Jil-Lee's lips shaped a smile. "They will see that she comes upon both
as if by chance. We have planned all of this, as you know, younger
brother."
That was true. Travis knew that Kaydessa would be guided without her
knowledge by the "accidental" appearance now and then of some
pursuer--just enough to push her along.
"Then, too, she is now armed," Jil-Lee added.
"How?" demanded Travis.
"Look to your own belt, younger brother. Where is your knife?"
Startled, Travis glanced down. His sheath was empty, and he had not
needed that blade since he had drawn it to cut meat at the morning meal.
Lupe laughed.
"She had steel in her hand when she came out of that ghost ship."
"Took it from me while we struggled!" Travis was openly surprised. He
had considered the frenzy displayed by the Tatar girl as an outburst of
almost mindless terror. Yet Kaydessa had had wit enough to take his
knife! Could this be another case where one race was less affected by a
mind machine than the other? Just as the Apaches had not been governed
by the Red caller, so the Tatars might not be as sensitive to the Redax.
"She is a strong one, that woman--one worth many ponies." Eskelta
reverted to the old measure of a wife's value.
"That is true!" Travis agreed emphatically and then was annoyed at the
broadening of Jil-Lee's smile. Abruptly he changed the subject.
"Manulito is setting the booby trap in the ship."
"That is well. He and Eskelta will remain here, and you with them."
"Not so! We must go to the towers----" Travis protested.
"I thought," Jil-Lee cut in, "that you believed the weapons of the old
ones too dangerous for us to use."
"Maybe they will be forced into our hands. But we must be sure the
towers are not entered by the Reds on their way here."
"That is reasonable. But for you, younger brother, no trailing today,
perhaps not tomorrow. If that wound opens again, you might have much bad
trouble."
Travis was forced to accept that, in spite of his worry and impatience.
And the next day when he did move on he had only the report that
Kaydessa had sheltered beside a pool for the night and was doggedly
moving back across the mountains.
Three days later Travis, Jil-Lee, and Buck came into the tower valley.
Kaydessa was in the northern foothills, twice turned back from the west
and the freedom of the outlaws by the Apache scouts. And only half an
hour before, Tsoay had reported by mirror what should have been welcome
news: the Red helicopter was cruising as it had on the day they watched
the hunters enter the uplands. There was an excellent chance of the
fugitive's being sighted and picked up soon.
Tsoay had also spotted a party of three Tatars watching the helicopter.
But after one wide sweep of the flyer they had taken to their ponies and
ridden away at the fastest pace their mounts could manage in this rough
territory.
On a stretch of smooth earth Buck scratched a trail, and they studied
it. The Reds would have to follow this route to seek the wrecked ship--a
route covered by Apache sentinels. And following the chain of
communication the result of the trap would be reported to the party at
the towers.
The waiting was the most difficult; too many imponderables did not allow
for unemotional thinking. Travis was down to the last shred of patience
when word came on the second morning at the hidden valley that Kaydessa
had been picked up by a Red patrol--drawn out to meet them by the
caller.
"Now--the tower weapons!" Buck answered the report with an imperative
order to Travis. And the other knew he could no longer postpone the
inevitable. And only by action could he blot out the haunting mental
picture of Kaydessa once more drawn into the bondage she so hated.
Flanked by Jil-Lee and Buck, he climbed back through the tower window
and faced the glowing pillar.
He crossed the room, put out both hands to the sleek pole, uncertain if
the weird transport would work again. He heard the sharp gasp from the
others as his body was sucked against the pillar and carried downward
through the well. Buck followed him, and Jil-Lee came last. Then Travis
led the way along the underground corridor to the room with the table
and the reader.
He sat down on the bench, fumbled with the pile of tape disks, knowing
that the other two were watching him with almost hostile intentness. He
snapped a disk into the reader, hoping he could correctly interpret the
directions it gave.
He looked up at the wall before him. Three ... four steps, the correct
move--and then an unlocking....
"You know?" Buck demanded.
"I can guess----"
"Well?" Jil-Lee moved to the table. "What do we do?"
"This--" Travis came from behind the table, walked to the wall. He put
out both hands, flattened his palms against the green-blue-purple
surface and slid them slowly along. Under his touch, the material of the
wall was cool and hard, unlike the live feel the pillar had. Cool
until--
One palm, held at arm's length had found the right spot. He slid the
other hand along in the opposite direction until his arms were level
with his shoulders. His fingers were able now to press on those points
of warmth. Travis tensed and pushed hard with all ten fingers.
16
At first, as one second and then two passed and there was no response to
the pressure, Travis thought he had mistaken the reading of the tape.
Then, directly before his eyes, a dark line cut vertically down the
wall. He applied more pressure until his fingers were half numb with
effort. The line widened slowly. Finally he faced a slit some eight feet
in height, a little more than two in width, and there the opening
remained.
Light beyond, a cold, gray gleam--like that of a cloudy winter day on
Terra--and with it the chill of air out of some arctic wasteland.
Favoring his still bandaged side, Travis scraped through the door ahead
of the others, and came into the place of gray cold.
"Wauggh!" Travis heard that exclamation from Jil-Lee, could have echoed
it himself except that he was too astounded by what he had seen to say
anything at all.
The light came from a grid of bars set far above their heads into the
native rock which roofed this storehouse, for storehouse it was. There
were orderly lines of boxes, some large enough to contain a tank, others
no bigger than a man's fist. Symbols in the same blue-green-purple
lights of the outer wall shone from their sides.
"What--?" Buck began one question and then changed it to another: "Where
do we begin to look?"
"Toward the far end." Travis started down the center aisle between rows
of the massed spoils of another time and world--or worlds. The same tape
which had given him the clue to the unlocking of the door, emphasized
the importance of something stored at the far end, an object or objects
which must be used first. He had wondered about that tape. A sensation
of urgency, almost of despair, had come through the gabble of alien
words, the quick sequence of diagrams and pictures. The message might
have been taped under a threat of some great peril.
There was no dust on the rows of boxes or on the floor underfoot. A
current of cold, fresh air blew at intervals down the length of the huge
chamber. They could not see the next aisle across the barriers of stored
goods, but the only noise was a whisper and the faint sounds of their
own feet. They came out into an open space backed by the wall, and
Travis saw what had been so important.
"No!" His protest was involuntary, but his denial loud enough to echo.
Six--six of them--tall, narrow cases set upright against the wall; and
from their depths, five pairs of dark eyes staring back at him in cold
measurement. These were the men of the ships--the men Menlik had dreamed
of--their bald white heads, their thin bodies with the skintight
covering of the familiar blue-green-purple. Five of them were here,
alive--watching ... waiting....
Five men--and six boxes. That small fact broke the spell in which those
eyes held Travis. He looked again at the sixth box to his right.
Expecting to meet another pair of eyes this time, he was disconcerted to
face only emptiness. Then, as his gaze traveled downward, he saw what
lay on the floor there--a skull, a tangle of bones, tattered material
cobwebbed into dusty rags by time. Whatever had preserved five of the
star men intact, had failed the sixth of their company.
"They are alive!" Jil-Lee whispered.
"I do not think so," Buck answered. Travis took another step, reached
out to touch the transparent front of the nearest coffin case. There was
no change in the eyes of the alien who stood within, no indication that
if the Apaches could see him, he would be able to return their interest.
The five stares which had bemused the visitors at first, did not break
to follow their movements.
But Travis knew! Whether it was some message on the tape which the sight
of the sleepers made clear, or whether some residue of the driving
purpose which had set them there now reached his mind, was immaterial.
He knew the purpose of this room and its contents, why it had been made
and the reason its six guardians had been left as prisoners--and what
they wanted from anyone coming after them.
"They sleep," he said softly.
"Sleep?" Buck caught him up.
"They sleep in something like deep freeze."
"Do you mean they can be brought to life again!" Jil-Lee cried.
"Maybe not now--it must be too long--but they were meant to wait out a
period and be restored."
"How do you know that?" Buck asked.
"I don't know for certain, but I think I understand a little. Something
happened a long time ago. Maybe it was a war, a war between whole star
systems, bigger and worse than anything we can imagine. I think this
planet was an outpost, and when the supply ships didn't come any more,
when they knew they might be cut off for some length of time, they
closed down. Stacked their supplies and machines here and then went to
sleep to wait for their rescuers...."
"For rescuers who never came," Jil-Lee said softly. "And there is a
chance they could be revived even now?"