by Isaac Asimov
He was weakened, sapped of strength, so that he hung in his bonds, his head lolling forward on his breast. Warmth pressed against him, a warm wet touch on his cold skin, a sensation of friendly concern in his mind. Shann gasped, found that he was no longer filling his lungs with that chill staleness which was the breath of the fog. He opened his eyes, struggling to raise his head. The gray light had retreated, but though a Throg blaster lay close to his feet, another only a yard beyond, there was no sign of the aliens.
Instead, standing on their hind feet to press against him in a demand for his attention, were the wolverines. And seeing them, Shann dared to believe that the impossible could be true; somehow he was safe.
He spoke. And Taggi and Togi answered with eager whines. The mist was withdrawing more slowly than it had come. Here and there things lay very still on the ground.
“Lantee!”
This time the call came not into his mind but out of the air. Shann made an effort at reply which was close to a croak.
“Over here!”
A new shape in the fog was moving with purpose toward him. Thorvald strode into the open, sighted Shann, and began to run.
“What did they -- ?” he began.
Shann wanted to laugh, but the sound which issued from his dry throat was very little like mirth. He struggled helplessly until he managed to get out some words which made sense.
“ . . . hadn’t started in on me yet. You were just in time.”
Thorvald loosened the wires which held the younger man to the frame and stood ready to catch him as he slumped forward. And the officer’s hold wiped away the last clammy residue of the mist. Though he did not seem able to keep on his feet, Shann’s mind was clear.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“The power.” Thorvald was examining him hastily but with attention for every cut and bruise. “The beetle-heads didn’t really get to work on you—“
“Told you that,” Shann said impatiently. “But what brought that fog and got the Throgs?”
Thorvald smiled grimly. The ghostly light was fading as the fog retreated, but Shann could see well enough to note that around the other’s neck hung one of the Wyvern disks.
“It was a variation of the veil of illusion. You faced your memories under the influence of that; so did I. But it would seem that the Throgs had ones worse than either of us could produce. You can’t play the role of thug all over the galaxy and not store up in the subconscious a fine line of private fears and remembered enemies. We provided the means for releasing those, and they simply raised their own devils to order. Neatest justice ever rendered. It seems that the ‘power’ has a big kick—in a different way—when a Terran will manages to spark it.”
“And you did?”
“I made a small beginning. Also I had the full backing of the Elders, and a general staff of Wyverns in support. In a way I helped to provide a channel for their concentration. Alone they can work ‘magic’; with us they can spread out into new fields. Tonight we hunted Throgs as a united team—most successfully.”
“But they wouldn’t go after the one in the skull.”
“No. Direct contact with a Throg mind appears to short-circuit them. I did the contacting; they fed me what I needed. We have the answer to the Throgs now—one answer.” Thorvald looked back over the field where those bodies lay so still. “We can kill Throgs. Maybe someday we can learn another trick—how to live with them.” He returned abruptly to the present. “You did contact the transport.”
Shann explained what had happened in the com dome. “I think when the ship broke contact that way they understood.”
“We’ll take it that they did, and be on the move.” Thorvald helped Shann to his feet. “If a cruiser berths here shortly, I don’t propose to be under its tail flames when it sets down.”
The cruiser came. And a mop-up squad patrolled outward from the reclaimed camp, picked up two living Throgs, both wandering witlessly. But Shann only heard of that later. He slept, so deep and dreamlessly that when he roused he was momentarily dazed.
A Survey uniform—with a cadet’s badges—lay across the wall seat facing his bunk in the barracks he had left . . . how many days or weeks before? The garments fitted well enough, but he removed the insignia to which he was not entitled. When he ventured out he saw half a dozen troopers of the patrol, together with Thorvald, watching the cruiser lift again into the morning sky.
Taggi and Togi, trailing leashes, galloped out of nowhere to hurl themselves at him in uproarious welcome. And Thorvald must have heard their eager whines even through the blast of the ship, for he turned and waved Shann to join him.
“Where is the cruiser going?”
“To punch a Throg base out of this system,” Thorvald answered. “They located it—on Witch.”
“But we’re staying on here?”
Thorvald glanced at him oddly. “There won’t be any settlement now. But we have to establish a conditional embassy post. And the patrol has left a guard.”
Embassy post. Shann digested that. Yes, of course, Thorvald, because of his close contact with the Wyverns, would be left here for the present to act as liaison officer-in-charge.
“We don’t propose,” the other was continuing, “to allow to lapse any contact with the one intelligent alien race we have discovered who can furnish us with full-time partnership to our mutual benefit. And there mustn’t be any bungling here!”
Shann nodded. That made sense. As soon as possible Warlock would witness the arrival of another team, one slated this time to the cultivation of an alien friendship and alliance, rather than preparation for Terran colonists. Would they keep him on? He supposed not; the wolverines’ usefulness was no longer apparent.
“Don’t you know your regulations?” There was a snap in Thorvald’s demand which startled Shann. He glanced up, discovered the other surveying him critically. “You’re not in uniform—“
“No, sir,” he admitted. “I couldn’t find my own kit.”
“Where are your badges?”
Shann’s hand went up to the marks left when he had so carefully ripped off the insignia.
“My badges? I have no rank,” he replied, bewildered.
“Every team carries at least one cadet on strength.”
Shann flushed. There had been one cadet on this team; why did Thorvald want to remember that?
“Also,” the other’s voice sounded remote, “there can be appointments made in the field—for cause. Those appointments are left to the discretion of the officer-in-charge, and they are never questioned. I repeat, you are not in uniform, Lantee. You will make the necessary alteration and report to me at headquarters dome. As sole representatives of Terra here we have a matter of protocol to be discussed with our witches, and they have a right to expect punctuality from a pair of warlocks, so get going!”
Shann still stood, staring incredulously at the officer. Then Thorvald’s official severity vanished in a smile which was warm and real.
“Get going,” he ordered once more, “before I have to log you for inattention to orders.”
Shann turned, nearly stumbling over Taggi, and then ran back to the barracks in quest of some very important bits of braid he hoped he could find in a hurry.