"That's so?" Hanson shook his head. "They ain't never come in a truck
before."
"Truck--must be a dozen of them at least." He eyed Hanson sharply.
"Run or fight?"
The old man scratched his toe in the dirt. "Ain't never yet run from a
fight."
Morgan turned silently and strode back in the house for the gun. Shera
ignored him. "Orenians coming," he grunted, and went back out to join
the oldster.
Morgan and Hanson trotted through the scrub spruce, heading for the
roadway. But they turned short and cut north through the edge of the
brush. Morgan caught a glimpse of the truck far ahead. Hanson's hounds
were snarling about the wheels and leaping up toward the bed. The road
was soft sand to their right. Ducking low, they darted ahead until it
appeared firm enough to admit the truck.
"We want them to get past us," he hissed to Hanson. "When they do, you
stand up and show yourself. When they start piling out, I'll start
shooting. Okay?"
"Yes, suh." He patted his pitchfork and grinned. They stopped and
crouched low in the brush.
"Please, suh--don't hit my dawgs."
"I'm counting on them to help."
The truck grumbled slowly past them. The hounds were snapping
furiously as they tried to leap over the tailgate. Morgan caught a
glimpse of white faces, staring fixedly at nothing. Then he nudged the
oldster.
Hanson stood up, shaking his pitchfork and shrieking hate at the
occupants. The truck moved on a few yards, then ground to a stop.
"_Come and join us_," thundered a collective voice. "_For we are Oren,
who is one._"
Morgan could see nothing through the screen of foliage. But the old
man was still howling invective.
"_From the stars comes Oren. To the stars he goes. Come and join us._"
"Come get me, you devils. I'll kill ya!"
"_Oren is millions. He cannot die. We come._"
Hanson's foot nudged Morgan's nervously. Still he lay under cover,
waiting for their advance. Feet shuffled on the bed of the truck. The
hounds were going wild. There was something weird about sounds of
Orenian movement. It was always coordinated--so many marionettes with
one set of controls. But they could shift from parallel coordination
to complementary, dovetailing each set of movements to achieve the
common purpose.
Morgan burst forth from the brush and fired at the tight group of
bodies near the back of the truck. They were packed in a circle to
protect the group from the slashing fangs of the dogs. Two of them
fell, without outcries. He fired three times before they broke apart.
There were still at least eight of them, but the dogs had two down.
"Oh, God! Children!" Morgan bellowed. "Call off the dogs!"
"Not _human_ children."
* * * * *
"Call them off!"
Hanson obeyed reluctantly. A pair of calm-eyed child-things scrambled
to their feet and began advancing with the group of adults. The
Orenians fanned out and began closing in like the fingers of a giant
fist. Morgan shot four of them before the circle closed to hatchet
range. He and Hanson stood back to back, slashing out at the ring of
fanged faces.
The attackers were weaponless. They cared nothing for individual
bodies. The collectivum swayed, writhed, darted in--and fell in blood.
The wounded crawled close to their ankles, barbs protruding from their
lips. They roared constantly, "_Oren is paradise. Come to Oren._"
A child, who had been rescued from one of the dogs, crawled among the
legs of the adults and lunged for Morgan's feet. He was forced to kick
it back with a hard heel.
Suddenly their ranks broke. There were only four of them left
standing. They backed away and stopped--three men and a middle-aged
woman. "_Oren will return._" They turned and marched toward the truck.
"We need the truck," panted Morgan.
Hanson flung his pitchfork and caught the last one in the center of
the back. The others moved on unheeding. Morgan sadly lifted the
shotgun.
When it was over, they went to look at the two child-things. One was
unconscious, but not badly wounded. The other had a broken arm. It
shot out its fang and circled. With a sick heart, Morgan lashed out
and caught it by the hair, before it could sting him.
"See if there's pliers in the truck," he muttered.
* * * * *
Hanson returned with them after a moment's rummaging. They jerked out
its fang and let it go. It walked calmly to the north, purpose
defeated. They did the same to the other.
"It's crazy," he was gasping. "Stark crazy. They spend over a dozen
Orenians just to get two of us. And they didn't want to kill us at
that."
"Lo'dy, suh! Who _is_ Oren? You know?"