by Tom Godwin
And he was the new leader who would decree how the next chapter should be written, only four years older than the boy who was looking at him with an unconscious appeal for reassurance on his face …
“You’d better tell Jim,” he said. “Then, a little later, I want to talk to everyone about the things we’ll start doing as soon as spring comes.”
“You mean, the hunting?” Delmont asked.
“No—more than just the hunting.”
He sat for a while after Delmont left, looking back down the years that had preceded that day, back to that first morning on Ragnarok.
He had set a goal for himself that morning when he left his toy bear in the dust behind him and walked beside Julia into the new and perilous way of life. He had promised himself that some day he would watch the Gerns die and beg for mercy as they died and he would give them the same mercy they had given his mother.
As he grew older he realized that his hatred, alone, was a futile thing. There would have to be a way of leaving Ragnarok and there would have to be weapons with which to fight the Gerns. These would be things impossible and beyond his reach unless he had the help of all the others in united, coordinated effort.
To make certain of that united effort he would have to be their leader. So for eleven years he had studied and trained until there was no one who could use a bow or spear quite as well as he could, no one who could travel as far in a day or spot a unicorn ambush as quickly. And there was no one, with the exception of George Ord, who had studied as many textbooks as he had.
He had reached his first goal—he was leader. For all of them there existed the second goal: the hope of someday leaving Ragnarok and taking Athena from the Gerns. For many of them, perhaps, it was only wishful dreaming but for him it was the prime driving force of his life. There was so much for them to do and their lives were so short in which to do it. For so long as he was leader they would not waste a day in idle wishing …
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When the others were gathered to hear what he had to say he spoke to them:
“We’re going to continue where the Old Ones had to leave off. We’re better adapted than they were and we’re going to find metals to make a ship if there are any to be found.
“Somewhere on Ragnarok, on the northwest side of a range similar to the Craig Mountains on the plateau, is a deep valley that the Dunbar Expedition called the Chasm. They didn’t investigate it closely since their instruments showed no metals there but they saw strata in one place that was red; an iron discoloration. Maybe we can find a vein there that was too small for them to have paid any attention to. So we’ll go over the Craigs as soon as the snow melts from them.”
“That will be in early summer,” George Ord said, his black eyes thoughtful. “Whoever goes will have to time their return for either just before the prowlers and unicorns come back from the north or wait until they’ve all migrated down off the plateau.”
It was something Humbolt had been thinking about and wishing they could remedy. Men could elude unicorn attacks wherever there were trees large enough to offer safety and even prowler attacks could be warded off wherever there were trees for refuge; spears holding back the prowlers who would climb the trees while arrows picked off the ones on the ground. But there were no trees on the plateau, and to be caught by a band of prowlers or unicorns there was certain death for any small party of two or three. For that reason no small parties had ever gone up on the plateau except when the unicorns and prowlers were gone or nearly so. It was an inconvenience and it would continue for as long as their weapons were the slow-to-reload bows.
“You’re supposed to be our combination inventor-craftsman,” he said to George. “No one else can compare with you in that respect. Besides, you’re not exactly enthusiastic about such hard work as mountain climbing. So from now on you’ll do the kind of work you’re best fitted for. Your first job is to make us a better bow. Make it like a crossbow, with a sliding action to draw and cock the string and with a magazine of arrows mounted on top of it.”
George studied the idea thoughtfully. “The general principle is simple,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“How many of us will go over the Craig Mountains, Bill?” Dan Barber asked.
“You and I,” Humbolt answered. “A three-man party under Bob Craig will go into the Western Hills and another party under Johnny Stevens will go into the Eastern Hills.”
He looked toward the adjoining cave where the guns had been stored for so long, coated with unicorn tallow to protect them from rust.
“We could make gun powder if we could find a deposit of saltpeter. We already know where there’s a little sulphur. The guns would have to be converted to flintlocks, though, since we don’t have what we need for cartridge priming material. Worse, we’d have to use ceramic bullets. They would be inefficient—too light, and destructive to the bores. But we would need powder for mining if we ever found any iron. And, if we can’t have metal bullets to shoot the Gerns, we can have bombs to blast them with.”
“Suppose,” Johnny Stevens said, “that we never do find the metals to make a ship. How will we ever leave Ragnarok if that happens?”
“There’s another way—a possible way—of leaving here without a ship of our own. If there are no metals we’ll have to try it.”
“Why wait?” Bob Craig demanded. “Why not try it now?”
“Because the odds would be about ten thousand to one in favor of the Gerns. But we’ll try it if everything else fails.”
*
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George made, altered, and rejected four different types of crossbows before he perfected a reloading bow that met his critical approval. He brought it to where Humbolt stood outside the caves early one spring day when the grass was sending up the first green shoots on the southern hillsides and the long winter was finally dying.
“Here it is,” he said, handing Humbolt the bow. “Try it.”
He took it, noting the fine balance of it. Projecting down from the center of the bow, at right angles to it, was a stock shaped to fit the grip of the left hand. Under the crossbar was a sliding stock for the right hand, shaped like the butt of a pistol and fitted with a trigger. Mounted slightly above and to one side of the crossbar was a magazine containing ten short arrows.
The pistol grip was in position near the forestock. He pulled it back the length of the crossbar and it brought the string with it, stretching it taut. There was a click as the trigger mechanism locked the bowstring in place and at the same time a concealed spring arrangement shoved an arrow into place against the string.
He took quick aim at a distant tree and pressed the trigger. There was a twang as the arrow was ejected. He jerked the sliding pistol grip forward and back to reload, pressing the trigger an instant later. Another arrow went its way.
By the time he had fired the tenth arrow in the magazine he was shooting at the rate of one arrow per second. On the trunk of the distant tree, like a bristle of stiff whiskers, the ten arrows were driven deep into the wood in an area no larger than the chest of a prowler or head of a unicorn.
“This is better than I hoped for,” he said to George. “One man with one of these would equal six men with ordinary bows.”
“I’m going to add another feature,” George said. “Bundles of arrows, ten to the bundle in special holders, to carry in the quivers. To reload the magazine you’d just slap down a new bundle of arrows, in no more time than it would take to put one arrow in an ordinary bow. I figured that with practice a man should be able to get off forty arrows in not much more than twenty seconds.”
George took the bow and went back in the cave to add his new feature. Humbolt stared after him, thinking, If he can make something like that out of wood and unicorn gut, what would he be able to give us if he could have metal?
Perhaps George would never have the opportunity to show what he could do with metal. But Humbolt already felt sure that Ge
orge’s genius would, if it ever became necessary, make possible the alternate plan for leaving Ragnarok.
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The weeks dragged into months and at last enough snow was gone from the Craigs that Humbolt and Dan Barber could start. They met no opposition. The prowlers had long since disappeared into the north and the unicorns were very scarce. They had no occasion to test the effectiveness of the new automatic crossbows in combat; a lack of opportunity that irked Barber.
“Any other time, if we had ordinary bows,” he complained, “the unicorns would be popping up to charge us from all directions.”
“Don’t fret,” Humbolt consoled him. “This fall, when we come back, they will be.”
They reached the mountain and stopped near its foot where a creek came down, its water high and muddy with melting snows. There they hunted until they had obtained all the meat they could carry. They would see no more game when they went up the mountain’s canyons. A poisonous weed replaced most of the grass in all the canyons and the animals of Ragnarok had learned long before to shun the mountain.
They found the canyon that Craig and his men had tried to explore and started up it. It was there that Craig had discovered the quartz and mica and so far as he had been able to tell the head of that canyon would be the lowest of all the passes over the mountain. The canyon went up the mountain diagonally so that the climb was not steep although it was constant. They began to see mica and quartz crystals in the creek bed and at noon on the second day they passed the last stunted tree. Nothing grew higher than that point but the thorny poison weeds and they were scarce.
The air was noticeably thinner there and their burdens heavier. A short distance beyond they came to a small rock monument; Craig’s turn-back point.
The next day they found the quartz crystals in place. A mile farther was the vein the mica had come from. Of the other minerals Craig had hoped to find, however, there were only traces.
The fourth day was an eternity of struggling up the now-steeper canyon under loads that seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds; forcing their protesting legs to carry them fifty steps at a time, at the end of which they would stop to rest while their lungs labored to suck in the thin air in quick, panting breaths.
It would have been much easier to have gone around the mountain. But the Chasm was supposed to be like a huge cavity scooped out of the plateau beyond the mountain, rimmed with sheer cliffs a mile high. Only on the side next to the mountain was there a slope leading down into it.
They stopped for the night where the creek ended in a small spring. There the snow still clung to the canyon’s walls and there the canyon curved, offering them the promise of the summit just around the bend as it had been doing all day.
The sun was hot and bright the next morning as they made their slow way on again. The canyon straightened, the steep walls of it flattening out to make a pair of ragged shoulders with a saddle between them.
They climbed to the summit of the saddle and there, suddenly before them, was the other side of the world—and the Chasm.
Far below them was a plateau, stretching endlessly like the one they had left behind them. But the chasm dominated all else. It was a gigantic, sheer-walled valley, a hundred miles long by forty miles wide, sunk deep in the plateau with the tops of its mile-high walls level with the floor of the plateau. The mountain under them dropped swiftly away, sloping down and down to the level of the plateau and then on, down and down again, to the bottom of the chasm that was so deep its floor was half hidden by the morning shadows.
“My God!” Barber said. “It must be over three miles under us to the bottom, on the vertical. Ten miles of thirty-three percent grade—if we go down we’ll never get out again.”
“You can turn back here if you want to,” Humbolt said.
“Turn back?” Barber’s red whiskers seemed to bristle. “Who in hell said anything about turning back?”
“Nobody,” Humbolt said, smiling a little at Barber’s quick flash of anger. He studied the chasm, wishing that they could have some way of cutting the quartz crystals and making binoculars. It was a long way to look with the naked eye …
Here and there the chasm thrust out arms into the plateau. All the arms were short, however, and even at their heads the cliffs were vertical. The morning shadows prevented a clear view of much of the chasm and he could see no sign of the red-stained strata that they were searching for.
In the southwest corner of the chasm, far away and almost imperceptible, he saw a faint cloud rising up from the chasm’s floor. It was impossible to tell what it was and it faded away as he watched.
Barber saw it, too, and said, “It looked like smoke. Do you suppose there could be people—or some kind of intelligent things—living down there?”
“It might have been the vapor from hot springs, condensed by the cool morning air,” he said. “Whatever it was, we’ll look into it when we get there.”
The climb down the steep slope into the chasm was swifter than that up the canyon but no more pleasant. Carrying a heavy pack down such a grade exerted a torturous strain upon the backs of the legs.
The heat increased steadily as they descended. They reached the floor of the valley the next day and the noonday heat was so great that Humbolt wondered if they might not have trapped themselves into what the summer would soon transform into a monstrous oven where no life at all could exist. There could never be any choice, of course—the mountains were passable only when the weather was hot.
The floor of the valley was silt, sand and gravel—they would find nothing there. They set out on a circuit of the chasm’s walls, following along close to the base. In many places the mile-high walls were without a single ledge to break their vertical faces. When they came to the first such place they saw that the ground near the base was riddled with queer little pits, like tiny craters of the moon. As they looked there was a crack like a cannon shot and the ground beside them erupted into an explosion of sand and gravel. When the dust had cleared away there was a new crater where none had been before. Humbolt wiped the blood from his face where a flying fragment had cut it and said, “The heat of the sun loosens rocks under the rim. When one falls a mile in a one point five gravity, it’s traveling like a meteor.”
They went on, through the danger zone. As with the peril of the chasm’s heat, there was no choice. Only by observing the material that littered the base of the cliffs could they know what minerals, if any, might be above them.
On the fifteenth day they saw the red-stained stratum. Humbolt quickened his pace, hurrying forward in advance of Barber. The stratum was too high up on the wall to be reached but it was not necessary to examine it in place—the base of the cliff was piled thick with fragments from it.
He felt the first touch of discouragement as he looked at them. They were a sandstone, light in weight. The iron present was only what the Dunbar Expedition had thought it to be; a mere discoloration.
They made their way slowly along the foot of the cliff, examining piece after piece in the hope of finding something more than iron stains. There was no variation, however, and a mile farther on they came to the end of the red stratum. Beyond that point the rocks were gray, without a vestige of iron.
“So that,” Barber said, looking back the way they had come, “is what we were going to build a ship out of—iron stains!”
Humbolt did not answer. For him it was more than a disappointment. It was the death of a dream he had held since the year he was nine and had heard that the Dunbar Expedition had seen iron-stained rock in a deep chasm—the only iron-stained rock on the face of Ragnarok. Surely, he had thought, there would be enough iron there to build a small ship. For eleven years he had worked toward the day when he would find it. Now, he had found it—and it was nothing. The ship was as far away as ever …
But discouragement was as useless as iron-stained sandstone. He shook it off and turned to Barber.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Maybe w
e’ll find something by the time we circle the chasm.”
For seven days they risked the danger of death from downward plunging rocks and found nothing. On the eighth day they found the treasure that was not treasure. They stopped for the evening just within the mouth of one of the chasm’s tributaries. Humbolt went out to get a drink where a trickle of water ran through the sand and as he knelt down he saw the flash of something red under him, almost buried in the sand. He lifted it out. It was a stone half the size of his hand; darkly translucent and glowing in the light of the setting sun like blood.
It was a ruby.
He looked, and saw another gleam a little farther up the stream. It was another ruby, almost as large as the first one. Near it was a flawless blue sapphire. Scattered here and there were smaller rubies and sapphires, down to the size of grains of sand. He went farther upstream and saw specimens of still another stone. They were colorless but burning with internal fires. He rubbed one of them hard across the ruby he still carried and there was a gritting sound as it cut a deep scratch in the ruby.
“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.
There was only one stone hard enough to cut a ruby—the diamond.
*
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It was almost dark when he returned to where Barber was resting beside their packs.
“What did you find to keep you out so late?” Barber asked curiously. He dropped a double handful of rubies, sapphires and diamonds at Barber’s feet.
“Take a look,” he said. “On a civilized world what you see there would buy us a ship without our having to lift a finger. Here they’re just pretty rocks.
“Except the diamonds,” he added. “At least we now have something to cut those quartz crystals with.”
*
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They took only a few of the rubies and sapphires the next morning but they gathered more of the diamonds, looking in particular for the gray-black and ugly but very hard and tough carbonado variety. Then they resumed their circling of the chasm’s walls. The heat continued its steady increase as the days went by. Only at night was there any relief from it and the nights were growing swiftly shorter as the blue sun rose earlier each morning. When the yellow sun rose the chasm became a blazing furnace around the edge of which they crept like ants in some gigantic oven.