by Andre Norton
But deeper than memory lay some hard core of resistance. It flogged him into effort. Panting, whimpering, he dragged his feet under him, and, clawing at the stone, got to his knees and then to his feet.
He lost his balance and fell down a steep slope into a stream. Pulling himself out of the flood, he huddled beside a tall rock and fought for memory.
It came clear and sharp as a video-print—too clear, too vivid.
He was in a strange building, surrounded by high walls, and he was waiting, waiting for a danger beyond all dangers. It came toward him, unhurried, purposeful. He could feel the beat of power which enveloped it. He must fight. And yet he already knew every move of the coming battle, knew that it was a lost one—
There was a clash of wills, the pouring out of mind force against mind force. There was a sudden leap of confidence at his own strength.
Another mind snaked in to aid his enemy, a devious, evil one which left in its wake an unclean trail. But the two together were not able to force his barrier. He held to the defensive for a while and then struck. Under that blow the evil mind quivered—shrank. But he dared not follow its slight retreat for its partner fought. And now that first mind began to plead—to promise—
"Come in with us. We are of your own kind. Let us unite to rule these stupid cattle—nothing can withstand us then!"
He seemed to listen, but under cover he planned. There was one very dangerous move he had not yet tried. But it was all that was left him.
So he dropped his barrier, only for an instant. With a purr of triumph the evil fighter surged in and he allowed it. Once it had come too far to retreat he turned on it, surrounded and utterly crushed it. There was a scream which was only mental. And the evil was snuffed out as if it had never existed.
But the other, the one who had beckoned and promised, was still waiting. And at the very moment of his victory it struck, not only with its own force, but with added power it had kept cunningly in reserve. And he had known that this would happen—
He fought, desperately, vainly, knowing that the end was already decided. And he broke, so that that other, exultant, wild with victory, swept in. That which was his will was imprisoned, held in bonds, while his body obeyed the enemy.
Down that blank-walled corridor he marched stiffly, purposefully, a blaster in his hand, his finger on the firing button. But within he was shrieking silently because he knew what he would be compelled to do.
Stabbing flashes of blaster fire cut back and forth across a wide open space. And at the opposite edge of that area was what he had been sent to find—the ranger sled. Against his will he crouched and crept from protection to protection.
He saw men fall and the one who shared this weird journey with him snarled in rage as they went down. The opposition was being overcome—and those who brought them down were his own friends.
One more short rush would take him to the sled. And even as he was wondering why the other who commanded him wanted that so terribly he made the spring. But two who crouched behind its shadow stared up at him in stunned surprise. He knew them—but still his arm and hand were forced down and he fired. The startled croak from the fanged jaws of the nearer rang in his ears as he scrambled into the seat and grabbed at the controls.
With his mind sick and cowering, he only half relaxed under the take-off which slammed him breathless against the padding of the seat. And that other inside his mind set the course, one which sent the slight aircraft spiraling up into the dusky dome, up and up, until it touched a balcony high above the heads of the fighters and another leaped into the sled.
And that other's will goaded them away, speeding out of the hall and away at top speed over the city, heading toward a horizon where a faint rim of gray proclaimed daybreak. Although he was obeying that order he still struggled. It was a noiseless, motionless duel, carried on high above the ancient city, will against will, power against power. And it seemed to Kartr that now the other was not quite so confident—that he was on the defensive, content to hold what he had rather than to attempt to strengthen his control.
How did it end—that fight in the sky? Kartr pillowed his aching head on the stone beside the stream and tried vainly to remember. But that was gone. He could only recall that he had—had blasted Zinga! That he had brought Cummi safely out of the city. That he had betrayed in his over-confidence and recklessness those who had most reason to depend upon him. And realizing all that— He closed his eyes and tried to blank out everything—everything!
Exhausted, he must have slept again. For he opened his eyes to be dazed by sun reflected from the water. He was hungry—and that hunger triggered the same instinct of self-preservation which had brought him earlier to the water. His hands were still slow and clumsy but he managed to catch a creature which came out from under an overturned stone. And there were others like it.
Toward evening he got to his feet again and stumbled along beside the water. He fell at last and did not try to struggle up. Maybe he dreamed, but he snapped to full wakefulness from a haze in which Zinga had called him. Awake, desolation closed in. Zinga was gone. Almost viciously he dug his hands into his eyes—but he could not wipe from memory the sight of the Zacathan's face as he had gone down under the beam from Kartr's blaster.
It would be best not to try to go on. To just stay here until he went into a world where memory could not follow— He was so tired!
But his body refused to accept that; it was getting up to stagger on. And in time the stream led him out on a wide plain where tall yellow grass tangled about his legs and small nameless things ran squeaking from his path. In time the stream joined a river, broad and shallow so that rocks in some parts of its bed showed dry tops under the sun.
Bluffs began to rise beside the water. He climbed, and slipped, and slid painfully over obstructions and he lost all count of time. But he dared not leave the water, it was too good a source of food and drink.
He was lying full length on a rock by a pool, trying to scoop out one of the water creatures when he started and cried out. Someone—something—had touched his mind—had made contact for an instant! His hands went to his head as if to protect himself from a second calling.
But that came. And he was unable to shut out the alien presence which flooded into him, asking questions—demanding—Cummi! It was Cummi trying to get at him again—to use him—
Kartr threw himself off his perch, skinning his arm raw, and began to run without taking thought. Get away! Away from Cummi—away—!
But the mind followed him and there was no escaping its contact. He found a narrow crevice leading away from the water, half choked with briars and the water-worn drift of storm floods. Unheeding scratches he plunged into the tangle.
It was a very small pocket ending in a hollow under the overhang of the bluff. And into this he crawled blindly, a child taking refuge from a monster of the dark. He curled up, his hands still pressed to his head, trying to blank out his mind, to erect a barrier through which the hunter could not pierce.
At first he was aware only of the desperate pounding of his own heart, and then there was another sound—the swish of an air-borne craft. The contacting mind was closing in. What frightened him so much he could not have explained—unless it was the memory of how the other's dominion had made him kill his own men. What Cummi had done once, he might well do again.
And that fear of his was the other's strongest ally. Fear weakened control. Fear—
With his face buried between his arms, his mouth resting on the gritty soil under the overhang, Kartr stopped fighting the pursuer and tried to subdue his own fear.
Faintly he heard the sound of a shout, the crackling of brush. Cummi was coming down the notch!
The ranger's lips set in a snarl and he inched out of the pocket of earth. His hands chose, almost without help from eye or brain, a jagged rock. He had been tracked like a beast—but this beast would fight! And the Ageratan might not be expecting physical attack, he might well believe his prey to be co
wering helplessly, waiting for the master's coming!
Cautiously Kartr pulled himself up so that his back was against the welcome solidity of the gully rocks. His stone weapon was a good one, he thought, balancing it in one hand—just the right size and weight and it had several promising projections.
"Kartr!"
The sound he made in answer to that call was the growl of a baited animal.
His name—Cummi daring to use his name! And the Ageratan had even disguised his voice. Clever, clever devil! Illusions—how well that warped brain could create them!
Two figures burst through the brush to face him. The stone dropped from nerveless fingers.
Was Cummi controlling his sight too? Could the Ageratan make him see this—?
"Kartr!"
He shrank back against the stone. Run—run away—but there was no escape—
"Cummi—?" He almost wanted to believe that this was a trick of the Ageratan's, that he was not honestly seeing the two coming toward him, the smiling two in ranger gray.
"Kartr! We've found you at last!"
They had found him right enough. Why didn't they just draw and blast him where he stood? What were they waiting for?
"Shoot!" He thought he screamed that. But their faces did not change as they came in to get him. And he believed that if they touched him he would not be able to bear it.
"Kartr?" another voice questioned from down the gully.
He jerked at the sound as if a force blade had ripped his flesh.
A third figure in ranger uniform beat through the brush. And at the sight of his face the sergeant gave a wild cry. Something burst in Kartr's skull, he was falling down into the dark—a welcoming, sheltering dark where dead men did not walk or greet one smilingly. He hid in that darkness thankfully.
"Kartr?"
The dead called him, but he was safe in the dark and if he did not answer no one could drag him out again to face madness.
"What is the matter with him?" demanded someone.
He lay very quiet in the dark, safe and quiet.
"—have to find out. We must get him back to camp. Look out, Smitt. Use binders on him before you put him aboard, he could twist right over the edge—"
"Kartr!" He was being shaken, prodded. But with infinite effort he locked his lips, made his body limp and heavy. And his stubbornness gave him a defense at last. He was left alone in his dark safety.
Then slowly he became aware of a warmth, a soothing warmth. And, as he had at his first awaking in the wilderness, he lay still and felt his body come back to life. There were hands moving over him, passing over half-healed wounds and leaving behind them a refreshing coolness and ease.
"You mean he is insane?"
Those were words spoken through his dark. He had no desire to see who spoke them.
"No. This is something else. What that devil did to him we can only guess—planted a false memory, perhaps. You saw how he acted when we caught up with him. There are all sorts of tricks you can play—or rather someone without scruples can play—with the mind, your own and others'—when you are a sensitive. In some ways we are far more vulnerable than you who do not try to go beyond human limits—"
"Where's Cummi? I'd like to—" There was a cold and deadly promise in that and something in Kartr leaped to agree with it. And that act of emotion pushed him away from the safety of the dark.
"Wouldn't we all? But we shall—sooner or later!"
A hard edge was pushed against his lips, liquid trickled into his mouth and he was forced to swallow. It burned in his throat and settled into a pleasant fire in his stomach.
"Well, so you have found him?" A new speaker broke through the mists about him.
"Greetings, Haga Zicti! We have been waiting for you, sir. Maybe you can suggest treatment—"
"So—and what is the matter with the rescued? I see no wounds of importance—"
"The trouble is here." Fingers touched Kartr's forehead. And he shrank away from that touch. It threatened him in some odd fashion.
"That is the way of it, eh? Well, we might have deduced as much. A false memory or—"
He was running away, running through the dark. But that other was behind him, trying to compel him—and, with a moan of desolate pain, Kartr found himself again in the hallway, facing Cummi and the Can-hound, made to relive for the third time that shameful and degrading defeat and murderous attack upon his own comrades.
"So Cummi took him over! He must have used other minds to build up such power—!"
Cummi! There was a hot rage deep inside Kartr, burning through the shame and despair—Cummi— The Ageratan must be faced—faced and conquered. If he did not do that he would never feel clean again. But would he even if he vanquished Cummi? There would remain that moment of horror when he had fired straight into Zinga's astonished face.
"He took over." Was he actually saying those words or were they only ringing in his head. "I killed—killed Zinga—"
"Kartr! Great Space, what is he talking about? You killed—!"
"Describe the killing!" And he could not disobey that sharp command.
He began to talk slowly, painfully, and then with a spate of words which seemed to release some healing in their flow. The fight for the sled, the escape, his awaking in the wilderness, he told it all.
"But—that's perfectly crazy! He didn't do that at all!" someone protested. "I saw him—so did you, and you! He walked right through the whole fight as if he didn't see any of us—took the sled and went. Maybe he did pick up Cummi as he said—but the rest—it's crazy!"
"False memories," stated the authoritative voice. "Cummi supplied them—guilty ones so that he would want to keep away from us even if Cummi couldn't control him fully. Simple—"
"Simple! But Kartr's a sensitive—he does that sort of thing himself. How could he be taken in—?"
"Just because he is a sensitive he could be that much more vulnerable. Anyway—now that we know what is wrong—"
"You can cure him?"
"We shall try. It may leave some scars. And it will depend upon how adept Cummi has been."
"Cummi!" That was spat out as if the name were an obscene oath.
"Yes, Cummi. If we can turn Kartr's will to meeting— Well, we shall see."
Again a hand was laid on his forehead, soothingly.
"Sleep—you are asleep—sleep—"
And he was drowsily content now—it was as if some weight had been shrugged away. He slept.
Waking was as sudden. He was staring up at a sloping roof of entwined branches and leaves—he must be lying in a lean-to such as the rangers built when in temporary camp. There was a cover over his body, one of the blankets of Uzakian spider silk from their packs. He turned his head to see a fire. There was a dankness in the air, a mist or fog dulled the outlines of the trees that ringed in the clearing.
Someone came out of the mist and flung down an armload of wood.
"Zinga!"
"In the flesh and snapping!" returned the Zacathan genially, bringing his jaws together smartly to prove it.
"Then it was a false memory—" Kartr drew a deep breath of wonder and infinite relief.
"That was the biggest lie you ever dreamed, my friend. And how do you feel now?"
Kartr stretched luxuriously. "Wonderful. But I have a lot of questions to ask—"
"Which can all be answered later." Zinga went back to the fire and picked up a cup which had been resting on a stone close to the flames. "Suppose you get this inside you first."
Kartr drank. It was hot broth and well flavored. He glanced up with a smile which seemed to stretch muscles that had not been used for a long, long time. "Good. I think I detect Fylh's delicate talent in cooking—"
"Oh, he stirred it up now and then right enough, and added some of his messy leaves. Down every drop of it now—"
But Kartr was still holding the cup and sipping at intervals when another stepped out into the firelight. And the sergeant stopped in mid-gulp to stare. But Zinga
was right here, beside him. Then who, in the name of Tarnusian devils, was that?
Zinga followed Kartr's eyes and then grinned. "No. I haven't twinned," he assured the sergeant. "This is Zicti—of Zacan to be sure—but a Hist-techneer, not a ranger."
The other reptile man strolled up to the lean-to. "You are awake then, my young friend?"
"Awake and"—Kartr smiled at them both—"in my right mind again—I think. But it may take some time for me to sort them out—the real and fake memories, I mean—they are rather mixed—"
Zinga shook his head. "Do not work too hard at that sorting until you are stronger. Weak as you are it might set you twirling about like a Tlalt dust demon."
"But where—?"
"Oh, I was a passenger on the X451, along with my family. We joined your force yesterday—or rather the rangers found us in the early morning—"
"What happened in the city after I—er—left?"
Zinga's taloned finger moved with a faint scraping sound along his jaw. "We decided to come away—after the fight was over."
"Hunting for me?"
"Hunting for you, yes, and for a couple of other reasons. Smitt and Dalgre came across a ship the city people built. It brought us this far before it gave out. They are still working on it under the delusion that they may be able to put it back together again if they can just solve a few of its internal mysteries."
"Smitt and Dalgre?"
"Yes, the Patrol withdrew as a unit. It seemed best at the time."
"Hmm." Kartr considered all that statement might imply. There had been changes. He was suddenly eager to know how many.
12 — KARTR TAKES THE TRAIL
Three in the uniform of the Patrol squatted on their heels by the fire. Kartr sat up, his back braced against bedrolls, watching them.
"You never said"—he broke the silence at last—"why you left the city—"
None of the three seemed to wish to meet his gaze. Finally it was Smitt who answered, an almost defiant ring in his tired voice.