_Beyond the Flame Barrier lay knowledge of
the Originals. Long it stretched from horizon
to horizon, a thin stream of living light; a
thin path of peril for Allyn the Numan._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Cautiously Allyn the Numan moved to the edge of the outcropping rocks,
black cloak swirling hip length about his lean seven foot figure. His
close cropped silver hair was bare so that he had to shade his silver
eyes against the shimmering waste ahead.
At his back, the jagged rocks rose and fused into wild hills. Before
him stretched the Graysand Desert, cruel with heat and treacherous
sands. And, shrill in the fiery air, came the squeals of the rat pack.
Giant carnivores, shaggy and foul-breathed, their wicked claws could
tear a man fleshless. Fetid poison lay in the bite from their sharp
yellow teeth, and those teeth were bared now in raging anticipation.
They were on the kill! Hunger in their voices and lust. And their gray
bodies, a pollution on the landscape, surged after a desperate prey.
What did they pursue? Allyn strained to see.
_An Olman!_
The sun blazed on the sweat of the mighty chest heaving with exertion.
Like all the males of that savage group he was naked, save for a
loincloth, and his bronzed corded arms swung in tempo with his pumping
feet. With each step, he left a bloody trail which spurred the rats to
further frenzy.
The blood loss told! He fell! But, even as he went down, he spun on
his back, teeth bared, and the burning wind carried his fierce yell of
defiance.
The rodents went mad with triumph. They leapt for the kill.
Without thinking Allyn brought his flame gun from its holster. Lances
of bright death seared the gray ranks. Squeals died. The rats swerved
from the fallen man, scattered. Retreat was a panic stampede. And soon
their shrilling faded in the distance.
The prone man twisted to hands and knees to face his rescuer. Hope was
bright in his eyes. But then he saw Allyn. Elation became horror.
"_Numan!_" It was a despairing cry. Then he fainted.
Allyn hastened across the gray sands. Hefting the unconscious man to
his shoulders he staggered toward the rocks. In a crevice, sheltered by
a natural ledge, he deposited his burden, and set about examining the
gashed thigh. The wound was more painful than serious, and he ripped a
strip from the lining of his cloak to bind it tight and stop the blood
flow. He had barely finished when the young savage stirred.
Allyn tensed, watchful, flame gun ready. He saw the dark eyes open,
not sleepy, but with full awareness, as with a wild beast. The well
conditioned muscles tightened.
"Don't move!" Allyn aimed the gun.
The prone man froze. He well knew the power of the weapon. The taut
muscles did not relax, but remained arrested, waiting for one unguarded
instant to spring at the other's throat.
"Don't be alarmed," the Numan reassured, "I won't hurt you."
No sign that the other heard. But in the rigid muscles, distrust was
plain.
"Try getting up--but slowly. You've lost a lot of blood."
The Olman rose with easy grace. As he did he noticed the dressing on
his leg, and wild hate flamed his face.
"Why didn't you let the rats finish me! It would have been cleaner than
death in your experimental camps."
"I didn't save you for the camps. You're free to return to your
kinsmen."
The youth stared. "I never heard of mercy from a Numan," he said
suspiciously. "A twenty-year-old like me would last a long time in the
hands of the vivisectionists of your people."
Pain furrowed Allyn's lean face. "They are no longer my people," he
whispered, "I'm an outcast."
His beautiful silver head drooped wearily. He had rebelled, flaunted
the law of the logicians, even done the supreme crime....
"I have struck a logician," he said, filled with the horror of his own
deed. "The Gyro-Gard are hunting me." Apprehensively the two glanced
skyward. But there was no dreaded black craft to be seen.