“I—I should be most grateful if you could. While we are taught to resign ourselves to such misfortunes, as things earned in earlier incarnations, I don’t think I could bear it. I should kill myself.”
Frome pondered. “D’you know when he’s planning this attack?”
“He leaves the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow night the Dzlieri will celebrate.”
That meant a wild orgy, and Sirat might well take the occasion to copy his subjects. On the other hand, the confusion afforded a chance to escape.
“I’ll try to cook up a scheme,” he told her.
Next day Frome found his assistants even more restless and insubordinate than usual. About noon they walked out for good. “Got to get ready for the party!” they shouted. “To hell with work!”
Mishinatven had vanished, too. Frome sat alone, thinking. After a while he wandered around the shop, handling pieces of material. He noticed the spoilt Galton whistle lying where he had thrown it the day before; the remaining length of copper tubing from which he had made the whistles; the big copper kettle he had never gotten around either to scrapping or to fixing. Slowly an idea took shape.
He went to the forge room and started the furnace up again. When he had a hot fire, he brazed a big thick patch over the hole in the kettle, on the inside where it would take pressure. He tested the kettle for leakage and found none. Then he sawed a length off the copper tube and made another Galton whistle, using the spoilt one as a model.
In the scrap-sorting room he found a length of plastic which he made into a sealing ring or gasket to go between the kettle and its lid. He took off the regular handle of the kettle, twisted a length of heavy wire into a shorter bail, and installed it so that it pressed the lid tightly down against the gasket. Finally he made a little conical adapter of sheet copper and brazed it to the spout of the kettle, and brazed the whistle to the adapter. He then had an air-tight kettle whose spout ended in the whistle.
Then it was time for dinner.
Sirat seemed in a rollicking good humor and drank more moikhada than usual.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow we cast the die. What was that ancient European general who remarked about casting the die when crossing a river? Napoleon? Anyway, let us drink to tomorrow!” He raised his goblet theatrically. “Will you not weaken, Elena? Regrettable; you do not know what you miss. Come, let us fall upon the provender, lest my cook decamp to the revelers before we finish.”
From outside came Dzlieri voices in drunken song, and sounds of a fight. The high shriek of a female Dzlieri tore past the palace, followed by the laughter and hoof beats of a male in pursuit.
These alarming sounds kept the talk from reaching its usual brilliance. When the meal was over, Sirat said: “Adrian, you must excuse me; I have a portentous task to accomplish. Please return to your quarters. Not you, Elena; kindly remain where you are.”
Frome looked at the two of them, then at the guards, and went. In passing through the breezeway, he saw a mob of Dzlieri dancing around a bonfire. The palace proper seemed nearly deserted.
Instead of going to his room, he went into the machine shop. He lit a cresset to see by, took the big copper kettle out to the pump, and half-filled it with several liters of water. Then he staggered back into the shop and heaved the kettle up on top of the forge. He clamped the lid on, stirred the coals, and pumped the bellows until he had a roaring fire.
He hunted around the part of the shop devoted to the repair of tools and weapons until he chose a big spear with a three-meter shaft and a broad keen-edged half-meter head. Then he went back to the forge with it.
After a long wait, a faint curl of water vapor appeared in the air near the spout of the kettle. It grew to a long plume, showing that steam was shooting out fast. Although Frome could hear nothing, he could tell by touching a piece of metal to the spout that the whistle was vibrating at a tremendous frequency.
Remembering that ultrasonics have directional qualities, Frome slashed through the matting with the broad blade of the spear until the forge room lay open to view in several directions. Then he went back into the palace.
By now he knew the structure well. Towards the center of the maze, Sirat had his private suite: a sitting room, bedroom, and bath. The only way into this suite was through an always-guarded door into the sitting room.
Frome walked along the hallway that ran beside the suite and around the corner to the door into the sitting room. He listened, ear to the matting. Although it was hard to hear anything over the racket outside, he thought he caught sounds of struggle within. And from up ahead came Dzlieri voices.
He stole to the bend in the corridor and heard: “. . . surely some demon must have sent this sound to plague us. In truth it makes my head ache to the splitting point!”
“It is like God’s whistle,” said the other voice, “save that it comes not from God’s chambers, and blows continually. Try stuffing a bit of this into your ears.”
The first voice (evidently that of one of the two regular guards) said: “It helps a little; remain you here on guard while I seek the medicine man.”
“That I will, but send another take your place, for God will take it amiss if he finds but one of us here. And hasten, for the scream drives me to madness!”
Dzlieri hooves departed. Frome grinned in his whiskers. He might take a chance of attacking the remaining guard, but if the fellow’s ears were plugged there was a better way. Sirat would have closed off his bedroom from the sitting room by one of those curtains of slats that did duty for doors.
Frome retraced his steps until he was sure he was opposite the bedroom. Then he thrust his spear into the matting, slashed downward, and pushed through the slit into a bedroom big enough for basketball.
Sirat Mongkut looked up from what he was doing. He had tied Elena’s wrists to the posts at the head of the bed, so that she lay supine, and now, despite her struggles, was tying one of her ankles to one of the posts at the foot. Here was a conqueror who liked to find his dynasties in comfort.
“Adrian!” cried Elena.
Sirat’s hand flashed to his hip—and came away empty. Frome’s biggest gamble had paid off: he assumed that just this once Sirat might have discarded his pistol. Frome had planned, if he found Sirat armed, to throw the spear at him; now he could take the surer way.
He gripped the big spear in both hands, like a bayonetted rifle, and ran towards Sirat. The stocky figure leaped onto the bed and then to the floor on the far side, fumbling for his whistle. Frome sprang onto the bed in pursuit, but tripped on Elena’s bound ankle and almost sprawled headlong. By the time he recovered, he had staggered nearly the width of the room. Meanwhile Sirat, having avoided Frome’s rush, put his whistle to his mouth, and his broad cheeks bulged with blowing.
Frome gathered himself for another charge. Sirat blew and blew, his expression changing from confidence to alarm as nobody came. Frome knew that no Dzlieri in the neighborhood could hear the whistle over the continuous blast of the one attached to the kettle. But Sirat, unable to hear ultrasonics, did not know his signals were jammed.
As Frome started towards him again, Sirat threw a chair. It flew with deadly force; part of it gave Frome’s knuckles a nasty rap while another part smote him on the forehead, sending him reeling back. Sirat darted across the room again on his short legs and tore from the wall one of those groups of native weapons he ornamented his palace with.
Down with a clatter came the mass of cutlery: a pair of crossed battle axes, a gisarme, and a brass buckler. By the time Frome, having recovered from the impact of the chair, came up, Sirat had possessed himself of the buckler and one of the axes. He whirled and brought up the buckler just in time to ward off a lunge of the spear. Then he struck out with his ax and spun himself half-around as he met only empty air. Frome, seeing the blow coming, had leaped back.
Sirat followed, striking out again and again. Frome gave ground, afraid to parry for fear of having his spear ruined, then drove Sirat back again by jabs at his head, legs, an
d exposed arm. They began to circle, the spear point now and then clattering against the shield. Frome found that he could hold Sirat off by his longer reach, but could not easily get past the buckler. Round they went, clank! clank!
Sirat was slow for a second and Frome drove the spear point into his right thigh, just above the knee . . . But the thrust, not centered, inflicted only a flesh wound and a great rip in Sirat’s pants. Sirat leaped forward, whirling his ax, and drove Frome back almost to the wall before the latter stopped him with his thrusts.
They circled again. Then came a moment when Sirat was between Frome and the door to the sitting room. Quick as a flash Sirat threw his ax at Frome, dropped his shield, turned, and ran for the curtained door, calling, “Help!”
Frome dodged the ax, which nevertheless hit him a jarring blow in the shoulder. As he recovered, he saw Sirat halfway to safety, hands out to wrench the curtain aside. He could not possibly catch the Siamese before the latter reached the sitting room and summoned his delinquent guards to help him.
Frome threw his spear like a javelin. The shaft arced through the air and the point entered Sirat’s broad back. In it went. And in, until half its length was out of sight.
Sirat fell forward, face down, clutching at the carpet and gasping. Blood ran from his mouth.
Frome strode over to where the would-be emperor lay and wrenched out the spear. He held it poised, ready to drive home again, until Sirat ceased to move. He was almost sorry . . . But there was no time for Hamlet-like attitudes. He wiped the blade on Sirat’s clothes, carried it over to the bed, and sawed through Elena’s bonds with the edge. Without waiting for explanations he said: “If we’re quick, we may get away before they find out. That is, if the guards haven’t heard the noise in here.”
“They will think it was he and I,” she replied. “Before he dragged me in here he told them not to come in, no matter what they heard, unless he whistled for them.”
“Serves him right. I’m going downstreet to get some of his zebras. Where’s that bloody gun of his?”
“In that chest,” she said, pointing. “He locked it in there, I suppose because he was afraid I’d snatch it and shoot him—as though I could kill any sentient being.”
“How do we get into—” Frome began, and stopped as he saw that the chest had a combination lock. “I fear we don’t. How about his ammunition chest in the storeroom?”
“That has a combination lock, too.”
“Tamates!” growled Frome. “It looks as though we’d have to start out without a gun. While I’m gone, try to collect a sack of tucker from the kitchen, and whatever else looks useful.” And out he went through the slit.
Outside the palace, he took care to saunter as if on legitimate business. The Dzlieri, having cast off what few inhibitions they normally possessed, were too far gone in their own amusements to pay him much heed, though one or two roared greetings at him.
Catching the zebras, though, was something else. The animals dodged around the corral, evading with ease his efforts to seize their bridles. Finally he called to a Dzlieri he knew: “Mzumelitsen, lend a hand, will you? God wants a ride.”
“Wait till I finish what I am doing,” said the Dzlieri.
Frome waited until Mzumelitsen finished what he was doing and came over to help collect three zebras. Once caught, the animals followed Frome back to the palace tamely enough. He hitched them to the rail in the rear and went into the machine shop, where he rummaged until he found a machete and a hatchet. He also gathered up the radar target, which looked still serviceable if slightly battered.
When he got back, he found that Elena had acquired a bag of food, a supply of matches, and a few other items. These they loaded on one of the zebras, and the other two they saddled.
When they rode out of Amnairad, the Dzlieri celebration was still in its full raucous swing.
###
Next day they were beginning to raise the lower slopes of the foothills of Mount Ertma when Frome held up a hand and said: “Listen!”
Through the muffling mass of the Vishnuvan jungle they heard loud Dzlieri voices. Then the sound of bodies moving along the trail came to their ears.
Frome exchanged one look with Elena and they broke into a gallop.
The pursuers must have been coming fast also, for the sounds behind became louder and louder. Frome caught a glimpse of the gleam of metal behind them. Whoops told them the Dzlieri had seen them, too.
Frome said: “You go on; I’ll lead them off the trail and lose them.”
“I won’t! I won’t desert you—”
“Do as I say!”
“But—”
“Go on!” he yelled so fiercely that she went. Then he sat waiting until they came into sight, fighting down his own fears, for he had no illusions about being able to “lose” the Dzlieri in their native jungle.
They poured up the trail towards him with triumphant screams. If he only had a gun . . . At least they did not seem to have any, either. They had only a few guns that would shoot (not counting the shotguns, whose shells were still locked up) and would have divided into many small parties to scour the trails leading out from their center.
Frome turned the zebra’s head off into the jungle. Thank the gods the growth was thinner here than lower down, where the jungle was practically impassable off the trails.
He kicked his mount into an irregular run and vainly tried to protect his face from the lashing branches. Thorns ripped his skin and a trunk gave his right leg a brutal bow. As the Dzlieri bounded off the trail after him, he guided his beast in a wide semicircle around them to intersect the trail again behind his pursuers.
When he reached the trail, and could keep his eyes open again, he saw that the whole mob was crowding after him and gaining, led by Mishinatven. As the trail bent, Sirat’s lieutenant cut across the corner and hurled himself back on the path beside the Earthman. Frome felt for his machete, which had been slapping against his left leg. The Dzlieri thundered at him from the right, holding a javelin up for a stab.
“Trickster! Deicide!” screamed Mishinatven, and thrust. Frome slashed through the shaft. As they galloped side by side, the point grazed Frome’s arm and fell to the ground.
Mishinatven swung the rest of the shaft and whacked Frome’s shoulders. Frome slashed back; heard the clang of brass as the Dzlieri brought up his buckler. Mishinatven dropped the javelin and snatched out his short sword. Frome parried the first cut and, as Mishinatven recovered, struck at the Dzlieri’s sword hand and felt the blade bite bone. The sword spun away.
Frome caught the edge of the buckler with his left hand, pulled it down, and hacked again and again until the brass was torn from his grip by the fall of his foe.
The others were still coming. Looking back, Frome saw that they halted when they came to their fallen leader.
Frome pulled on his reins. The best defense is a bloody strong attack. If he charged them now . . . He wheeled the zebra and went for them at a run, screeching and whirling his bloody blade.
Before he could reach them, they scattered into the woods with cries of despair. He kept right on through the midst of them and up the long slope until they were far behind and the exhaustion of his mount forced him to slow down.
When he finally caught up with Elena Millán, she looked at him with horror. He wondered why until he realized that with blood all over he must be quite a sight.
They made the last few kilometers on foot, leading their zebras zigzag among the immense boulders that crested the peak and beating the beasts to make them buck-jump up the steep slopes. When they arrived at the top, they tied the beasts to bushes and threw themselves down to rest.
Elena said: “Thank the Cosmos that’s over! I could not have gone on much further.”
“We’re not done yet,” said Frome. “When we get our breath we’ll have to set up the target.”
“Are we safe here?”
“By no means. Those Dzlieri will go back to Amnairad and fetch the whole tribe,
then they’ll throw a cordon around the mountain to make sure we shan’t escape. We can only hope the target brings a rescue in time.”
Presently he forced himself to get up and go to work again. In half an hour, with Elena’s help, the radar target was up on its pole, safely guyed against the gusts.
Then Adrian Frome flopped down again. Elena said: “You poor creature! You’re all over bruises.”
“Don’t I know it! But it might have been a sight worse.”
“Let me at least wash those scratches, lest you get infected.”
“That’s all right; Vishnuvan germs don’t bother Earthfolk. Oh, well, if you insist . . .” His voice trailed off sleepily.
He woke up some hours later to find that Elena had gotten a fire going despite the drizzle and had a meal laid out.
“Blind me, what have we here?” he exclaimed. “I say, you’re the sort of trailmate to have!”
“That is nothing. It’s you who are wonderful. And to think I’ve always been prejudiced against blond men because in Spanish novels the villain is always pictured as a blond!”
Frome’s heart, never so hard as he made it out to be, was full to overflowing. “Perhaps this isn’t the time to say this but—uh—I’m not a very spiritual sort of bloke, but I rather love you, you know.”
“I love you too. The Cosmos has sent a love ray . . .”
“Oi!” It was a jarring reminder of that other Elena. “That’s enough of that, my girl. Come here.”
She came.
###
When Peter Quinlan got back to Bembom with the convalescing Hayataka, Comandante Silva listened eagerly to Quinlan’s story until he came to his flight from Mishinatven’s territory.
“. . . after we started,” said Quinlan, “while Hayataka was still out, they attacked again. I got three, but not before they had killed Frome with javelins. After we beat them off I buried—”
“Wait! You say Frome was killed?”
“Pois sim.”
“And you came right back here, without going to Ertma?”
The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens Page 9