by Andre Norton
“We agree. You call off the things, and we’ll let you have the flitter—if it comes.”
“It’ll come,” the stranger returned. “We’re beaming a distress call north. You make no warn-off signal. We’re holding the beasts back. You do a warn-off, and we let them go. And they’ll get these first—” He gestured over his shoulder to the wreck and perhaps the other survivors Dane could not see. Was the brach among them?
Again he had half forgotten the alien. Since the strangers had not mentioned the creature from Xecho, it might be that the brach had been crushed somewhere in the flitter, a nasty end for the unusual comrade of this painful adventure. Dane’s hood was crumpled under his head, and when he inched around a little,
trying to see if he could reach the mike of the interpreter, a sharp point dug into his neck, so he flinched away. It felt as if the com had been crushed and was now reduced to broken metal bits. So much for that.
He could not summon the brach even if the alien was alive and had escaped injury.
But the Terran had other things to think of when the men came back from the stones and halted to stand over him. Both of them were of Terran or Terran colonial stock as far as he could judge. They wore thermo jackets not unlike his own, and their heads were hooded, though they had pushed the masking visors up and back. One of them squatted now on his heels, though he did not put out a hand to touch Dane.
“You heard that.” It was not a question but a statement. “All right, you don’t fire rockets now and throw this off course. If you do, we let our pets back there loose, and who do you think they’ll relish first?”
Dane did not reply, and the man seemed satisfied that he had thrown fear into a hopeless and helpless captive. He added, “We ought to take care of you anyway. You blasted traders got us into this mess. If it hadn’t been for you—”
“Come on.” His companion dropped a hand on his shoulder. “No use in planeting in on him with all that. Fact is—Grotler did it, not them. Grotler and what we could never have foreseen. He’s finished anyhow.”
They both vanished out of Dane’s range of sight, and he was left to stare at the wreck, the still robo, and the stones, with the words “finished anyhow” remaining in his mind. But something in him responded to that as if it were a lash laid unexpectedly on his back.
So they though that he was finished, that all that was left for him was to lie here, acting as bait in their trap and then falling to one of their monsters! If he could only see what lay behind him—What they had said earlier—that Meshler was all right, only they had put a tangler on his legs and shoved him under the wreck to play the roll of another victim—
There was no brach to free them this time. So, whatever could be done, Dane would have to do for himself. Once more, slowly, and with infinite care, he tried to move arms and legs. This time they responded better. It was almost as if that kick had removed some block. Also the pain in his head was now stabilized as an ache, fierce to be sure, but it no longer made the world whirl about him.
He tried to judge time by the look of the sky. The clouds of the morning had held. He had no idea how long before real dark. But surely the jacks would rig some kind of light to draw the help they thought would come. They would not waste their bait in darkness. How much light?
Dane listened as intently as he could. He could hear the clanking of the last two robo defenders of the stones and—just barely—a murmur of voices from some distance—not loud enough to distinguish any words.
Water—Spirit of Space—how he wanted water! It had been a nameless need at first, but now that he thought of it, his thirst was enough to swallow up his judgment if he allowed it to. Dane had always thought of himself as being tough—Free Traders were noted for their ability to take about the worst any planet could offer and, if not survive, manage to make a battle of it. There were techniques taught on Terra—survival methods that did not come out of kits, or supplies, but had to lie inside a man himself.
Dane had not been very good at them. He doubted whether he could be better now. But when there was only one road left, that was the way a man must go.
He went to work following the methods that had been so drilled into him, though his response then had often been the despair of the instructors. Mind over body—only he was no esper—
Thirst—he was thirsty. He felt as if he could lie in a pool of water and absorb it sponge fashion through every pore. Water! For a moment he allowed himself to think of water, of the dryness of his mouth, the ash-coated emptiness of his throat. Then he deliberately applied the right technique—or what his instructors half the galaxy away sitting comfortably before a class of aspiring spacemen declared was the right technique.
Water—he wanted it, so it followed that he must get it. To do that, he had to move. And to move, he must again be able to command his body. But he was hampered now by the fact that if he showed too much life, his captors might see to it that he was quiet again.
Dane’s arms lay by his sides, but his palms were against the ground. Stealthily, he exerted pressure. He lifted a little and discovered that more of his weakness had ebbed, and he could raise himself.
Could he counterfeit delirium? And dare the enemy treat him too roughly in sight of the stones? They had made a bargain, even if they did not expect to keep it. Suppose he tried to move and they attacked him. Those watching might believe they dared expect no better treatment. That kick had been delivered in passing and when to their sight he might have been unconscious. So—
Dane put pressure on one side. It also depended on where he was going to go. If he tried to roll toward the stones, they would stop him, but if he turned to the wreck? There was nothing left to do but try.
With what strength he could summon, he pushed, rolled on his side, and lay quiet, while once more pain and dizziness washed over him. But now he could see the wreck fully, and not far away lay another body sprawled out face down. It was the badly wounded man they had taken on board, and plainly he was dead. A little farther on was Meshler.
The ranger stared at Dane, and now he wriggled vainly. From the chest down, with both arms and legs out of sight, he lay under what had once been the hatch door, while leaning over him at a threatening angle was one of the hoist beams.
“This one’s moving!” Dane could not see the speaker, but the man must be close behind him.
“Water—” Dane thought it time to play his role. “Water—”
His voice was still harsh, hardly above a whisper, but he managed to articulate better this time.
“Wants a drink, he does.”
“Well, give him one. Don’t let them see us off beam now, or they might get ideas—”
Dane felt warm. He had been right in assessing the position. Then a grab at his shoulder brought him on his back, and he had time only to see the nozzle end of a space cup coming abruptly down to spray its blessed moisture into his mouth. The first spray was so delivered that he choked, and some of it spilled out of his mouth to run across his chin, into the folds of his hood. Then the nozzle was between his teeth, and he sucked avidly.
“Drag him over here,” came the order as the nozzle was pulled from his toothhold with the same brutal disregard for his pain as when it had been first inserted. “He’s too near the stones. Someone might have a bright idea about trying to get to him when it gets dark.”
Hands caught in his armpits, lifted him a little, and then dragged him back along the ground. He could only endure that jolting with what small store of energy he had left and hold on to consciousness as if that were a weapon someone was trying to twist out of his grasp.
When they let go, he thumped back against a surface that supported his head and shoulders much higher than before. And the squirming Meshler was almost within touching distance.
“Excellent—” Dane half opened his eyes. He was not playing a role now, he was living it. He could see blurrily a man come to stand before him.
Man? No, this was an alien like the one who had been in
the camp below the ledge, if not the same one. He spoke Basic. At least that one word was in the Basic of the star lanes, but the accent was pronounced.
“Yes, well done, Yuljo. He is now a sight to wring the hearts of any rescue party. Doubtless he dragged himself hither to try to free his trapped comrade and then collapsed. Very well staged—since your breed on these frontier worlds is too much occupied with the thought that they owe a duty to one another when disaster strikes. If this weakness did not grip them, we could not hope to lay our little trap at all.”
He raised his head, encased in no thermo hood but rather in a tightly fitting helmet from the back of which projected an antenna—not a space helmet but perhaps an off-world com device. Now he looked to the north. Did they expect help so soon, Dane wondered? As far as he could judge, they were hours away from any northern holding, and there would not be another party come from Card’s.
“It would be well to set the lamps. There is no storm, but we face a dark night.”
Indeed, the gloom had increased since Dane had last noted it. But situated as he was now, he could view more of the scene. Of the other man they had rescued before the crash, he could see nothing. Perhaps he lay on the other side of the wreck. Meshler was still, though his face was turned to the Terran, and he gave Dane a sharp glance now and then.
Their captors were working with two camp diffuse lamps, making adjustments to their shades to throw a maximum of light—one on the wreck and the two men there, the other to mark out a landing site for the craft they confidently expected to entice in.
Why did they not use the control beam again, wondered Dane, and then found an answer for himself. They had tried that, and it had ended with a wreck. They did not want that to happen again.
Having set the stage with care, the alien gave a last-minute inspection. Two of his men took cover in the shadow of the wreck, using pieces of the flitter to give them protection from the sky. And each was armed with a tangler.
The alien came once more to stand before Dane and the ranger.
“Hope or pray to whatever gods you own,” he said, “that you do not have long to wait. We are holding off the beasts, but we do not have equipment here of any great strength, and how long we can so hold—who knows? This is a game of chance and one in which you and those fools behind the stones there have the most to lose. There goes their last robo—and how long will two blasters and a brace of stunners hold against what prowls out there—once it is loosed?”
He waved to the expanse of half-cleared land, and Dane saw that nightmare and horror did prowl there. Most of it was beyond his power of description but enough allied to perils he knew to make him understand just how black the future was—more so than a moonless night, for there were no stars to light it.
18.PURSUIT TO THE RAT NEST
“We must depend,” the alien continued, “upon that weakness of your breed, that, seeing one of their kind in distress, they must straightway come to his assistance, emotion outweighing caution. We are giving them a piteous sight indeed.”
Dane thought he detected black humor in that, as if the alien considered this a source of laughter for his breed. But was he taking into consideration that this was a too well-set stage—that anyone with an ordinary amount of suspicion answering a distress call would be wary of a so well-lighted and arranged scene of disaster? Supposing Cartl’s counter impulse had broken through the earlier interference and—But Dane must not build upon hope, only accept what lay starkly before him now. If those who answered the call for help, always supposing they did, were not suspicious—
The alien was walking away.
“They can do it,” Meshler croaked, as if his throat were dry and the words rasped painfully from it. “From the air this must look all right. And if we try to warn them—”
“We have no hope anyway,” Dane answered. “I heard them talking.” Dane could not believe Meshler ever thought the jacks would keep their word.
The diffuse lamps were on, set in such a way as to suggest that at least one able-bodied man had escaped the crash of the flitter and was endeavoring to provide a guide for a rescue craft. The skill in placing that limited illumination was such that both Dane and Meshler were fully revealed. Any move the Terran might make would be instantly visible to those in ambush.
But the men waiting there had tanglers, not blasters. Did that mean that the enemy was running low on charges for the deadly weapons and were saving what they had? And how many of the monsters remained?
With the robos frozen when those were turned loose—Resolutely Dane tried to cut that picture out of his imagination and think about the immediate future and what might be done for the two of them in the here and now. Only he could see nothing at all!
He would like more water. Water—no, do not think of water, which was now as far from him as the Queen herself. The Queen, the LB—what had happened to his own star-going world? Apparently the box was still in the place where it had been buried, or else it would not be acting as a draw on the monsters. So its radiation must be able to pass the safeguards Stotz had set on it, acting as a contact beam.
Dane was so deep in his thoughts, thoughts that could lead nowhere, that he was not at first aware of the cold metal sliding under one of his hands as it rested on the ground, but the persistent nudging of that touch drew his attention at last.
The Terran dared not look down. Not only was he afraid that might awaken his dizziness, but also, if what he guessed was in progress, through some wild stroke of luck, he must not allow those in ambush to suspect. Stealthily he moved his hand, raising it a little. Instantly the object that had been nudging him pushed between palm and earth, first a barrel, and then the butt, worked carefully around so that his fingers could close on it.
A stunner! The brach! The alien from Xecho must be hidden by the wreck and was so supplying him with a weapon. It was far inferior to a blaster, to be sure, but better than the tanglers in ambush, though he could not be sure how much of a charge was left in it.
Another nudge against his hand. Dane touched the barrel of a second arm. But this one was gripped tight, held so for only a moment, and then withdrawn, as if the brach only wanted him to know that there was a second weapon. Dane remembered how the creature had faced him on the Queen—he knew how to use a stunner. If Dane could only communicate—suggest that the alien work around the flitter and use the stunner on the two in ambush. But that was impossible.
He tried to feel for the paws that must hold the second weapon, but there was nothing. He might have thought it a fever dream, except that he still had the first stunner.
The dark was drawing in fast, and the diffuse lamps were bright in the dusk. It was what prowled out there that fretted the nerves. A stunner—what good would a single stunner be when the breakthrough came? Don’t think of that now. Could he reach either of the men in ambush? Dane edged his head around, kept his eyes half closed, yet was able to see a little from beneath drooping lids. Suppose the rescue craft came—might he take out at least one of the jacks before they could use their tanglers? And would Dane dare—or would he be answered by blaster fire from the shadows where the rest of the enemy had gone?
How many jacks were there? The alien, who appeared to be in command, at least six others—more probably. It was a wild, crazy, fruitless plan, but it was all Dane had to cling to.
The keen edge of expectation can last only so long, and waiting is a fret that saws it very dull. Dane had known such waits before action in the past, but never had he been so helpless before.
The night was not silent. There were the ominous sounds made by the things that prowled about, kept in check by their masters. Somehow, hearing them was worse than seeing them.
But at last, through those growls, snarls, hissing, there came another sound—the steady beat of a flitter engine. Dane, stretching his head farther up and back, tried to sight nose lights, but the craft must be coming from the north, and he faced south.
“Coming—” Meshler rasped. Th
e ranger tried to heave his body out from under the wreckage, which held him tight. “Can’t you do something—warn them?”
“Don’t you think I would if I could?” Dane retorted. But there was no sense in moving or revealing his weapon until he could make that really count.
The sound died away, to Dane’s surprise, and then he was sure the pilot was wary, was going to run a survey of the scene before landing. Would suspicion keep him aloft? With a sinking of spirit Dane could not deny, he thought he had guessed right, for the muted drone of the engine grew fainter and vanished. Would that be a signal for the enemy to loose the monsters, since their trap had been rejected? But apparently the jack leader had patience and confidence in both his scheme and in his knowledge of human motivation, for those in ambush did not move. And his confidence was vindicated when once more that hum came through the night, now from the south, where the flitter had vanished.
This time Dane could see the nose lights, green as the glowing eyes of a night hunter. The machine dipped very low, pointing almost directly at Meshler and him. Then the craft went into descend, the drone of the motor louder. Dane looked at the one jack he could see from his position. The man was tense. He held the tangler so that the adhesive stream, which would congeal instantly on contact with flesh, would spurt into the small portion of ground anyone must cross to reach Dane and Meshler.
The Terran could not see beyond the lights. He did not doubt, however, that the rest of the enemy company was on the move, drawing in to be ready for attack when the flitter touched ground, but not until they were sure, he supposed, that all were out of the craft. Otherwise the pilot could lift, leaving them empty-handed.