Star Ship on Saddle Mountain

by Richard Ackley

  "You mean, Charles," came the startled impulse, "some primitives actually have their glands cut out? Have them

  removed?"

  "They sure do. Because we always figured they were useless, anyhow."

  Charlie got another amazed impulse from Dondee on the upper tier, and his wonder that anybody would ever consider having his finest speech organ removed from his body!

  "I am glad," came the reply from Dondee finally, "that you still have yours, Charles. It would be terrible to be condemned to use only one third of your mind. Surely your world must have known of the use for the glands, Charles?" "No, Dondee. We don't. I didn't, till just now, when you l told me."

  "But your world did once use the glands, Charles. We have it in our recordings of your past history, your past fifty thousand periods, or years rather, Charles."

  "I don't much believe our folks on this world ever could use telepathy," Charlie said. "And specially not back in the early days when there were cave men, Dondee."

  "Oh yes, Charles. And that is exactly the time they used it most, until they found it more effective to roar and shout, and make noises in competition with lower animals. If you think hard, Charles, I can prove it to you, maybe. Have you noticed on your world today, that the people usually most given to the mental language—the psychic use of it—are usually, or very often, without education, and even primitive?"

  "Maybe you are right, Dondee. I sure don't know."

  "Your tonsils—as you call them, Charles, they were commonly used and understood in ancient times, as the source of the mind reserve cell fluid, the hyper power of communication. According to our recordings of the past, some people of your world gave the Interplanetary language the term visions. When the use of the mental language was dying out, people would say back in those days, a vision came to me"

  "We only have our history records," Charlie said, "as far back as about seven thousand years."

  "That is regrettable, Charles. For it is a known fact, your world once used the Interplanetary language widely—or telepathy, as you term this science."

  "Boy, if I could be back at school now—and tell everybody about tonsils."

  "What did you say, Charles?"

  "Oh, nothing, Dondee. I was just thinking out loud. To myself." “I thought you sent that thought to me."

  "No. I guess I've still got to get used to talking in this Interplanetary language, Dondee. Talking with my mind, I mean."

  "You are doing quite well, Charles. For a Primitive." "I'm not a primitive! Doggone, I wish you'd quit calling me that." For moment there was some confusion among Dondee's mental waves. Charlie received varying impulses, and then once more the impulse came clear to him.

  "I am sorry, Charles. It was discourteous of me to send such an impulse, after having learned your proper name. Charles?"

  "I heard you the first time."

  "It was only because of the stage at which your civilization now stands, Charles. That is why I called you a primitive. It is the way my world island talks back home, Charles." "Forget it, Dondee. I didn't mean to get sore about it. I guess you didn't mean it the way it sounded. Hey—I get the feeling, the impulse, just as if you didn't call me Charlie. It's more like you say everything perfectly, the regular way, and use my proper name when you send the impulse?" "Yes, Charles. That is correct. In our world we do not use

  sub-names, since in the Interplanetary tongue all thoughts are easily expressed. That is why I've had the picture you gave me, your correct name, as you first thought it to me. There is no slang as such, in the Interplanetary tongue, Charles, for when thought impulses are sent as slang, they are the result of intention and not due to carelessness. No matter how faltering a thought is given, the mental picture is always true and correct. The only difference comes later, in: the highly developed mental planes, when one mind at high speed is able to convey the finer rhythmic tones, and speak on this delicate and distinguished level, Charles. It is not something everybody can do, for I can't yet do it."

  "One thing's for sure, Dondee, and that's whenever I use telepathy from here on out, I'll know I'll be right!"

  "You will be, Charles. But what is most surprising to me, is that you are able at this early point, to distinguish and' understand that I am using your name correctly, Charles. That is truly amazing. Other world primitives—that is,, peoples of lower level civilizations, have great difficulty getting their glands to react and flow freely, and supply the hyper sensitive fluid needed by the second third of the brain. That is why your accomplishment is so amazing, Charles."

  "People everywhere, you mean, have the Interplanetary language, and can use it, Dondee?"

  "Yes, Charles. I believe I can prove it to you right now. You have used it often before with other primitives of your world."

  Charlie laughed, intrigued by the challenge from the alien boy, and he didn't even mind being referred to as primitive.

  "I'd like to know just when I ever used telepathy before."

  "All right. Charles, have you ever had study periods?"

  "You mean, at school?"

  "Yes. I believe that is how you term it."

  "I sure did. Up to last year, when I graduated. Just before

  Uncle John died."

  "Then," came Dondee's impulse, "do you recall sitting some distance from someone, thinking something, anything —about that person, while you looked straight at him?"

  "Oh sure."

  "Then," the alien boy went on, "have you ever had it happen, that without your making any sound at all, no movement other than your thought impulses, the other person stopped what he or she was doing—and looked up at you, as though you had called?"

  "Yeah, sure, Dondee! Sure—that's happened. Many times. In school, and at home with Uncle John. And sometimes I've looked up from doing something, for no darn reason, and saw somebody looking my way."

  "Then you've proved my contention, Charles. That is one of the early stages of Interplanetary speaking, the first perception, or way of sending thoughts, even though they're just stray thoughts of the mind working on its own, unconsciously and subconsciously, to some other person. All humans have this power to do that, Charles, and anyone can prove it."

  "Boy—" Charlie exclaimed, "I could have used it all along and didn't even know it! I could have been practicing and might have been real good by now."

  Since it is the most natural of languages, even superseding tone variations or music, which all peoples can easily enjoy, you can learn it very quickly. In fact, since it is in every human's basic cell structure, it's more a matter of just getting back into practice than learning it, Charles. And even now, your thought waves are very clear and direct."

  "Why can't I see you, Dondee—do you think you could come on down to where I am?"

  For a moment there was a disturbed uncertainty in the air, coming from the alien boy. Then a complete blank out.

  "Dondee? Can you hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "Come on down where I am. I'd like to meet you."

  "I—I am not permitted to see you till after the Star Project is—"

  A sudden angry jumble of impulses shattered Dondee's small, mild impulse. Charlie called to him again, a little worried now, and then waited. There was no reply. Only the jumbled, high-speed impulses being sent from several stronger and more powerful mind waves all at once. It could only be one thing, Charlie thought. The other aliens had heard Dondee and stopped his conversation. Maybe because of that thing he had just mentioned, the Star Project—whatever that was. He tried to make out what they were telling Dondee but he couldn't. The only thing he was sure of was that the others had silenced Dondee completely.

  The impulses had been angry. And even though they had moved far too fast for Charlie's reception, he had the general idea, from Dondee's slower replies, slower and perhaps,

  purposely so for his benefit. It concerned Dondee's talking too much, and his referring to something secret while talking to the Primitive. That was him, Charli
e knew. But whatever it was, whatever the aliens were doing they wanted to keep it secret.

  "Dondee—can you hear me, Dondee?" Charlie tried again now. "Dond—"

  He left the alien boy's name unfinished, the one syllable fading out as its sound echoed off around the circular tier. The other aliens had silenced Dondee all right. And they would not answer him, either. Charlie's every spoken thought slammed up against a blank wall. The barrier was as solid as Saddle Mountain. Unable to stand the tense silence—the waiting— Charlie got up finally and walked over to the broad band of panoramic view. He stared out at the last traces of the retreating night shadows, vanishing under rocks, into cracks, before his eyes. It was a calm, beautiful day, the quiet of the mild and cool early morning desert that he knew so well. It was the clear light of morning before the sunbeams shot down.

  Navajo whinnied and walked leisurely over to stand beside Charlie. He, too, looked out the view-port.

  "It's okay, Nav. We'll figure out something yet. We sure will. Then we'll high tail it for home."

  But Charlie was uneasy, despite the tranquility of the still morning. He ran his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the transparent view band that circled the deck. It was velvety—like smooth, polished steel. But in spite of his first inspection, Charlie suddenly balled up his fist, then drew

  back and punched hard at what seemed like thin glass. Staring down at the desert below, he rubbed his bruised knuckles.

  There was no escape, he felt sure, or they wouldn't have left him alone here. That was the worst of it. If he did not escape the aliens, if he never returned home to the Shack again, no one would miss him. Uncle John was gone, and J there was no one else.

  "Gosh, Nav, I—" but Charlie did not finish the words as he turned. Silently he put his arms about the neck of the old horse, pressing his face against its warmness, and breathing in the clean, horsey smell of Navajo's mane against his face, "You're all the folks I got now, Nav."

  C H A PTER FIVE

  The 7,000 Steps

  Charlie straightened up suddenly. He remembered he had not slept at all last night. He was tired, just plain tired. But as he considered whether or not he might risk stretching out on the deck and taking a quick nap, Navajo decided for him. The old horse swished his tail from side to side in his easy, lazy fashion, and turned around several times on the unfamiliar deck. Then he peacefully got down on his haunches and stretched out his legs. Watching him, Charlie smiled as Navajo looked up at him, from out of one half-closed eye. Charlie dropped down in front of Navajo's forelegs, and stretching out too, he propped his head back against Navajo's neck.

  The old horse didn't mind, for he was used to Charlie. This camping-out sleeping position was an old and familiar

  one for both of them, specially when they bedded down in the canyons on a hunting trip. Navajo heaved another sigh and closed his eyes.

  "So am I, Nav. Just plain tired. I guess we should have hit the hay long ago."

  Charlie smiled to himself again, his eyes closing down fast as sleep came to him. Navajo was already snoring a little. It wasn't as scary as night, even with aliens running around somewhere else on the star ship, and the last thing Charlie had on his mind was that Navajo was the softest and warmest pillow in the world.

  Charlie didn't know how long he slept. He awoke when Navajo lifted his head suddenly, and, remembering his imprisonment, Charlie jumped to his feet. Navajo got up, too, in a scramble of hoof beats on the smooth, rubbery deck surface.

  "At least it's daytime, Nav. Maybe we can figure our way out of—"

  He stopped abruptly. Navajo had heard it, too, and was sidling over to him, head alert and nostrils flaring, as they both looked about the deck.

  "It's okay, Nav. It's okay," and Charlie patted the horse. "Just another one of those telepathic mind waves. I guess the aliens are out of bed, too. Or whatever they sleep in."

  Charlie listened to several other impulses, then called out loudly: "Why are you keeping me in here—why can't I go on home?"

  Just then, with no sound at all, he received a clear impulse.

  "We do not wish to hold you, Primitive. But we cannot let you go free. You have discovered us, and we must keep you with us. We cannot free you."

  Holding back a feeling of panic at their words, Charlie answered the alien's impulse, calling out to the unseen man somewhere else in the ship.

  "Please—you've got to let me go, let us out. I won't tell anybody. We'll go straight back to the Shack—I mean, back home. And you'll never have to worry about us. Please let us

  go."

  "We repeat, we do not wish to hold you, Primitive. But now there is no alternative. As a member of a sub-race, a civilization not yet fully responsible for its actions, you cannot be freed. You shall accompany us to the island we came from. That is your future, Primitive. There is no retrograding."

  "Then—" Charlie asked, "will I know, can I know what you will do with me?"

  "Your fate and future, if any, shall be determined shortly. Very likely you shall return with us behind the Barrier, and there stand trial. Possibly, quite possibly, you might be considered adjustable to our world island's level of civilization."

  "And if—if I become adjusted," Charlie pressed further, "will—"

  "You would then become a member of our society, having been permitted to take the seven thousand year advancement into the history of our time. In brief, Primitive, you would

  be living in the world of your own island here, only in the state of advancement that it will hold seven thousand years ; from this time."

  "Oh," was all Charlie could say.

  The interview was abruptly ended by his unseen informant. Charlie was stunned. He felt now as he had felt once long ago. It was the time when Uncle John had first brought him a young colt, and he had named him Navajo. It was ( the first time he had tried to ride that colt, and the air had been knocked out of him. It was like that now. Charlie stood very still, thinking. Saturn.

  It was a planet in our Solar system all right, but it was millions of miles away. Mars was much closer to Earth, and even Mars at its nearest would be around thirty-five million miles away. As Charlie's mind raced over these facts he once j again felt thankful to Miss Tisdale back in school. It helped j now. Even if back there at school he had never given a hoot how far away Saturn was, it came in handy right now to know. And one thing Charlie was certain of, and that was, no matter how he figured it, Saturn was a doggone long way from Arizona. A terrible homesickness came down over him like a sudden desert thunderstorm.

  Aware of his danger, he decided to make at least one more escape try and make it right now. With the aliens far up on some other deck, he might possibly be able to do it. It might work. But if it didn't, still the noise might reach out to the roadway far off by the river, and attract somebody passing. He'd give it a try, anyway.

  "Nav—come on over, Nav. That's it," Charlie coaxed,

  getting the horse to back around. "Attaboy—now you're going to get us out of here, Nav. The both of us." Patting Navajo as he backed him up to the thin, sheer glasslike band of window, Charlie held the reins to steady the horse.

  "Now we do it, Nav. Then we get out on that rim and go around there—to where the mountain side is just a short jump down for the both of us. Remember, Nav—remember —the stagger fence poles, Nav! The corral fence poles, Nav!" Charlie repeated. "You never let them stop you from getting out—go on, Nav, kick—let 'em have it!"

  With a brief whinny, Navajo showed he understood. Winding up as Charlie talked to him, Navajo pranced about a little, then lowered his neck—stretching it out low, for more balance. At that same moment he heaved his hind quarters up—clear of the deck. In those few seconds Navajo shot out both back legs—slamming a shattering double blow against the crystal surface of the panoramic view.

  "Again, Nav—hit it again!"

  Trampling about and once more establishing a sure footing, Navajo once more repeated the process. The awful clash of
the iron horse shoes on the pane made Charlie blink his eyes. Twice more Navajo followed Charlie's orders, then Charlie stopped him. His sides heaving mightily, Navajo looked around as Charlie inspected the clear pane. There were only small scratches on the clear surface.

  Charlie walked slowly around, in front of Navajo, patting him. The old horse had really tried. Navajo's nostrils were still flaring wide as he breathed heavily from the exertion.

  "Thanks, Nav. It's okay. I know you tried real hard, Nav. You sure did."

  Charlie took out his handkerchief and stroked off the sweat ( beads on Navajo's neck.

  "That's so's you won't catch cold," he said, repeating the process on the other side. "That window's barely scratched, Nav. Just as if we hadn't even tried."

  As he talked to the horse, Charlie heard the sound of running feet on the deck above—then the panel door opened in the cylinder and five aliens rushed out. Charlie could tell they were really angry about something, and he figured he and Navajo knew what it was. He could feel their confused thoughts directed at him, and their mounting anger.