by Robert Adams
She watched the horde of Ganiks come out of the thickly wooded area between the track and the first ridge and begin to mount that ridge, the knot of bullies—recognizable even at the distance by their bigger horses and steel armor—at the rear of the mob. Bullies, she had learned, did not lead large numbers of Ganiks, they stayed behind, trusting that the ill-armed lesser Ganiks were more afraid of their sadistic cruelties than they were of whatever lay ahead of them.
When all were assembled along the ridgetop, most of the bullies began to ride along the rear of the throng, waving their fine weapons and shouting, their voices thin and tinny with the distance. Then the Ganiks began to wave their clubs and spears and, shortly, move down below the ridgetop and so out of her vision. A small knot of armored men on big horses stayed atop the ridge, observing the charge, but strain and adjust as she might, she could not see clearly enough to tell which one was Merle Bowley.
But then she saw the first of the rocks dropping and a frigid hand seemed suddenly to grip her heart.
Bill waited patiently until the horde of shaggy men had actually started their downhill charge before he mindspoke the signal to the engine crews waiting by their loaded and cocked catapults, for he knew that there would be time for but the one volley before the Ganiks got too close to his own lines to risk a rockfall.
The iron basketloads of one- and two- and three-pound stones came down as a deadly rain upon the mob of shouting, club- and spear-waving cannibals, bashing in heads of man and of mount, smashing through flesh to shatter bones. Including those Ganiks bereft of a pony, Bili estimated that the stones had subtracted perhaps three hundred from the howling throng.
As soon as the survivors had reached the foot of that slope, the archers hidden in the fringes of the flanking woods brought them under fire. As fast as they could pluck up a shaft, nock, draw, and then loose, they did so. They knew there was scant need to aim, for in such a tight-packed mob there was hardly any chance of an arrow not fleshing itself.
Then, when the van was only thirty yards distant, the leading riders became suddenly, terrifyingly aware of just what lay before them, of what they and the bullies had been unable to see, at the onset of the charge, so artfully had it been disguised. The doomed men made shift to rein up, but were borne irresistibly on by the hundreds behind them.
From his place upon the ridgetop, Merle saw it all—first the shower of rocks; then the deadly work of the concealed archers; finally the fiendish cleverness of the ultimate trap. He had thought the Kuhmbuhluhner who set the troops where he did a fool or a novice. Dully, resignedly, he admitted to himself how very wrong he had been in that premature estimate. His rash and overconfident decision had cost the lives of most of what had been left of the main bunch of Ganiks.
Coming down the steep slope of the ridge as they had, the bulk of the mob had simply had no possible way of stopping or even of slowing before they plunged into the deep, wide ditches that lay in front of the Kuhmbuhluhners' small host of warriors. As if the sudden plunge were not enough, the bottom of those ditches had obviously been thickly sown with sharp wooden stakes to impale both man and pony.
Those pitifully few Ganiks who avoided the deathtraps had only done so because the near sides of the long ditch were already clogged to the ground level and above by the kicking, squirming, screaming bodies of those who had not been so fortunate.
Now, while the most of the Kuhmbuhluhners went along the far side of the ditch, the gleaming points of their longhafted pikes rising and falling as they coldly dispatched the trapped or wounded men below them, Merle could see the riders—all armored in fine plate, bearing sword and axe and spear and mace, closing in from both flanks on the bewildered Ganiks between the foot of the ridge and the man trap, and he knew what the end of that grim business must surely be… now.
To Horseface, Counter and the two or three other bullies around him, he said, "Ain' nuthun none of us kin do, naow, mens. Twenty-odd bullies won' mean diddlysquat 'ginst awl them Kuhmbuhluhn fuckuhs. Le's us mek tracks back to the camp, git whutawl we maht need and Ehrkah, then head awn souf. It's awl I knows whut to do, aftuh awl thet down ther."
In retrospect, Jay Corbett was certain that none of them would have lived through that savage bout of illness had old Johnny Skinhead Kilgore not come back only four days after he, Cabell, Homer and Braun had left. The old Ganik knew nothing of the antibiotics or of how to operate the "stick-you thangs," but his hairless head held a vast storehouse of knowledge concerning medicinal plants and folk medicine. It had been that primitive doctoring that had pulled all save six of the men through, and those six—Allison, Farmer, Cox, Cash, Thurston and Corey—had been dead or nearly so when Johnny had gotten back.
Having been the last to succumb, Corbett was also the last to recover. When he finally stopped hallucinating, when both his sight and his speech became relatively clear and his mind began to sort some sense out of what his eyes and ears told him, the first sight he saw was the grinning face of Johnny, with the stubbled countenance of a pale-looking Gumpner behind and above the old cannibal.
"J… Johnny…? Gump… ner?"
"Yup, it be usuns, Majuh," Johnny nodded. "Haow you a-feelin'?"
"Like… like I've lost track of time… a lot of it. Who came back from the base with you?"
The bald head shook slowly to and fro. "I am' nevuh seed your base, yet awhile, Majuh. I come bek by mahownsef, and a dang good thang I did 'er too. Elst awl yawl woulda been as daid as them six fellers whut is. Too bad too—they wuz awl of them good ole boys, they wuz.
"Naow, you feel lahk you kin eatchew suthin, Majuh? I got sum dang good coon stew, with wil' garlicks and muck weeds in it, too. You gon' hev to start a-eatin' soon, you been down a plumb lowng tahm."
With that, the Ganik produced a spoon and a metal bowl that emitted a fragrant steam. There was so much of importance that Corbett knew it was necessary he obtain from Johnny and Gumpner immediately, but no sooner did he take the last spoonful shoved at him than he found it impossible to hold open his eyelids.
When next he awakened, it was night. But there was a small fire smoldering in a stone-lined pit before his lean-to and old Johnny sat beside that fire, nodding. On the other side of the firepit lay Gumpner, rolled into a blanket and snoring softly. A small kettle sat on a flat rock beside the fire, but it did not just then interest Corbett. He had come awake harboring a raging thirst, and the sole object of his mind was the bulging waterskin hanging from the Y-notched upright above his head. He was straining upward to reach it when old Johnny abruptly awakened from his snoozing.
"Jes' hol' awn ther, Majuh, git back down awn them blankets. You heanh me? I'll gitchew sum wawtuh."
Weak as he felt, Corbett did not think he could have reached the skin anyway. And if he had, he knew full well that he could never have lifted it down. Once he had drunk his fill of the icy fluid, he tried hard to recall those questions he needed answered, but before he could remember them, he had again fallen asleep.
It was a morning three days later that he finally got the story from old Johnny.
Sometime after midday the second day out of camp, the mule on which Braun had been riding threw a shoe, so they had perforce halted, lifted the scientist out of his saddle and begun transferring his gear to one of the spare mules. With the spare mule saddled and Braun back in that saddle, one of the other spares had elected to pull loose and head back north, up the track. Cursing, Homer had spurred in pursuit of the runaway, since Cabell was still dismounted and engaged in tying Braun back into the saddle, while old Johnny, too, was dismounted and relieving himself against a trackside tree.
The sergeant had just remarked that they had made very good time and that another day or less should see them quite near to Broomtown when Braun began another of his frequent attempts to persuade or overawe Cabell into giving him an injection.
But the noncom, heeding the instructions of Corbett, just shook his head, doggedly. "No, Dr. Braun, I'm sorry, but Major Corbett said that…"<
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"You've told me more times than I can remember what that strutting jackass said," Braun had shouted, his face purple with his rage at being again denied the soothing narcotic. "Who do you think he is, anyway, you aboriginal ape? What do you think he is? He's nothing but a goddam ignorant professional soldier, with no more medical or scientific credentials than you or that fucking primitive over there have. I've forgotten more than he'll ever know, and I know that if I don't get another shot soon I—this body—will go into shock and die before I can transfer to a new, whole healthy one. He also ordered you to get me back alive, sergeant, so give me a goddam injection. Right now, damn you!"
"Dr. Braun," said Cabell in tired exasperation, "there are only two shots left. You've got to get some sleep tonight, so there goes one. You can bet that the pain is going to be worse in the morning than it is now, so I think…"
"Think?" shrieked Braun wildly, his voice cracking in his raging tantrum. "You don't know how to think. But I do, and I think you're trying to kill me with the pain. Corbett gave you secret orders, didn't he? He told you to get me out here where none of the others could see what happened to me and let me die of either pain or infection, didn't he? Didn't he!"
Old Johnny had remounted during the "conversation." He did not like the despicable man who was alternately either whining and blubbering like a child or blustering and name-calling and bragging about how important he was and how much learning he had, so he had not really been listening to it. After all, this sort of thing had been going on almost from the moment they had ridden out of the camp.
The sergeant replied as calmly and patiently as he could to the accusing question. "No, Dr. Braun, you your own self heard all of the orders that the Major gave me concerning you, the other morning just before we left."
"Liar!" Braun hissed. "Don't you Broomtown apes know by now that you can't successfully lie to Center scientists? We can see right through your pitiful little fabrications. So admit it, admit that Corbett ordered you to kill me or at least let me die. It will go much easier for you back in Broomtown if you tell me the truth now."
"Doctor," said Cabell brusquely, "for a man as educated as you say you are, you sure have a tough time understanding plain English. Here we go one more time, then we're pushing on. Homer can just catch up best he can.
"All right, now. No, Doctor, Major Corbett gave me no orders to kill you or let you die. And, no, you are not getting any more injections until we stop for the night. Is that plain enough for you, Mr. Valuable Scientist Dr. Braun?"
Braun spluttered, so angry that he could find no words for a moment. Then, "That… that's rank insubordination*. You won't get away… damn you, you'll regret having so spoken to a ranking member of the Board of Science."
"No, Doctor, it is not insubordination. You are not my military superior. You are a civilian of whom I am in charge. And, Doctor, you are trying my patience, as well as delaying me in the performance of my assigned mission."
"You and that arrogant West Point bastard, Corbett, must be in this together. I know how you all seem to be in awe of the pig, worship him almost. That's why you're so willing to murder me; because you know that would make him happy. Isn't that right, Cabell?" White patches of foam had formed at the comers of the scientist's mouth and flecks of spittle flew with his excited words.
Toe in stirrup, Cabell swung up on his mount, settled in his saddle, then reined about to face the furious Braun again. There was an edge of anger in his voice as he answered this latest calumny.
"No, again, Dr. Braun. If the major wanted you dead, I am convinced that he is man enough to make you dead with no help from me or any other Broomtown man, trooper or noncom. I have served with the major for most of my life and I have seen him kill many men, but only in combat or in mercy. He is not a murderer."
The emphasis was not lost on Braun. "He is not? Meaning that I am? Is that what you mean? Is that what that damned, lying bastard Corbett told you?"
Cabell shook his head and said, blandly, "No, dear Doctor, that is what you told me, told me and everyone else in the column, over and over again. You told us all how and why and when you murdered Dr. Arenstein."
"Well, you won't be able to hold that story over my head, too, damn you!" With the speed of a striking viper, Braun had unsnapped his belt holster, drawn his pistol and palmed back the side. Before Cabell could do more than open his mouth, Braun had leveled the big weapon and fired at point-blank range.
Cabell had been on his left side. Old Johnny was on his right. As the scientist turned toward the Ganik, bringing the smoking pistol back down to the horizontal, wise old Johnny moved every bit as fast as had Braun a second earlier. At the same moment he ducked low in his saddle, he whipped out one of his wickedly barbed darts from the quiver at his pommel and cast it underhanded. Although his aim was spoiled by an unexpected movement of his horse, the sharp-pointed missile struck the berserk scientist high in the thigh of his good leg. It sank deep, grating on bone, and the excruciating agony of it not only caused Braun's next shot to fly wide of his intended victim but caused the heavy recoil of the weapon to tear it from his hand.
Homer, returning with the runaway, heard the shots, let go the lead rope and spurred around the turn of the track to see Sergeant Cabell stretched on the track in a posture possible only to the dead, Braun reeling in his saddle with the thick haft of a Ganik dart wobbling out from his thigh, and old Johnny, the supposedly tamed wild man, in the very act of pulling another of those darts from his quiver.
Drawing a completely logical but completely erroneous conclusion from the testimony of his eyes, Horner jerked his rifle out of the scabbard and had just released the safety catch when Johnny regretfully buried a dart point in the trooper's chest. The shot that Homer's finger squeezed off took the tip off the near ear of Braun's mule, and that beast immediately decided that it would be healthier farther away from this place. He headed south along the track at a full, jarring gallop, with Braun jouncing and screaming in the saddle to which he was securely tied.
That had been the last that old Johnny Skinhead Kilgore had seen of the mad scientist.
When the Ganik had collected the weapons, gear and effects of Cabell and Horner—as he had seen Corbett and Gumpner do—rounded up the mounts and the spares and calmed them somewhat, he had headed back up the track toward the camp.
When Johnny had finished his tale, Corbett shook his head slowly and sadly. "It's my fault, much of it. I should never have told Cabell to rearm that murdering bastard. Hell, if I had just let him die here, instead of two days farther south, Cabell and Horner would still be alive."
"Stop it, sir," said Gumpner. ".You did what you thought was right, was the best course. Besides old Johnny here says you were already so sick that morning they set out you couldn't stand up. Like I've heard you say many times before, you can't hold any mistakes against a man or an officer who made those mistakes when he has badly hurt… or sick, and you sure were, sir—we all were, that day."
With Johnny hunting and foraging for them until they were well enough to do such things themselves, Corbett kept the unit in the camp for almost a month longer. But when he was certain that all of the men were back in top physical form, he put them back in their saddles and, after crossing back over the ridges to the track, set their faces south, toward Broomtown.
The march was uneventful until they reached the spot where the murder of Cabell had occurred. Although the scavengers had left no trace of any body, Corbett still had them put up a hand-carved wooden marker for Cabell and Homer. Then he warned them all to keep a sharp eye out for Braun's body or any other trace of him, but such was not found, and they did not discover exactly why until they had at last reached Broomtown base.
"Jay? Jay Corbett, is that really you?" Dr. David Sternheimer's voice crackled over the transceiver in the commo center at Broomtown base. "But how can it be? Harry Braun swore you were dead, killed in a landslide or rockfall or something like that, away up north somewhere. What the hel
l is going on, Jay?"
"Doctor… David," said the officer cautiously, not knowing just who else might be in the commo room at the Center, "I think that you should fly up here at once. We need to talk, you and I, privately."
"Jay, I'm very busy just now, and—"
Corbett interrupted the director. "How much of what really went on up north has Braun told you, David? Not much, I'd be willing to bet. Has he told you, for instance, that although we lost the pack train—most of it—we still may be able to reclaim most of the devices and metals and maybe even the books?"
Center Director David Sternheimer arrived by copter some two and a half hours later. But he had to introduce himself to the waiting officer, for he was in a new and quite young body—no more than twenty years old, blond, blue-eyed, tall and rather handsome in a beefy way.
When they two were at last alone in Corbett's Broomtown office, the director said, "Okay, Jay, what happened up there? Harry was brought in here more dead than alive by a bunch of friendlies from up northwest of here. They said they'd found him tied to the saddle of a dying mule, recognized his gear and the mule's brand as being Broomtown, and dragged him in on a travois. He was too bad off when he first arrived to say much of anything—with one leg gangrenous to up well above the knee and the other eaten up with infection its whole length from a peculiar barbed iron spearpoint in his thigh.
"Since he transferred to a new body and returned to the Center, he's been amazingly close-mouthed and uncommunicative, for a person like him, anyway. You know how garrulous a gascon he has always been. He has given me, however, with much prodding, three different versions of the same story.
"What it all boils down to is this: You botched the setting of the charges so that the eruption, when it came, was days late and far more violent than anyone had expected. As a result of this, the pack train and most of the men were lost beyond any hope of recovery, and you died with them.