Sword Is Drawn

by Andre Norton

  “Tonight” — Hu Shan arose — “the Gods of Luck are smiling. Our back door is not yet closed. Shall we go?”

  8

  DUEL IN THE SKY

  Their way led through the back alleys of the native quarter of Tjima. Here there was little of the wild excitement which filled the European district with crowds moving aimlessly to and fro. Instead most of the kampongs were shuttered and dark, the small shops closed, and only one or two hurrying figures were to be seen on the streets.

  Lorens commented on this and Hu Shan laughed shortly.

  “Those having wealth have already fled, those who are poor have crept into such holes as they know. Some are planning what bargains they can drive with the brown dwarf people — ”

  “Then they don’t think that the city will be held?”

  “Held? How can one man, or a thousand men, hold this town now? Fighting can perhaps gain us a few more hours, hours in which to send out more ships to be torpedoed beyond the reef. But that is the best it can do. Java fell before the first of the parachute troops landed, she really fell the day the first Japanese walked into Indo-China.”

  “But — we’ll fight back.” Carla’s voice was edged with childish bewilderment. “The Americans have never lost a war — ”

  “Wars,” remarked Hu Shan, “are not won by over-confidence, they are won by hard fighting and superior skill, as well as by out-thinking the enemy. And the past does not prophesy for the future. It will be a long day before we win back what we are losing tonight. We must prove that we have the patience and — ”

  “Faith,” Lorens added, remembering that conversation with Soong weeks before.

  “Yes, faith, a very necessary weapon. And now this way, if you please, into the boat.”

  He hitched up the long skirts of his robe and climbed down into a shallow skiff. Lorens handed Carla down, then joined them. The Netherlander picked up the oars as Hu Shan took the rudder and after a few tentative swings bent in the rhythm he had learned on the canals and marsh streams of his homeland.

  They skirted the shore line, heading away from the town and the burning oil fields. Lorens’ shoulders had begun to ache in earnest before Hu Shan headed inshore, directing the oarsman to ship oars. Waves brought them in to a scrap of beach which edged a tongue of land thrust into the sea. Hu Shan whistled and was answered from beyond.

  Lorens followed the Chinese through a tangled thicket which started at the sand’s edge, trying to break a passage through the vines and bushes for Carla who stumbled along without complaint behind him, her fingers hooked in his belt. The rifle, he discovered, made an excellent weapon of defense against the growing things, beating them down and tearing them apart.

  Five minutes of such journeying brought them into a cove, overhung and protected by trees. And a short distance out a seaplane had been moored to heave and roll with the swell.

  “That you?” The voice from the night spoke Dutch with a crisp accent. “It’s about time. I want to take off before some of those beggars come nosing about here. Got the lady there?”

  “Yes.” Hu Shan’s calm was almost a rebuke to the other’s impatience. “And there is also a gentleman — ”

  “Now look here” — the dark figure which had detached itself from the trees halted abruptly — “I said I’d take one — not two — ”

  “That is all right,” Lorens broke in hastily. “I have not planned to go. I must find my cousin — ”

  “Capt. Piet van Norreys,” said Hu Shan, “sailed on the Island Queen two hours ago. If you have any intention of joining him in Australia, you had better ride with Lew Gong here. And you, Gong, can jettison some of your cargo that I am shipping.”

  “But I cannot allow that — ” began Lorens. He rather resented the way the Chinese seemed to be arranging his future without reference to him.

  “Mijnheer van Norreys, for many years I have had dealings with the House of Norreys, and I have never found among their men a fool. And I have met many of them, since for years I was the House agent in Port Darwin. If I choose to repay certain out-standing debts now, who can deny me? Believe me, Mijnheer van Norreys, I speak the truth when I say that you will be of more use to your country living, and in Australia, than if you now return to die in some futile battle in the hills.”

  “Well, what’s it going to be? Make up your mind quick, Mijnheer,” cut in the pilot. “We’ve got to get going!”

  He was standing by a dark shadow bobbing in the water, a rubber raft Lorens guessed. Go or stay, the decision had to be made this moment. What would Piet want him to do? But suddenly, instead of Piet’s war-lined face, he saw another, thin and brown against sun-bleached linen.

  “The wise man does not throw away his life unless he sees some gain for his cause in return.” Hadn’t Grandfather said something like that in their last interview? True, he might help kill a few invaders in the mountains, but everyone seemed to agree that it was only a matter of time before the island was overrun. If he could reach Australia, it would mean a chance to join the Air Force. And to hit back by air — that was the only way to strike effectively now.

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  The raft could accommodate only two at a time. So Carla was paddled out first and climbed up into the plane. Then Gong brought back two boxes which he overended up the beach as Lorens took their place. He had tried to thank Hu Shan, but the Chinese refused to hear him out.

  “The day to talk of this, Mijnheer, will be when the House of Norreys again opens its doors to trade.”

  “I will remember that,” Lorens said slowly, and every word was part of a promise he would not forget.

  The plane had been stripped of its seats. Carla was in the co-pilot’s perch, but Lorens had to make himself as easy as he could on the floor of the outer cabin, now stacked with crates and boxes lashed into place. He wondered if the ship was too overladen to rise as they taxied out for a long run across the water of the bay.

  But their pilot got them up into the air, heading south, away from the flame and smoke of the burning oil wells, out into the fresh night over the sea. Somewhere south of Timor lay the great island continent of Australia. Lorens had no idea of the air distances — how long it would take them to reach the now precarious safety Australia offered.

  The Netherlander must have slept, for he could not remember anything between their take-off and the shock which bumped him out of his position on the floor. A broad band of morning sun struck full across his eyes. They had landed and were running over choppy waves into a spot where the rise and fall were less turbulent.

  “Got to refuel, buddy, and you can lend a hand.” The pilot stood over him. Framed by the helmet was a Chinese face, but Lorens identified that accent at last — it was aggressively American.

  “But you’re Chinese,” he muttered groggily as he fumbled at the tin fuel cans.

  “Chinese? I’m one hundred per cent American, buddy. Born in the City of the Angels. And watch it, will you? If any of that goes in the drink, we’ll all be asking for harps. It’s a long way to Sydney, or even to Port Darwin, and we’re none too flush with the juice.”

  Fueling was an awkward, time-consuming job, and their shirts were clinging damply to them before they were through. The seaplane rested in an almost closed ring of a coral reef with a palm-crowned island at their left.

  “Found this place a couple of months ago,” Gong commented. “Yeah, throw those empties overboard, every ounce of weight counts now.” He pitched the tin he held into the clear water of the lagoon, and Lorens followed his example. “Don’t believe that this is on any map, but it’s a good harbor — too shallow for a freighter, just right for us. Miss Cortlandt, you can bring out that basket of grub again. We might as well do a little refueling, too. First choice for you, fella, you slept through breakfast.”

  Lorens bit deep into a dry sandwich. Stale as it was, this was better fare than he had tasted for days. There was a slight wind coming up. Gong squinted at the sky, then fastened th
e door.

  “These cross winds are tricky. We’d better get up-stairs again.”

  They flew on across the sun-glazed sea. A flight of white birds crossed below them heading toward the unnamed island they had just left. Lorens crawled forward to crouch in the door of the pilot’s cabin, wriggling his stiff shoulders to ease aching muscles. Save for the discomfort of his seat, this was much like all the other flights he had made. He could close his eyes and believe that he was flying with Piet, bound for that field in Java where the anti-aircraft gunners had to swarm on the runway and chase off the ducks when a plane came in for a landing — all very homey and curiously unwarlike.

  Now that field must be a network of ragged bomb craters — or else in the hands of the enemy. He hoped that the ducks were still refusing to co-operate. And who would sit now at his desk in that old Batavian house? Nowadays life had become a series of packing up and moving on — or moving on without having had time to pack. What had he managed to bring with him this time? He began to take inventory.

  There was the rifle he had shouldered since Salabania. His cartridge belt and canteen were still with him. And in his money belt was what was left of his cash, his passport, and other papers. And on him were the ragged remains of his bush uniform. Not a very impressive list of possessions, he had to admit. He could guess that his face was far from clean, and his fingers informed him that he could do with a shave. At this point he caught Carla’s gaze full upon him.

  “I was just wondering, Juffvrouw, how much of a ruffian I look — ?”

  She laughed. “More like a bandit out of a Victorian romance than a ruffian, I should say, Mijnheer. But we are none of us paragons of fashion just now. Behold my own attire. I trust we don’t have to appear in public before we can get some other clothes — ”

  There was a long tear in the skirt of her cotton dress, a tear which had been hastily and unskillfully cobbled together. She had wound a native headkerchief of bright batik over her hair, and her face was frankly dirty. Her legs were bare, and her feet thrust into woven grass sandals.

  “I haven’t even a powder compact to repair my face,” she told him, “and no woman can think of anything worse in personal privations. As far as I am concerned, it is a case of ‘don’t look now — I’m a fright’! Mr. Gong is our only respectable representative. We’ll let him disembark first — as a matter of reassurance.”

  The pilot laughed. “Okay, Miss Cortlandt. But it won’t take ’em long to rally around with all you need. These Anzacs are great guys. If we just don’t meet up with a Jap on our way across — ”

  There was no land under them now, just miles of sea, blue threaded with green, with turquoise.

  “Look there! No, down a little to the left.” Gong pointed and the other two leaned forward to see.

  Coasting just under the surface of the water which distorted its outlines was a thin dark shape. It looked not unlike a minnow in a pond.

  “That’s a sub! Wonder whether it’s one of ours or one of theirs nosing around; could be either in these waters. We’re going up into that cloudbank, this is no time to fool round. If it should happen to be one of theirs — ”

  “But how could that affect us?” began Carla in real wonder. Then she intercepted the quick glance which passed between the pilot and Lorens. “Oh, I see — the radio. They could send a message about us — ”

  “I think not,” Lorens cut in with what he hoped was unchallengeable firmness. “We are — as you Americans say — small fry. They would not bother themselves about us, as they would about a flight of bombers. There would be no reason for them to hunt down an unarmed commercial plane.”

  “How is it that you know so many American expressions, Mijnheer van Norreys?” she asked as the first mist of the clouds closed about them. “Were you ever in America?”

  “Please” — he smiled through dried mud dust and oil smears — “I have also another name to my friends, must I always be Mijnheer? No, I have never been in your so wonderful country, but I have an American friend who writes to me much about it. So sometimes it seems that I have seen the parts of it that he has described. You have been to New York you have said, and to this Radio City, perhaps? Lawrence has many times spoken of that.”

  “Yes —”

  “Great place,” broke in Gong enthusiastically. “Swellest stage show I’ve ever seen. And Times Square, and the Battery, and all the rest. You ought to see it, fella — ”

  “Perhaps you will,” added Carla.

  Lorens shrugged. “Nowadays no one can say where he will be a year, even a month or a week away.”

  “You’ve got something there, fella,” agreed Gong cheerfully. “Three months ago I was selling tourist junk in ’Frisco’s Chinatown and spending my spare cash on building up flying time. Now just look at me — running a private jitney from Java to Australia. If my luck holds, I’ll be chasing Japs out of the sky over Chungking in a little while. You sure get around in this war” — he echoed the sentiments of the Anzac sergeant.

  “What’s that, over there? It doesn’t seem to be a bird — ” Carla pointed to a black speck rapidly growing larger across the field of cloud.

  “It sure isn’t!” Gong’s smooth young jaw showed unexpected firm lines. “That’s a Zero!”

  “What can we do?” Carla’s hands had been clasped loosely in her lap, now Lorens saw them tighten convulsively.

  “Play tag!”

  Gong pulled the half wheel of the controls at his stomach pit. The plane dropped into a sea of cloud, swallowed up in the thick mist. They came through above the sea.

  “He’ll try to head us off,” muttered the pilot as if he were talking to himself. “And then knock us out just when he wants.”

  “Can you out-maneuver him?”

  Gong’s sidelong glance blazed with scorn until he saw that Lorens was watching Carla.

  “We can try anything once. And he may have to watch his gas; this is pretty far out for a land-based plane. Here he comes again, and here we go!”

  They were back in the precarious safety of the cloud almost before Gong finished his sentence.

  “How far are we from Australia?” asked Carla. She was staring straight ahead, the happy curves of her lips had become thin pale lines.

  “Too far for comfort. At least from the part which will do us any good. There isn’t anything straight ahead but desert, and that’s no place to head for.”

  It seemed for some minutes that the Zero was almost lazily content to play their game of hide-and-go-seek. Or else Gong’s maneuvers were actually puzzling their opponent. For in those crowded moments the Chinese-American was proving himself a flyer. His twists and turns, his skillful use of all the cloud cover the sky afforded him, were revelations to Lorens.

  “Either that bird is very, very dumb, which I don’t believe — dumb clucks don’t fly Zeroes — or else he’s out of ammunition or low on gas. He could have knocked us out any time during the past five minutes.”

  “Maybe he hesitates to attack a civilian plane?” suggested Carla.

  Lorens thought that maybe hope rather than sense had prompted her question.

  “Well, there’s always a first time,” agreed Gong. “But I’d feel a lot happier if I knew just what he had in his guns.”

  “Isn’t that land?” Carla indicated a dark line along the sea.

  “Yep. That’s Australia. Now we turn west to reach Darwin. Which we won’t!”

  His voice rose. The Zero had done with playing, it was diving straight for them.

  “Can you land?” Lorens cried.

  As the last word left his lips the port engine missed and a plume of oily black smoke puffed back at them.

  “That’s done it!” Gong yelled. “With this load I can’t bring her down on one engine. I’ll try to crash her down on land. Strap yourself,” he snapped at Carla. “And you,” he flung over his shoulder at Lorens, “hold on. She’ll come down hard — if I can get her in at all!”

  Gong fought on, a grim,
lost battle. For an endless space torn out of time they dived earthward. They forgot even the Zero as they watched the shore line become yellow, solid rock and earth reaching up for them. Then, in a last intolerable shock of noise and force, Gong brought them in.

  Lorens lay on his side, pinned against the wall of the cabin by one of the bales of freight. He swallowed and tasted the sticky sweetness of blood which filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin. To try to move was as instinctive as to open his eyes or swallow the stream which kept filling his mouth. But he was securely wedged in and helpless.

  After a moment or two of sheer panic, it did not seem to matter so much. When he opened his eyes and raised his head, the crumpled walls of the plane whirled about.

  The second time he aroused it was all light and air about him. He was lying on his back in the shadow cast by a tilted wing, a folded coat for a pillow. Gong knelt a short distance away, bowing his head while Carla pulled a bandage into place about his forehead. Reddish stains made a pattern down the front of her dress, and a deep scratch was outlined in dried blood on her cheekbone.

  “That’s the stuff!” The pilot fingered the bandage when she had finished. “Thanks, Miss Cortlandt. If that — that — ” he gulped, then continued with restraint, “Jap comes back again maybe I can see enough to nick him one with the rifle!”

  “With that?” Lorens’ voice had started out well, deep as usual in his throat, but when it reached his lips, it was scarcely more than a husky whisper.

  “Oh.” Carla came running and fell on her knees beside him. Gong followed, his mouth stretched in what he must have intended to be a reassuring grin.

  “So you’re in the land of the living again,” he said.

  Lorens interrupted, “What is the damage?”