering deep
space the way they were in this sector. Let Shann alert the ship, and
the cruiser would know; swift punitive action would be visited on the
camp. Throgs could begin to make their helpless prisoner regret his
rashness; then all of them would be blotted out together, prisoner and
captors alike, when the cruiser came in.
If that was his last chance, he'd play it that way. The Throgs would
kill him anyhow, he hadn't the least doubt of that. They kept no
long-term Terran prisoners and never had. And at least he could take
this nest of devil beetles along with him. Not that the thought did
anything to dampen the fear which made him weak and dizzy. Shann Lantee
might be tough enough to fight his way out of the Dumps, but to stand up
and defy Throgs face-to-face like a video hero was something else. He
knew that he could not do any spectacular act; if he could hold out to
the end without cracking he would be satisfied.
Two more Throgs entered the dome. They stalked to the far end of the
table which held the com equipment, and frequently pausing to consult a
Terran work tape set in a reader, they made adjustments to the spotter
beam broadcaster. They worked slowly but competently, testing each
circuit. Preparing to draw in the Terran transport, holding the large
ship until they had it helpless on the ground. The Terran began to
wonder how they proposed to take the ship over once they did have it on
planet.
Transports were armed for ground fighting. Although they rode in on a
beam broadcast from a camp, they were prepared for unpleasant surprises
on a planet's surface; such were certainly not unknown in the history of
Survey. Which meant that the Throgs had in turn some assault weapon they
believed superior, for they radiated confidence now. But could they
handle a patrol cruiser ready to fight?
The Throg technicians made a last check of the beam, reporting in clicks
to the officer. The alien gave an order to Shann's guard before
following them out. A loop of wire rope dropped over the Terran's head,
tightened about his chest, dragging him back against the chair until he
grunted with pain. Two more loops made him secure in a most
uncomfortable posture, and then he was left alone in the com dome.
An abortive struggle against the wire rope taught him the folly of such
an effort. He was in deep freeze as far as any bodily movement was
concerned. Shann closed his eyes, settled to that same concentration he
had labored to acquire on the Throg ship. If there was any chance of the
Wyvern communication working again, here and now was the time for it!
Again he built his mental picture of Thorvald, as detailed as he had
made it in the Throg ship. And with that to the forefront of his mind,
Shann strove to pick up the thread which could link them. Was the
distance between this camp and the seagirt city of the Wyverns too
great? Did the Throgs unconsciously dampen out that mental reaching as
the Wyverns had said they did when they had sent him to free the captive
in the skull?
Drops gathered in the unkempt tight curls on his head, trickled down to
sting on his tender skin. He was bathed in the moisture summoned by an
effort as prolonged and severe as if he labored physically under a hot
sun at the top speed of which his body was capable.