Waiting for Kit on the flight deck were several unsavory looking characters clumped together in a disorderly knot. Over their massive shoulders were slung tawny thurk skins, and partially covering the stubble on their scowling, unshaven faces hung the false green beards that were the traditional battle wear of Polarian fighting men. As Kit started down the ladder that led from the exit hatch of the Pelican, they began to howl up at him. They carried a miscellaneous assortment of blunt objects in their hands and seemed intent on making as immediate and forceful a presentation of them as possible. Kit scurried back through his memory trying to pick up something in the way of a guide to survival. There had been a training film on What To Do If Captured, but the only thing he could remember from it was that it was highly important that one reveal nothing more to the enemy than his name, rank, and serial number. Unfortunately, the menacing crowd down below seemed more interested in collecting blood than information.
He was tempted to reverse his direction but a moment’s reflection convinced him that forcing them to cut their way into the Pelican to get him wouldn’t improve their tempers. Somewhat white-faced, he continued on down to the deck, raising both hands above his head in token of surrender.
The green-bearded warriors closed around him in a muttering semi-circle. Kit licked his lips nervously and fumbled behind his back for the first rung of the ladder. He tensed, ready for a quick pivot and a fast scramble, when a massive officer pushed his way through the ranks and came to a stop in front of him.
The bright green ringlets of the ceremonial beard that draped the lower half of his face only half concealed the three days’ growth of stubble underneath. His tunic was smudged with food stains and his bloodshot eyes had a mean and crazy look in them as they eyed Kit with the intentness of a hound dog surveying a chunk of raw meat. Kit felt an immediate and pressing need to talk things over. He wracked his brain in an effort to salvage something of the two weeks course in Extra-Terrestrial, the lingua franca of the spacer ways, he’d had at OCS, but all he could remember was pigna sna krutvik,—‘have you lost your toothbrush.’ Considering the condition of the other’s teeth, it hardly seemed like a politic question.
With a scowl, the officer gestured to the blaster that hung at Kit’s side and barked, “Therka!” Kit meekly unbuckled it and handed it over, butt first as the regulations provided. The other gripped the heavy weapon and with an ugly chuckle raised it up until it was aligned with a point roughly one inch above Kit’s snubbed nose. The landing area grew suddenly silent as one grimy finger began to crook down on the firing stud. The officer’s eyes narrowed as he slowly began to count. “Urp!… Det! … Twik!”
Kit’s lesson in Polarian numerals was suddenly interrupted by the dissonant clang of a gong. Then it sounded again, and from the other side of the hangar deck came a procession of white robed figures. Their leader was a slight elderly man but the wand he bore impressively before him had an unpleasant resemblance to a human thigh bone. He stopped a short distance from Kit and addressed the warriors briefly. They responded with short snarls of protest and then reluctantly began to struggle away from the landing area. Only the officer remained.
“I am the Soother of Souls. The position is somewhat equivalent to that of chief chaplain in your forces. It’s a bit messier, though. When we sacrifice a captive, I have to examine his entrails to see whether Thweela is kindly disposed toward our venture.”
Kit gulped and changed the subject in a hurry.
“What’s behind all this? One minute I’m cruising along minding my own business, and the next I’m the prisoner of a bunch of loonies whose only interest in life seems to be finding newer and more interesting ways to beat my brains out. What gives?”
“You’re an Earthman,” said the Soother of Souls, as if that explained everything.
“So what?”
“Earth always takes! She masses her fleets off a little system, points her guns, and takes. I think maybe Polarius will change things. She’s got big ships—big guns too. Thweela will drink much blood soon!”
“Why pick on me?” protested Kit. “I’m not mad at anybody. All that I want to do is get home before my business goes bankrupt. What have you got to gain by taking me prisoner?”
“You’ll find out,” said the Soother of Souls cryptically and then turned as the officer beside him tugged at his sleeve, gestured toward Kit, and growled something.
“What does he want?” asked Kit nervously.
“Captain Klag says he’s leaving now. He says he’ll see you at dinner.”
“Tell him I’m not hungry.”
“That’s irrelevant. You are the dinner. The ritual banquet is an old Polarian custom. By eating the enemy we rob him of his power. A long time ago we used to use a spit and roast him over a fire. Now we use diathermy so as not to spoil so much meat.”
As Kit’s face went white, Captain Klag gave a satisfied smile and swaggered away. The high priest barked a quick command and suddenly the hangar deck became a hive of activity as his followers tossed their robes to one side and went efficiently to work.
A cart was trundled up carrying what Kit recognized as some sort of remote control rig. Four of the priests grabbed it and quickly muscled it up the ladder and into the hatch of the Pelican. They remained inside for several minutes, and then one stuck his head out and nodded to the high priest. A moment later all four came out of the ship and closed the hatch behind them.
While the first crew was working inside the Pelican, another had trundled out a space torpedo and was busy arming its atomic warhead and adjusting its homing controls. They set it carefully on the guide rails that lead to the exit hatch and then, after a careful check, waved a go-ahead signal to the high priest. He called a quick order. Robes were reassumed, the procession reformed, and, with a bang of the ceremonial gong, double-timed toward the entrance port that led to the interior of the ship. Kit brought up the rear, assisted by two husky priests.
As the hatch banged shut behind them, Kit stole a glance back through the transparent port. The Pelican rose slowly from the deck and with a short spurt from her rear jets vanished through the exit hatch into the blackness of outer space. A moment later the homing torp vibrated slightly and began to move slowly in pursuit.
* * * *
It was pitch dark in the cell block. Kit slumped on the iron ledge that served him for a bunk and tried to estimate how long it had been since they had brought him down from the flight deck and locked him up. On the way down there had been the muffled thunder of drive tubes and then just as they clanged the grilled door shut on him, the familiar wrenching as the cruiser’ twisted into hyperspace.
His stomach was his clock and for obvious reasons he tried to avoid thinking about any part of the eating process. Being a prisoner of war under normal circumstances was bad enough, but to be the pièce de résistance at a ritual banquet was a course of another color. What he had to do was obvious; it was the how that was putting pinwheels in his brain. There were scout ships on the landing stage, but to get to them he would first have to get out of the cell. And then, even if he could slip down to the flight deck undetected, there was still the problem of getting the launching port open so he could blast out.
The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to get out, and he had to get out fast.
Suddenly a dim light blinked on overhead and he heard the sound of a hatch opening at the other end of the cell block. There was the sound of footsteps and a moment later he could distinguish an approaching figure in the semi-darkness. It stopped in front of his cell and looked in.
Kit glanced down at the gleaming, sharp battle sickle that hung at the other’s side. A horrifying suspicion grew that this could very well be the ship’s butcher come to prepare him for dinner. Drawing his shoulders back, he said in a voice whose sternness was somewhat spoiled by a slight quaver, “I am an officer in the Solar Fleet and I demand to be treated as such. Interspatial law provides extreme penalties for the mistreatment of prisoners!”
The other answered his protest by hoisting up the broad, flat tail of the thurk skin that was draped over his left shoulder and blowing his nose on it noisily.
When he made no overt move Kit advanced to the front of his cell, tapped himself on the chest, and said slowly, “Me Earth,” and pointing toward the other, “You Polarius. Friends.” Then he stretched his hand out through the bars. “Shake.”
The warrior looked at him coldly. “Regulations of the Polarian Imperial Fleet provide that all personnel refrain from unauthorized physical contact. During my current avatar I am appearing in the physical guise of a Polarian officer. Do I make myself clear?”
He was smug about it.
Kit withdrew his hand. “Not quite. Would you mind going over that ‘current avatar’ part again?”
“You may substitute the terms ‘embodiment’ or ‘manifestation’ if you prefer,” said the other stiffly. “Regulations also provide that guards shall not carry on unnecessary conversations with prisoners. This conversation is unnecessary.” With that he turned his back to Kit.
Kit was bothered. There was something about the whole situation that was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Why should the Polarians want to break the peace? And if they did, why did they tip their hand by knocking off an old clunker like the Pelican? And above all, why did they go to all the trouble of taking him prisoner? He certainly didn’t know anything that would be of value to them. It didn’t make sense! Nothing made sense—including the position of the guard who was now leaning against the bars with his back toward Kit so that the bunch of keys protruding from his back pocket were within easy reach.
Without stopping to think, Kit stretched out his hand cautiously. His fingers had almost touched the key ring when the guard gave a sudden bound like a frightened rabbit and then lurched into the opposite corridor wall.
As Kit watched him his eyes turned glassy and rolled up slightly. He stood rigid, head half-cocked as if listening to inaudible voices.
“Do you hear them?” he demanded.
Kit shook his head cautiously. “Who?”
“The voices. The voices that are one voice.” The guard’s voice dropped into a rumbling chant. “The voices that cry out through the empty blackness between the stars.”
Kit shifted uneasily. He couldn’t get at the guard, but the guard could get at him.
“The rabbits have gathered in their warrens. They are summoning death, cold wracking death streaming in from the dark nebula. The millions are kneeling together, their minds throbbing out a single cry…over and over…over and over… Come Thweela… COME THWEELA!”
He pressed both hands against his head and began to shake and tremble. His eyeballs turned up until only the muddy whites could be seen and he seemed to be choking on his own tongue. He pushed back against the bulkhead, spreading his arms out. His head lolled down on his chest and in the half darkness it almost seemed as if he hung there crucified.
Kit felt surge after surge of alarm as he watched the guard. Thweela? Thweela was the old Polarian god of death and destruction. But this!
There was silence for a moment, and then a strangled sob burst from the guard’s throat.
“Not the Death! Let me live out this avatar in peace!” He stood as if waiting for an answer. When it came his massive chest expanded as his shoulders squared and his head came up. Like a great automaton he stalked slowly, majestically toward Kit.
* * * *
High above the liberators’ headquarters on Saar there were brilliant bursts of purple flame as Squadron 7 entered atmosphere with braking jets roaring out their full-throated thunder. Commander Simmons was in his stateroom checking over his full dress uniform for the umpteenth time. When he was quite satisfied, he stiffened, adjusted his face to a maximum of sternness, and said briskly to his mirror, “At 0748 this morning a WCD was received from the auxiliary freighter Pelican…”
* * * *
Kit retreated rapidly to the rear of the cell and looked around desperately for something he could use as a weapon. There wasn’t anything. Realizing the hollowness of the gesture, he cocked his fists and assumed what he hoped was a defensive position. A roaring contemptuous laugh came from the guard.
“You dare raise your hands against Thweela the Mighty?”
Kit’s fists and jaw dropped at the same time.
“Thweela?”
The guard nodded majestically. “I have selected this body for my purposes.” he said.
Even though Kit carried a rabbit’s foot in his pocket, he had always vaguely considered himself an agnostic. As a result he wasn’t quite sure how one was supposed to behave in the presence of a god, but he did the best he could. Trying to keep thought one step ahead of action, he flopped down on his knees and stretched out his arms.
“My Lord!”
“You know me then?” A terrible light shone in Thweela’s eyes as he glared through the bars at the Earthman.
“There is but one Thweela and Carpenter is his prophet.”
The guard’s expression of wrath changed to one of doubt.
“Thou art somewhat flat-chested to be the chosen sword of Thweela.” There was a moment of pregnant silence. “But so be it. Thou shalt stand at our right hand and be our sword and buckler.”
Kit knocked his head three times against the deck plates in acknowledgement of his gratitude.
“Have I my lord’s permission to rise?”
Taking silence for assent Kit hoisted himself to his feet. A vague plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind.
“Will not my lord now reveal himself to the others on this ship so that they too may worship him?” he pleaded.
A grim smile played over Thweela’s face and his hand dropped to caress his battle sickle.
“They shall know me in my time and in my fashion.”
Kit had a feeling it was now or never. Trying to keep from sounding too concerned, he asked, “Would it not be well for the Prophet of Thweela to go before and prepare his people to greet him? It is not well that a god should go forth unannounced.”
The other considered the suggestion gravely and then nodded. Taking the keys that dangled from his back pocket, he produced a small glowing sliver of metal and inserted it in the lock. There was a click and the cell door swung open. Kit slipped out quickly and bowed.
“If my lord will wait here, I will go ahead and assemble the ship’s company to do him homage.”
Thweela shook his head. “My mission brooks no waiting!”
Kit made another quick try. “May I suggest then that we proceed at once to the flight deck? There is space there sufficient for grouping all those who will assemble to hear thy words.”
He waited, taut. Finally there was a majestic nod of assent.
Three minutes later he was halfway to the flight deck. He kept two steps behind the guard, trying to look as much as possible like a prisoner being conducted some place on official business. Several green bearded warriors passed, but none gave the pair more than casual attention.
With the occasional white-robed priest that went by, the situation was somewhat different. It seemed to Kit that they recognized him but for some reason or other wanted to give him the impression that they didn’t. There was something fishy about the whole business. Things were going too smoothly. Then, suddenly, everything blew up in his face.
As he turned into a narrow passageway that looked as if it might lead to the flight deck, he saw a noisy precession advancing toward him. As it drew nearer, he saw it was headed by a familiar figure. It was Captain Klag, the officer who had threatened to blow his head off. He was still wearing Kit’s blaster. Behind him, came several warriors who were beating out a cacophonous march on an odd assortment of pots and pans. It occurred to Kit that they might be celebrating the coming banquet, and he pressed against the corridor wall to get out of their way. Head averted, he started to sidle by the group. For a moment he thought he was going to make it, but just as he was almost past them, a
harsh voice bawled in his ear and a rough hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Kit decided not to answer on ground that it might incriminate him and turned to Thweela for assistance. The guard wasn’t there. He was thirty feet down the corridor, leaning against a bulkhead and shaking his head as if to clear it.
“Lord Thweela,” shouted Kit, “this person is trying to interfere with our mission.”
The warrior who was holding Kit started to laugh. “That’s not Thweela. Sometimes he thinks he is, but the real God is with us!” He pointed triumphantly to Klag.
“Behold the god of death and destruction!”
The towering figure of Klag stalked forward with the intentness of a panther preparing to pounce upon a rabbit. The men behind him began to inch in until Kit found himself penned back against the cold steel of the corridor wall by a menacing human bulwark.
A tremor ran through the crowd, a ripple of hostility that grew in intensity until it hung over him like a tidal wave. As it started to break, he saw a white-robed figure trying to force its way through the crowd to him.
The new Thweela shoved his ugly face close to Kirk’s, cleared his throat and changed the course of Terrestrial history.
Pilot Officer Carpenter was a peace loving citizen who enjoyed nothing more than avoiding a good brawl, but there are certain insults that no normal human male can accept. When the small savage that lurks within all of us saw what the warrior was preparing to do, it seized control. Raw impulse pulsed down Kit’s neurons and he suddenly exploded into an awkward pistoning of arms and legs. By luck more than design, one fist smashed into a scowling bearded face. The result was chaos.
Warriors went hooting and screaming In all directions. In a moment only the priest was left and even he seemed to be on the verge of becoming violently sick to his stomach.
The First Theodore R. Cogswell Megapack Page 17