The Forerunner Factor

by Andre Norton

  “Not so fast—these are the hardest—” Thorn called hoarsely, as if the effort he had forced his body to was sapping once more his small measure of strength.

  How long did he believe she could continue to hang there by her fingers and toes? This was proving a far harder journey, even with no darkness and no pit of flames, than the first she had taken into the lost valley.

  She could hear a scrambling sound, the hard breathing of one putting his body to an ultimate task. So much did Simsa of the Burrows hear, but the interpretation came from the Elder One.

  This new race of space-faring species had determination, even if their unopened minds hampered them so much. Tools were things outside themselves, dead things of wood and metal, until they were roused to limited life. It seemed clearer and clearer that they were unaware, totally unaware, of other potentialities. What could they not accomplish if they learned—

  And how would lives across the star lanes be changed if they did? For good or ill? Those two on the ship who had thought to use her—her—for their own knowledge, were there an overnumber of such among these new people?

  The Elder One speculated and her thoughts passed through Simsa’s mind, hinting that perhaps, when there was time and space for privacy, she might be set a number of difficult questions by this other self of hers. For the moment, that strength which filled the Elder One kept her as tight and safe against the stark wall as if she stood on a well-balanced ledge. She did not fear that her grip with fingers and toes might be lost.

  More scrambling sounds from above and then something dangled down the cliff face to nearly strike her in the face. The belt of the spaceman, its loops stripped of all the tools and weapons that he might carry, swung close to her left hand, and she dared to loosen her hold to seize upon it.

  But she did not rest her full weight upon that tie; rather, she still climbed, with the belt wreathed tightly around her arm as a support. Then a hand reached down, laced fingers into the jeweled belt that held her kilt, and heaved her up and over the lip of stone, grazing her flesh in the process in a rough end to that journey. Once more they had found refuge on a flat level of rock—one so wide she had begun to think that they had lost the valley descent that lay to the north and that this was merely more of the plain raised to a greater height.

  The sky haze was thick, seeming to curdle about the two of them as though it were a serpent winding its length back and forth across the sky, now nearly touching the rock at their feet, now capriciously raising to give them great range of sight.

  Simsa saw Thorn sitting only a little away from the cliff edge, his belt in a coil about his feet, his bandaged head and arms limply forward as though he had spent the last of that burst of strength which had brought him this far.

  She scrambled up to stand gazing north and west. Somewhere there cut the valley with all its promise of food, drink, and shelter—or perhaps its threat from the furred ones who had already brought down the invading flitter. They had welcomed her after a fashion, but how would they greet Thorn or treat her for bringing him hither? Simsa of the Burrows arose in her to demand that from the Elder One. But the latter was still in command of her slender dark body and was turning her a fraction to face what seemed a deepening of the haze.

  The penetrating cry of Zass broke the silence of the cliff top as the zorsal planed down to Simsa’s shoulder, nuzzling against her cheek with soft chirrups. Then, through that heavier gathering of the haze, came moving shapes. The girl braced herself. Perhaps none of the blob-things could climb this high, but it was plain that someone—or something—had come seeking them.

  10

  The first of the half-seen shapes emerged from the mist, one of the green furred people of the valley. Simsa half-expected to sight a weapon in those claws of the upper appendages. Or was this creature only war-armed with such mysteries as the Elder One had helped them to call up? There was no way of reading either anger or suspicion on a face that was mainly huge eyes and a mandible-equipped mouth.

  Thorn fought to his feet, wavering there as he stood to confront the newcomers. On impulse, the girl moved closer to him, not to help but because she intended to knock from his hold any weapon he might produce for attack. But both hands dangled at his sides. He seemed to be expending the full amount of any energy left him just to hold up his head in order to face these newcomers squarely.

  For more than one of the valley dwellers followed in the wake of the first, moving out to form a half-circle, all the two humans and Zass. Simsa had seen enough tapes, enough strangers from off-world in flesh, fur, or scales, not to be surprised at the strange forms into which nature had fitted intelligence on other worlds. Somehow she was sure that Thorn would realize that now they dealt with “people” and not with monsters intent only on the hunt.

  But it was the Elder One who was still in charge and Simsa found herself mouthing strange syllables which she could not translate but which she knew were a mingled greeting and plea for understanding. Judging by the only standards she understood—those of the Burrows—she was content to let this other carry the argument.

  Having uttered that strange hum-hiss of speech, she remained where she was, the rod now held up before her, as a runner on her home world, sent to clear the road, might carry the House-crest of a lordling as he sped ahead of that lord’s entourage. She felt the combined sight of those others. How she could sense such impact she could not explain. It was almost as if the dead Greeta had, in a manner, achieved her desire, and all the parts that went to make up Simsa’s black, silver-haired body had been laid open to be observed, weighed, disputed over—or accepted.

  The leader of the valley force went to all fours to approach closer, the clack-clack of those long claws sounding louder. Simsa looked to Thorn. The man had somehow conquered the weakness he had before shown and stood with straight shoulders and upheld head. His hands moved in a very ancient gesture of peace, which was common enough to the species she did have knowledge of. Both his hands were held on a level with his shoulders, his bare palms exposed to the strangers’ sight. He wanted no struggle.

  “This—one—from—overhead?”

  The question was awkwardly phrased, but Simsa understood.

  “Yes.”

  “From—this—you—ran?”

  “Not this one.” Simsa was willing to give Thorn the benefit of the doubt. After all, he had never held such thoughts concerning her future as those other two revealed.

  “Why—here?”

  “For me”—she could not evade that—“but he is not an enemy.”

  Was she right in declaring that? Even now she could not be sure.

  “What does he, then?”

  “He is a hunter of old knowledge. He believes I have such knowledge—he would take me to those who gather it.”

  “He is—not—of—the—home. He is of the short-lived kind.”

  If thoughts could hold contempt, that fairly dripped from the speech she caught with the Elder One’s aid.

  “He—not as those you know.” A flash of knowledge came to her then, such as so often broke through the barriers set by Simsa of the Burrows’ wary mind. These creatures were female—or at least of a sex approaching what her own kind thought female. They equated Thorn with a state of being to which they had long ago reduced their own male counterparts—a small but necessary evil. Certainly very short-lived, if they had their own way in the matter.

  “He is a hunter of knowledge,” she continued sharply. The shadow thought of what was expedient to do with mere males had come too fast upon the uttering of the judgment of his usefulness.

  “Paugh!” An exclamation of disgust was not easily translated to words, but came from the spokeswoman of that other party. “What has such as he to store knowledge in?”

  On impulse, Simsa spoke aloud to her companion. “They—I do not know how much you may have picked up from thought reading—but these hold males in contempt. Will you open your mind to them—and quickly.”

  She was not e
ven sure that the spaceman could “think” a message plainly enough. Her own hold on such powers was shaky and she was only sure of success when the Elder One was in control.

  There flashed speedily a series of pictures, aimed surely for the furred doubter or doubters but as easily picked up by the girl.

  It was like watching one of the reading tapes run a little too fast to be enjoyed but showing so many changes and hints of knowledge as made her feel breathless. Then she saw the leader of the valley ones squat back on her lower abdomen, balanced by the two long folded legs. She swung up a clawed forelimb, the murderous claws held well apart, perhaps her own type of peace signal.

  “A Memory one!” There was an exclamation of wonder in that mind speech. “A Memory one, be it male or not. Tshalft must suck this one for herself.”

  “No!” Simsa took a wide sidestep, which put her between the valley dwellers and Thorn. There was a connotation to that word “suck”—or so it had sounded to her—that carried a dark meaning.

  “No harm to it,” came the quick promise. “It has too much to give. We try—our Memory ones are few—and there come many hatchings before one is discovered in these days.

  “To have new knowledge, that will be treasure for the home. We shall do it no harm, even as we have done none to you. But will it be hunted again? Has it laid some trail for its kind to follow?”

  “Will you—” began the girl, when he spoke swiftly, proving that he had read that mind speech.

  “The flitter is down. But there are others on the ship which landed here. When they cannot raise any call from us they may write us off—for now.”

  “But not forever?” Simsa prodded.

  “Zasfern is not easily thrown off the trail of anything which is as great as the discovery of a true Forerunner,” he answered her. “They may not be able to search now, but in time they will come, yes. My immediate superior, Hist-tech Zasfern, has power with the service.”

  “It speaks of others,” came the thoughts of the valley leader. “Who are these others?”

  Thorn raised his hand and pushed fretfully at the bandage about his head. “Answer for me,” he said to the girl. “Ask them not to mind read me now—I—” He stumbled half-toward her. Unthinkingly, she took his weight, which bore her with him to the stone.

  Over his body she looked up at the others. “He is hurt.”

  “That is so,” conceded their seated leader. “Now his thoughts go all ways, as the guden fly when it is time for a harvest. What would he have you tell us?”

  “I know little more than you. But he has said there is a very ancient race whose mission it is to collect all knowledge and store it. They are very old, but it is true that most they gather is from such a long time in the past that they do not understand much of it themselves. They only hunt and hunt for scraps to be fitted into a whole. They have said that is why I must be brought to them. For they think that I—she—can match some of these scraps for them.”

  “So they will be led to seek here. When?”

  “Sometime hence, I think.” Simsa shifted Thorn’s head upon her knee. He gave a small moan and rolled his face toward her so that she felt the light flutter of his breath against her skin. “He must have help.” She found herself adding that plea.

  “It is well—for now. Yes, we have much to learn—Tshalft would wish us to do this.”

  A click of claws summoned one of the others. With no visible sign of any discomfort because of his weight, the speaker plucked Thorn out of Simsa’s half-hold and placed him on the back of the follower squatting before her. One of those claws grasped both of the dangling arms of the spaceman, imprisoning his wrists in a single hold. Then the creature turned and started away three-legged, but seemingly not in the least slowed or disturbed by that. Simsa and the speaker followed.

  This time there was no journey into the dark, but the top of the barrier was wide and they were soon near curtained from each other’s sight by a thickening of the haze. Simsa found her own wrist caught in the claws of another, steering and drawing her onward when the haze at last thickened into a roof too dense for the eye to pierce beyond a foot or so.

  They came to the top of a stairway and the grasp on Simsa fell away—only the one pointing claw directed her downward. The steps were stone, chiseled out of the rock. For her feet they were narrow and, since so much was hidden from her, she took them one at a time, her right hand braced against the side wall, her fingers ready to cling to any projection they might chance upon.

  She had lost all sight of Thorn and his guardian and tried to force out of her mind a suggestion of danger—a fall for the awkwardly laden valley inhabitant and perhaps the end of the unconscious man as a result.

  Down and down wove the stairs—there were no landings where one might pause to get one’s breath, summon up courage for further effort, and the fog was as tight as a cloak about them. Then that began to thin and wisps of it moved away as clouds could be driven across the sky by the wind—only here there was no wind.

  She could see the way ahead for a much farther space now. But there was nothing but more and more steps. Simsa might well have given out long ago, but that extra energy which the Elder One always brought with her sustained the girl even when the presence of the Elder One herself began to slowly retreat into that part of Simsa which she had established as her own abode for all time.

  The last of the haze was tattered strips. Here and there she could sight a tall standing tree of high-growing vegetation, much like those that had formed the avenue at her first coming to this place. The zorsal uttered a small cry and took off, winging ahead, apparently diving into the massed vegetation which Simsa would have thought was far too thick to allow any wing spread. They reached at last the floor of the inner valley. She could smell the heady scent of dropping fruit and she licked her lips, the odor immediately bringing with it hunger.

  There was a path here, not as well-marked as those she had found earlier, and it did not stretch straight forward but wound around among bushes that were taller than the girl’s head. Palm-wide flowers clustered thick over these, weighting those toward earth where crawled a number of green winged things which in a minute way were not too unlike her guides. Among the bushes, some of the furred people were moving. These claws which could threaten so menacingly worked here with delicate care, loosing one after another of the busy feeding insects, holding them above jugs until, from the tip of rounded green abdomens, a drop of clear liquid gathered to drip into the waiting container. Its donor was then returned to the grazing ground of the flowers.

  At the appearance of the party from the cliffs these harvesters drew together and stared silently, nor did Simsa pick up any thought save once or twice a feeling of dislike or alien aversion radiating from them, something she had not felt before. It would seem that her presence, or Thorn’s, or both, was a matter for resentment.

  Yet there were no claws raised even a fraction and their own party plowed ahead through the wandering trails of the flowered-bush land without any communication she could sense. In a few strides, they left the workers behind.

  This was a wider way they had now turned into. Ahead, though still some distance away, the girl caught sight of that odd dwelling or fortress she had seen before. However, they were not headed for that. A side way opened in the brush and into it stalked the furred one carrying Thorn, then the leader of the company, raising a claw to beckon Simsa to follow. The others kept on in the open and were quickly lost to sight as this side way made a right-angled turn. It would appear, Simsa thought, that they were heading back toward the cliffs down which they had just come. But when they emerged from the growth that was so thick a screen here, there was again a wide space as there had been about the fountain.

  No spray of water spun into the air here; rather, the open place, a triangle, cradled what Simsa first thought was a giant egg. At least it presented a solid-looking ovoid to the newcomers. Their party halted just at the verge of the open space and the leader advanced, n
ot with that measure of authoritative stride-hop, which she had shown earlier, but slowly, using the claws of a right fore appendage to tap out a rhythm on the bare ground.

  Though the tapping was so small a sound that Simsa could barely hear it, there was an answering in the ground itself which ran along the surface of the earth, even into her own body so she found herself moving with the same beat, her rod nodding in turn in her hold.

  It appeared that whatever or whomever the leader so summoned was not minded to answer. Yet the tapping continued patiently. There came at last a sharp pop. Across the surface of that giant egg appeared a ragged crack. A portion of shell detached, to fall upon the earth. Then a second and a third, until the shell was in fragments. They were fronting now another of the furred ones. In size she was smaller; she had been cramped and fitted into the egg without much room to spare so that when a forelimb moved slowly into the open it did so feebly, as though any effort were nearly too much for the slowly arousing creature within.

  There was a sleekness, as though it had been immersed in water that now dripped and runneled to the ground. Then the faceted eyes which Simsa had thought were blind centered upon them.

  “Why—come—disturb?”

  There was anger bordering on rage in that demand from the egg prisoner.

  “A Memory one—from far—sky.” The leader braced both forelimbs on the ground and lowered her own antennae-feathered head so that those lacy sheaths nearly brushed the pounded earth.

  The other had managed to pry her body free. With her last jerk what remained of the shell crumbled into powder on the ground. She made a slight gesture with one set of claws and the leader hastened, still on all fours, to approach near, pausing at a small distance which Simsa read as one of respect, to unhook a smaller edition of the harvester jugs from a belt and offer it to the newly hatched. Greedily, the other seized upon it and drank until at last she turned it upside down to prove its emptiness.