The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  I began to backtrack.

  “Kill! Kill! An enemy . . .” The whisper passed down the line.

  It was the tiny bells I was wearing on my shoes that made them sure I was an enemy. You see, I had taken this, precaution against meeting a party of the Wedge-heads in the night, for those muscular little four-footers have a way of decorating their ankles with miniature sleighbells. Wearing such bells would have been just fine across the river; but on this side it was a deadly error.

  I dodged-back of a rock, so the approaching guards wouldn’t see me silhouetted against the stars. I snatched the tiny bells off my shoes. I placed them on a narrow edge, a slight niche in the rock, about two feet above the ground. Then swiftly and noiselessly I moved backward in the blackness.

  I could hear the soft-padded footsteps approaching the rock.

  “Careful!” one of the guards whispered. “Spread out.”

  “He went toward the rock.”

  “If he runs, kill!”

  “Toward the rock. Listen!”

  They waited a moment and I held my breath. Crouching, I picked up a handful of earth. They began to whisper again, coming on toward the rock.

  I was twenty yards away. I threw the handful of dirt into the darkness. It struck the rock with a slight hiss, like sand in the wind. The little bells were struck. They tinkled to the ground.

  “This way!” a Sig Martian Zim cried. “Back of the rock!”

  “We have him surrounded.”

  “Come out! Drop your weapons and come on, we’ll strip your bones!”

  “He’s hiding!”

  “I don’t see him. Is it a cave?”

  “He’s there. I heard him.”

  “Get a big stone. If he refuses to walk out. We’ll stone him!”

  I didn’t hear any more, for I was moving with silent steps on my way down the mountainside. I had lost my bells and that was unfortunate, but not fatal. I had escaped with no flesh stripped from my bones, and that was as good luck as I could hope for.

  Good luck stayed with me until morning. Twice I dodged scouting parties of Wedge-head Zims, whose arrow-shaped heads I could distinguish in the darkness, pointed up like rounded pyramids from, their thick shoulders. The Big Zims would be waiting for them farther up on the trail, I knew. Knives would flash and war cries would break the night’s stillness. But those skirmishes were not my business. My errand lay ahead, on the Wedge-head side of the Zim river.

  Before daylight I breakfasted on a portion of my slender food supply. I slept briefly, but the first blue mists of dawn awakened me. Soon the sunlight was pink on the mountain tops. Somewhere over that western horizon a man from Earth was waiting to be rescued.

  The Zim river brought me to a dead stop. I must plan my course before crossing.

  “Somewhere along that stream,” I said to myself, “I’ll find someone who will become my guide.”

  I pictured in my mind a sturdy Wedge-head whose savage face would lose its flush of color at the sight of the little white-handled disintegration pistol I carried. I would point the weapon against his stubby body and say, “Lead me to your capital city. I want to talk to your leader.” And then my way would be clear.

  I moved down the river toward the narrows where the purple waters flowed into the sea. The going was rough until I found a river trail just abo.ve the water’s edge. The stream was in reality an estuary, steep-walled and sharply curved. Navigation would be possible, I observed, only with very small craft.

  I glanced back up the stream.

  “Shipsf Eureka!” What a break! I almost shouted aloud.

  I hid myself and watched the primitive little armada of sixty-foot ships glide toward me. Warriors were on deck, carrying on with weird, antics, dancing and shouting in rhythm. Four ships moved past me. A fifth and a sixth were yet to come. My brain danced, as lively as those warriors. If I could only capture one dancing savage Wedge-head!

  But how?

  They acted like drunken men at a festival. If I could be sure they were intoxicated, I could take a long chance. One warrior might not be missed.

  It seemed almost providential that there should be a long rope lying along the path, a native rope of Martian grasses. It would do the trick. I slipped along the shadows, forming a lasso in the end of the rope.

  Crouching behind a rock, I was so close to the side of the passing ship I could have touched it with a broomstick. This was the fifth ship. I waited for the sixth. The crazy rhythm of the dances echoed through the canyon walls as the craft drew closer.

  I spotted my man with care. He was leaning stupidly against the low-rail, aft. He was plainly exhausted, from the dance. Within the folds of the red captain’s hood which he wore over his wedge-shaped head and shoulders, I could see his half-closed eyes.

  Through his four nostrils he panted like an animal exhausted from a chase. His half-naked body sagged, but one dangling hand kept slapping the rail in rhythm with the shouts and foot-beats.

  I waited until he was even with me. I swung the rope. The loop went flying out. But it didn’t land over my intended victim. Something back of me gave the rope a-sudden jerk that ruined my aim.

  Frantically I tried to recover the rope. Something was pulling it away from me. Anyway I was too late, now. The ship moved through the narrow passage and out into the Martian lea.

  Cursing my luck, I whirled about. The rope was mysteriously sliding away from me. I jumped for the edge, but it jerked out of reach. Someone must be pulling it, leading me into a trap. Warily I dodged back into the shadows to sec what was up. Now I could see that the rope’s course” led around a tree and back into the vertical shafts of rock where I stood.

  An arm slipped around my throat and pulled me backward. A hand rose before my eyes. The hand held a black-tipped knife. A girl’s voice spoke—in perfect Martian.

  “This knife is poison. It will kill.”

  Death was waiting in the tip of the blade. My eyes turned for a glimpse of my would-be murderer. “Are you sure you want to kill me?”

  It might have been my Martian accent. Something made her lower the knife a trifle.

  “I shall kill you unless—”

  I didn’t wait for her to state her terms. I flung her arm backward. Her hand struck the wall of rock. She leaped back to avoid the point of the knife as it fell from her hand! I kicked it across the ground, then seized her by the arms and pulled her out of the shadows into the light.

  She gave me a savage fight, fists and nails. She was wearing a dark blue Wedge-head hood over, her head and shoulders. I tried to see her face. Her dark eyes flashed angry fire. She was no Wedge-head, I was sure of that. She was too tall and well formed.

  I threw her to the ground. Then I caught the gleam of her white teeth, though her face was still half concealed within the flaps of the blue hood.

  “Now, what was it you wanted?” I demanded, clenching her wrists in my hands.

  “Nothing.”

  “You want to kill me. Is that it?”

  “No. Let me go.”

  “You jerked that rope out of my hands, didn’t you! You spoiled my chance to capture a Wedge-head. Why? You’re no Wedge-head, I can see that. What are you anyway?”

  Her eyes stared at me with strange excitement. She made no answer.

  “You meant to kill me unless—unless what?”

  “Unless you would give, me food.”

  “You want food?”

  “I said so.”

  “Do you have to kill for food? Why not ask?”

  “I steal. That is how I live—by stealing.”

  “Your game may work on the Wedge-heads, but you better think twice before you pick on some9ne my size. What are you anyway—a Big Zim—or a mixture of—”

  I tore off the hood to get a fair look at her face, her hair, her shoulders. “You’re an Earth girl!”

  In plain English I repeated my words, and her full red lips twisted into a faint smile. She started to struggle again. I pinned her elbows tight against
her sides. Her wide, excited dark eyes were drinking me in. I guessed that she must not have, seen an Earth person for a long time. In spite of her wild nature-girl-look she was beautiful—dark-haired, round-cheeked, with a determined chin, a pretty throat, and full breasts that rose and fell with excitement.

  Now she spoke in English. “Let me up.”

  “So you’re an Earth girl.”

  “All right. What if I am?”

  “What are you doing here? What’s your game?”

  “Let me up.”

  “Oh, no. You might take a notion to kill me.”

  “Please. You’re hurting my arms.”

  “Robbing and killing is strange business for an Earth girl.”

  “This is a land of killing. How else can one live?”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “I think you’re lying. Where do you live?”

  I caught my answer from the flick of her eyes toward the shadowy alcove where our fight had begun, and I realized that it might be the entrance to a cave there in the rocky river bank.

  “You mean to tell me that you live in there?”

  “I live all along the river.”

  “Who lives with you?”

  “No one. Please—”

  “So you live entirely alone—here—in this cave?”

  “Yes.” I stared down at her. Her dark eyes shone boldly, defiantly. She might kill or lie or hate or love with all the ferocity of a jungle child, I thought. Then heard a sound from the cave. She heard, too, and the sound startled her.

  It was a low groan. It was the voice of a man in pain.

  Her bloodthirsty manner melted completely. At once she was like a different person. I released my grip.

  “You and I are both from Earth,” she said. “I’m taking a chance. I’m going to confide in you.”

  Rising, she glanced at the poison-tipped knife lying in the dust, then ignored it. She motioned me to follow her. We moved back through a dark, rock-walled passage into a dank-smelling room. A shaft of light from a break in the rock ceiling gave me a view of her home. There on a mat lay the one companion who shared her predatory life—an aged man.

  He lay with the stillness of death, one gaunt white hand across his sunken chest. Without shifting the stare of his glazed eyes from the ceiling he asked, in a low, feeble voice, “Who?”

  “An Earthman, father.”

  “Thank . . . God.”

  If he could have talked readily, he would. surely have unburdened his heavy heart. I placed my hand over his cold fingers and listened to his feebly spoken words. He must die here, he knew. His adventure was over. He and his daughter had been captives of the Wedge-heads, and he had hoped to live to see their cruelties avenged. But now it was over.

  “The Big Zims are warring with them now,” I said. “And the nations of other® planets are watching to see which way the tide will turn.”

  “But how are you mixed up in it?” the girl asked.

  “I’ve come from the Earth to try to rescue a man by the name of Bennington—B.G. Bennington. You’ve heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He was an agent sent by Earth governments to work with the Big Zims. His presence with the Big Zims commanded respect. The Venus nations and the various bands of space brigands will stand back with due respect as long as they believe that the Big Zims have this Earthman on their side. But the Wedge-heads have captured him. They’re holding him.”

  “And you mean to rescue this Bennington?”

  “That’s my job. I need to get him back on the right side of the Zim river before the rumors start running through the skies that he’s missing. If the rumors begin to spread about, Venus bands will pounce in, and the Big Zims, with all their progress toward civilization, will be rolled under.”

  The old man groaned weakly. He murmured to his daughter, “Lor-na . . . You’ll tell . . . him now . . .”

  She understood what he meant. He wanted her to let me know how to enter the capital city of the Wedge-heads.

  “What I need is a guide,” I explained. “Beyond the river it’s all wilderness to me.”

  “We can tell you how to go,” Lorna said. “I’ll draw a map for you.”

  “You don’t know of any party I could get to go with me?”

  The girl shook her head. “We’re entirely alone, father and I. We’ve been stranded here three years—Earth years. After we escaped the Wedge-heads, we made it across the river. Father could go no further, and this is how we’ve wound up—like animals . . .”

  “But if the Big Zims knew you were here they would help you to get back. Haven’t you tried, to get out?”’

  “We trusted no one. We’ve chosen to live as outcasts. Please forget that you have seen us. You have your own mission.”

  “I’ll see you again, Lorna,” I said before I took my leave. “I promise you I’ll come back—soon!”

  Through the long day of walking along the Wedge-head trails to the west of the river, I kept thinking of my strange visit.

  The instructions they had given me were explicit enough, so that I was saved many, miles of travel.

  Toward Evening I was forced to go into hiding. Sounds of tinkling bells and chanting voices warned me of the approach of a band of warriors. They were marching, or rather dancing, down toward the steep-banked river, where ships were waiting to take them out to sea.

  I made camp back a short distance from the trail, slept lightly with ears sharp for the sounds of wild animals or Wedge-head enemies, arid awoke in the night with the light of two moons, to help me on my journey.

  The parties of Wedge-head warriors I met were small bands, usually groups of twelve, sometimes twenty-four! It was easy enough for me to duck for cover when I heard them coming. They were not on the alert. This was home territory for them, and they hadn’t been sobered by any encounters with, the enemy as yet. They were all intoxicated, like those first, bands I had seen on the ships, with their strange rhythm.

  Their chant went, “BEE-gee-gee-gee-gee-gee-gee!”

  The first syllable was always shouted like the beat of a high-pitched drum. The whole phrase was made up of seven beats and a rest. Sometimes they varied it.

  BEE-gee-gee-gee-BEE-gee-gee!”

  The following night, hiding not far from one of their camps and not daring to move, I listened to this weird incantation for hours.

  “Sing to the power of the devil!” the leader would yelp.

  Then, “BEE-gee-gee-gee!”

  “Shout to the power of the devil!”

  “BEE-gee-gee-gee . . .”

  “Fight to the power of the devil!”

  “BEE-gee-gee-gee!”

  “Die to the power of the devil!”

  “BEE-gee-gee-gee!”

  It was getting under my skin. I was getting a fever from it. Even when they moved on and I marched ahead in the silence of an empty trail, that thumping, incessant, “BEE-gee-gee-gee!” pounded through, my ears. It caught the rhythm of my walking, my breathing, and even my heartbeat.

  “ ‘March to the power of the devil!’ ” I began to say to myself. Then I would try in vain to throw it all out of my mind.

  I wished I had asked Lorna and her father about the devil these savage Wedge-heads all seemed so wrapped up in. It was something one should know. Strange they hadn’t mentioned it. How could I be sure I wasn’t upsetting some savage taboos, bringing the power of the devil down on my head? Well, my whole plan called for keeping out of sight, and I hoped their devil didn’t have too many eyes.

  Illness got me down somewhere along the line. I don’t know whether it was the food, the water, or the strain of climbing along the trails. The exhilaration of light gravity always tends to make green Earthmen wear themselves out on long marches. Accustomed to an average pace on Earth, they go into high speed on Mars, finding their muscles set free and their weight like thistledown. Then they overdo.

  I lost several hours from the fever. My h
ead swam and the rhythms of the Wedges beat through my brain.

  I awoke to sounds of fighting. Big Zims were floating over in three crude balloon contraptions, and the Wedges succeeded in bringing two of them down. Hand-to-hand clashes made the air ring with the clang of metal.

  I wanted to turn back. The whole evil business of trying to get into the capital to rescue a key man was complicated enough without having the Big Zims pull a premature attack.

  It was a dark hour. At best, I was moving ahead blindly. My own life was at stake. Or, if caught, I might be kept a prisoner and tortured. Now, with a small band of Big Zims already floating over for a hit-and-run attack, the whole Wedge-head countryside would be on the alert.

  That was part of my deep discouragement. Beyond that, there was this Martian devil. I could see that these Wedges were crazed with something.

  A dance mania? I wondered. Amass insanity rooted in a weird rhythm? A wild fever that took possession of the whole body and made a man a demon?

  It was the nameless fear of this undefinable something that gnawed at me constantly.

  “BEE-gee-gee-gee-gee-gee!”

  I held my ears. I looked back at the eastward slopes, over the trails I had put behind me. I looked to the west, where the Wedge-head capital city showed against the sky.

  And then I broke off thinking and ran!

  The skirmish between Wedges and Big Zims was coming my way. The outnumbered Zims were racing for cover. One fine husky Big was top slow clambering up over a heap of rocks. His footing gave way, he slid, and three vicious Wedge-heads were on him. They sank their knives in his back, and his voice gave a rattling cry and went still. Then, to the rhythm of “BEE-gee-gee!” they sliced at him with mad glee.

  They had seen me, and I knew what was coming as soon as they finished their orgy of cruelty over the fallen Big.

  I knew, too, as I ran with long strides, why the Big Zims had risked this early attack. It was a delaying action. Even though they had only a few crude balloons for such risky business as this, they were rushing into an attack to keep the Wedges from sending out any more ships.