The Early Pohl

by Frederik Pohl

  I don't know how long I was stunned. I was cut and bleeding and my face felt raw when I came to, lying sprawled on a grassy mound. But no bones seemed to be broken. I leaped to my feet, crying Clory's name. If we could find shelter somewhere! The glider wouldn't dare to make a landing to scout for us. We might yet escape.

  Clory did not answer. I dashed madly about, peering into the undergrowth, searching behind every bush. Then I spied her slight, white form lying motionless on the ground. I raced to her, fell to the ground beside her and shook her roughly.

  She was unconscious—but not dead. My ear pressed to her heart convinced me of that. I tugged her to a sitting position . . .

  And a shadow swept over me. I stared up. It was the other glider. We were seen.

  Shaking Clory to bring her back to consciousness wasn't much use, though I tried it. The only thing I could do was to leave her there and run. The pilot of the glider, I hoped, would think she was dead. If I could hide long enough to make him give up hope of shooting me from the air . . .

  The glider had whirled away; I could see its tail twist as the pilot banked it in a long curve, planed smoothly back towards us. I gaped no longer. I jumped to my feet and raced for cover.

  I don't think I've ever run any faster than I did that dozen yards to shelter, but it seemed slow. Tune passes slowly when you are expecting a five-foot arrow to feather between your shoulder blades.

  But I made the cover, which was a long thicket of flower-ferns. Their broad leaves over me were perfect protection.

  I knelt and glared up at the glider which was continuing its swooping back and forth. The sun was high now, and pouring into my eyes, so I had difficulty in seeing through the gaps in my roof. But I could see well enough to know that the flier was something out of the ordinary.

  It had seemed huge when we were fleeing from it, larger than I had ever seen a glider before. But now, when I could sit back and stare at it, I found that it was something brand-new to me. It was no glider of our Tribe's, that was certain. Too large by far, designed much differently, with wings little larger than our own, but an immense fuselage slung low between the wings, twice as long as an ordinary glider.

  It was made of something that shone and glistened in the sunlight. And it had a curious whirling contraption on each wing, something I'd never seen before, and could not understand. It flew low overhead, and I stared up at it. The pilot's face was visible over the side of the ship; so close that I could make out the features. It was no member of the Tribe. The face was surmounted by a headdress whose pattern was also unfamiliar to me.

  I slumped back on the ground to think this over, and . . .

  . . . Rose again much more rapidly, clutching a stung rump. I spun around and peered to see what had stung me. It was an arrow! I looked again and saw my bow, just outside the cover, lying temptingly exposed in the open.

  I shot a quick look at the mysterious glider. The pilot was completing another arc, about to return. I leaped up and scuttled out from the flower-ferns, clutching the arrow. The bow was unharmed by its fall; I fitted the arrow to it, drew it back and took aim. The glider was sweeping closer, travelling at great speed, difficult to hit. But I'd never get a better opportunity—I stretched the arrow back as far as I could—released it!

  There was a sharp note from my long bow, and I saw the new glider waver ever so slightly in its course. I'd hit it. I heard the voice of the pilot in a shout of pain and anger, saw him rise from the seat and try to leap clear as the ship sliced through the air in a whistling wingover, turned and plunged out of sight. I heard a loud splintering sound of breaking branches, and the crash of the ship, and a scream.

  The hunter had been snared!

  3

  The Two from the Boat

  Even after Clory had come to again, and was perfectly fit for travel, we two remained in the neighborhood of where the strange ship had crashed. Somehow, in its fall, a fire had been started. How, I had no idea. Possibly there was a fire in the ship all the time, though that seemed unlikely. But there it was, an immense column of white-hot flame, almost invisible in the sunlight, shooting high at the heavens.

  Clory and I watched it for some time without saying a word. We wanted to come nearer and investigate, but the flame was hot as well as bright. We sat on the banks of a river nearby and stared at the column of fire.

  "What is it, Keefe?" whispered Clory, but all I could do was shake my head.

  The ship twisted and moved in the heat of the pyre. Odd noises, almost human, came from it; they could have been the cries of the trapped pilot, but I thought that unlikely—they continued too long. Cracklings and sighings were to be heard for hours.

  The sun began to set while we were still there. Luckily the ship had crashed in a clearing so there were no branches overhead to catch fire: the oddly long-lived flame expended its heat and light harmlessly in the air.

  But not too harmlessly, I realized swiftly. Though it was still not completely dark, we could see the light of that hundred-foot flame reflected from every tree in sight. What a beacon it was, visible for miles around.

  I touched Glory's shoulder, and she followed me back, down the sloping banks of the stream and into the water. We waded as far as we could, then swam the hundred yards or so of the width of the stream. Just within the woods on the other side I spread small branches and grass on the ground, and covered the mass with my jacket. We would camp there for the night—it was as good a place as any.

  All I had been able to salvage from our glider, except for my bow and arrows, was a short hunting knife. And I had only three arrows left. I determined to try to make some.

  Clory fell asleep while I stripped the bark and leaves from a pair of straight, thin branches, then proceeded to whittle them down with the knife. I was no weapon maker, I discovered ruefully, but I managed to get the shafts smooth and straight as an arrow need be. I had yet to feather them though, and that wouldn't be easy. Nor would the job of getting bone or rock points for them.

  I stopped whittling suddenly and cocked an ear. What was that? A whirring noise, faint but clear.

  Without awakening Clory, I rose and stole noiselessly over to a point of better vantage, a knoll on the river bank.

  The origin of the muted sound was difficult to trace in the warm, dark night, particularly with the crackling of the huge flame across the river interfering. But it seemed to come from the river itself, at some point downstream from me.

  The river was not broad, but it was straight as a lance, almost as though man-made. I could see a long way up and down it, at least a mile.

  But I didn't have to see nearly that far. Much less than a mile away—a fifth of that, at most—was a group of moving lights, speeding up the river in my direction. As it approached I could see a dark hulk surrounding the lights, the shape of a ship. The whir became louder.

  But how did it move? Already it was close enough for me to see that it had no sails or paddles, nor was there a rope connecting it to anything on the bank which might be towing it. And it was moving much too rapidly for any of those methods to be responsible.

  The connection was obvious, and alarming. Whoever had been in the glider had friends—friends who, seeing the flame of its crash-pyre, had come to investigate.

  Possibly they would not be inimical. I couldn't afford to find out. The thing for Clory and me to do was to get away from there.

  But it could do no harm to linger for a while and see what would happen; we were safe, across the river.

  Clory awoke and stole up beside me, slipping her hand into mine. Together we watched the strange craft dip in towards the river bank next to the still blazing ship.

  The boat must have been of very slight draught, for it swung in within five feet of the beach before it halted. Light flared briefly on the shore as a door opened on the side away from us. The door closed again, and we saw two figures limned against the light of the fire as they climbed towards the ship.

  They seemed scarcely human in th
e firelight, those two men. Certainly their dress was unlike that of any Tribe I knew. As they strode up the hill, all I could see was their backs, each wearing what seemed to be a species of bow slung athwart his shoulders. There was a crisscross affair of belts on their backs, from which depended small objects that I couldn't quite define.

  Glory's fingers gripped mine fiercely. "Keefe!" she whispered piercingly. "In the woods—over there. Look."

  I looked—and my shoulder blades crawled to meet each other. There was something huge and dark moving in the woods, shambling slowly towards the fire. It was an Eater—but a monster. Twenty feet long? More, much more.

  The men did not see the approaching beast. They were regarding the blaze intently. One of them drew something out of a pocket—I could not see it clearly—and hurled it into the fire. Immediately the flame shrank; it was going out.

  The Eater had come into the open now, but behind the two men. They could not see it. Should I shout and warn them, exposing myself if they were inimical? Or should I keep quiet and thus possibly condemn them to death?

  Clory settled the question. Impulsively she raised her head and shrieked a warning to them across the stream.

  The two men whipped around—and saw the Eater. I had to admire them for their quickness of thought—there was only a split second of hesitation before they recovered, and advanced on the Eater. Advanced on him—those two tiny men, unarmed as far as I could see.

  Although, if their weapons were of as high a standard as their gliders and their boats, they might not be in any danger at all.

  Their smooth efficiency was joyous to behold. In unison they unslung the short sticks I had thought to be bows and held them as you might a javelin. They were not more than four feet long—did the men hope to get close enough to run them into the huge animal?

  They did, for they ran towards the Eater, divided, and as though following a carefully rehearsed programme, ran around the slow-thinking Eater. He turned to snap at one of them with his immense jaws—the one farthest from us. I could not see what happened, but I heard a yell of a man in agony which told me the story.

  But the other man gained the position he wanted. He stabbed his javelin-like pole into the Eater's side. This time it was the monster that screamed in pain. Immense, fat sparks of light shot from the pole where it went into the creature's flesh. There was a high ripping sound, audible even at this distance, and I could feel for the Eater—that pole was deadly!

  The squall of the wounded Eater drowned out other sounds, but the man must have cried out too. He had reason to, for the wounded monster, shuddering in unbearable agony, curled its huge length back upon itself and lashed out with its mighty tail. The tiny tip of it alone hit the man, but it was enough to flick him into the still burning ship.

  I think the man was dead before he began to burn. I hope so.

  The Eater was dying too. As Clory and I watched, it staggered weakly off Into the darkness, but could not even make the edge of the little clearing. It slumped to the ground, trembled all over once more, then lay quiet.

  We watched, but nothing more happened. The two men had failed in their mission. They were as dead as the man they had come to save.

  We decided, Clory and I, to reswim the river and see if there was any sign of life in the two men. With the death of the Eater, there was no other danger there, unless another beast had been attracted by the sounds of combat. That seemed unlikely, for an Eater as big as this would surely have killed or driven off all lesser ones.

  We emerged dripping wet and walked quickly up the gentle slope. The men were dead—very. I reached the bodies before Clory, and I shooed her away. Every Tribe girl had seen death, Clory as much of it as any, but no seven-year-old girl had any need to see a corpse as ghastly as that of the man who had been slashed in two by the fierce jaws of the Eater.

  The light of the fire was dimming—that little object the man had tossed in the flame was slow, but it did the work. As we watched, the fire grew less and less.

  But it was not owing exclusively to the work of the man. Clory called my attention to that. "Can we get somewhere out of the rain, Keefe?" she asked, shivering.

  I started and looked around. Sure enough, it was raining. Pouring. It was out of the question for us to remain exposed to that downpour—already the fierce flame of the ship was out, though the wreckage was still too hot to approach. The question, of course, was where to go.

  There was a dull booming crash from afar. Thunder. I could see the play of lightning flashes off in the distance. If the rain had already arrived, the lightning would soon be overhead. It would be very unpleasant to be near trees then.

  Clory pointed—I followed her gaze. The boat! A very good place to be, undoubtedly. It had a roof—that was all we could ask. We ran down to it, tugged open the door, and stepped right in.

  We closed the door tight behind us before we looked around.

  And the first thing we saw was—them.

  A man—and a girl. Dead, it seemed, for they lay unmoving, not even breathing. I stared at them. Neither was dressed in the odd garments of the two we had seen die. Their garb was much like our own, the everyday dress of Tribespeople.

  "They must have been nice people," Clory said aloud, and I found myself agreeing with her.

  The man had as open and honest a face as any I've seen, and the girl was beautiful.

  I stepped around them to get a better look at the girl's perfect features. They were lovely from any angle. I knelt to touch her pulse, and as my hand touched her wrist I felt a numbing tingle in my own fingers. I drew back my hand quickly.

  There was a pale, bluish light falling on the two bodies from a lamp of sorts that hung over them. From the lamp extended a cord, which ran along the ceiling, then down the wall, terminating in a pedestal-like affair at the front of the boat, on which were dozens—hundreds!—of mysterious levers and dials. I moved over to examine it.

  The levers were of all shapes and colors. I knew the purpose of none of them, but what harm could they do?

  There was a temptingly small, red lever set into the very base of the pedestal. So small, and so far down, it could not be dangerous. "Don't touch it, Keefe!" Clory's terrified voice begged as I stooped to finger it. But I had already moved it. Without result.

  Emboldened, I moved another, then several more. And with a lurch, the boat shuddered underfoot! The whirring sound again became audible, and it began to move. I had started it! "Oh, Keefe! Why . . ."

  But Clory stopped—words were of no use. I'd done it. Together we raced for the door, staggering with the motion of the ship. It wouldn't open. Somehow, the motion of the ship also controlled the door; I couldn't budge it. I leaped to a window and hammered on it. It just would not open, nor could I shatter it, though I shouldered it with all my weight behind the lunge.

  Could I stop the ship? I turned back to the pedestal and stared anxiously, tempted. But which lever was the right one? I had no way of knowing, and I dared not experiment again.

  I glanced out of the window fearfully. The angular prow of the ship divided the water into two neat curling crests, one on either side. The lightning had come, was striking at the taller trees all around. The black water ahead and the fierce play of light in the sky made a frightening combination.

  "At least," I said to Clory with a confidence I did not feel, "we're going someplace. See how the boat stays in the middle of the river—something must be directing it. We'll be all right." How could the boat be steered? I didn't know; certainly we were not steering it, nor was anyone else in the ship. Just one more mystery to tuck away in our minds.

  I half heard a rustle of movement behind me, and turned to see that the "dead" man had come to life again—dangerously!

  He was creeping up to me, preparing to spring. If he had, it would have been a hand-to-hand fight, which I might have lost; he was powerfully built, and I had no time to draw my knife. But when he got a good look at me he faltered.

  "Who are you?" he
whispered, relaxing his menacing attitude.

  "You're a Tribesman!"

  The girl was alive too, I saw thankfully. She had been close behind him, backing him up.

  4

  The Mad Tunnel

  Yes, we were Tribespeople, and so were they. We were all equally ignorant of the nature of the owners of the vessel in which we were. We exchanged stories.

  Their adventures were interesting, but not very helpful. They, with all of their Tribe, had been asleep one evening. (Their Tribe was called the Greystripes—I'd heard of it, but it was too far away from my own village for us to have had any dealings, commercial or martial.) The girl's name was Braid; the man's, Check. Their individual huts were at almost opposite ends of the village; how they came to be together they did not know. They had gone to sleep in their own huts, and wakened, for a brief period, in a dimly lighted cell, together with dozens of other Tribespeople, all in an unnaturally deep sleep. They'd tried to arouse others, and failed. But their activities had drawn the attention of a guard dressed like the men Clory and I had seen, who had come in, found them awake, and pointed something long and tapering at them. They'd gone back to sleep, quite involuntarily, and awakened in the ship.

  Our own story, which we then told, took more time. In fact, before we'd finished it, it was halted by an outside event. Braid had been keeping watch on the progress of the boat, and she suddenly cried out, pointing. The river forked off ahead, one branch continuing on into the distance, the other ending in what seemed to be the side of a mountain. Closer inspection revealed a hole, a tunnel, in that cliff wall; into it the boat unerringly sped, not abating its speed.