by Andre Norton
Kartr shook Zor's shoulder and pushed him toward the outer hall with the message to bring Smitt. The com-techneer, rubbing sleep-heavy eyes, half reeled in. But when Kartr showed him the dot he was thoroughly awake. He shoved the sergeant away from the microphone and took over with a sharp question in code.
After lagging minutes it was answered:
"Undoubtedly enemy ship. Pirate signals have been picked up during last quarter hour—"
To Kartr's sick eyes the enemy ship was darting across space. It was now a race, a race in which the Patrol ship might already be the loser. And, even as he thought that, there was a flash of light on the control board. The enemy was now within hailing distance. Smitt turned a grim face to him.
"Get one of the Zacathans and Fylh. If they can talk in their own language it will be better than using control speech or the code as a guide. There are few Bemmys in pirate crews. All the ship needs is a steady sound to center her finder on—"
But he spoke his last words to empty air. Kartr was already on his way to rout out the others. Seconds later Zinga slipped into Smitt's place, hooked his talons around the stem of the phone and unloosed a series of hissed sounds which certainly bore no resemblance to human speech. When he tired, Fylh was ready and then twittering and fluting broke across space to talk the ship in. But ever relentlessly behind it came that other dot, seeming to leap across great expanses of space as if such stretches were nothing.
Zora brought in a canteen of water and they all drank feverishly. They ate after a fashion, too, of whatever was thrust into their hands, unknowing and untasting.
The Patrol ship passed more planets. Then a third light snapped on the board. Zor came running in.
"There is a big light—reaching into the sky!" he shouted shrilly.
Kartr jumped to his feet to see that for himself when a sound of ship's code stopped him.
"Pulse beam picked up. We can ride it in. If we still have time—"
Zinga let go of the phone and as one they hurried out into the open. Zor was right. From the end of the roof directly over the control table a beam of light speared into the evening sky.
"How did that—?" Kartr began.
"Who knows?" Dalgre replied. "They were master techneers in their day. That must pulse strongly enough to be picked up by a ship approaching this planet within a certain distance. At least we can now stop talking."
In the end they drifted back to the map—to watch the ship and its pursuer. The gap between those two was narrowing—too quickly. A last light flashed on the control board—it was warning red.
"Ship's entered the atmosphere," Smitt guessed. "Get everybody inside here. It may not land on the field and the power wash will be brutal—"
So they waited inside the ancient Hall of Leave-Taking and they heard rather than saw a ship land on a field which had not felt the bite of spaceship's fire for at least a thousand years. But it was a good landing.
Smitt remained at the board. "The other is still coming—" His warning rang out to hasten the others.
Still coming! They might lose even now, Kartr thought, as he watched the exit bridge swing out from the side of the rusty old tub perched in the field. All the enemy would have to do would be to hover and blast them with missiles. He wouldn't have to land, but when he pulled out again he would leave nothing behind but a blackened and lifeless waste.
If they could get the refugees into the hall they might have a chance to survive that—a very thin one. The sergeant ran to the edge of the smoking landing area and waved at the figure who had appeared on the bridge.
"Get your people off and into the hall!" he shouted. "The pirate's coming and he can try for a burn-off!"
He saw the jerk of an assenting nod and heard orders. The passengers filed down the bridge at the double quick. They were mostly women, some carrying or leading children. The rangers and the Zacathans stood ready to act as guides. Kartr half hauled, half carried the strangers to the precarious safety of the old building. Then when the flow of refugees ceased he hurried back to the bridge.
"All out?"
"All out," the officer replied. "And what course is the pirate on—can you tell—?"
Zinga came running toward them. "Pirate coming in on the same course—"
The officer turned and went inside the ship. Kartr drummed nervous fingers on the guard rail of the bridge. What in the name of Space was the fellow waiting for?
Then the sergeant was almost bowled over as five men flung themselves out of the hatchway and ran for the hall, taking both rangers with them. They had just reached the protection of the doorway when the Patrol ship took off.
Blinded by the sweep of flame Kartr clung to one of the pillars to keep his footing.
"What—?" he gasped.
And a babble of question joined and drowned out his.
17 — THE END IS NOT YET
The hard surface of the partition ground into Kartr's back as the pressure of the crowd jammed him against that barrier. All the refugees were there in the narrow space behind the control table, tense, expectant, with no attention for anything but the sky map on the wall. Beside the sergeant a tall girl in the battle-stained tunic of a civilian supply assistant muttered half aloud to herself.
"There's only one of them—by the Grace of the Three—there is only one for him to face!"
Her "one" was that ominous red dot of the pirate ship still on course to Terra—headed without doubt for the very point on that planet where they now stood. But, even as they watched that advance helplessly, a second dot appeared on the screen—the Patrol ship moving out to meet the enemy.
"Time to try evasive!" Kartr caught the urgency in that man's voice rising from the mass of watchers. "Evade, Corris!"
And, as if that half-order half-plea had actually reached across space, the course of the Patrol ship changed. It seemed now as if it were attempting to make a futile run for safety, trying to elude the pirate. Out there a single brave man swung before a control panel, enmeshed in a pilot's web, prepared to fight a last battle to save his fellows. One lone Patrolman!
He continued to evade skillfully, altering his course just enough each time to draw the enemy after him, to persuade the other ship into pursuit and away from Terra. He had his screen up as the haze testified. That should act as a flaunting challenge to the pirate. The impulse of the pursuer would be to follow, to beat down the weak barrier, to put on a traction beam and warp in the Patrol ship. Only, what Captain Corris flew was no longer a ship, it was a single deadly weapon! And the enemy who strove to overtake and capture it would only trigger his own death in the same instant that he drew it in!
Kartr heard sobs, subdued, and little angry mutters from those about him.
"He has the war head ready." That was the girl. She was talking as if to reassure herself, not to inform anyone else of what lay behind that silent battle out in the dark between worlds. "We were going to blow it if we were taken. He'll trigger it when they beam him in—" Her voice was hoarse, almost fierce.
The red dots moved as fighters sparring for an opening, making patterns on the screen. Kartr, though he was ignorant of space maneuvers, guessed that he was now watching the last fight of an inspired pilot. And yet to the pirate it must appear that a weak ship was trying desperately to escape.
"If only they don't suspect!" The girl's tone was that of a prayer. "Spirit of Space, keep them from suspecting—"
The end came as the Patrol pilot had planned it. A glow of battle screens hazed both ships—and then the one surrounding the Patrol ship disappeared. The dots moved toward each other—the pirate had clamped a pincher beam on its prey, was dragging the helpless ship to where they could lock air-locks for boarding. At last the dots touched.
A flower of fire burst on the screen. It glowed for only a second and then died, to leave nothing behind it—nothing at all. The map was as blank as it had been when first they found it. Only the specks which were stars sparkled with aloof chill in the void.
&nbs
p; No one in the crowd moved. It was as if they did not believe in the truth of what they had just witnessed, that they did not wish to believe. Then there was a single sigh and the tight mass broke apart. People drifted, with eyes which seemed to see nothing, out into the hall. Except for the shuffle of feet over the stone it was very quiet.
Overhead the gray light of another dawn gave a pale radiance. Kartr stepped up on the dais. He rested one hand on the back of the chair which was Terra's and looked closely for the first time at these new companions in misfortune.
They were a mixed lot, both as to race and species, as might be expected from a Patrol Ranger base. There were two more Zacathans, a pale-faced woman and two children with the goggles of the Faltharians hanging from their belts, and he was sure he had seen a feather crest which could only have graced the head of a Trystian.
"You are in command here?"
Kartr's attention flickered from the refugees to a girl—the same girl who had stood beside him to watch the battle—and two men standing together at the foot of the dais. Automatically Kartr's hand arose to touch a helmet he no longer wore.
"Ranger Sergeant Kartr of the Starfire. We crashed here some time ago. Our party consists of three other rangers, a com-techneer and an arms-techneer—"
"Medico-techneer Veelson," the shorter of the two men responded in a low and surprisingly musical voice. "This is Third Officer Moxan of our Base Ship, and Acting Sergeant Adrana of the Headquarters section. We are entirely at your service, Sergeant."
"Your party—"
"Our party," Veelson answered quickly, "numbers thirty-eight. Twenty women and six children are ranger dependents. Five crewmen under Moxan, and six supply corpswomen with Sergeant Adrana—and myself. As far as we know we are the only survivors of Base CC4."
"Zinga—Fylh—Rolth—" Kartr gave the order which came naturally to him. "Firewood detail and get some fires going—" He turned back to the medico-techneer. "I take it, sir, that you haven't much in the way of supplies?"
Veelson shrugged. "We have only what we could carry. It certainly isn't too much."
"A hunting party out, too, Zinga. Smitt, take over the communication board again. We don't want to be caught napping if there is another ship on its way. Any of your men know com, sir?" he asked Moxan.
Instead of answering directly the third officer turned on his heel and called down the length of the hall. "Havre!"
One of the men in crew uniform came running.
"Com work," his officer grunted. "Under this techneer."
"I take it that we can live off the country, since you mentioned hunting," Veelson asked.
"This is an Arth type planet. We've found it hospitable. In fact—this is Terra, you know."
Kartr watched the medico-techneer closely to see if that registered. It took a second or two, but it did.
"Terra." Veelson repeated the word blankly and then his eyes widened. "The home of the Lords of Space! But that is a legend—a fable!"
Kartr stamped on the dais. "Fairly substantial fable, don't you think? You are in the Hall of Leave-Taking now—look at the seats of the first star rangers, if you wish." He pointed to the chairs. "Read what is carved on the back of this one. Yes, this is Terra of Sol!"
"Terra!" Veelson was still shaking his head wonderingly when Kartr spoke to the girl.
"You have your corpswomen. Can you take charge of the women and children?" he asked abruptly. This sort of duty was beyond his experience. He had established field camps, led expeditions, fought his way back and forth across many weird worlds in the past, but never before had he been responsible for such a group as this.
She started to nod, flushed, and raised her hand in salute. A moment later she was back circulating among the tired women and the fretful children—aided by the Zacathan family.
"Any chance of there being another pirate after you? What did happen at the base?" Already forgetting the women, Kartr began to question the medico-techneer.
"The base was wiped out. But things had begun to go wrong before that. There has been a breakdown somewhere along the supply and communication route. Our yearly supply ship was three months overdue even before the attack. We'd received no messages from Central Control for two weeks. We sent out a cruiser and it never returned.
"Then the pirate fleet came in. If was a fleet and the whole raid had been carefully planned. We had five ships on the field. Two raised and accounted for three of the pirates before they were blasted out. We manned the perimeter guns as long as we could and cleared the air for the survivors to take off.
"What caught us napping was that they came in under false colors and we accepted them as friendly until too late. They were Central Control ships! Either some section of the Fleet has mutinied or—or something terrible has happened to the whole empire. They acted as if the Patrol had been outlawed—their attack was vicious. And because they had come in with all the proper signals we weren't expecting it. It was as if they were the law—"
"Perhaps they are now," Kartr suggested grimly. "Maybe there has been a rebellion in this sector. The winner may be systematically mopping up all Patrol bases. That would leave him free to rule the space lanes as he pleases. A very practical and necessary move if there has been a change of government."
"That idea did occur to us. I can't say that we welcomed it." Veelson's voice was bleak. "Well, we did manage to crowd aboard a supply ship and one of the Patrol scouts. After that it was a running fight across space. They were between us and the regular routes so we had to head out this way. We lost the scout—"
Kartr nodded. "We saw that on the screen before we were able to contact you."
"It rammed a flagship—a flagship of the Fleet, mind you!"
"But effectively," the sergeant reminded him. "There were only the two ships following you—are you sure?"
"Only two registered on our screens. And—now if neither returns— Do you think that they will send another to track us down?"
"I don't know. They would accept the idea that the Patrol would be desperate enough to go out fighting. And so they may be willing to write off their ships as a case of blasting each other. But Smitt and your man can keep at their posts. They'll be able to give us warning in time if another heads this way."
"And if one does come?"
"Large portions of this world are wilderness. It will be easy to take cover in plenty of time and they could never find us."
By the end of the day the new camp was well established. The hunting party had been successful enough so that everyone was fed. Under the leadership of the corpswomen a party had spread out on the hill, hacked off branches, and fashioned beds. And there had been no warning—the screen in the hall remained blank.
It was night now. Kartr stood at the top of the stairs gazing down abstractedly at the landing field. A gleaning party had worked under his direction most of the afternoon, shifting the debris of the natives' encampment. And they had salvaged two spears and a handful of metal arrow points, treasures to be guarded against that day when the last blaster charge would be expended—when weapons which were the products of civilized skill would be useless.
Tomorrow they must hunt again and—
"A pleasant night, is it not, lady? There is, of course, only one moon instead of three. But it is a very bright one."
Kartr started and turned his head. Zicti was walking toward him accompanied by the girl, Adrana.
"Three moons? Is that the number which shine down on Zacan? Now I would consider two to be a more normal number." And she laughed.
Two moons. Kartr tried to remember all the two-mooned worlds he had known and wondered which had been her native one. But there were at least ten—and probably more which he had never heard of. No man, even if he had at least four lifetimes, could learn all that lay within the galaxy. Two moons was too faint a clue.
"Ha, the sergeant! So the night draws you also, my boy? One might believe that you were a Faltharian, this interest you show in a dark, sleeping world."
"Only doing some planning for the future," Kartr replied. "And I'm no Faltharian, only a barbarian," he added recklessly. "You know what they said of us of Ylene—that we eat raw meat and worship strange gods!"
"And you, lady," Zicti asked the girl, "upon which world did your two moons beam?"
She lifted her head with close to a defiant gesture, and stared out over the launching field as she answered.
"I was space born—a half-breed. My mother was of Krift. My father came from one of the outer system worlds, I don't know which. My two moon world I knew only for a short time when I was a small child. But I have seen many worlds for I am Service bred."
"We have all seen many worlds," Kartr observed, "and now I think we are going to learn one thoroughly."
Zicti inhaled the night air with gusto. "But such a pleasant world, my children. I must say that I have great hopes for our future here."
"It is good to know that someone has," Kartr said somberly.
But it was Adrana who rose to the Zacathan's challenge. "You are right!" She laid her fingers on the hist-techneer's scaled arm. "This is a good world! When I was up on the hill today, the air was like wine in my throat. It is free—alive! And we are very lucky. For the first time in my life"—she paused as if she were surprised at her own words—"I feel at home!"
"Because this is Terra—racial memory—" suggested Kartr.
"I don't know. After so long a time—that couldn't be possible, could it?"
"Perhaps." He added a confession of his own. "The first day we landed here—when I saw the green of this vegetation—it seemed then that I, too, remembered."
"Well, children, I do not remember Terra, nor can any of my race. But still I say that we have landed on a good world—a pleasant one to make our own. We have only to do that—"