by Andre Norton
There was no storm, but the day was gray, and the sun was a very pallid spot of light, well veiled by clouds. Save for their two blasters, they carried no arms. And Dane tried not to imagine what would happen if the enemy had captured one of the burners and turned it aloft to singe out any attempt at rescue.
When they came in over the fields where Vanatar and his people had been clearing, the ragged scars of the interrupted work were beacon enough. The tangle of the flitter the refugees had brought down lay in a burned-out mess, eclipsing in part two crawlers it had crashed upon.
From that wreckage a lance of blaster fire shot at their own craft. Friend believing them enemy, or enemy trying to blast any rescue attempt? At any rate, that spear of light had come from a hand weapon, lacking power to reach them, though were they to descend, it might make a direct hit—
Meshler brought the flitter around, away from the park. The machine, never meant for fast or limited space maneuvering, needed all his attention at the controls. But it was the brach who gave them their lead.
“Much fear—pain—that way—” He pointed with his nose. Dane interpreted, and Meshler headed in the new direction.
They caught sight of the rocks. They looked from above almost as if they were some artificial erection rather than natural outcropping, though they stood in no pattern, only raised a mass of erosion-pitted stone skyward.
Meshler guided the flitter in closer. Halfway across the roughly cleared field was an overturned crawler. From it pointed the ugly snout of a burner, and where that lay against the soil, there was a long streak of black and smoking soil ribboning from it. Apparently the machine had been overturned with the burner going at full blast, and that had remained on to sear and roast the ground until its heating unit was exhausted.
But it had taken toll before it had been defeated. There were three half-burned carcasses on its back trail, and all of them suggested that in life they had been monstrous. More nightmare things, however, were left to prowl around the rocks, though they did not essay to attack, mainly because scuttling back around the rocky outcrop were three robo clearers, their long, jointed arms with scraper and slasher attachments at ready, threshing the air in a whirl of threat.
Two more robos had suffered. One whipped around in a dizzy circle, two smashed arms trailing behind it, bumping on the ground, half the control box that served it for a head melted away. The other did not move. Apparently its progress circuits had been shorted in some manner, but it whipped and banged the ground in a frenzy.
That these, too, had left their dead was plain from corpses cut and slashed, four of them. But the robos were good only as long as their charges lasted. Even as the flitter went into hover over the stones, two of those keeping sentry go were slowing, and one came to a complete stop, its armored arms raised high, remaining frozen so.
Meshler was fighting the controls of the flitter. As Cartl had warned, the awkward cargo carrier did not have the maneuverability of the craft he was more used to, and he was finding it hard to judge just the right height. Those below must have recognized the craft, for they waved wildly from behind the shadow of stones.
Dane kicked open the hatch and made ready to swing out the belt, but the contrary flitter was bucking, refusing to settle into a steady hover, so that the equipment swung back and forth. Whether the hoist would work, Dane dared not guess. They could only try.
He watched the belt flop loosely down, keeping the rope from tangling. That it had reached its goal he knew when the rope jerked its signal. Now—
He spoke to the brach. “Watch, see if all goes well. I must work this—”
The alien trotted to the hatch and thrust his head out, bracing his feet against one side for hold against the swing of the craft.
“They put fast a man—he has hurts—”
Sending up wounded first. Dane wished they had had the forethought to bring up at least one able-bodied helper on the first try. If the belt did not hold—
He started the hoist, fastened to the motor Cartl and one of the refugees had bolted in hurriedly. The rope went taut, and there was a groan from the motor as the strain began. It took the weight very slowly, too slowly—yet there was nothing he could do except squat here and watch it, make sure that the motor kept on working and the rope fed back evenly
The wait seemed endless, and then the brach reported. “One is here—he cannot aid himself.”
“Come here.” Dane made a swift decision. “Watch—if this rope loosens, call!”
He scrambled past the brach, who obediently came to the hoist. The belt spun just below the hatch, the man in it limp and still, having been trussed inside the lift by a patchwork of tatters knotted together. With infinite care Dane got him in, bathed in sweat that was not induced by heat when he laid him on the floor. He tried to take care in loosening those fastenings. Then once more he kicked out the belt and let it fall on the line.
There was no time to examine the first arrival. Meshler did not even look around, his concentration on the controls was such that now he seemed a part of the craft he fought to master.
Once more that jerk on the line, the arrival of another injured man, but this time conscious, able to help himself.
As Dane uncoiled the lashing that held him in the belt, he said, “How many more of you?”
“Ten,” the settler replied.
Ten! They could not pack that many in here, not with the hoist taking up so much room. It would mean two trips—and did they have time for that? He threw out the belt again, asked the settler to watch the hoist, and then edged up to Meshler.
“There are twelve. We can’t take them all.”
Meshler did not turn from the controls as he answered, “We’re on borrowed time. We may not be able to make a second trip.”
That was obvious. But it was also plain that they could not hope to overload the flitter and get away. So far all they had seen of the enemy were the patrolling monsters outside the robo ring and that one blaster shot from the vehicle park. But that did not mean there had been any retreat.
Suddenly the flitter gave a lurch, just as if they had been jerked ahead on an invisible line. Their hover had been broken. They were moving from the rocks.
“Control beam!” the ranger cried. “It’s weak, but with this craft I can’t break it.”
Control beam! They were being reeled in again, just as they had been in the other flitter. Another crash? “What the—” He heard the second wounded man in the back cry out, “We’re going past the rocks!”
Dane got back to the hatch. Below them dangled the belt. They were already past the rocks, and it was a mercy no one had been in it.
“Look!”
He saw the belt settle as the beam brought them lower and suddenly hook over the up-thrust arm of a robo that had run down. To be so forceably anchored in an instant was the final mishap. In spite of Meshler’s skill, the nose of the flitter went sharply up, and they headed tailward to the earth.
16.BAIT FOR A TRAP
Dane was thrown back by the sudden tilt of the deck. He slammed into the framework of the hoist, his head meeting one of the beams with a sickening crack. Perhaps the padding of the thermo hood saved his life, but from that second he lost all interest in the proceedings.
He awoke with pain filling his head, sending torturing fingers exploring down his neck and shoulders. So did that fill his world that he was only vaguely aware of sound—loud and intermittent—which arose beyond the red haze clouding his vision.
Then he was lifted, and the pain hit with acute force so that he cried out to be left alone. The impatient handling, for he was being pulled along roughly, made it worse, though he did not sink back into full unconsciousness.
He was dropped, rather than laid down, his head a little elevated. Then they did leave him alone. Slowly, blinking, he managed to see a little about him. A mass of wreckage pointed skyward, past his range of sight, for he could not raise his head higher. After slow minutes of capturing memory, he knew that
for the flitter, which had apparently struck full on its tail. Scuttling back and forth across his line of sight between him and the stones was a robo waving flailing arms.
“Meshler?” The ranger’s name came out as harsh, croaking sound, but the face of the man leaning over him was that of a total stranger. He glanced at Dane casually but made no attempt to examine the Terran’s hurts.
“This one’s still alive,” he reported to someone.
“All the better. If he threshes around a little, it will make it more convincing. What about the others?”
“One dead, one still breathing. And the pilot?”
“He’s safe enough. With his feet in a tangle, he can flop to impress, too. Push him halfway under the wreck, and it will be all set. Now, give those dust grubbers the message—loud and clear—”
The words seemed to float in and out of Dane’s hearing. Some were sharp and clear and made sense.
Others were so faint that he could not be sure of them.
“You—up in the rocks !”
That was certainly loud enough to re-echo inside his skull as a frightening din.
“Listen,” shouted the same voice again.
Fainter—”We’re listening.” “We can make you an offer.”
“We’re listening—” Almost an echo of the first reply.
“Send a couple of your men out for a talk.”
“Send yours here—unarmed,” countered the other.
“Give them what they want.” Another voice, impatient, cut in. “We haven’t much time now. This has fouled up everything.”
“We come, no blasters, to that rock—”
“Agreed.”
The man who had stood by Dane moved away. As he passed the robo, the machine swung away from him, its persona detection device steering it from attacking a human. Another man came to join him. They stood with their backs to Dane, but he could see them. The haze was clearing more from his vision, and he could watch in a detached way, as if this had no meaning, for the only reality was his pain.
From behind the stones came two men in settlers’ shaggy outdoor clothing. They moved warily, and they did not come far, standing well away from the enemy.
“What do you want?” demanded one of them.
“Just out—off-world. We have a spacer we can lift in, but we need time to reach her—and we need transportation—a flitter.”
“So? Well, we don’t have one,” countered the settler. “And we can’t make one out of stones—”
“Give us a truce,” returned the other. “We call off the beasts, send them in another direction. There’s a broadcaster to the north they’ll drift to if we switch off ours. And we’ll send in a com for help. Whoever comes will see this wreck and set down by it. We’ll take over. Oh, not with blasters—with tanglers. Then once we’re out of here, you’re free. All we need is that flitter. We would have taken this one if it hadn’t fouled that blasted robo. You stay where you are, quiet and peaceful. Don’t try any tricks until we get the flitter. Then we’ll go—”
The settler turned his head to his companion. Dane saw their lips move but could not hear even a whisper of speech from where he lay.
“What about them?” The settler pointed to the wreck and Dane.
“They stay here until the flitter comes. After that you can have them. And to show you we mean what we say, we’ll call off the beasts, hold them back. If you agree, that is.”
“We’ll talk it over—” The settlers’ spokesmen withdrew, not turning their backs on the enemy, but edging along until they disappeared behind boulders large enough to give them cover.
The others tramped back, though they took no precautions against fire from the stones. Something beside the fury of pain moved in Dane. He understood the terms of the truce, but it did not mean much to him personally. Only a dim sense of alarm awakened. It was clear that the settlers did not trust these men, but would they agree? And if they did—
Bait! The explanation rang in Dane’s mind as if it were an alarm to awaken him to what this might mean in terms of his own survival. The fragments of talk he had heard on his first regaining consciousness made sense. He—the others who survived the crash—were to be left here as bait!
Another flitter might set down to give them aid. If the beasts had been called off and there was no sign of enemy activity, that could work. But suppose that the men among the stones made no move to warn off the newcomers—the trap could spring shut at once.
But would the strangers, once they had their means of transport, merely withdraw? Dane fought the steady throb of pain in his head and tried to think more clearly. Let the settlers believe that, and they were fools.
On the other hand, they were not well armed, and the robos were running down. The one that had been whirling back and forth behind the wreck of the flitter was just coming to a stop. It gave one or two more flails of its arms; then froze pointing straight out, as if to push away an enemy it could no longer attack.
So without blasters, with their robos run down, they would be easy meat for the monsters. And the refugees might just be desperate enough to take a chance at a bargain, believing that they could not be any worse off and that it might save them. Dane’s need to warn was giving him a kind of strength now. He tried to move, at least one hand. It came up slowly until he could see it hanging limply on his wrist, as if it were not his but another’s. Now he turned his will on his fingers. They were numb, without feeling, but they did move as he ordered.
Being able to wave a hand was not what he needed now, but more, much more. He concentrated upon sitting up. But when he raised his head from whatever slight support it lay upon, the world whirled in a spin about him, and he nearly blacked out again.
So he lay quiet, using what strength he had to move his other hand, one foot a little, then the other. At least he did not seem to have any broken bones so far. And the numbness was wearing out of the hand. Perhaps the knock on the head and a general drastic bouncing about was all the damage he had suffered,
“Do you think they’ll agree—”
Dane subsided at the sound of that voice, behind and quite close.
“What choice have they? After those robos short out, the beasts will swarm at them. They’re not that stupid. Let them take a little longer to argue about it, and then give them the ultimatum—now or never!”
“How long do you think we’ll have to wait for a flitter?”
“Well, that one bunch got away, and these came prepared for a pickup. Manifestly they knew what they had to do. So somewhere the alarm has already gone out. And Dextise got a message from the port. The Free Traders seem to have done enough talking to impress Largos and the Patrol commandant.”
“I thought Spuman was handling that so well—”
“He had it all tied up until this last shipment blew it. Grotler couldn’t have made more mistakes if he were deliberately trying to foul jets. A good thing he didn’t finish the voyage alive. Dextise would have taken him apart bone and muscle and fed the remains to one of his pets. This may well have finished the whole operation. It will if Spuman can’t use the Trosti cover. One man—just one man—plays it stupid, and we lose three years of work! And maybe the big cover into the bargain.”
“Grotler must have been sick. He died, didn’t he, during takeoff?”
“Let us hope that part of the story is straight. If he was helped out of this universe, then matters may be even worse than they seem. No, Dextise has the right of it now—cut our losses here, get off-world, and let these bird-tenders argue it out with the big ones. Dextise will turn on the agitators to send the monsters crazy and spread ’em out. The settlers will be so busy jetting around to pull their own people out of the jaws of this and that from Dextise’s pens that we’ll have time to cover our trail a little. You’ll learn there comes a time when you sometimes have to write off an operation.”
“You think this might blow the whole Trosti deal?”
“Who knows what the Patrol is going to fin
d when it noses around? We could maybe have covered up Grotler and the Free Trader if that ranger and the traders hadn’t come snooping around, and if they hadn’t broken the force field and let the big ones out. Nothing to do after that but try to control them. And we couldn’t because of some counter call to the north.”
“Grotler’s?”
“What else? The trader didn’t bring it in. Last we heard from Spuman, they admitted they landed it in an LB somewhere in the wilderness and planted it where they thought it would be safe until some tech saw it. By the fourteen horns of Mablan, this thing fell apart right there and then! We tried to head them off, and what happens? We run into this—”
“Dextise said wipe ’em out. Let the rangers think the beasts did it.”
“I know, I know. Then what happens? Some of them get away! So then we have to wait around to make sure these won’t talk if help comes—and we lose a flitter. If you want to take a crawler back when you know some one of the beasts can open one of those like an E-ration tube and have you out as if you were rations—”
“So now we hope for another flitter.”
“Can you think of a better way? Eilik has killed the interference. He’s sending an SOS through on the port reading, purposely making it weak. Between here and the port, there’re four or five big holdings. Any one of them might respond—that’s settler custom. So we get a flitter, and then we turn the agitator on high, and with their robos not functioning, Dextise will still get his wish—nothing left alive to talk.”
Though there were still missing pieces in the ugly pattern, it made sense for Dane, more than anything had since he had seen the dead man in his bunk. Just as he had feared, these strangers had no intention of keeping their part of the bargain. How could he get a warning to the men at the stones?
“You—out there—” The refugees were the first to call this time.
Dane tried to make his body obey his will. If he could only call out! But when he tried it, the best he produced was a harsh croaking. One of the strangers, passing, looked down searchingly and then deliberately kicked at Dane’s outstretched legs, the jar of that blow running like flame up his body until he thought he was going to black out. When he recovered a little, he could see the strangers and the settlers again facing each other.