by Andre Norton
He might have guessed that that was not going to be too easy, Kade thought a twenty-seven hour day later when he did at last have a measure of privacy. With a small staff, every member of the Team had been engaged in high-pressure work seeing to the disposition of the Marco Polo’s cargo and the mountain of paper work to be discharged before the transport lifted again. Kade, with only hasty introductions to his fellows, had been so buried in details that after a full day and night on Klor, he still had only a confused impression of post and personnel.
There were Ikkinni porters in service, hired out from their Styor masters. And one of them now stood just within the door panel of Kade’s room, his eyes with their ruddy pupils gathering extra fire from the atom lamp, his long fingers hooked into the front of his sash kilt.
“It wants?” Kade asked in the tongue he had learned as well as he could from the Hypo-trainer on ship board.
“It has.” The Ikkinni reached back a foot, hooked limber toes about a package and pushed it from corridor to room, showing the usual reluctance of his people to the carrying of burdens. A Styor would have instantly punished that act of rebellion. Kade made no show of knowing the subtle defiance for what it was.
Neither did he move to pick up the packet, knowing that to do so would be to admit inferiority.
“It has where?” He looked carefully beyond the packet lying on the floor. Then, turning his back to the native, he busied himself with placing a pile of record tapes in a holder.
“It has here.”
Kade glanced around. The packet now rested on his bunk. Since no one had witnessed the action which had put it there, honor on both sides had been maintained.
"It has my thanks for its courtesy.” Deliberately the Terr an used the warrior intonation.
Those red eyes met his. There was no change of expression which Kade could read on that down-covered face. With a quick movement the native disappeared through the half-open panel of the door. He might never have been there, save that the packet was on the bunk. Kade picked it up, read the official markings of the Research and Archives Division. Below them was a name; Steel.
For a long moment he weighed the package in his hand. But the communication was not personal. And officially the contents might well be his business. He smothered a small twinge of guilt and stripped away the wrapping, eager to discover what had been so important that Jon Steel had sent to Base for aid.
CHAPTER 2
Sample submitted has the following properties, Kade read in the code-script of the Service. There was a listing of chemical symbols. It will therefore ably nourish and support Terran herbivores without difficulty, being close in structure to the grama grass of our western continental plains.
Grama grass, suitable nourishment for Terran herbivores—Kade read the symbols a second time and then studied in turn the two accompanying enclosures, each sheathed in a plasta-protector. Both were whisps, perhaps a finger long, of dried vegetation carrying a seed head. One was a palish gray-brown. It could represent a tuft of Terran hay. The other was much darker, a dull, rusty red, and Kade thought it might have been pulled from roots in the plain now stretching away beyond the outer wall of the Klorian post.
So, Steel had sent a selection of native grass to be analyzed. And, judging by the wording of this report, analyzed with a purpose in mind, to see if it could nourish some form of Terran animal life. Why?
Kade pulled down one of the wall-slung seats and sat before the desk, laying the grass on its surface. He knew this must be important. Important enough to be paid for by a man’s life? Or did the report have anything at all to do with Steel’s death? And how had he died? So far, none of the men Kade had met here had mentioned his predecessor. He must get access to Steel’s report tapes, discover why a finger-thick roll of Klorian wild grass had been sent to Prime Base for analytical processing.
The clear chime of the mess call sounded and Kade unsealed his tunic, tucking the contents of the packet into his inner valuables belt for the safest keeping he knew.
To join any established Team was never easy for the newcomer. In addition Kade knew that Abu had been duly warned concerning his glaring misdeed of the immediate past. He would need strong self-control and his wits to last out the probationary period the others would put him through. And, had he not had this private mystery to chew upon, he might have dreaded his first session with his new Teammates more.
But there was no outward strain in the mess hall where the odors of several exotic dishes mingled. Each man ate rather absently while he dealt with his own newly arrived pile of private message flimsies, catching up with the concerns off Klor which had meaning for him. And Kade was free to study the assortment of Terrans without having to be too subtle in appraisement.
Commander Abu ate stolidly, as an engine might refuel, his attention held by the reader through which a united strip of flimsies crawled at a pace which suggested that either the Team leader was not a swift-sighter, or else that there was enough solid meat in his messages to entail complete concentration.
On the other hand, Che’in’s round face betrayed a variety of fleeting emotions with the mobility of a Tri-Vee actor as one flimsy after another flicked in and out of his reader. Now and then he clucked indignantly, made a sound approaching a glutton’s lip-smacking, or chuckled, entering all the way into the spirit of his personal mail.
The third man, Santoz, had yet another method. Reading a flimsy selected from one pile before him, he would detach it from his machine, place it on a second heap, and stare at the wall while he chewed and swallowed several mouthfuls before beginning the process all over again. Kade was trying to deduce character traits from the actions of his three table-mates when one of the Ikkinni materialized by the door. Without turning his head Abu asked in the Trade speech:
“It comes. Why?”
“It has concern.” But no inflection of that slurred speech suggested great emotion.
“It has concern. Why?”
“The furred thing from the stars cries aloud.”
Abu looked at Kade. “This comes under your department, Whitehawk. I understand you have had vet training. That bear is important to our relations with the High-Lord-Pac. Better take a look right away.”
Kade followed the native to the courtyard, close to the smaller warehouse where the more valuable trade articles were stored. Now he could hear the whining snuffle of his patient. The cage crate he had seen ready to be loaded at Lodi stood here under the protecting overhang of the warehouse roof, and its inhabitant was not only awake but distinctly unhappy.
The Terran squatted on his heels before the cage to see that the captive was indeed a Terran bear, about half grown, a white collar of fur across the chest showing in contrast to the rest of a dark pelt now tinted with whisps of protective bedding.
Any bear shipped off-world would have come from one of the special breeding farms, the docile descendant of generations that had lived with mankind and been domesticated to such cohabitation. But no space trip, even taken in a drugged state, could have left the animal anything but nervous. And the captive in the cage was decidedly woebegone.
At Kade’s soothing hiss the animal crowded closer to the restraining bars, peered at him, and uttered a whine, low pitched and coaxing.
The Trader read the label sealed to the top of the shipping cage. The bear was consigned to the High-Lord Pac himself. No wonder it was necessary to see that such an astronomically expensive shipment arrived in the best condition. Kade fingered the lock, eased the front to the pavement of the courtyard. He heard a stir behind him, guessed the Ikkinni had lingered to watch.
Would the distinctive, strange body odor of the native have any effect on the bear? Kade motioned with one hand, hoping that the Ikkinni could properly interpret the order to withdraw.
Even though the cage was now open, the bear hesitated, pacing back and forth as if still facing a barrier, and whined.
“Come, boy. Soooo. There is nothing to be afraid of,” Kade coaxed. He
held out his hand, not to touch but to be touched, to have that black button of a nose sniff inquiringly along his fingers, across the back of his hand, up his arm, as the bear, as if pulled by a familiar scent, came out of the cage.
Then, with a sudden rush, the animal bumped against Kade, sending the man sprawling backward as the round head drove against his chest with force enough to bring a grunt of protest out of him. The Terran’s hands went to the bear’s ears as the moist nose, a rough tongue met his chin.
“Now, boy, take it easy! You’re all right.”
The man squirmed free of that half embrace, found himself sitting on the pavement with three-quarters of a heavy body resting on his thighs. Then he laughed and scratched behind the rounded ears. There was nothing wrong with this particular specimen of Terran wildlife except loneliness and fear. He fondled the bear and spoke to the hovering Ikkinni.
“Has the furred one from the stars eaten?”
“It gave the furred one food. But the furred one did not eat.”
“Bring the food again.”
Kade sat on the stone watching the round head bob, listening to the slurp of food disappearing as the bear now greedily dug into the contents of a bowl.
“The furred one wears no collar.”
Kade glanced up. The Ikkinni’s right fingers swept along his own haired shoulder inches away from the badge of his slave state.
“Only the one it was born with.” Kade touched the white markings on the bear’s dark coat.
“Yet the furred one obeys—”
The Terran understood the puzzlement behind the other’s half-question. There were animals in plenty beside the musti known to the natives of Klor, but none were domesticated. To the Ikkinni a beast was either to be hunted for food, fought for protection, or without value at all, and so to be ignored. There were no dogs on Klor, no cats to guard a hearth, no horses—
No horses! Kade’s mind caught at that, a faint glimmer, something—but he had no time to pursue it. Abu came across the courtyard.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes. Just a case of homesickness, I would say.” The younger man got to his feet and the Ikkinni faded out of sight. Having finished licking his supper bowl the bear sat back on his haunches, rocking a little, round nose up to test new scents.
“What’s a bear doing here anyway?” Kade asked.
“A new toy,” the Commander snorted. “The High-Lord-Pac Scarkan is organizing a private zoo. It was Steel’s project. He brought an assortment of animal tri-dee shots and showed them to Scarkan the last time he went to Cor for permit renewal. New things always enchant the Styor, but the enthusiasm probably won’t last, it seldom does.” Abu regarded his new Team recruit shrewdly, “Unless you can keep him stirred up to want some more. We won’t transport elephants, remember. And no animal that can not adapt to Klor.”
The report on the grass made sense now. Steel had had another sale in mind when he had asked for that. Deer? Cattle? Some animal decorative enough to hold jaded Styor interest.
“If I could see his report tape,” Kade ventured.
“There’s one thing, Whitehawk. If you do deal directly with the Styor—” The Commander left that sentence hanging unfinished though Kade could provide the missing words. Dealing with the Styor, considering his past record, might be out of the question. He shrugged.
“You said it yourself, Commander, animals have been my special training. I can work up the sales pitch, let someone else deliver it.”
Abu unfroze. “Fair enough. And, since animals are your business, you’d better take trap duty on the next expedition. Give you the lay of the land and break you in at that same time. Come along.”
When Kade followed, the bear shuffled behind him. Abu glanced around once but did not suggest that the cage was a more fitting place then the corner of the room into which he led the younger man. Then both forget the animal as they turned to the maps on the walls.
"We lease our hunting teams from three different lords. It makes for competition and prevents any monopoly of funds. And we rotate leases every other year, which spreads the credit around even farther. The locals may growl about the system, but the High-Lord-Pac agrees. He gets his cut as export duty regardless, and he doesn’t want any other lord getting too prosperous.”
“Some local trouble?”
“No more than usual. They’re always trying to build up their own blast power at the expense of their neighbors. This is a scrap world where every district lord dreams of making a good run so he can emigrate into a bigger game elsewhere. It’s the High-Lord-Pac’s duty to keep the winnings fairly even—or that’s the idea. Sometimes the scheme doesn’t work. But so far on Klor there’ve been no favorites. Anyway, we take the hunting teams out in rotation, and Smohallo’s is next. He’s got a head tracker who’s really expert, an Ikkinni of the Cliffs—”
“A live one!” Kade recalled his indoctrination on the Marco Polo. Of all the free natives on Klor the Cliff colonies of the highest and least accessible mountains were the hardest to enslave and had offered the Styor the most cunning and effective resistance.
“Yes, a live one. And Smohallo knows his value too. He’s been offered what is equivalent to a small fortune for the fellow. Anyway, he put a double thick collar on the poor brute, and so is safe in working him even in the outback. He has a breed from Tadder for his Overman.” Abu pulled at his long upper lip with thumb and forefinger. “Lik’s a nasty blot on the landscape, but he’s Smohallo’s right hand and probably about two fingers on the left into the bargain. You’ll remember that, Whitehawk.”
The words were not a threat, just a stern reminder of fact, a fact which Kade must swallow. His outbreak on Tadder would undoubtedly continue to follow him for years to come.
“I’ll remember,” he replied shortly.
“So there’ll be this tracker, Lik, and six net men, all from Smohallo’s estate. You’ll take one Ikkinni from here as carrier. Keep clear of Lik. He knows that the count sheet is your work, but because you’re new, he may try to run in some half-growns.”
Kade nodded. An old practice. To befool the Terrans was the hope of every Styor employee, openly expressed, of every Styor Lord, not so publicly admitted.
“You’ll try new ground up north, into this district,” Abu traced a map route with the nail of one dark finger. “Lik'll have a sonic which will ward off any attack by lurkers or animals. You may run into a slaver up there. If so, keep your eyes and ears shut and look the other way, understand me!”
“Yes.” But he didn’t have to pretend to like it, Kade added silently.
“They may be in tomorrow. In the meantime,” the Commander went to a file, brought out a disc of tape. “Here’s Steel’s report. If you can get any ideas from it, they’ll be welcome.” It was plainly a dismissal but Kade did not leave. Tossing the disc from one hand to the other he looked straight into the harsh face of the other man.
"How did Steel die?”
“With a spear through his middle.” The answer was curt.
"Wild Ikkinni?”
“It would seem so. He was out on a trapping trip. There is reason to believe that lurkers were in the neighborhood. So we reported officially.”
But you don’t believe it, Kade returned silently. And you’re just as hot about it as any Lakota. He did not say that aloud for he guessed that the Team Commander was walking very quietly and cautiously along a path which might be mined. Every intonation in the other’s voice suggested that. Yes, there was something wrong on Klor, and more than just the usual brutality and tyranny of the Styor.
As he tolled the bear back to its cage, a shadow moved. In the faint reflection of light from a window Kade saw an Ikkinni rise to his feet, wait for the Terran. Perhaps the courtyard watchman.
“It has waited.”
“So? Why?” Kade led the bear into its quarters.
“To ask why does that animal which wears no collar answer to the words of the starwalker?”
“Becau
se in the world of the Starwalker there is—” Kade sought for a word for friendship, could recall none in the limited trade language and substituted the nearest possible phrase. “There is a common night fire.”
The bear whined, pawed at the barrier now between it and Kade. Kade made soothing noises and the animal curled up in the thick bedding.
“A common night fire for starwalker and furred one,” the Ikkinni repeated. And then, with apparent irreverence, added, “It is Dokital."
Kade stood still. It took him a second to realize that the native had told him his name. His knowledge of the Ikkinni was limited to what he had learned from tapes. And he didn’t know how to interpret this unusual confidence. Now he must feel his way.
“Swift is the spear arm of Dokital,” he improvised. “It is Kade.” He judged that his first name would mean more to the native.
“There is no spear in its hand,” the words poured swiftly from the patch of darkness into which Dokital had stepped. “It wears a collar. It is no longer a man of spears.” There was a note in that which brought an instant reaction from Kade.
“Swift is the spear arm of Dokital,” he repeated without any emphasis, but firmly. Only that shadow in the shadows was gone. He stood alone by the bear cage.
A shadowy Ikkinni moved through the Terran’s dreams that night and he awoke feeling stupid and thick-headed. But he applied himself doggedly to the study of previous trapping reports, striving to add all he could to his general knowledge before he went to the practical testing of the field.
He saw Dokital sweeping in the court, trailing in and out of warehouses pulling the supply carts. However, since the native ignored him, Kade made no move to speak to the other. There were quite a few leased slaves at the post. Kade counted more than a dozen throughout the day, and to them the Terrans paid no attention, except to give an order or two. He did not see any Overman and mentioned that fact to Che’in at lunch.
