by Andre Norton
Ross went to the well, went down the ladder slowly, keeping his robe about him. Here at the next level there was a wider space about the opening, and three door panels. Behind one must be those he sought. He was buoyed up by a curious belief in himself, almost as if wearing this robe did give him in part the power attributed to the Foanna.
He laid his hand on the door to his right and sent it snapping back into its frame, stepped inside as if he entered here by right.
There were three Baldies. To his Terran eyes they were all superficially alike, but the one seated on a control stool had a cold arrogance in his expression, a pitiless half smile which made Ross face him squarely. The Terran longed for one of the Foanna staffs and the ability to use it. To spray that energy about this cabin might reduce the Baldy defenses to nothing. But now two of the paralyzing tubes were trained on him.
“You have come to us, Foanna, what have you to offer?” demanded the commander, if that was his rank.
“Offer?” For the first time Ross spoke. “There is no reason for the Foanna to make any offer, slayer of women and children. You have come from the stars to take, but that does not mean we choose to give.”
He felt it now, that inner pulling, twisting in his mind, the willing which was their more subtle weapon. Once they had almost bent him with that willing because then he had worn their livery, a spacesuit taken from the wrecked freighter. Now he did not have that chink in his defense. And all that stubborn independence and determination to be himself alone resisted the influence with a fierce inner fire.
“We offer life to you, Foanna, freedom of the stars. These other dirt creepers are nothing to you, why take you weapons in their cause? You are not of the same race.”
“Nor are you!” Ross’s hands moved under the envelope of the robe, unloosing the two hidden clasps which held it. That bank of controls before which the commander sat—to silence that would cause trouble. And he depended upon Ynlan. The Rovers should now be massed at either end of the canyon waiting for the force field to fail and let them in.
Ross steadied himself, poised for action. “We have something for you, star men—” he tried to hold their attention with words, “have you not heard of the power of the Foanna—that they can command wind and wave? That they can be where they were not in a single movement of the eyelid? And this is so—behold!”
It was the oldest trick in the world, perhaps on any planet. But because it was so old maybe it had been forgotten by the aliens. For, as Ross pointed, those heads did turn for an instant.
He was in the air, the robe gathered in his arms wide spread as bat wings. And then they crashed in a tangle which bore them all back against the controls. Ross strove to enmesh them in the robe, using the pressure of his body to slam them all on the buttons and levers of the board. Whether that battering would accomplish his purpose, he could not tell. But that he had only these few seconds torn out of time to try, he knew, and determined to use them as best he could.
One of the Baldies had slithered down to the floor and another was aiming strangely ineffectual blows at him. But the third had wriggled free to bring up a paralyzer. Ross slewed around, dragging the alien he held across his body just as the other fired. But though the fighter went limp and heavy in Ross’s hold, the Terran’s own right arm fell to his side, his upper chest was numb, and his head felt as if one of the Rover’s boarding axes had clipped it. Ross reeled back and fell, his left hand raking down the controls as he went. Then he lay on the cabin floor and saw the convulsed face of the commander above him, a paralyzer aiming at his middle.
To breathe was an effort Ross found torture to endure. The red haze in his head filled all the world. Pain—he strove to flee the pain but was held captive in it. And always the pressure on him kept that agony steady.
“Let…be.…” He wanted to scream that. Perhaps he had, but the pressure continued. Then he forced his eyes open. Ashe—Ashe and one of the Foanna bending over him, Ashe’s hands on his chest, pressing, relaxing, pressing again.
“It is good—” He knew Ynvalda’s voice. Her hand rested lightly on his forehead and from that touch Ross drew again the quickening of body and spirit he had felt on the dancing floor.
“How—?” He began and then changed to—“Where—?” For this was not the engine room of the spacer. He lay in the open, with sweet, rain-wet wind filling his starved lungs now without Ashe’s force aid.
“It is over,” Ashe told him, “all over—for now.”
But not until the sun reached the canyon hours later and they sat in council, did Ross learn all the tale. Just as he had made his own plan for reaching the spacer, so had Ashe, Karara, and the dolphins worked on a similar attempt. The river running deep in those mountain gorges had provided a road for the dolphins and they found beneath its surface an entrance past the force barrier.
“The Baldies were so sure of their superiority on this primitive world they set no guards save that field,” Ashe explained. “We slipped through five swimmers to reach the ship. And then the field went down, thanks to you.”
“So I did help—that much.” Ross grinned wryly. What had he proven by his sortie? Nothing much. But he was not sorry he had made it. For the very fact he had done it on his own had eased in part that small ache which was in him now when he looked at Ashe and remembered how it had once been. Ashe might be—always would be—his friend, but the old tight-locking comradeship of the Project was behind them, vanished like the time gate.
“And what will you do with them?” Ross nodded toward the captives, the three from the ship, two more taken from the small scouting globe which had homed to find their enemies ready for them.
“We wait,” Ynvalda said, “for those on the Rover ship to be brought hither. By our laws they deserve death.”
The Rovers at that council nodded vigorously, all save Torgul and Jazia. The Rover woman spoke first.
“They bear the Curse of Phutka heavy on them. To live under such a curse is worse than a clean, quick dying. Listen, it has come upon me that better this curse not only eat them up but be carried by them to rot those who sent them—”
Together the Foanna nodded. “There has been enough of killing,” said Ynlan. “No, warriors, we do not say this because we shrink from rightful deaths. But Jazia speaks the truth in this matter. Let these depart. Perhaps they will bear that with them which will convince their leaders that this is not a world they may squeeze in their hands as one crushes a ripe quaya to eat its seeds. You believe in your cursing, Rovers, then let the fruit of it be made plain beyond the stars!”
Was this the time to speak of the switched tapes, Ross wondered. No, he did not really believe that the Rover curse or their treatment of the captives would, either one, influence the star leaders. But, if the invaders did not return to their base, their vanishing might also work to keep another expedition from invading Hawaikan skies. Leave it to chance, a curse, and time.…
So it was decided.
“Have we won?” Ross asked Ashe later.
“Do you mean, have we changed the future? Who can answer that? They may return in force, this may have been a step which was taken before. Those pylons may still stand in the future above a deserted sea and island. We shall probably never know.”
That was also their own truth. For them also there had been a substitution of journey tapes by Fate, and this was now their Hawaika. Ross Murdock, Gordon Ashe, Karara Trehern, Tino-rau, Taua—five Terrans forever lost in time—in the past with a dubious future. Would this be the barren, lotus world, or another now? Yes, no—either. They had found their key to the mystery out of time, but they could not turn it, and there was no key to the gate which had ceased to exist. Grasp tight the present. Ross looked about him. Yes, the present, which might be very satisfying after all.…
PART 2: HISTORICAL FICTION
RALESTONE LUCK (1938)
RIDE PROUD, REBEL! (1961)
REBEL SPURS (1962)
RALESTONE LUCK (1938)
Ho
w hold ye Lorne?
By the oak leaf,
By the sea wave,
By the broadsword blade,
Thus hold we Lorne!
The oak leaf is dust,
The sea wave is gone,
The broadsword is rust,
How now hold ye Lorne?
By our Luck, thus hold we Lorne!
CHAPTER I
The Ralestones Come Home
“Once upon a time two brave princes and a beautiful princess set out to make their fortunes—” began the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy by the roadster.
“Royalty is out of fashion,” corrected Ricky Ralestone somewhat indifferently. “Can’t you do better than that?” She gave her small, pert hat an exasperated tweak which brought the unoffending bowl-shaped bit of white felt into its proper position over her right eyebrow. “How long does it take Rupert to ask a single simple question?”
Her brother Val watched the gas gage on the instrument board of the roadster fluctuate wildly as the attendant of the station shook the hose to speed the flow of the last few drops. Five gallons—a dollar ten. Did he have that much? He began to assemble various small hoards of change from different pockets.
“Do you think we’re going to like this?” Ricky waved her hand vaguely in a gesture which included a dilapidated hot-dog stand and a stretch of road white-hot under the steady baking of the sun.
“Well, I think that Pirate’s Haven is slightly different from our present surroundings. Where’s your proper pride? Not everyone can be classed among the New Poor,” Val observed judiciously.
“Nobility in the bread line.” His sister sniffed with what she fondly believed was the air of a Van Astor dowager.
“Nobility?”
“We never relinquished the title, did we? Rupert’s still the Marquess of Lorne.”
“After some two hundred years in America I am afraid that we would find ourselves strangers in England. And Lorne crumbled to dust long ago.”
“But he’s still Marquess of Lorne,” she persisted.
“All right. And what does that make you?”
“Lady Richanda, of course, silly. Can’t you remember the wording of the old charter? And you’re Viscount—”
“Wrong there,” Val corrected her. “I’m only a lord, by courtesy, unless we can bash Rupert on the head some dark night and chuck him into the bayou.”
“Lord Valerius.” She rolled it upon her tongue. “Marquess, Lady, and Lord Val, out to seek their fortunes. Pity we can’t do it in the traditional family way.”
“But we can’t, you know,” he protested laughingly. “I believe that piracy is no longer looked upon with favor by the more solid members of any community. Though plank-walking is an idea to keep in mind when the bill collectors start to draw in upon us.”
“Here comes Rupert at last. Rupert,” she raised her voice as their elder brother opened the door by the driver’s seat, “shall we all go and be pirates? Val has some lovely gory ideas.”
“Not just yet anyway—we still have a roof over our heads,” he answered as he slid in behind the wheel. “We should have taken the right turn a mile back.”
“Bother!” Ricky surveyed as much of her face as she could see in the postage-stamp mirror of her compact. “I don’t think I’m going to like Louisiana.”
“Maybe Louisiana won’t care for you either,” Val offered slyly. “After all, we dyed-in-the-wool Yanks coming to live in the deep South—”
“Speak for yourself, Val Ralestone.” She applied a puff carefully to the tip of her upturned nose. “Since we’ve got this barn of a place on our hands, we might as well live in it. Too bad you couldn’t have persuaded our artist tenant to sign another lease, Rupert.”
“He’s gone to spend a year in Italy. The place is in fairly good condition though. LeFleur said that as long as we don’t use the left wing and close off the state bedrooms, we can manage nicely.”
“State bedrooms—” Val drew a deep breath which was meant to be one of reverence but which turned into a sneeze as the roadster’s wheels raised the dust. “How does it feel to own such magnificence, Rupert?”
“Not so good,” he replied honestly. “A house as big as Pirate’s Haven is a burden if you don’t have the cash to keep it up properly. Though this artist chap did make a lot of improvements on his own.”
“But think of the Long Hall—” began Ricky, rolling her eyes heavenward.
“And just what do you know about the Long Hall?” demanded Rupert.
“Why, that’s where dear Great-great-uncle Rick’s ghost is supposed to walk, isn’t it?” she asked innocently. “I hope that our late tenant didn’t scare him away. It gives one such a blue-blooded feeling to think of having an active ghost on the premises. A member of one’s own family, too!”
“Sure. Teach him—or it—some parlor tricks and we’ll show it—or him—off every afternoon between three and four. We might even be able to charge admission and recoup the family fortune,” Val suggested brightly.
“Have you no reverence?” demanded his sister. “And besides, ghosts only walk at night.”
“Now that’s something we’ll have to investigate,” Val interrupted her. “Do ghosts have union rules? I mean, I wouldn’t want Great-great-uncle Rick to march up and down the carriage drive with a sign reading, ‘The Ralestones are unfair to ghosts,’ or anything like that.”
“We’ll have to use the Long Hall, of course,” cut in Rupert, as usual ignoring their nonsense. “And the old summer drawing-room. But we can shut up the dining-room and the ball-room. We’ll eat in the kitchen, and that and a bedroom apiece—”
“I suppose there are bathrooms, or at least a bathroom,” his brother interrupted. “Because I don’t care to rush down to the bayou for a good brisk plunge every time I get my face dirty.”
“Harrison put in a bathroom at his own expense last fall.”
“For which blessed be the name of Harrison. If he hadn’t gone to Italy, he would have rebuilt the house. How soon do we get there? This touring is not what I thought it might be—”
The crease which had appeared so recently between Rupert’s eyes deepened.
“Leg hurt, Val?” he asked quietly, glancing at the slim figure sharing his seat.
“No. I’m expressing curiosity this time, old man, not just a whine. But if we’re going to be this far off the main highway—”
“Oh, it’s not far from the city road. We ought to be seeing the gate-posts any moment now.”
“Prophet!” Ricky leaned forward between them. “See there!”
Two gray stone posts, as firmly planted by time as the avenue of live-oaks they headed, showed clearly in the afternoon light. And from the nearest, deep carven in the stone, a jagged-toothed skull, crowned and grinning, stared blankly at the three in the shabby car. Beneath it ran the insolent motto of an ancient and disreputable clan, “What I want—I take!”
“This is the place all right—I recognize Joe there.” Val pointed to the crest. “Good old Joe, always laughing.”
Ricky made a face. “Horrid old thing. I don’t see why we couldn’t have had a swan or something nice to swank about.”
“But then the Lords of Lorne were hardly a nice lot in their prime,” Val reminded her. “Well, Rupert, let’s see the rest.”
The car followed a graveled drive between tall bushes which would have been the better for a pruning. Then the road made a sudden curve and they came out upon a crescent of lawn bordering upon a stone-paved terrace three steps above. And on the terrace stood the home a Ralestone had not set foot in for over fifty years—Pirate’s Haven.
“It looks—” Ricky stared up, “why, it looks just like the picture Mr. Harrison painted!”
“Which proves why he is now in Italy,” Val returned. “But he did capture it on canvas.”
“Gray stone—and those diamond-paned windows—and that squatty tower. But it isn’t like a Southern home at all! It’s some old, old place out of England.”
“Because it was built by an exile,” said Rupert softly. “An exile who loved his home so well that he labored five years in the wilderness to build its duplicate. Those little diamond-paned windows were once protected with shutters an inch thick, and the place was a fort in Indian times. But it is strange to this country. That’s why it’s one of the show places. LeFleur asked me if we would be willing to keep up the custom of throwing the state rooms open to the public one day a month.”
“And shall we?” asked Ricky.
“We’ll see. Well, don’t you want to see the inside as well as the out?”
“Of course! Val, you lazy thing, get out!”
“Certainly, m’lady.” He swung open the door and climbed out stiffly. Although he wouldn’t have confessed it for any reason, his leg had been aching dully for hours.
“Do you know,” Ricky hesitated on the first terrace step, bending down to put aside a trail of morning-glory vine which clutched at her ankle, “I’ve just remembered!”
“What?” Rupert looked up from the grid where he was unstrapping their luggage.
“That we are the very first Ralestones to—to come home since Grandfather Miles rode away in 1867.”
“And why the sudden dip into ancient history?” Val inquired as he limped around to help Rupert.
“I don’t know,” her eyes were fast upon moss-greened wall and ponderous door hewn of a single slab of oak, “except—well, we are coming home at last. I wonder if—if they know. All those others. Rick and Miles, the first Rupert and Richard and—”
“That spitfire, the Lady Richanda?” Rupert smiled. “Perhaps they do. No, leave the bags here, Val. Let’s see the house first.”
Together the Ralestones crossed the terrace and came to stand by the front door which still bore faint scars left by Indian hatchets. But Rupert stooped to insert a very modern key into a very modern lock. There was a click and the door swung inward before his push.