Restlessly, the djevodas lumbered through the grasslands--a large herd,
numbering over half a hundred.
A tension seemed to hang about the creatures. Great snout-heads lifted
as if sniffing the morning breeze, then lowered again, swinging to and
fro, watchful and surly.
"You see?" Bukal clipped. "They sense that today they are the hunted,
not the hunters."
Frowning, Craig nodded.
"Come now. The nearest of the places we seek is farther south."
Craig tilted his disc, following Bukal as the Baemae leader skimmed his
own saucer away, high above the ranges.
Below them, another herd appeared. Another.
Bukal shouted, "Observe, Craig Nesom! They move north--all of them!"
The Earthman stared. Bukal's words were true. The scene below was like
some vast migration--a sudden shift that turned the behemoths ever
northward towards the barrier that separated this free land from the
tyranny of the Kukzubas barons.
Too, these new herds were moving faster, hardly pausing to tusk up the
rich roots on which the monsters fed.
They crossed a river. Bukal drifted his disc in close to Craig's.
"Watch, now. From here on we may find ourobos."
Even as he spoke, a wild scream of rage, of terror, rose from a distant
group of the djevoda.
"Quick--!" Bukal raced ahead.
Craig followed, sweeping low behind him.
Then they were above the monstrous sextupeds--hovering, peering.
Craig glimpsed grey movement amidst the green-gold grass-clumps ... a
shimmering as of slime that crawled and eddied. He started to glide
lower.
"No--!" Bukal cried. "Stop, Craig! Don't chance it!"
There could be no mistaking the urgency of his tone. Discing higher,
Craig studied the ground below in careful detail.
Now it dawned on him that more than one grey splotch showed. Here lay
another; there, two more. Like water, they seemed to seep across the
land in slithering tendrils.
The djevodas were bunching now, crowding together. Their great feet
hammered at the earth. They tusked up clods in sudden furies.
Bukal hung close. "You see? They are surrounded." His voice was bitter.
It was true. Everywhere, grey patches hemmed in the djevoda.
While Craig watched, they linked and joined, eddying together ...
grew larger, larger, till they lay on the range like a sodden,
ever-spreading blanket.
The djevodas stomped and pawed. Rage echoed in their roaring
bellows ... rage, and something more, something close akin to panic.
The grey took on new thickness. As if feeding on the very air itself,
it piled in glistening layers.
* * * * *
Then, rippling in Boh's green glow, a tendril crept from the mass,
slithering through the grass towards the djevodas.
Slowly ... slowly....
It touched a great foot ... curled about the ankle.
Still unaware, the djevoda started to turn.
The slime swirled about the foot--clinging, holding.
The djevoda's bellow went shrill with terror. Aware of the danger now,
it lunged savagely.
The foot tore free.
But now panic was upon the giant sextuped. Roaring, it charged across
the clear space, straight into the mass of circling grey.
Its fellows followed.
Like a hideous grey wave, the slime swept in upon them--miring them,
surging high onto their lumbering bodies.
The djevodas screamed and slashed and struggled.
But it was as if they were wallowing in quicksand. Each lunge, each
tusk-slash, only brought the grey tide rolling higher. Splattering,
each grey patch grew as it touched its quarry. In bare seconds the
wave-thing engulfed the struggling giants.
The last scream died, swallowed up in the grey death of the ourobos.
Folds of slime rippled over final, paroxysmal spasms.
Shuddering, Craig whipped his disc into a tight, climbing spiral. The
breeze was suddenly chill upon him, and he retched till his quivering
stomach emptied.
Grim-faced, Bukal hovered beside him. "A pretty picture, is it not?"
Craig couldn't answer.
"So it goes everywhere across the grasslands. Like a tide, the ourobos
sweep over the south, pausing and gathering only long enough to kill,
then spreading out once more in ever-greater numbers...." His voice
trailed off.
"But--is there nothing--?"
"--Nothing that will stop them? No." Bukal's jaw jutted, hard and
angry. "No, Craig. Nothing. Our people learned that long ago, on
Xumar, the ourobos' home planet. Tanagree oil injections will render
man distasteful to them; otherwise even the barons' military stations
there would have had to be abandoned."
"Then--the oil--"
"They do not like it; that is all. It doesn't harm them."
"Oh."
"Already, our villages are emptying. By tomorrow the whole of the free
Baemae will be crowded close along the border. The day after--who
knows?"
Craig frowned. "Tumek thought he had an answer."
Bukal's face didn't change. "Tumek lies in his grave, and Vydys holds
his crystal." His bitterness ate like acid.
Craig had no words. Silently, he stared away, off across the rolling
southern grasslands.
Was there no solution anywhere to this monstrous scheme of Zenaor's?
Would other planets go down before it like the Baemae? And his own
life ... must he resign himself to defeat and death? Was that to be
his destiny, the end of his assignment here on Lysor?
Bleakly, he wondered.
Then, afar off, a moving speck appeared, racing through the sky. Craig
stiffened. "Bukal...."
The Baemae shaded his eyes. "A disc," he clipped, tight-lipped. "More
trouble...."
Together, Lysorian and Earthman lanced towards the approaching saucer.
Then it was close at hand, and Craig could hardly believe his eyes. For
a woman rode it--a slim, young girl with golden hair that rippled and
shimmered in the sunlight.
"Narla--!" he choked. "Narla!"
She swept close, then, and they grounded their discs on a knoll and she
was in his arms again, laughing and crying at once.
* * * * *
Pushing her back at last, Craig held her at arm's length, feasting his
eyes upon her. For today she was a different Narla. Her heavy Kukzubas
cape was gone, replaced by the scanty scarlet halter and paneled belt
of the free Baemae. A fire-gun hung at her hip, a jeweled ceremonial
dagger across her thigh, and she carried one of the long black whips
with which Bukal's men herded the djevoda.
Laughing, she pirouetted. "You see, Craig? This time I come as one of
you, not Zenaor's kidnapped daughter."
Craig nodded. "Yes, I see. But--what of your father? How did you get
here?"
A shadow crossed the lovely face. But the girl's grey eyes stayed
clear, her voice steady. "Once, Craig Nesom, I told you that I
was--would ever be--your woman. That is what brought me here; that
only. My father took me from Vydys, yes, trading tanagree oil for my
life. But he could not hold me. Not when you stood here, fighting with
the Baemae. I fled from the Central Tower to an old friend among the
Baemae. She gave me this garb and saucer, and told me where to find
you. So, now"--she shrugged smooth shoulders--"I am here, to stand
beside you."
Wordless, unable to speak, Craig again embraced her.
Only then Bukal was talking, breaking in upon them. "The ourobos come
closer," he clipped. "There's no time to waste. My people need me."
Spinning their discs, the three took to the air and ranged north till
they reached the river and the village.
The village. Tension crawled through it now, lined on every face,
reflected in every movement. Men, women, children--they crowded round
as the trio stepped from their discs.
Bukal searched the frightened faces. "What is it?"
"New nests of ourobos!" a man burst out; and another croaked,
"Already, the djevodas are in flight. By tonight--"
He broke off. There was no need to say more.
"Then ... we have no choice." Bukal shrugged, bronzed shoulders heavy.
"We must join the others along the barrier."
"Must we?" This from a woman. "Must we, Bukal--when we hold Zenaor's
daughter as our prisoner?"
Taut silence echoed, sudden as summer thunder.
Frowning, Bukal looked down at the speaker. "What nonsense--?" he began.
But a man shoved forward and cut in upon him: "No nonsense, Bukal!" he
flashed fiercely. "All morning, the amplifiers have been blaring across
the barrier. Zenaor says he'll leave us free, safe from the ourobos, in
trade for this wench and her alien lover!"
More echoing silence. More vibrant tension.
Then Bukal snapped, "Enough of this drivel! Zenaor's daughter or not,
this girl's cast her lot with us. As for Craig Nesom--"
From one side, a rawboned, ape-like discman smashed a blow to the back
of Bukal's head. The leader spilled to the ground.
Like wolves, the crowd surged forward.
Craig drove a fist into the face of the man who'd struck Bukal; lashed
a kick to the groin of another, beside him.
Then green fire blazed, a blast that seared between him and the Baemae.
The crowd stopped short; fell back.
Fire-gun in hand, bronzed body glistening, Bukal lurched to his feet.
Blood dripped from his earlobe. "You scum, would you buy your lives
with treason?"
No one moved. No one spoke.
"Craig...."
The Earthman shifted to his friend's side in one quick movement. "Yes,
Bukal."
The Baemae chief's eyes stayed on the crowd, his finger tight on the
fire-gun's trigger. Face a bleak, expressionless mask, he said, "I
see that I can no longer control my people. But at least you need not
suffer for it. Take Narla and go!"
Wordless, Craig nodded. The girl beside him, he backed to the nearest
discs.
* * * * *
The Baemae fell back before him. He could feel their eyes on his back
as he spun the saucers. Their hate surged over him like the magnetic
waves on which the discs lifted.
Into the air again, rising ... passing over palisades and circling
hills, racing away northwest towards the barons' barrier.
Where could they go? What would they do?
Bleakly, Craig mulled dark thoughts. He was glad that she kept her own
counsel, till he saw her brush at her eyes and knew she was crying.
Yet what solace could anyone offer her in this nightmare?
Now other villages passed below them. Grey folds ringed one, glistening
in Yoh's white light as they closed in upon it.
Craig closed his ears to the screams of the doomed and sent his disc
hurtling faster.
Then the black line of the barrier loomed ahead. The blare of
amplifiers rose faintly.
Craig turned. "Hover here awhile, while I reconnoiter."
Mutely, Narla nodded. He sped away.
More villages, more djevoda, more grey patches. The amplifiers,
bellowing: "Bring in my daughter, Baemae! Bring in my daughter and the
alien!"
No refuge.
Craig circled back.
Only now, two discs swayed where one had hung before. And one was
sweeping down on the other.
On Narla.
Craig whipped his own saucer higher, and then higher.
A man in high-fronted metal helmet rode the second disc, the one that
was gliding down towards the girl. While Craig watched, he swung out
his long black djevoda whip ... tilted his disc till it plummeted like
a speeding arrow.
Craig raced towards them.
Now Narla, too, saw the stranger. She tried to tilt her saucer.
But the man in the helmet pancaked his disc down, level ... swung the
whip. The lash curled round Narla's wrist.
She jerked back in a panic. Tottered.
Then her disc tilted and she was sliding--falling--
Craig careened his own carrier down.
The stranger's head came round. He clawed for the fire-gun in his
belt-holster.
Craig shifted sharply. His disc's edge dropped. Before Narla's attacker
could twist or duck, the edge hit him.
He bounced backward, out into empty air, flailing wildly. The handle of
his whip sang by Craig's head.
With a desperate lunge, the Earthman caught it ... clung to it while
Narla swung in a wide arc beneath him.
The stranger's scream died in the thud of his body striking.
Sweat-drenched, gasping, Craig maneuvered his own disc down till
Narla's feet were on the ground once more. Another moment, and he was
stumbling to her, hugging her shaking body to his. "My darling ... my
darling...."
How long did they stand so? An hour? A minute?
Only then, at last, they were no longer shaking. Once more, Craig could
taste her lips and smell her fragrance and feel the softness of her
hair as it rippled like ripe rangeland grasses.
But with that consciousness came other things--a far-off scream ... a
panic-straut knot of djevoda, fleeing ... the faint, rank distant scent
of the ourobos.
Away, beyond the barrier, the amplifier bellowed, "Give up my daughter,
Baemae! Give up my daughter and the alien!"
* * * * *
Narla's cheek was soft against Craig's ... softer than any satin. He
kissed her eyes ... tasted the salt of the tears that welled from them.
His Narla, crying.
Again the amplifier roared its message: "Give up my daughter, Baemae!
That is the price of life! Give up my daughter and the alien!"
Bleakly, Craig turned and looked back across the grasslands.
No longer were they a serfman's refuge. Not now. Not with the ourobos'
slime upon them.
A flurry of movement caught his eye. Faintly, he heard djevoda bellow
panic.
The panic that came with the ourobos. The same kind that turned free
Baemae into wolves, hunting down his Narla.
"If you do not give them up, I'll know my daughter's dead and you will
die with her!" the amplifier shrieked. "Give her up, Baemae! Give her
up and live! Why should you care what happens to the alien, Nesom?"
Why indeed?
Tight-lipped, Craig pivoted.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, or in his eyes. Narla clung
to him--grey eyes tear-filled, lips aquiver. "No, Craig! No!"
He held her to him for a moment.
Hoarse shouts. Djevoda screaming. Rippling eddies, grey and obscene,
amid the green-gold of the grasslands.
"Give them up, Baemae! Give them up or die!"
Craig said, "It doesn't matter, Narla. Not really. I've fought and I've
lost, and a man has to play the cards fate deals him. But there's no
reason for the others, the Baemae, to die with me. Not if there's even
the slimmest chance for them to live if I surrender. As for you, your
father wants you back, that's all. He'll never harm you."
She was still sobbing as he lifted her onto the saucer....