The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 01

by Anthology

He laid his cheek against the stock, concentrating on his sights. The barrel moved up and down with his breathing, then stopped.

  Pete examined him curiously, then looked out of his port.

  The projector barrel was moving, to center its lens on target. As Pete watched, the lens barrel swung till he could see the glint of light on the outer focusing circles. As the rack with its charges started to face him, he moved back, preparing to roll into the narrow slit beneath the wall.

  Now, the lens was pointing directly toward him, its iris beginning to widen. He slid off the ledge.

  There was a sudden, snapping explosion near him. He looked up, to see the lens system disintegrate. The projector suddenly became a blue glare.

  Pete watched as the tiny figures of the crew members flew back from their fiercely glowing weapon.

  Abruptly, he realized he was in an exposed position. He ducked sideways, away from the opening, and covered his face.

  There was a rumbling multiple explosion. Blinding light reflected from the walls of the house. A few tiles crashed to the court. Pete caught his breath again and risked an upward glance.

  A tall pillar of flame had grown from the field outside. For long moments, it stood motionless, searching for a limit to the sky. Then it darkened. Smoke drifted toward the ranch house and bits of wreckage rained down upon house and field alike. Little puffs of smoke appeared in the sky, close by the still rising cloud.

  "Pinwheel," said Don calmly. "That's one Dad couldn't beat if he tried. Wish he'd been around to see it." Suddenly, his forced calm deserted him.

  "Oh, boy," he yelled happily. "Like shooting snakes in a pit." He shoved his rifle back through the port.

  "Try to wreck our house, will you, you bums!"

  A figure wobbled up from the field, weapon weaving unsteadily toward the wall. The rifle snapped viciously and the figure melted back into the ground.

  There was another motion and a sudden spurt of dust followed immediately after the sound of a shot. The motion ceased.

  The sound of the click of the rifle action was loud against the silence of the scene.

  * * * * *

  No more figures moved. Bright flames were growing--working toward one another, to form a widening lake of flame in the grass. Don sighed and started pulling the sling from his arm. Pete stood up, looking at him.

  "I'm a little confused," he said slowly. "I thought that weapon of yours merely threw a solid missile. The way you described it, I thought it was just ... well, something like a long-range throwing sling."

  He looked out the port again, then pointed.

  "But that weapons carrier was shielded. I didn't think you could touch one of those with anything but another inductor."

  Don leaned the rifle against the wall.

  "That's the way they figured it, too," he remarked. "But they forgot something.

  "You see, rifles have been obsolete for so long everybody's forgotten their capabilities. Everybody, that is, except a few crazy hobbyists. And no one ever thinks in terms of long-range missile throwers."

  "So?"

  "So, I've been watching these clay pigeon shoots of theirs for a long time. They've had a lot of them on broadcasts, you know. And I noticed they always operate the same way. Actually ... well, you saw them. They're not too careful." He smiled.

  "Remember you remarked that I could have potted a few of them while they were getting into position? Only reason I didn't was that I didn't want to give them a warning." He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  "You see, they know they're going to use that projector. The rigged speaker just makes it look good--as though the blast were necessary and unavoidable. That way, the public is convinced that the whole affair is a heroic battle against evil. See what I mean?

  "So, they have everything all set up. Safeties are off. Activators are hot. Everything's lined up so they can look sharp. Snappy operation."

  He shook his head with a smile. "But actually, they're a little overconfident. Their field screen will stop any heat ray. No khroal charge can get through--it'd get damped. The screen will ground out a Nerne-Herzfeld couple, and no bunch of fugitives is going to be lugging an inductor around with them. So there can't be any counter-battery fire. Result? The projector crew feels perfectly safe."

  His smile widened. "But that isn't enough. They want to be comfortable, too. It's hot inside a deflector screen and they'd get their uniforms all sweaty and out of press. Besides, the screen draws a lot of power and they'd have to rev up their motor. The noise would make it rough for the sound crew. Catch?"

  Pete moved his head. "I begin to get the idea," he said. "The inductors are real touchy when they're armed. They can arc over and flare back in a real hurry if things get in their fields. That's why the safety lens--and the iris."

  "Sure." Don nodded. "Sure it is. And it keeps the beam tube nice and unobstructed. Dry, too. As I said, they're pretty safe. Just like pigeon hunters." He looked out at the field.

  "Sort of funny how things can add up," he added. "Here's a guy who makes all sorts of plans. He's got everything figured out and tied up with a ribbon. He's got the whole Galactic Federation standing around, just watching. Not a thing they can do to him legally. And he's got all Oredan in his pocket--all but one family and a few odd yokels he doesn't even worry about. So he's about to fix the family.

  "Then someone else starts planning. And some little guy goes and slips a little chunk of fast moving lead down a lens barrel that nobody even thought of protecting. And everything goes wrong. All kinds of things happen. Like investigating patrols ordered in by the Stellar Guard. And conclaves." He grinned and looked at the sky to the west.

  "So," he added, "a few little things add up. One family. One little piece of lead. One house that didn't get blown up. One flight of----" He let his voice trail off and looked at his watch.

  "Wonder where those patrol ships are. They should be in plain sight by this time, diving down the eastern slope."

  He narrowed his eyes, searching the empty western sky.

  * * * * *

  Pete looked around the courtyard. Broken tiles littered the ground. Here and there, lay bricks and bits of mortar. Some freak of backblast had torn a shutter off the house and it lay brokenly a few feet from him. He looked back toward the house.

  One corner of the roof had been shattered and he could see broken roof beams. A cornice from the wall had crashed into the house front and bits of it lay strewn through a gaping hole in the living room wall. Stucco littered the narrow border of shrubbery around the house, whitening the green of the leaves.

  And a twisted bit of metal caught his attention. Obviously, it was part of a flier. He shook his head and looked at the sky over the western mountains.

  "Quite a blast," he said. "Look, Don, are you sure anything's coming to back us up? A couple more of these and we'll be standing in an open field."

  Michaels reached up to stroke his face. "Right now, I'm not too sure about anything," he admitted. "Except that next time they try to comb us over, they'll take a few less chances." He frowned.

  "Mr. Masterson was pretty certain about things, but----"

  He spun around and walked toward the flier port.

  "You know, I think we'd better play it safe," he went on. "Right now, we've got clear air. That explosion put everything around here on the ground, but hard. But that won't last. Stern's people will be flocking around here in a few minutes to see what went on. We better not be around when they arrive. Go get your father."

  He pulled the flier door open.

  "I'll have this thing warmed and ready to flit by the time you get back up here. Make it fast, will you?"

  Pete had already dived down an escape slot. As Don started through his pre-flight routine, he reappeared. Jasu Waern followed him.

  "What happened?" The older man looked around the littered courtyard, then at the flier which Don had pushed out of its cover. His eyes widened.

  "But I thought they would use an inductor."
<
br />   "They tried," Don told him. "Come on. Get in." He looked anxiously at his instrument panel.

  "Little risky," he muttered, "taking off so fast. Synchs and generators haven't had time to stabilize. But it beats letting them get in range for some more target practice."

  He eased a lever toward him and watched the pointers on a dial as the flier lifted. The red needle started to oscillate and he reached quickly to adjust a knob. The oscillation stopped. He looked overside.

  "Hm-m-m," he said, "so far, so good. Well, let's have at it."

  He reached out and pulled a handle toward him, watching the needles. They remained steady and he nodded and pulled another control toward him, then gripped the control wheel.

  The flier leaped into the air and surged toward the mountains.

  Don sighed and made a minute adjustment on the synchro knob.

  "Well, we haven't flipped yet," he said. "We'll stay on deck all the way. Not such a good target that way. Take a look back there, Pete. See anything in the air to the east?"

  "Yeah." Pete had been looking back. "There's plenty back there. And they're in a hurry."

  Don jerked his head around, then glanced at the mountains before them.

  "So are we. They built this thing to win races, not lose them. Hope they knew what they were doing." He pulled a panel lever all the way back and the flier surged forward, pressing them back into their seats.

  "Hang on," he said. "Some of these corners are going to be tight."

  The ship swung into a narrow valley between two hills, bucking and twisting as Don worked the control back and forth. As a high cliff loomed up in front of them, he pulled the flier up, then around in a screaming turn. A second later, they almost touched the tips of trees as they swung around the shoulder of a steep hill. The flier dropped abruptly, seeking the floor of a gorge, then swung violently as it followed a swift flowing stream.

  Don guided it into a side gorge, then suddenly pulled up, to jump through a notch in the surrounding hills. For an instant, the flier paused, hovering in the air over a deep, wide valley, then it dropped like a stooping falcon, sweeping sideways at the end of its drop, to come to rest under an overhanging rock formation. The pilot snapped off switches and leaned back.

  "We've got a small-sized walk ahead of us," he said, "but it's through some pretty dense growth and we'll be invisible from the air." He grinned.

  "The way I dove into that first canyon, anyone with detectors on me would assume I was heading for the Doer--if he knew the country fairly well. Hope that's the way they know it--just about that well."

  He climbed out of the ship, holding the door open.

  "Come on, Pete," he ordered, "give me a hand and we'll shove this thing back in the cave so it won't be too easy to spot."

  Jasu Waern climbed out after his son.

  "I shall help, too," he said resignedly. "Which of the clans do we join?"

  Don put a shoulder against the side of the flier. "Kor-en," he said. "I know them pretty well. Matter of fact, the Korenthal wanted to adopt me at one time. Dad talked him out of it."

  Waern nodded. "The Kor-en are known to us," he murmured. "Possibly----" He added his weight to the pressure on the flier's side.

  They pushed the machine far back into the cavern under the rock, then camouflaged its smooth lines with brush and rubble. Finally, they walked over the rough ground to a nearby thicket. Don paused, looking up. Then he pointed.

  "There they are," he said, "in a search pattern. Guess they got a detector flash on us when we jumped the ridge." He shrugged. "Well, they've got a tough hunt now. We'll detour through that line of trees to keep out of the open."

  He jerked his head, to point.

  "There's a narrow break in the cliffs way over there. When we get through that, we'll come into Korelanni."

  * * * * *

  Halfway through the narrow crevice, Don stopped and turned aside, to enter a narrow alcove that had been carved out of the rock. Hanging inside was a long tube of wood. Don rubbed his hands vigorously on the moss which grew on the rocks, then stroked the tube.

  A tone resonated from the chamber, growing louder as Don continued to stroke the tube. After a few seconds, an answering note of different pitch could be heard. Don nodded and stepped back into the path.

  "It's all right," he said. "They'll meet us at the head of the path." He smiled.

  "This way, we don't have someone dropping rocks on our heads."

  Pete looked up at the towering cliffs which almost joined overhead.

  "You mean they've got guards up there?"

  "Always," Don told him. "Day and night. Right now, they're at peace with everybody, but they never let their guard down. We'll have a reception committee waiting for us." He started striding up the steep path.

  At the head of the chasm, five men waited for them. In their hands, they held sticks about two feet long. At the end of each stick was a thong, with a flexible leather pad which could hold a fair sized stone. Don bowed in the direction of one of the group.

  "I know you, Korendwar," he said.

  The other bowed. "Michaels," he said. "I know you. And these?"

  Don looked at him, his thoughts going into overdrive. The form of address was all wrong. Always before, he had been Donald, of the clan Michaels--they abbreviated it to Michaelsdon. But what had gone wrong now?

  He tensed a little, then relaxed. At least, it was a friendly greeting. One does not "know" an enemy. He extended a hand toward Jasu Waern.

  "I bring the Waerntal, Jasu. And his son, Waernpeto," he said.

  The other nodded. "The men of Kor-en know the Waernu," he said noncommitally. "You want dealings with the Korental?"

  Don nodded. "The Waerntal would discuss clan affairs with the Korental." he said. "I but serve as guide."

  "It is well. You and this clansman may rest by the wells." Korendwar turned toward Jasu Waern, gesturing with his sling.

  "I will conduct you to the Korental, your honor."

  * * * * *

  Pete leaned against a mossy bank and watched one of the village women as she raised a clay pot from a well.

  "Tell me, Don, why did you push my father forward to consult with the Korental? Why didn't you go ahead and deal with him yourself? You said you knew him. Father doesn't."

  "That's just the point," smiled Don. "I do know him. And I know his people, and his way of thinking." He waved a hand to indicate the entire collection of huts.

  "These people are about as formal as you can get, when business is at hand. Did you notice the way I talked to Korendwar? Migosh, I've hunted with that guy, rolled around in the dirt with him when we were kids, know him about as well as you'd know a brother. But he was on guard. And, friend, you don't get informal with a clansman when he's on guard.

  "This is just like a little nation, and the Korental is just as surely a ruler as any king of a huge country," he went on. "Even more so than most."

  He fixed his eyes on the council hut, across the narrow end of the valley.

  "Everyone in his clan is his child--symbolically, at least. He tells them what to do. He tells them what to plant and when--and how much. He tells them when to hunt, and where. Governs their lives down to some pretty fine points. I mean, he's as absolute as an absolute monarch can get.

  "And if you want to get along with an absolute monarch, you treat him on his terms." He glanced at his companion.

  "Oh, I don't mean this guy's a tyrant or despot," he added quickly. "These people are pretty proud. They wouldn't like a dictator--as such. But the Korental doesn't need force to govern his people. They do things his way because ... well, it's a matter of tradition. It's the only honorable way to do things. See what I mean?"

  Pete shook his head doubtfully and Don frowned.

  "Pete, your family was originally a mountain clan. I should think you'd know these customs better than I do."

  Again, Pete shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, "but I don't. You see, my father and my uncle thought i
t would be better if I learned the customs and culture of your people and of the plainsmen. And they thought I should be familiar with the ways of the great cities."

  He looked across the village at the great tree which shaded the council hut.

  "You see," he continued, "my great uncle was king. And he had no children. He was getting old and it was agreed that if he died childless, his queen would then adopt me. And, of course, I would then be head of the Onaru, and king of Oredan." He smiled wanly.

  "The agreement was not made public, of course. And the queen no longer lives. But signatures and agreement are recorded at Oreladar. And they appear in the Book of the Waernu, against my name. References in the Book of the Waernu are so arranged that I may be quickly removed, to be placed in an already prepared place in the Book of the Onaru, if the time should come. This and the fact that my mother was the daughter of a brother of the king, places me in the line of kings of Oredan." He shrugged.

  "Especially since the king did, in fact, die childless.

  "And this, in my father's eyes, meant that I should know of the plains, of the cities, and of the galactics, since there, he said, lies the power and wealth of the present day Oredan."

  Don shrugged. "Wealth, maybe," he said quietly. "I'm not so sure about the power. The pressure of History is a very real thing, and I seem to remember noticing that every time some king has gotten into a jam with one of the other kingdoms or with his own nobles, he's had to raise the clans. And there have been times when that wasn't easy."

  Pete nodded. "I know. The Onaru took the throne two hundred years ago, simply because the clans withheld support from the Chalenu--the Old Line."

  "Yeah." Don picked idly at the bark of a tree. "And Stern's been trying to get the clans into hot water ever since he took over."

  Pete looked at him for a moment, then looked about the village.

  There was no orderly arrangement of houses, as could be found in town. Wherever someone had found a suitable spot, there he had embedded his poles. And there, he had erected walls, daubed them with clay from the nearby stream, and formed long, limber wands from the thickets into arched roofs, to be covered with long grass from the valley. There were isolated houses, and there were tight little groups of houses. Possibly, Pete thought, family groups.