"That mob's only about five kilometers out, Stet. We've got Orne's gear
outside in the disguised air sled."
"We'll be right down."
"Why a disguised sled?" asked Orne.
"If they think it's a ground buggy, they might get careless when you
most need an advantage. We could always scoop you out of the air, you
know."
"What're my chances on this one, Stet?"
Stetson shrugged. "I'm afraid they're slim. These goons probably have
the _Delphinus_, and they want you just long enough to get your
equipment and everything you know."
"Rough as that, eh?"
"According to our best guess. If you're not out in five days, we blast."
Orne cleared his throat.
"Want out?" asked Stetson.
"No."
"Use the _back-door_ rule, son. Always leave yourself a way out. Now ...
let's check that equipment the surgeons put in your neck." Stetson put a
hand to his throat. His mouth remained closed, but there was a
surf-hissing voice in Orne's ears: "You read me?"
"Sure. I can--"
"No!" hissed the voice. "Touch the mike contact. Keep your mouth closed.
Just use your speaking muscles without speaking."
Orne obeyed.
"O.K.," said Stetson. "You come in loud and clear."
"I ought to. I'm right on top of you!"
"There'll be a relay ship over you all the time," said Stetson. "Now ...
when you're not touching that mike contact this rig'll still feed us
what you say ... and everything that goes on around you, too. We'll
monitor everything. Got that?"
"Yes."
Stetson held out his right hand. "Good luck. I meant that about diving
in for you. Just say the word."
"I know the word, too," said Orne. "HELP!"
* * * * *
Gray mud floor and gloomy aisles between monstrous bluish tree
trunks--that was the jungle. Only the barest weak glimmering of sunlight
penetrated to the mud. The disguised sled--its para-grav units turned
off--lurched and skidded around buttress roots. Its headlights swung in
wild arcs across the trunks and down to the mud. Aerial creepers--great
looping vines of them--swung down from the towering forest ceiling. A
steady drip of condensation spattered the windshield, forcing Orne to
use the wipers.
In the bucket seat of the sled's cab, Orne fought the controls. He was
plagued by the vague slow-motion-floating sensation that a heavy planet
native always feels in lighter gravity. It gave him an unhappy stomach.
Things skipped through the air around the lurching vehicle: flitting and
darting things. Insects came in twin cones, siphoned toward the
headlights. There was an endless chittering whistling tok-tok-toking in
the gloom beyond the lights.
Stetson's voice hissed suddenly through the surgically implanted
speaker: "How's it look?"
"Alien."
"Any sign of that mob?"
"Negative."
"O.K. We're taking off."
Behind Orne, there came a deep rumbling roar that receded as the scout
cruiser climbed its jets. All other sounds hung suspended in
after-silence, then resumed: the strongest first and then the weakest.
A heavy object suddenly arced through the headlights, swinging on a
vine. It disappeared behind a tree. Another. Another. Ghostly shadows
with vine pendulums on both sides. Something banged down heavily onto
the hood of the sled.
[Illustration]
Orne braked to a creaking stop that shifted the load behind him, found
himself staring through the windshield at a native of Gienah III. The
native crouched on the hood, a Mark XX exploding-pellet rifle in his
right hand directed at Orne's head. In the abrupt shock of meeting, Orne
recognized the weapon: standard issue to the marine guards on all R&R
survey ships.
The native appeared the twin of the one Orne had seen on the translite
screen. The four-fingered hand looked extremely capable around the stock
of the Mark XX.
Slowly, Orne put a hand to his throat, pressed the contact button. He
moved his speaking muscles: _"Just made contact with the mob. One on the
hood now has one of our Mark XX rifles aimed at my head."_
The surf-hissing of Stetson's voice came through the hidden speaker:
_"Want us to come back?"_
_"Negative. Stand by. He looks cautious rather than hostile."_
Orne held up his right hand, palm out. He had a second thought: held up
his left hand, too. Universal symbol of peaceful intentions: empty
hands. The gun muzzle lowered slightly. Orne called into his mind the
language that had been hypnoforced into him. _Ocheero? No. That means
'The People.' Ah ..._ And he had the heavy fricative greeting sound.
"Ffroiragrazzi," he said.
The native shifted to the left, answered in pure, unaccented High
Galactese: "Who are you?"
Orne fought down a sudden panic. The lipless mouth had looked so odd
forming the familiar words.