by Don Wilcox
“Think of it, Fire Jump. One of those girls might have been me,” she said.
I gave an uncomfortable gurgle. “One of those vultures might have been me.” Tangles’ forehead knitted with troubled thoughts. “I’d better get on to one of the villages. There’s been an attack—maybe a big one all along the line. Some of my friends may have been taken.”
To my surprise she began to talk of Breath of Clover as one of her better friends, notwithstanding the treatment she had received from Clover’s warrior sweetheart. So she started off toward the nearest village to see if Breath of Clover had been spared.
I followed after her. “I’ll fly you wherever you want to go. I’d be proud—”
“I’ll walk,” she said shortly without looking at me. “Anything with wings had better keep a safe distance away from the Clankolites for a few days.”
“My wings are at your service if you ever want them again.”
“My feet are tough,” said Tangles. “I’d better keep them that way.”
“You’re sure no vultures will drop down on you?”
“I’ll keep watch. If they do I’ll give them this.” She tossed a stone at me. “Remember, you’re the one to watch out. The Clankolites are always trying new traps, especially after an attack.” She threw another stone at me, in fun, and I hurled it back; the game kept up and I amused her with my jumping antics until at last she was out of throwing range. Her roguish laughter was her farewell as she disappeared down the trail.
That was the last I saw of her—or anyone—for many days . . .
Storms passed, warmer days came, lush highly colored flowers bloomed and died under the patches of golden sunlight that sifted down through the tall forests.
This was the life alone that I had dreamed, and in a way it was good. I was foolish enough to think it would last.
I spent many days observing the habits of forest animals, learning which ones I must beware of, and which I could depend upon for food. I made friends with some of the chattering forest birds, after they learned that my hooked beak never opened to take them in. I made game of certain tender rodents, which were all too plentiful in this region.
It was fascinating to discover the mysteries of the world about me. They were lurking everywhere. What a glorious variety of smells and sounds abounded in this upper-valley forest!
And what pictures! Often at sunrise I would Skim across toward the purple mountains to catch new glimpses of the triangle of suns breaking over a jagged horizon.
And there was that weird black night when the blackness was so thick that I winged up, and up, and up, to see how near I could come to making friends with the stars. The big creamy planet-moon was not shining that night, but something else was.
What it was remained a mystery—one of the many mysteries of the Blue Moon that haunted me during that period of exploring.
The something I saw shining—or rather glowing—might have been a forest fire somewhere south of the range of purple mountains. Or it might have been a volcano. But it was too many miles away for me to investigate; so to me it was simply a dull red glow against the sky—a whole horizon of red—a horizon farther south than I had ever seen before.
But someday, I promised myself, I would cross those massive purple mountains, and then perhaps I should see it again.
I took pains to make my chosen cave soft and comfortable. I bedded it with the thickest leaves and wove mats of leathery bark to provide a sort of upholstery. But I cursed myself whenever my bothersome memory flashed back to Flanger.
I would miss the comfort of that soft red robe in my Karloora pen, he had taunted.
I snarled at myself for thinking back upon the bitter past. But how could I avoid it? Those past contacts were the food of my brain. Whether I liked human contacts, or whether I hated them, the obvious fact was that I missed them.
Talking and squawking at myself was becoming a habit with me before I realized it. And another discovery struck me cold: I was continually thinking in terms of talking with persons.
Let me explain.
I spent hours cleaning the dirt out of the corners of the cave—my home. I scraped some of the walls, and began scratching simple records on the smooth surfaces. I chopped away some shrubs to facilitate speedy take-offs from the ledge in front of the cave.
With each of these acts, and thousands of others like them, I found myself mentally conversing with some visitor—someone who might be interested in what I was doing.
“Do you see these records, Bendetti? These are my own invention for calculating my miles of flight. Estimates, of course. But fairly accurate nevertheless. You see, I’ve counted and rechecked the number of strokes for a flight from here to that bit of glazed pink rock beyond those two tall trees—a mile, I call it. At normal flying speed I cut over that distance in fifty-five strokes . . . Of course, the light gravitation of this moon makes it possible . . .
“No, Tangles, we weren’t doing that well when you and I sailed back together from the foothills. But I’ve estimated that distance. On this wall is a map—”
I was not living alone. I was living with a host of human visitors, and now and then I entertained a few vultures—especially at times when I happened to be exercising my fists, boxing the air. Needless to say, the quiet flights through the moonlight became imaginary repetitions of my rescue flight with Tangles.
“You needn’t fear . . . I’m taking you back to your village . . . Stop at the brook for a drink? . . . The storm may catch us . . . But I’ll stand guard outside the cave while you sleep . . .
And thus I fed upon the bright, exciting experiences of the past. But too swiftly they became shrivelled, unreal, worn-out. They were no longer full and bright; they were only symbols of feelings that once had been.
Stone Jaw, for example, after all the warm talk that had passed between us, had narrowed down in my mind to a question mark. Flint Fingers was only a name to be hated. Breath of Clover was a fragile trembling leaf, tossed about in violent winds. Flanger was a skeleton that refused to lie down in the forest, and continued to float back and forth between his moon and Karloora. And Tangles—
Tangles was something of a puzzle.
My mental image of her was always a dirty-faced little creature who was nevertheless beautiful, a tough little animal who nevertheless needed protection and sympathy.
The more I thought about Tangles, the more I felt that gnawing hunger—that illness that only grows worse when its existence is denied—loneliness.
And that is probably the real reason that I found myself, one day, confined within the bars of a Clankolite prison.
CHAPTER XI
The prison was too small for me.
It was a single-cell structure built within the rectangle formed by four trees, and it was supposed to accommodate twelve or fifteen vultures.
I was the only occupant, and the place was small enough that I felt hampered whenever I tried any kicking or jumping exercises.
It was by no means the ideal answer to my desperate loneliness. It wasn’t as attractive or comfortable as my cave in the far-off cliffs. But it had its advantages. It was not isolated.
In fact, it provided excellent visibility in all directions, including straight up, since the walls and top were formed of wooden bars. Located on a knoll above the north bank of the broad blue river, it was virtually an open air observation tower. I could see across the entire village, where there was much exciting activity.
Especially after the two Karloora space ships arrived and began unloading their cargoes of claytung. But that came later.
My only complaint regarding the view was that the southeast corner was blocked off much of the time by the presence of a huge tousle-whiskered Clankolite guard, who sat just outside my bars with his broad back turned toward me. He was so immense that the wooden bench groaned whenever he shifted his position.
The bench was his station. His function was to make the jail vulture-tight. It was a rickety old structure. Wheneve
r I leaned against the wall some loose wooden bars were sure to clatter, causing the big fat guard to jerk his massive head around and blink his piggish eyes at me suspiciously.
After I learned to maintain silence by keeping away from the walls, he forgot about me. He too was interested in watching the goings-on in the village below us. His other interest was eating. He was always munching on a leg of barbecued meat, and his unkempt whiskers were always greasy.
The two benches inside my prison pen were built tight against the barred walls, so that it was impossible for me to sit on them because of my wings.
But by lying on my stomach I could make a bed of them, and it was here that I was lying the evening that Stone Jaw walked past.
I leaped to the wall and poked my head through the bars.
Stone Jaw looked like a king. Many such kingly figures—perhaps they were chieftains, or simply delegates from the various villages—had been arriving all day. An important assembly was about to take place at this particular town.
Like the others, Stone Jaw had left his growser to graze on the upland grasses. He was striding down the village path that ran past my jail. He was clean shaven. There was a handsome determination about the deep-cut lines of his face. His iron gray hair was bunched on one side of his head, fastened there with a vulture’s-claw ornament. His fur-trimmed hunting costume was clean and bright. His broad shoulders were bedecked in red—the red of an elaborately brocaded saddle blanket which he had removed from his mount and clasped around his throat.
What a different Stone Jaw from the one I had cared for. But the difference was only one of appearance. This respectability and power which he wore had been won by his lonely explorations for new hunting and grazing regions.
As he strode along the trail his glance turned toward my bars. I cleared my throat. He stared, and I thought his vigorous pace slackened.
I flipped a tiny stone at him. He hesitated, gazing at my beak. My nervous fingers stopped thumping at the bars as I waited for a sign of recognition.
But he walked on briskly, only pausing to call a passing greeting to the guard. “Only one prisoner these days?”
The guard grunted an affirmative, being too busy with his eating to say more. Stone Jaw hiked on down to lose himself among the throngs around the council fires.
Had he recognized me? How could he? In spite of how well he knew me, he had only seen me for a few brief moments, and at the time I had been perched in a tree, and his returning eyesight couldn’t have been very dependable.
I paced the dirt floor of my prison in high agitation. To have seen him at close range had started my restless blood boiling.
True, this was not the first time I had seen him since our parting of a season ago. For during these recent nights I had indulged in several daring escapades over a number of Clankolite villages—escapades which had finally led to my capture. I shall speak of these again presently.
The night’s council was a meeting of great importance. The destiny of a race was in the balance. Even from my distance I could tell that. The demonstrations proved it. The officials were trying a new weapon. It was a disintegration gun.
After the demonstration began the crowds gathered in such tight knots that I couldn’t see a thing. The noisy enthusiasm mounted to a frenzy. Children chased off into the darkness and returned a few minutes later bringing their parents with them. By midnight the population of the whole village and half the countryside must have been present.
After the swarming multitude was forced back into lines on either side of the clearing, I could see the high official swaggering around the fire holding the bright gun high in the air. Two minor officials came into view bearing a log. They laid it down on the ground and scrambled back out of the way. The high official turned the gun on it and disintegrated it.
The crowd screamed with delight. Then someone yelled, “Do it again!” Another log had to be found, and another. When logs ran short, the gun was turned on chunks of rock.
With each blaze of purple fire an object disappeared and an ugly hole in the earth marked the spot of disintegration.
The demonstrator couldn’t stop. His audience wouldn’t let him. Everyone clamored for more things to disintegrate. And while the boys scouted around for new material, the older heads grew silent and attentive, for the high official was making a speech.
“This disintegration gun will put an end to all vultures!” he cried, and from the roar of voices it was obvious that everyone approved. “Our friends from Karloora have promised us thousands of these guns.”
“How soon?” someone shouted.
“Within a few days. You’ve already heard the warnings of a new vulture attack to come soon. Let it come. It will be the last. If our guns come in time, we’ll pick the vultures out of the air. Whether the guns come before the attack or after, we’ll ride to the purple mountains and wipe this menace out of existence.”
The cheering was wonderful to hear. Then—
“How do we know the guns will kill vultures?” someone yelled.
The question was hooted down. After these demonstrations the power of the guns was all too obvious.
Nevertheless when the boys returned with more articles, the demonstration took on a more realistic form. They threw the objects up into the air and the demonstrator shot at them as if they were flying vultures. Sometimes he hit, sometimes he missed.
The sport was so popular that some of the crowd began casting around, wishing some real vultures would show up on the scene. Meanwhile the chief demonstrator passed the gun around among the various delegates, giving each a turn at disintegrating something.
The gun was in Stone Jaw’s hands when activities were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a latecomer. The crowd turned to greet their popular warrior, Flint Fingers.
Flint Fingers, having ridden his well-trained growser right up to the council fire in order to make his entrance as conspicuous as possible, stood on the beast’s shoulders for a moment while he tossed the yellow saddle blanket over his shoulders and clasped it at his throat. He was a handsome figure, and everyone’s eyes were on him. He called his greeting to the head official and leaped down to the ground nimbly.
This gave the demonstration fresh impetus. The head official began to explain the wonders of the disint gun all over again for Flint Fingers’ benefit. He pointed to the blotched ground where objects had been shot out of existence.
“You’ll have a turn at trying it, Flint Fingers.” The official called his announcement out loudly enough to bring the crowd to attention.
“I’ll demonstrate it on a vulture,” Flint Fingers said. “I hear you have one imprisoned here.”
The head official drew back. “We’re saving that vulture. We’ll need him for our traps.”
Flint Fingers turned to two subordinates and snapped an order. I couldn’t be sure of his words, but I saw them turn and march up the trail toward my prison.
A moment later they and my big guard were standing outside the prison door with chains in their hands trying to agree upon some safe plan of procedure. They were unanimous upon one proposition—they needed three more men. So one of them started back down the trail to get help. And then, down by the council fire, it happened.
As nearly as I could tell, from my vantage point, Flint Fingers called for the gun before Stone Jaw had had his turn. Stone Jaw held to it stubbornly. Flint told him to take his turn and get it over with, but Stone Jaw refused.
“Not until I know what you’re going to shoot,” Stone Jaw barked.
“I’m taking mine at the vulture,” Flint Fingers snapped. “They’ve gone to get him.”
“You can’t have him,” Stone Jaw growled stubbornly. “We need him for traps.”
“Give me the gun.” It was an ugly snarl, and the crowd hushed.
“You don’t get the gun. Not till you promise to—”
But the impetuous young hot-head bore down on the old hunter, jerked the gun out of his hands. Then as the shiny weapo
n slipped into Flint Fingers’ grasp it blazed a streak of purple light across the corner of the council fire.
The crowd tumbled back in terror. And Flint Fingers’ big heavy-muscled growser caught the stream full across the head and shoulders. On the instant the growser was gone.
“That’s your turn, Flint Fingers,” the head official shouted, and the crowd roared with laughter.
After Flint had handed the gun over I noticed that he edged out of the limelight as inconspicuously as possible, and walked back to where his growser had been standing. The disintegration hadn’t been complete. He bent down and picked up a few drum-shaped objects containing heavy horned toes. He didn’t seem particularly pleased over his find. Those feet had brought him, but they wouldn’t take him back home.
CHAPTER XII
Late that night Stone Jaw came strolling up toward my prison. He stopped and talked with the night guard. After some friendly conversation he volunteered to stand watch long enough for the guard to go down and get in on some of the all-night council fire gossip.
The grateful guard departed and Stone Jaw turned to me.
“Is it you, Fire Jump?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been keeping on the lookout for you all these days. I didn’t remember your face, but tonight when you tossed that stone I felt sure it was you.”
“And so you saved me from Flint Fingers,” I replied. There was nothing of the old cynical squawk in my voice as I added, “Thank you.”
Stone Jaw smiled. “It was the least I could do for a friend.” Then he chuckled. “They’re still laughing at Flint Fingers over shooting his growser. He’s not used to taking defeat, even in fun. But he’ll erase this night when the new war on the vultures starts. He’ll kill them right and left.”
“How soon will the new war begin?”
“As soon as the ships arrive with the guns. Karloora’s men are back of us. They left this gun as a sample. It has been kept a secret until now, when a new attack is threatening.”
