Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder

by Andre Norton

  But Storm did not move so fast that a startled cry of warning did not reach him. Had it not been for that call and perhaps the fact that his attacker was overeager, the Terran might have gone down with a Norbie long-knife driven home between his shoulders, to cough out his life in the dusty roadway. But the ex-Commando had lived long enough under constant danger so that once more his reflexes took over, and he dived to the right, bringing up against the wall of a building, as someone rushed past him. That half-seen figure flashed into the obscuring dark of an alleyway, but the light reflected from a naked blade as he went.

  “Did he get you?”

  Storm swung around, his hand on his own knife hilt. The light from the Gatherin’ showed him Brad Quade standing there.

  “Saw that knife swing,” Quade elaborated. “Did he mark you?”

  Storm stood away from the wall. “Not at all,” he answered in the same gentle voice he had used at the Center. “I have to thank you, sir.”

  “I’m Brad Quade. And you?”

  But Storm could not force himself to take the hand the other held out to him. This was all wrong and he could not go ahead with a scene differing so far from the one he had visualized all these years. He had been pushed off base and he had to get away fast, no matter how many would-be assassins lurked in the alley mouths of Irrawady Crossing. Would his name mean anything to Quade? He doubted it, but he could not really be sure. Yet he could not give a false one. His quarrel with this man was not one to be cloaked with tricks and lies.

  “I’m Storm,” he replied simply, and bowed, hoping that the other would believe the meeting of hands was not a greeting custom of his kind, since manners varied widely from planet to planet and his accent ruled him off-world.

  “You’re Terran!”

  Quade was too quick, yet again Storm could not bring himself to deny anything.

  “Yes.”

  “Quade! Hey, Brad Quade! You’re wanted on the com-talk—” a man hailed from the door of the Gatherin’. As the settler looked around Storm faded away. He was sure the other would not pursue him through the town.

  Carefully, with attention alerted to any pitfalls or possible ambush sites ahead, Storm went back to the stable. But he did not breathe easily until he was mounted on Rain and riding out of the Crossing with the firm intention of keeping away from that town in the future.

  Months before he had worked out an imagined meeting with Quade to the last tiny detail, a very satisfactory meeting. He, Storm, would select the proper time and place, make his accusation—to a man who did not fit the pattern of the Brad Quade he had seen tonight. This Quade was not at all the passive villain he had pictured him to be.

  And their business could not be transacted on the crowded street of a frontier town just after Quade had probably saved his life. He wanted—he had to have—his own kind of a meeting.

  Storm shied from following that line of reasoning. He did not honestly know why he had run—yes, he had run—from Quade tonight. He had come to Arzor only to meet Quade—but which Quade, the figure he had created to justify his action, or the man he had met? His actions were becoming as hard to understand as Bister’s—

  No, Storm’s heel touched Rain and the horse obediently broke into a gallop. There was nothing wrong with his motives—Quade deserved what Storm had to bring him. What if the settler’s warning had saved his life? It wasn’t any personal wrong of his own he had come to avenge—he could not cancel Quade’s debt to the dead!

  But the Terran did not sleep well that night, and he volunteered as a herd-holder as Larkin took the first of the string in to the crossing for showing in the morning. It was midday when the trader returned, well satisfied with the morning’s sales. And he brought a stranger with him.

  Though Storm did not know the man, the earth-brown uniform he wore was familiar enough, being that of Survey. And he had met other men of that service, had studied under them, in the training camp of the Beast Masters. Nor was he greatly surprised when Larkin beckoned him over.

  “Sorenson, archaeologist,” the Survey man introduced himself, the crisp galactic speech overlaid with the faint lisp of a Lydian-born.

  “Storm, Beast Master, retired—” the Terran replied as formally. “What can I do for you, Specialist Sorenson?”

  “According to Larkin you haven’t signed up with any outfit yet and you don’t plan to apply for a land grant just at present. Are you free for a scout engagement?”

  “I’m off-world, new here,” Storm pointed out. But he was excited, this was a perfect answer to his immediate problems. “I don’t know the country—”

  Sorenson shrugged. “I’ve Norbie guides, a settler pack master. But Larkin tells me you have kept your team intact—I know the work such a team can do and I can use you—”

  “I have my team, yes—” Storm nodded toward his bedroll. Surra sprawled there, blinking in the sun, the meerkats chittering beside her, while Baku perched on the rim of the supply cart. “Dune cat, meerkats, African eagle—”

  “Good enough.” Sorenson only glanced at the animals. “We’re heading into desert country. Have you heard of the Sealed Caves? There is a chance they may be located down in the Peak section.”

  “I’ve heard, also, that they are a legend.”

  “We got a little more accurate information recently. That territory’s largely unmapped and your services will be useful. We have a government permit for pot-hunting.”

  “Sounds like a good deal, kid,” Larkin spoke up. “You wanted to look over the Peaks. You’ll get your pay from me in horses—and you can either sell ’em at auction or you can keep that stallion you’ve been riding and take the black pack mare for your gear, and let me put up the other two. If you find a likely range down there, stick up your stakes and register it when you come back—”

  “Also, you can take your scout pay in a government land voucher,” Sorenson added quickly. “Useful if you want to stake out in new country. Or use it for an import permit—”

  Storm stirred. He felt pushed, and that aroused opposition. On the other hand, the expedition would take him away from the Crossing and from both the knifer—whoever he might be—and Quade until he could decide about the latter. Also—the Peak country held Logan Quade and he wanted to know more about that young man.

  “All right,” he agreed, and then instantly wished that he had not, but it was too late.

  “Sorry to hurry you, Storm”—Sorenson was all brisk efficiency now—“only we pull out early tomorrow morning. The mountain rains won’t last too much longer and we have to count on them for our water supply. That’s pretty arid country up there and we’ll have to leave it anyway at the beginning of the big dry. Bring your own camp kit—we will furnish the rest of the supplies—”

  Over Sorenson’s thin shoulder Storm caught sight of a pair of riders rounding the wagon. Ransford—and Brad Quade! At the moment they were looking at the horses, but a slight turn of the head would bring Storm into the settler’s line of vision.

  “Where do I meet you to move out?” the Terran asked quickly.

  “East of town, by the river ford—that grove of yarvins, about five—”

  “I’ll be there,” Storm promised and then spoke to Larkin. “I’ll keep Rain and the mare as you suggest. We’ll settle for the auction price of the others when I get back.”

  Larkin was grinning happily as the Survey man left. “Keep your eyes open around the Peaks, son, and stake a good stretch of land. Give us three-four years and we’ll have us some colts that’ll beat anything even imported from Terra! That pack mare—she’s the best of the lot for a rough trip, steady old girl. Any of your kit you want to store, just leave it in the wagon, I’ll see to it—”

  Storm was too impatient to wonder at Larkin’s helpfulness. He wanted to be out of sight before Quade came away from the improvised corral. But escape was not to be so easily achieved. It was Ransford who hailed him.

  “Storm!” That shout was so imperative the Terran dared not ignore
it and waited for the other to come up. “Look here, kid, Quade told me about your being jumped by a knife-man in town—what kind of trouble are you in anyway?”

  “None—that I know of—”

  But the other was frowning. “I tried to find out somethin’ about that rider you put to sleep—but nobody knew him. Sure it wasn’t him waitin’ for you?”

  “Might have been—I just sighted a shadow with a knife—never saw his face.” Storm longed to get away. Quade was dismounting and he was sure the settler would join them.

  “I put Dort to askin’ around some,” Ransford continued. “He knows men in about nine-tenths of the outfits here for the auction. If anyone is out to get your hide, he’ll hear about it—then we can take some action ourselves—”

  Why was everyone so interested in his affairs? Storm wanted desperately, at that moment, to snake Rain out of the picket lines, call his team, and ride off alone into the wilderness. He did not want such solicitude, in fact it scraped raw some nerve he had not known he possessed. He asked nothing but to be left alone, to go his own way. Yet here was Larkin—and Ransford—and Dort—and even the Norbie, Gorgol, all with splendid little plans, or concern, or helpful hints for him. Storm could not understand why—any more than he knew why Bister wanted to make trouble for him.

  “If anyone is gunning for me,” he returned as well as he could without betraying his rising irritation,” it won’t do him any good after tomorrow morning. I’ve signed up as scout for a Survey expedition and am leaving town.”

  Ransford gave a sigh of relief. “That’s usin’ your head, kid. Maybe this hothead got a skinful of tharman juice last night and when he sobers up he’ll have forgotten all about it. Which way you headed?”

  “To the Peaks.”

  “The Peaks—” That echo came from Quade. Then the settler added in a language Storm had never thought to hear another speak again:

  “Where do you ride, man of the Dineh?”

  “I do not understand you,” Storm answered in galactic one-speech.

  Quade shook his head, his blue eyes measuring Storm astutely.

  “You are Terran,” he switched to the common tongue of the space-ways, “but also you are Navajo—”

  “I am Terran—now a man of no planet,” Storm replied shortly. “I do not understand you.”

  “I think that you do,” Quade countered, but there was no abruptness in that, only a kind of regret. “I overheard you saying that you had signed on as a scout with an expedition into the Peak country. That’s good land down there—look it over. My son has a holding in that district.” His eyes dropped to his hands, twisting his reins. “If you see him—” But Quade did not finish that sentence, ending with another suggestion altogether. “I’d like him to meet you—you are Terran and Navajo. Well, good luck, Storm. If you ever need anything, try my range.” His foot was already in the stirrup and he swung into the saddle, moving off before the Terran could answer—if he had wanted to.

  “If you do see Logan,” Ransford broke the silence, “I hope he’s not in trouble up to his chin. That boy’s as hard to ride herd on as a pack of yoris! Pity—Quade’s the easiest man livin’ to rub along with—if you’re straight and doin’ your job right. But he and his own kid can’t be together more’n a week before fire’s bustin’ out all over the range! Nobody can understand why. Logan Quade’s crazy about huntin’, and he lives with the Norbies a lot. But the kid never did a crooked thing in his life and he’s as decent as his old man. They just can’t seem to live together. It’s a shame, ’cause Quade is proud of the boy and wants his son for a partner. If you hear anything good about the kid, tell Quade when you come back—it’ll mean a lot to him—and he’s taken a big likin’ to you, too. Well, good luck, kid—sounds as if you’ve got yourself a good deal. Survey pays well and you can turn their write-off in for an import permit or somethin’ like.”

  Storm was disturbed. He wanted none of the information Ransford had supplied. What did Quade’s personal affairs matter to him? In that second brief encounter with his chosen enemy he felt he had lost some advantage he needed badly as a bolster for the future. He had accepted Quade, the enemy, but this other Quade was infringing more and more on his carefully built-up image. He hurried about his preparations for the trip, thankful for the occupation.

  Surra sat on his left, the meerkats snuffled, poked, and pried under and around his busy hands as Storm sorted, piled, and made up two packs of his personal belongings. One he must leave with Larkin, the other comprised the kit he would need on the trail. There remained now just one small bundle to explore.

  He had left that roll to the last, doubly reluctant to slit the waterproof covering sewed about it on another world, keeping its contents intact for two years. Now Storm sat quietly, his hands resting palm down upon the package, his eyes closed, exploring old roads of memory—roads he had managed to avoid exploring at the Center. As long as he did not cut the waxed cord, as long as he did not actually see what he was sure must be inside—just so long was he in a way free of the last acceptance of defeat—of acknowledging that there was never to be any return.

  What did these men of another race here in camp—or those in the town—or those at the Center who had watched him so narrowly for months—that Commander who had so reluctantly stamped his freedom papers—what did any of them know of the voices of the Old Ones and how they could come to a man? How could they understand a man such as his grandfather—a Singer learned in ancient ways, following paths of belief these other races had never walked, who could see things not to be seen, hear things that no others could hear?

  Between Storm and the clear beliefs of his grandfather—that grandfather who had surrendered him to schooling as a government ward only under force—there was a curtain of white man’s learning. Good and bad, he had had to accept the new in gulps, unable to pick and choose until he was old enough to realize that behind the outer façade of acceptance he could make his own selection. And by that time it was almost too late, he had strayed far from the source of his people’s inner strength. Twice after he had been taken away by the authorities, Storm had returned to his people, once as a boy, again as a youth before he left Terra on active service. But then always between him and Na-Ta-Hay’s teaching there had been the drift of new ways. Fiercely opposed to those, his grandfather had been almost hostile, grudging, when Storm had tried to recapture a little of the past for himself. Yet some of it had clung, for now there sang through his mind old words, older music, things half-remembered, which stirred him as the wind from the mountains whipped him outwardly, and his lips shaped words not to sound again on the world from which this bundle had been sent.

  Slowly, Storm sawed through the tough cord. He must face this now. The outer wrappings peeled off, and Ho and Hing crowded in with their usual curiosity, intrigued by the strange new smells clinging to the contents.

  For there were scents imprisoned here—he could not be imagining that. The tightly woven wool of the blanket rasped his fingers, he saw and yet did not want to see the stripes of its pattern, red, white, blue-black, serrated concentric designs interrupting them. And to its tightly creased folds clung the unmistakable aroma of the hogan—sheep smell, desert smell, dust and sand smell. Storm sucked it into his lungs, remembering.

  He shook out the blanket, and metal gleamed up at him as he thought it might. Necklace—blue-green of turquoise and dull sheen of silver—ketoh bracelet, concha belt—all masterpieces of the smith’s art—the ceremonial jewelry of a Dineh warrior. Old, old pieces he had seen before, made by brown fingers, dust long before he had been born—the designs created by the artists of his race.

  Seeing those, Storm knew he had been right in his surmise. Not only had Grandfather somehow known—but he had found it possible to forgive the grandson who had walked the alien way—or else he could not resist this last mute argument to influence that grandson! It might have been his own death that Na-Ta-Hay had foreseen—or perhaps the death of his world. But he had sen
t this legacy to his daughter’s son, striving to keep alive in the last of his own blood a little of the past he had protected so fiercely, fought so hard to hold intact against the push of time and the power of alien energy.

  And now out of the night did there come a faint sound of a swinging chant? That song sung for the strengthening of a warrior?

  “Step into the track of the Monster Slayer.

  Step into the moccasins of him whose lure is the extended bowstring,

  Step into the moccasins of him who lures the enemy to death.”

  Storm did not put the contents of this last packet with the things to be left in Larkin’s care. He took up the jewelry, running his fingers across the cool substance of silver, the round boss of turquoise, slipping the necklace over his head where it lay cold against his breast under his shirt. The ketoh clasped his wrist. He rolled the concha belt into a coil to fit into his trail bag.

  Then he got to his feet, the blanket folded into a narrow length resting on his shoulder. He had never worn a “chief” blanket in all his life, yet its soft weight now had a warm and familiar feel, bringing with it the closeness of kinship—linking the forgotten hands that had woven it to Hosteen Storm, refugee on another world, lost to his people and his home.

  Lost! Dumbly Storm turned to face the east, toward the mountain ranges. He threw his hat down on the blanket roll, baring his head to the tug of the wind from those high hills, and walked forward through the night, doubly lighted by the two small moons, coming out over a little rise that could not even be named “hill.” He sat down, cross-legged. There had always been a strong tie between the Dineh and their land. In the past they had chosen to starve in bad times rather than be separated from the mountains, the deserts, the world they knew.

  He would not remember! He dared not! Storm’s hands balled into fists and he beat them upon his knees, feeling that pain far less than the awaking pain inside him. He was cut off—exiled—And he was also accursed, unless he carried out the purpose that had brought him here. Yet still there was this other hesitation in him. Without realizing it, he reverted to age-old beliefs. He must have broken his warrior’s magic. And so he could not meet Quade until he was whole again, once more armed against the enemy—the time was not yet ripe.