by Andre Norton
Suddenly it pointed to the right, more to the westward than their present line of flight. The brach’s voice echoed thinly in the mike of Dane’s hood.
“Dragons, there—”
Meshler, startled, turned his attention from the controls. The brach’s nose continued to point as if registering to some signal.
“How do you know?” the ranger demanded.
Dane repeated his question for translation.
“Dragons hungry, follow meat—”
Hunting! Well, hunger certainly had an emotional side, and it could be very sharp in a feral creature. But Meshler did the flying. Would he allow them to be hunters in turn, or would he insist upon keeping to his original course? Before Dane could urge the hunt on him, the ranger turned, and the brach’s nose, as if it were indeed an indicator geared to the controls, now pointed directly ahead.
“Holding,” Meshler informed them. Scattered among the stumps were odd enclosures of poles, not set tightly together to form fences but placed at even distances, apparently to support rungs or rails. And in the light of the afternoon, they could see that most of those had a living burden which pushed, jostled, and shot out long necks to peck at companions crowding too close. Lathsmers!
“They let them run loose—no guards?” wondered Dane, remembering the antline—and perhaps Trewsworld had native predators, too.
Meshler made a sound that might pass for a laugh.
“They have their own defenses. Now even a man comes in such fields without a stunner. Though if you go in in a crawler and take it slow, they don’t seem to notice. There aren’t many things big or tough enough to take on a covey of lathsmers.”
The brach on Dane’s lap screeched, not any intelligible word, as they flew on, out over a battlefield where a bloody melee was still in progress.
The roosting rails of the lathsmers at this point were fewer than in the first field, and they were clear of the birds. There were some battered bodies ripped and limp on the ground. But two of the rightful inhabitants of the roost were still on their feet, shooting out heads, naked of feathers, murderous beaks spear-pointed at their enemies.
Those were—Dane could not at first believe what his eyes reported. The embryos that had hatched had been then about the size of the female brach. These things were a little larger than the lathsmers. Their quick attacks, feints, use of talons, lashing tails, battering wings on which they could raise high enough to threaten the lathsmers from above, could have all belonged to adults fully matured and seasoned by many such forays.
“They—they’ve grown!” His amazement made him state the obvious. He still could not believe that a single day or two days could have produced such alteration.
“Those your dragons? And you expect me to believe them just decanted?” Meshler was incredulous, as well he might be. But they were the same things Rip, Ali, and Dane had installed in the cage—in miniature then.
“They are.”
Meshler brought the flitter around, for they had swept well over the site of the savage struggle. They swooped down. Dane believed the ranger was trying to frighten the dragons away from the remaining lathsmers. He had his own stunner ready. They would have to come within closer range before he could use it. Meshler fumbled with one hand in the front of his tunic. Now he held out to Dane an egg-shaped ball.
“Push in the top pin,” he ordered. “Drop it as close to them as you can when we go over again.”
Once more they had skimmed away from the battle. Dane opened the window to his right, moving the brach down between his knees for safekeeping, and leaned out ready to drop the ovoid.
Meshler was taking them even closer to the ground on his third pass. Dane only hoped he could judge distance. His thumb sent the plunger even with the surface of the ball, and he let it go. The ranger must have gunned the flitter, for their forward sweep was at such a sudden excess of speed as to pin Dane against the seat, but as they went, the speed decreased, and when the craft turned once more, they had fallen to a landing rate.
Landing here among the stumps on rough terrain where brush had been grubbed out without regard for smoothing was going to take maneuvering. They headed once more for the broken roost. But now around those splintered poles curled greenish vapor, which whirled before it broke into thin wisps and rose up and up to disappear well above the height at which they now flew.
Of the creatures that had, only moments earlier, been engaged in ruthless war, there was nothing to be seen, unless they had joined the bodies on the ground. Meshler set down in the only possible open space, still some distance from the raided roost.
Dane left the brach in the flitter, running with Meshler and Tau toward the scene of the struggle. If the dragons had come originally to hunt for food, perhaps the resistance of the lathsmers had sealed the fate of the whole covey. Or else it was not mere wanton killing on the dragons’ part but defense against the fighting prowess of creatures they had underestimated.
The dragons and the last two of the lathsmers were lying as they had fallen, but they were not dead. The discharge of the vapor had had much the same effect as that of a stunner beam. Meshler stood over the mutants, studying them.
“You say these are the ancestors of the lathsmers?” He sounded unconvinced, and had Dane not seen them crawl from the embryo containers, he would have been as hard to satisfy.
“Unless they were shipped wrongly,” Tau commented. “But I think you can forget that. These were snoop- rayed at the port of Xecho—routine—but the field experts don’t miss anything.”
Meshler stooped, lifted the edge of a wing, which was ribbed with rubbery skin spreading between the ribs, then allowed it to fall back against the scaled body, where snorting breaths expanded and contracted wrinkled, repulsive skin.
“If your trick box can do this—”
“Not our box,” Dane corrected. “And remember the antline—that box is probably not the first of its kind.”
“Report!” Meshler spoke as if to himself. “Now—” He brought a tangler from his belt, a weapon meant to render any prisoner completely immobile. He used it with expert care, leaving each of the dragons well encased, limbs, tail, wings, and cruelly toothed jaws.
They dragged them back to the flitter, loading them into the cargo section. Meshler shook his head over the remains of the lathsmers. The two who had fought to the last, he thought would survive. But the rest were dead. To report this to the unfortunate owner must be their next move.
“He’ll claim damages,” Meshler commented with satisfaction. “And if he wants to swear land-hurt against you all—”
Dane did not know what land-hurt might be, but from the ranger’s tone it was more trouble for the Queen. “Not our doing,” Tau answered.
“No? Your cargo was not officially discharged at the port—this part of it wasn’t—so you are still responsible for it. And if a cargo damages—”
A nice legal point, Dane thought. They were responsible certainly for damage to a cargo, but could they be held also for damage by a cargo? He thought feverishly of all the instruction tapes he had studied, both during his years of schooling and after he had joined the Queen. Had such a case of this kind ever come up before? He could not recall it. Van Ryke would know, but Van Ryke was parsecs away—in another galactic sector—and the Spirit of Outer Space only knew when he was going to planet to join them.
“Take the shortest way.” Again Meshler appeared to be talking to himself. But a few minutes later, instead of turning east as his course had been earlier, the nose of the small craft veered west.
Meshler gave an exclamation and thumped a fist against one of the dials on the board. Its needle quivered a fraction but did not turn. Then he went to work, snapping levers, pushing buttons. There was no answering alteration in their course.
“What’s the matter?” Dane was enough of a flitter pilot himself to know that the craft was now acting as if it were locked on automatics, on a set course, and that the ranger could not break to hand control
.
Tau leaned forward, his head nearly even with Dane’s. “Look at that indicator! We’re on a control beam!”
One of the dials did read that they were riding a powerful and pulling beam.
“I can’t break it!” Meshler’s hands dropped from the board. “It won’t answer the manuals.”
“But if no one set a course—and they didn’t—” Dane stared at the dial. Automatics could be set, even locked securely. But none of them had done that, and though they had been engrossed in getting the dragons on board, no one could have approached the flitter without being seen.
“Contact beam,” Meshler said thoughtfully, “but that is impossible! There is nothing in this direction. Oh, a few wandering hunters, maybe. And the Trosti experimental station. But that’s well north of here. And even they do not have the equipment to—”
“Somebody has,” Tau said. “And it would seem your wilderness holds more than you supposed, Ranger Meshler. How closely do you patrol it, anyway?”
Meshler’s head came up. There was a flush on his cheeks.
“We face now half a continent of wilderness. Most of it was aerial mapped. But as for exploring on land, we have too few men, very meager funds. And our jobs are to patrol and protect the holdings. There’s never been any trouble on Trewsworld before—”
“If you are going to say before the Queen arrived,” Dane retorted bitterly, “don’t. We didn’t produce a retrogressed antline, nor murder those two men in the crawler. And we certainly didn’t entangle our own ship on purpose. If we are caught in a contact beam, it has to be broadcast from an installation. So there’s more in the wilderness than you know.”
But Meshler did not seem to be listening. Instead, the ranger activated the com, holding the mike in his hand and rattling off a series of letters that must have been in code. Three times he repeated that, waiting each time for a reply. Then, as nothing came, he hung the mike back on its hook with a small shrug of his shoulders.
“Com out, too?” Tau asked.
“It would seem so,” Meshler answered. And still the flitter bored into a coming dusk of twilight, heading west into what the ranger admitted was the unknown.
9.HUNTERS OF MEN
The dark closed in, but when Dane would have snapped on the lights of the flitter, as Meshler made no move to, the ranger caught his wrist.
“No use letting ourselves be seen,” he explained, and Dane was disconcerted at his own instinctive but perhaps dangerous move.
“Where are we? Any clue?” Tau asked.
“Southwest! To our reports there is nothing here but the wilds,” Meshler returned. “Have I not said that?”
“This Trosti station,” persisted the medic. “With what are their experiments concerned? Ag work, veterinary procedures, or general research?”
“Ag work, but not altogether for Trewsworld. They have a conditioning-for-export license. But they are of no concern. I have visited them on my rounds. We are well past that site, plus the fact that they had no installation capable of a beam such as this.”
“Trosti,” Tau repeated thoughtfully. “Trosti—”
“Vegan Trosti. This is one of the foundations set up under his will,” Meshler supplied.
Vegan Trosti! Dane thought of the hundreds of rumors and supposedly authentic stories about Vegan Trosti. He was one of those men possessing what Terrans used to claim was a “golden touch.” Every invention he backed, every exploration he financed, was a success, pouring more and more credits into his hoard. No one had ever learned just how much wealth Trosti had amassed. At intervals he made over some astronomical sum to a research project. If that paid off, and they regularly did, the profit went to the lucky planet giving it a base.
There were, of course, the other tales, too, such as grew from the shadow of such a man—that his “luck” was not always a matter for open investigation; that some of the research projects could not bear too open a scrutiny, or that they carried on programs on two levels, one that could be reviewed openly, the other masked by the first and for purposes far less advantageous for the public.
But, though such rumors had become legends also, there had never been one bit of proof they were true. And the credit side of Trosti’s ledger was very impressive. If he had made any mistakes or taken any steps along another road, such were buried and forgotten.
So had Vegan Trosti lived, a power about whose person practically nothing was known. He shunned publicity with an almost fierce hatred. There were stories that he often worked among his own employees—especially on explorations—without their knowing it. When he disappeared, he had set up such a tight legal control of his empire, insuring that it was to be used for knowledge and general good, that he was looked upon on many worlds as a hero, almost a demigod.
How he had disappeared was not known, in spite of the investigation of the Patrol. It seemed that his deputies simply came forward some planet years back and announced that his private ship was long overdue and that they had their instructions in such a case to dissolve his holdings, carrying out his express commands. They had proceeded to do so, in spite of a bright beam of publicity allowing no concealment.
The story was that he had set off on one of his expeditions and that he had ceased to report regularly as he had always done. Following the time order he had left, his men moved to do as he wished should such a circumstance arrive.
Never had anyone learned anything about his early years. His past, beyond a certain point, was as blank as his final ending. He was a comet that had shot across the inhabited galaxy and left changes on those worlds it touched.
“We’re losing altitude,” Meshler suddenly exclaimed.
“Something else—” Once more Tau leaned forward so that his head and shoulders were close to the two before him. “See here?” His arm was a dark shadow in the dusky cabin, but what he held out for them had its own light about a dial. On the face of that, a needle quivered to the right, and from it came a buzzing, which seemed to Dane to grow even stronger.
“What—?” began Meshler.
“There is radiation ahead, radiation of the same type but stronger than that from the box on the Queen. I think we are going to have some answers to questions shortly.”
“Listen—” Dane could not see the ranger’s face. It was only a lightish blur in the gloom, but there was a note in the other’s voice he had not heard before. “You say this radiation turns a thing back through time, retrogresses it—”
“All we have is the evidence of the embryos and the brach,” Tau said.
“Well, suppose it affected us. Could it?”
“I don’t know. That box was brought on board the ship by a human. Thorson saw it being handled by an alien woman. Of course, they may have sent their messenger on board to die, but I don’t think so. They needed the Queen to ferry their cargo here, and the ship could not have been handled by a crew who retrogressed as rapidly as the animals it affected. We would not have been able to come out of hyper. But if the radiation is stepped up, then I am not sure—”
“And you say that’s the same radiation ahead?”
“By the reading on this, yes.”
But what he might have added to that was never said, for the flitter gave a sudden downward swoop. Meshler cried out and wrestled with the controls—to no purpose. He could not wrench the craft from the force pulling it earthward.
“Crash aid!” Dane sensed rather than saw the pilot’s hand swing out to hit the panic button. He did the same on his side of the cabin. How much time did they have? Enough? The ground was only a dark mass, and he had no idea of how fast they were falling to meet it.
He felt the soft spurt of safe-foam on his body, curdling around it in the protective device of the flitter. It twined and coiled as he sat. Now it was as high as his throat, about his chin. He followed crash procedure, settled back in his seat, and shut his eyes as the protective covering jellied in around the three of them and the brach. Dane should have warned the brach, but he had forg
otten all about the creature, who had been so quiet, and now it was too late.
Relax. His mind fought his nerves. Relax, leave it to the protective jelly. Tense up and he would delay the safety factor in that. Relax. He set his will to that now.
They struck. In spite of the safe-foam, it was a jar that knocked Dane into semiconsciousness. He did not know how long it was before he regained his senses enough to grope for the release catch on the cabin door to his right. He had to fight the pressure of the jelly to do that, but at last his fingers closed on the bar, but his half hold was torn loose as the door was opened with a sharp jerk. The jellied foam slipped toward that opening, carrying him with it as he struggled feebly to break free.
The safe-foam was being torn away. A great scarf of it fell from his head and shoulders. He opened his eyes into a blinding glare of beamer and blinked, unable to see, nor as yet able to understand what had happened. They had crashed and then—
Hands pulled him free of the foam with no care or gentleness. Speed seemed to be the thing desired. When he could stand, he was jerked to his feet, the beamer still so centered on him that he could not see who held it or the faces of the men who stripped off the jelly. There were two of them, and when they had done, they swung him expertly around and applied a tangler to his arms and wrists behind his back. Now he was as safely their prisoner as if they had encased him from shoulder to waist in plasta of the quick-drying sort.
Having made sure of him, they gave a shove that sent him staggering forward until he bumped against a surface with painful force. With that to steady him, he edged around. The bedazzlement left by the beam straight in his eyes was wearing off. He could see, though the men who were working on Tau remained only shadowy figures.
Dane never knew how many of them there were, for he was sure some of the party kept out of sight, using the beamer as a cover, but they worked with such efficiency that one could believe this was an action in which they had been drilled.