by Andre Norton
Farree rolled his tongue about his own drink tube. The tart liquid was refreshing, seeming to wash out of him some remnants of the ordeal through which he had gone.
"Qun Glude 'p itho." Vorlund looked to the small screen of the reader on the table. "No identification with the Guild. Was second officer on Halfway in last employment—legal one, that is. He disappeared after his flight right was canceled. That was on Wayland's World near five planet years ago. Activities unknown but was seen in company with Xexepan, commander of a Free Trader under suspicion by the Patrol. Entered into the records because Xexepan has twice been accused of smuggling—mainly in the Wormost slave trade. Apparently"—he raised his eyes from the screen from which he had been reading aloud in trade code the few lines on a val slip—"Xexepan must have been a shrewd voyager. But what was a slaver doing so far into the civilized lanes? He could not have been—"
Maelen leaned a little forward. "There is always kidnapping," she pointed out. "No tie for Xexepan with the Guild?"
Vorlund flicked a switch with his finger and the lines of code flashed on again. "No straight tie, no. Wayland's World?" He looked now to Zoror.
The Zacanthan made reference to his own call screen.
"Fourth quadrant—Ast showing. However, this Xexepan sounds of interest. What was his cover on Wayland?"
"Straight trading. He had some skins, a full cargo of yale sap containers. That was all on the landing permit."
It was Farree who interrupted, for a dark picture had touched him, but not from any screen. "What kind of skins—are they listed?"
They all three glanced at him. In the Zacanthan's eyes there was a sudden gleam.
"Little brother—yes, perhaps you have put thought to something there. Indeed skins may be a key—"
Vorlund turned back to the reader. "No other definition—only skins. We might use a chart, High One," he addressed Zoror.
Zoror swung his seat a little to the right. There was a second screen there, its picture surface now occupied with a viewing of a broken stone slab across which ran a wavy line of nearly time-erased scratches. With a click of a button this was gone. Zoror inserted another plate. This time the screen flared to life with a star map which grew larger and larger, hurtling towards them.
"Wayland—to the left." He prodded a button and one of the dots flared green for a moment.
Farree felt giddy, as if he had been wafted into that screen without any safe anchorage or propulsion. His gaze flickered, almost as if he had been ordered, not to view the planet Zoror had pointed out but to look for another. His wings spread, not from any conscious order of his mind.
"Farree!" Maelen's voice broke the beginning of the spell. "What is it?"
"The chart—there and there!" He had reached the table, edged past Zoror, as his fingers jabbed at the sector far distant from the flashing representative of Wayland to the northeast, nearly at the end of the frame itself where there was only a scattering of stars.
"Why?" Zoror asked. "Wayland is near the rim—there is very little beyond save unexplored worlds, mapped by chart swimmers but with no information taped to draw either First in Scouts or Free Traders, as venturesome as those are."
"No!" Farree pounded impatiently at the table. Togger squeaked and tumbled from his hold on Farree's shirt. He fell on his back and lay for a moment waving his claws, wide spread to show all their vicious promise. One of those scraped along Farree's hand as he raised it to point again at the bright dots on the screen, but luckily did not cut flesh. "There—that is what I saw—the sky dancers! That chart—it was what I saw behind them!"
"Sky dancers?" echoed Maelen. "Little brother, we have not been there."
Farree was impatient now. Within him there was a tug, a need to answer something which was neither words nor mind touch from his companions. "I—when we were there—in the shiptown. I saw—because of this." Now he ran his fingers around that brand the vanished scarves had set upon him. "There were the winged ones—the Mist Dancers—and then before them the lights. I tell you—the lights are those!" Again he pointed to the screen. "They are there!"
Vorlund leaned across to see the chart better.
"You say this Xexepan is a Free Trader—and a slaver?" His tone was cold and his jaw was set. He spoke not to Farree but to the Zacanthan.
"My son, there are rogue traders. And if a Guild man wishes perhaps to find himself a cover—can he not use such a listing?"
"No!" Now it was Vorlund's turn to explode. "We are not dirty handed, no matter what others may say of us. As for this Xexepan—if he wears such a registry mark and is not one of us—then he is an outlaw and no one can stand between him and any trader who calls him to account. We can take his ship, him—" Vorlund drew a deep breath. "There was the affair of the Angol– Surely it is remembered! Those who used her so—they did not space again—unless walking on the emptiness outside an air lock can be considered spacing. The Free Traders take care of their own name—those who would push it into darkness will have every ship against them. I say that your Xexepan was either a liar—or the worst of fools—to name himself so!"
"Well enough," Maelen's calm voice, measured against the heat of Vorlund's, was very cool. "Wayland—let us see now."
It was her turn to survey the chart closer. Zacanthan drew aside for her. "I have been a spacer for a short time but—" Now she tapped the screen with a forefinger. "Look you—a ship riding outward from this"—it was the cluster of stars Farree had indicated—"what is the first planetfall suitable for trade or perhaps for contacting some emissary of the Guild? If one stumbles upon a treasure which is too large for one to handle there are but two solutions—one, to bring forth a part of it and seek a partner, or—to leave it, to be ever more regretted. I do not think that Xexepan is the type to nourish regrets. Therefore with a token cargo he would search for the nearest planet to serve his purpose. It may even be that he was already one of the eyes and hands of the Guild—to search out what will be of meaning to them.
"Somehow I do not think he is a slaver. The Patrol rides the space along the rim. There would be too much risk in slaving. Perhaps he did go to Way land to hunt what he did not have—a Guild contact."
"He came from there!" Farree held to his own interest.
"This Guide"—the name twisted in his mouth—"had– the wings—the parts of them! You say he had skins—what if those 'skins' were wings?"
Vorlund drew a breath which sounded almost like a whistle. But it was Maelen who asked in that calm voice of hers, "What did you see, little brother? Tell us."
He frowned, trying to remember every small detail. "There was an open land, very fair—" For a moment he was caught by the memory of that place so totally unlike any world he had seen. "There were mountains—and those who danced upon the air. I could not see their faces in the mist. But they possessed wings"—he put up a hand to touch the outer ribbing of his own—"like mine. They—danced and then came the lights through the mist and those formed that!" Once more he indicated the corner of the chart.
"A far reader." Maelen looked to him. "It could be possible. Try—" She reached out to the top of the table where sat the screen and caught up what must be a lump of earth, or so it looked to Farree. This she pushed at him until, without knowing why, he took it up. Again without the volition of any thought his fingers enclosed it tightly. He looked to Maelen for an explanation.
"What comes to your mind, little brother?" she asked.
Why did she do this when there were other things to be thought of? But under her compelling gaze he looked down at the clod he held. In that part of his mind which could and did speak to Togger and the others something stirred.
He closed his eyes, again not knowing just why.
Before him was darkness, then into that night came—
A creature moved. It was slender of body, and was raised on stiltlike limbs—four of them. Two more jutted out from the body and those gripped a black wand or stick. The slim body was round in comparison to those legs
, as was its much smaller head. And it emitted purpose—and that purpose was killing. Behind that no rage nor fear, rather the neutral state of a thing which grew because the instinct of growth lay within it, as might a seed within the earth. It raised its weapon, if weapon that was, to bring it down with what appeared to be the full strength it possessed.
Yet that defense did not save it. Rather it stumbled back as a sharp lance of what might be flame centered on the creature's body. It twisted its limbs as it fell, twitching and kicking. Still Farree knew that it was dead.
He opened his eyes then and looked to Zoror. Choosing words as best he could he was about to speak when the Zacanthan said it for him.
"Death—yes—and a being who knew enough to arm itself and strive for defense." He spoke to Maelen and Vorlund. "You saw—?"
They both nodded. Zoror took the lump from Farree. He tapped it carefully against the table then brought forth that talon instrument which he had used to such good effect in the shiptown. The nearly iron hard covering flaked away, to show a contorted mass of fine yellow bones—hardly larger than a finger.
"This is from my own world," the Zacanthan explained. "Zatan made an expedition when I was but a fingerling. He went into the Canyon of Double Dark and what he found there was this—" Again he slipped a tape holder into the screen rim and the scene vanished to display something else—a bulky cylinder lying on a table, a hand and part of an arm of a Zacanthan resting next to it to show that it was indeed small.
"The remains of a ship," Zoror continued. "Old beyond even our counting, but truly a star ship. The crew must have been both small and limited as to numbers. We sent inner beams to explore and classify. Its like had never been seen before. That"—he indicated the bones still entombed in the stone hard lump—"was found not far from the exit lock. What our little brother here has shown us may be a crew member of that ship. This lump was caught against the ship which our expedition brought back. I have kept it as a reminder that there may be strange things even in one's old world—puzzles which have no solving—as yet. We have talked, Farree and I, about legends and tales, both encased in 'history' as these bones are in this petrified soil, but perhaps still alive in the speech of some races even today. The Terrans have such stories, which they carried with them out among the stars. A winged race, a race which once inhabited the same planet as they sprang from, a race which was feared both for their strange knowledge and its enmity with the dominant species of that home world.
"The legend sprang up again on many worlds as those of Terran descent spread among the stars: Little People sometimes friendly, but mostly to be feared for the powers they possessed, which could not be equaled or understood by those of other blood.
"It is perhaps not mere coincidence that such a story could be known on Wayland. In fact that world was named by a scout who was known to be a collector of legends. He served my people also with what he brought back in strange tales and artifacts. When age caught him he retired to Zorp where he was received with honors and his lectures were deservedly popular. I, myself, attended the one which dealt with 'Wayland,' which world he named after a legendary 'god' or storied hero. There was part of a memory song which he told us then—and it has lingered always in my mind, for to my race it carries a hint of interesting speculation. To his kind it was meant as a warning, to my race a challenge in our quest for knowledge.
"The bit of old lore went like this:
"Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare not go a-hunting For fear of little men."
Vorlund's lips had moved in company with the Zacanthan's as he repeated the rhyme. The Zacanthan nodded.
"So you know this also, far traveler?"
"I heard a part of it once—from a tales teller on Dawn. But it was then part of another story which ended—'because of the grind'—which was a local story monster—one who was an eater of children."
"Little men," repeated Maelen. "And the knowledge of them spread—yet none have been seen?"
Zoror nodded toward Farree. "Perhaps they are seen now. As for gifts which would seem strange and even dangerous to those who did not have them—here is our younger brother able to mind speak, and also to read the past in part." He tapped the broken lump.
Only Farree was thinking of something else. "The wings," his hand went up to touch an edge of one of his own. "The wings—'skins'?"
That rage which had possessed him earlier was returning. Again his hands met before him so he could rub fingers about that brand which had been set on him, as he looked over Zoror's shoulder to the screen where he saw not the miniature space craft still pictured there but rather the star chart. It would seem that the Zacanthan's thought moved with him though Farree was not aware of the invasion of that other mind this time.
"It would seem that there is trouble there."
"The Patrol?" questioned Vorlund.
Slowly the Zacanthan shook his head. "What evidence have we? You have read the data existing on the man with whom we have had contact. Xexepan is under suspicion, but unless more evidence comes to light they would not move. The Guild? One can believe anything of them. What we overheard makes plain that there have been seeing eyes following Farree and doubtless you also. But it is our younger brother here who I think is their main objective. Yet he does not have any knowledge which would benefit them. Thus they want him because he is how he is."
"And who am I?" flared Farree. Sometimes he felt as if he were entangled in words when he wished only the freedom to do—to do what? He could not answer that.
"That is what you have come here to learn," Zoror returned. "A race new to us, save in old legends—"
"A race," Farree repeated, "which was once feared, which has a feud perhaps with the Guild—" His mind sped from what he believed to what might be believed. There were odds and ends which might well be woven to form the truth of that!
"West quadrant." Vorlund might be still staring at the chart but it was plain that his thoughts were speeding elsewhere. "There are journey tapes for Wayland, that must be so. But do those exist which will lift a ship still farther out?"
"Officially?" Zoror picked up his drink again. "That would be only the brief one of the scanner. There may be another—perhaps Xexepan has it."
"A scanner tape," Krip said musingly. "We have operated on such before. It is a chancy way to travel, to be sure. But my people proved that it can be done—over and over again."
"So they have," the Zacanthan agreed.
"You cannot go there." Farree spoke against the surge of feeling which was filling him. "You have done much for me—" He held out his hands, one toward Maelen and one to the Free Trader. "Twice you have freed me. From the stench that was the Limits, from the hiding place I carried with me." His wings waved as he remembered how he had walked under the burden of his tight-furled pinions, thinking that he was one deformed, a bit of refuse. They had called him, those of the Limits, "Dung," and he had accepted that he was not one who had any future save the days and nights of a scavenger. Not until when venturing with these two into danger had his wings at last broken free, and he had done for his friends what they had done for him—a service beyond their power of body. They did not look at him. Krip might have been turning over in his mind some problem, viewing it first from one side and then the other, as he often did. Maelen again flexed her fingers—she could have been painting on the air some picture which only she and those of her people might translate.
Zoror leaned back in his chair, putting aside the drained fruit. "Yes." He was not answering Farree but appeared to speak his own thoughts aloud. "There have been expeditions outfitted from just such a thin thread. But two things will be needed—authorization from the Patrol and credits enough to outfit for what may be years of search."
Krip's mouth quirked. "And neither do we have;" Farree stared again at the star pattern. He was without any influence, without any credit save what had been his part of the reward for their smashing of the Guild conspiracy on Yiktor. He wore wings to be s
ure, but they were not such as would bear him across the star lanes. Yet there was a hunger growing in him, the feeling there would never be any peace for him unless he could find out—
"No, you do not," Zoror conceded. "But—" Maelen interrupted. "An expedition for the purpose of studying a new race, or ruins remaining: what else do you have but the best reason of all! Your own life has been spent thus, and if you should add something to that great storehouse of knowledge your people maintain—"
There was a throaty chuckle from the Zacanthan. "Sister, you need not tempt me. As all my race would be, I am already won to this quest. You are right, we do not value any reward save that of knowledge gained. We heard those space vermin speak of a treasure. That must be the lever used to move the Guild. However, we can adapt that rumor to our own use. Treasure has many times been found in the remains of a dead and gone race, or even species. Wait—"
He pulled out of the embrace of the easiseat and crossed to a second screen. Before he dropped his hand to the call button there he waved at the others. They caught his unvoiced warning—to scramble out of the range of that screen so that whoever might answer would not learn that Zoror was not alone.
The face which flashed on the screen at Zoror's summoning was that of a Tryistian, her sleek feather crest lying flat, her large eyes half lidded. By the badge on her jacket she was one of the records keepers and also Patrol, but of the Scouts.
Zoror spoke first: "Serve-Wing, is it possible to locate for my seeing the spotter tape covering—?" And he recited a jumble of figures which meant nothing to Farree.
"Your purpose, High One?" she asked.
"Recent information. There may well be a find of note to be made there. Before I make my report I must check this."
"A spotter tape, High One, has little information. However, if anything so reported would be of interest to you, it is freed. Switch to inner files—"