by Andre Norton
South—and straight across the open where the Big Ones (if any of them prowled afar from their ship) could easily sight them.
Jony made the fastest time he could himself crossing that same stretch. Tall as the grass was, the growth could not hide even Maba. And the clan still marched together in an almost straight line. There was a promising darker rise of trees and brush before him, but that was some distance away.
He ate as he went, snatching handfuls of the seed, chewing them vigorously to get what nourishment each contained before he spat out mouthfuls of husks. Dry eating indeed, and he began to long to see the stream again. However, below the falls, the river had taken a curve to head farther west.
As he went, Jony kept his search sense alert. There was, as yet, no contact with the party he sought. Which meant that they had out-distanced him more than he had first guessed. He tried to quicken pace, eager to be under the safe roofing of the trees ahead, since the sky could now be a roadway for the enemy.
The heat of the sun was shut off abruptly as he stumbled under the taller growth he had sought. Here was still an open trail, no wandering from it. Jony could not guess what moved Voak and the others to set aside all their ordinary ways of travel. Or—was it because of him?
Did they wish so much to lose all contact with Jony that they had moved the clan out immediately upon their return, pushing on so he could not easily catch up?
Slow moving as the People generally were, they had great endurance, much more than his own. For some time he had not sighted those smaller prints marking Maba and Geogee's presence. It could be that the twins were now riding on big shoulders, as they had when they were much smaller and tired quickly during a journey.
When he had started out on this trail, Jony had been sure he would catch up with the clan fast enough. His concern had been all for their acceptance or denial of his warning. But, as the day wore steadily on and his own endurance flagged (not only from the ache in his leg, but from sheer weariness), he began to wonder if he were ever going to find them at all.
This wooded country proved to be only a small tongue thrust out from greater thickets to the west. However, evidence of their passing gave him a thin hope the clan had not turned in that direction (where, indeed, they might well have lost him completely), but held to their southward trek as steadily as if they traveled with a definite purpose in mind.
Jony noted now, however, that at last their foragers were out seeking foodstuffs, although none strayed very far from the line of march. Jony himself snatched fruit from the same places in turn. He came at last to a spring and threw himself down in deeply dented, moist, clay to drink. It was plain the clan had found this water earlier. The sight of those tracks renewed his spirit and determination, for they had not been made too long before.
He settled there knowing that he must rest. His weariness wore on him as if the collar was a mighty burden sinking him, under its pressure, to the earth. It was as he lay thus that he heard the new sound.
A humming, buzzing, a little of both, yet not entirely either. But a noise he had never listened to before. His mind searched . . .
Jony sat up.
“No!” He even cried the word aloud. Then once more he made contact.
Not Maba, no, not Geogee. Patterns of thought reached his mind, as individual as faces were in his sight. He had, in that moment, contacted neither of the twins. But the mind he had touched so briefly, it was one of his own kind.
The scattered bits of thought which were his only answer when he tried to communicate so with the People—he was well versed to recognize those. And he believed he could never forget the way the Big Ones thought, though those were as strange to follow, if much clearer.
This—this was like touching Rutee! Not mind-controlled, a free mind—one with the same pattern as his own.
Meanwhile the sound grew louder, more persistent. Jony hunkered back under the largest bush near enough for him to reach. Then he raised his staff and cautiously pushed aside some branches to bare a piece of sky hardly larger than his two hands laid together. In his shock at what his alerting sense had told him, he dared not use his talent again—not yet.
Through his hole he caught only a glimpse of what hovered overhead: not a sky ship, but a vehicle much, much smaller, possessing the appearance of several trees, denuded of both branches and roots and fastened tightly together to form an object curved at either end. Sunlight glinted as the craft swooped over his sky hole and was gone, the ship's brilliance having some of the same quality as the light from his sand-polished staff.
The Big Ones? No, that had been no enemy mind he had touched in that startling moment of contact. Rather some life-form akin to his own rode in the sky on that flying thing!
People from another stone place? One which had not died long years ago? Jony thought not, The People would have known of their continued existence, he was sure. Then—could this be a ship of his own people—such as Rutee had sworn had carried her in the long ago to the colony world?
Jony's excitement flared. Still, caution, taught by the past, kept him where he was, quiet and attentive. Warily once more he tried mind contact. He was sure he could recognize the mind-controlled. If this was some trick of the Big Ones to entice their prey out of hiding . . .
Jony found the right level of contact, held it. Again only for an instant. For that other had reacted, had felt Jony's invasion, and had met his quest with a sudden alert.
Surely not mind-controlled! One of them would never have known, or cared. They were too used to being directed by the Big Ones. Jony tried to sort out the jumbled impressions he had gained in what was less than a second of direct touch.
The being above was on scout and he was not used to direct mind contact. But his pattern was Jony's own. And . . . Jony thought furiously . . . maybe, just maybe, he could control this stranger for a space. That would be a way to gain knowledge.
But that would be using mind-control! Just what Rutee had feared he might someday try with Maba and Geogee, and had made him promise that he would never do. Still the flying invader was not kin, and Jony desperately needed to learn all he could. He stirred uneasily. Rutee had said: What the Big Ones did to their kind had been wholly evil. And if he did the same, now, how different was he from a Big One?
The flying thing flashed back into view, steadied almost directly above. Jony stiffened. Could the being on board trace Jony through his attempt at contact? The Big Ones had machines which achieved that very thing, which also made the mind-controlled what they were.
Stealthily Jony dropped his staff, allowing the branches to swing back to their proper places. He had no idea how much the hunter up there could see, or guess. But he had no intention of lingering for a meeting that might end up in capture.
Jony crawled on hands and knees. The buzz of the flyer remained steady; it neither grew louder nor faded. Which meant that the craft must have the ability to hover directly above Jony, something no live-winged thing he knew was able to do.
He was afraid to try contact again. Now he must depend upon his hearing more than any other sense. Belly-flat, he found a way which gave him complete sky cover and wriggled along very slowly indeed.
Could he depend on his hearing now? Dared he really believe that the sound was a little fainter, as if he were drawing away from it? He could not count on that; he might only do the best he could to escape.
His treetop cover thickened until Jony dared to get to his feet, though he had to weave in and out here to make any progress at all. Also he had lost the trail of the People as he crept away from the spring. There was only one way left to go unless he wanted to be under observation from the flyer—straight ahead—which meant south and toward the direction in which the sky ship must have planeted.
The sound receded, as if the flyer still hovered near the spring waiting for Jony to betray himself. About him the wood lay unnaturally quiet. All life there might be cowering to listen even as he did. Jony held his own passage to a minimum of no
ise.
His problem now was the lack of any trail as a guide; and his sense of direction was confused. He tried to fix on some particular tree ahead, reach that, then select another, always dreading to find himself caught in an endless circling. A broken branch, Jony fairly leaped for that. Work of one of the People! Yes, he could distinguish the stripping of leaves and twigs as the limb had been pulled down into the reach of someone taller than himself. Perhaps even Voak. Though Jony searched the ground here, he could find no prints. But there were other fruit vines and branches torn and mishandled. This had to have happened only a short time ago, since sap still oozed stickily from some.
Once more the growth thinned. Jony crouched behind a screen of leaves and branches. Immediately ahead was another open space. And, not too far away, the grass was beaten flat or torn up by the roots. He stared at that evidence of a struggle and was bitterly afraid. This could only mark a site where the People, or some of them, had been attacked without warning. Jony detected no signs of blood. But he did sight a staff, unbroken, and beyond that a net of fruit, half the contents squashed and now attracting insects.
The flyer!
He dared not venture into the open, even enough to examine more closely what evidence lay out there. Working a way about the fringe of the woodland would double both time and distance, but provided the cover he must have. Grimly, Jony began to move to the right along the line of detour. A moment later he dropped, freezing into instant immobility.
The buzz of the flyer was louder. He peered up as best he could without raising his head. Over the trees the alien craft swept, circling once about the place which marked what Jony was sure had been a struggle.
Then, to his unbelievable surprise, a voice sounded out of the sky:
“Joneeeeeeeee . . .” His own name, only distorted, sounding like a wail.
How did they not only know where he was, but who? This was more frightening than the red-lit chamber of the cage—all he had seen in the stone place—because it was personal, threatened him directly.
“Joneeeeeee . . .” again that cry.
Was this some new type of mind-control, reaching one's prey by the use of his closest possession: his own name? If they expected him to be lured so, then they must think him mind-controlled himself. And who were those prepared to play the Big Ones' old game?
Three times the flyer called him. Jony's anger changed to a sullen determination to track them down, though he could not follow through the air. The idea had now come to him that they must have captured Maba, Geogee, or both, and so knew of him. Safety was gone from this world; he had nothing to depend upon now but his mind, his two hands, and this weapon he had discovered from the past.
He was not fool enough to believe that the metal staff could threaten the sky craft, good as it had proved against the vor birds. However, now the flyer seemed to be giving up the quest. No longer circling, the craft flew straight. Not to the southwest as Jony had confidently expected, but back north. Still hunting him?
He remained in hiding until the faintest of the buzzing stilled. If these others did have Maba or Geogee, if something dire had happened to the clan, he must know. So he believed his way now led south, toward where he had seen the ship planet. He no longer had any hope of finding the clan. And, undoubtedly, any warning he might have given was already far too late; useless.
Jony was driven to rest at last, simply because he was staggering and had fallen twice, in spite of the support of his staff. He made no nest, merely pushed back under a bush and pulled branches down as well as he could to hide his body. Once more he was thirsty, the fruit had only partly allayed his need. However, there had been times in the cold season among the folk when one learned to go hungry and even thirsty. Jony's plight was not a new one, save it came at the wrong season.
Weariness hit him so that he slept. Though even in that sleep he kept his hand on the shaft of his staff. Once more he slid into a dream . . .
He again visited the place of stones, climbing the ledges to face the woman. There was that which he alone could do, must do. Still he dreaded what would follow, not knowing what the result could be.
Reaching the figure he put out his hand as he had before, laid it palm to palm against her larger one. His body quivered. From that touch there flooded a fire, not to burn his flesh but rather to fill him with a power which he understood dimly he was to hold, contained, until the moment came for its full release.
Filled with that power, still obeying an order he did not understand, Jony went then on into the long space of stone trees, seeking the sleeper. As he looked down, that covered form moved; a hand arose to twitch aside the concealing mask. This time it was not his own features that were revealed. This was Maba. Not as he knew her now, but as she would be seasons ahead when she was as old as Rutee. Nor did she offer him the rod. Instead she signaled for him to come and aid her out of the box, bring her to her feet. This also he had to do.
She threw aside her clinging covering to step outside—and she smiled. But never as he had seen Maba smile. There was in her expression a hint of that look she assumed when she planned a bit of mischief or was stubbornly set on forbidden action—yes, that remained. But over all lay a cold knowledge of power and the will to use it.
That compulsion which had led Jony here and had made him free the one wearing Maba's face, broke. He struck out, not to grasp her rod for himself, but rather to capture the alien weapon, fling that dangerous thing as far from them both as his strength of arm could hurl it. Maba must not do what lay in her mind! That he understood.
Easily she avoided his grasp. Her smile deepened, she laughed. With the end of the rod she pointed to him and her words held a jeering note:
“Animal! Who are you who dares to rise?”
There was a tight strangling constriction in an instant about Jony's throat. He cried out, caught at the collar to tear himself free. Where that had once hung loose on him, now it was tight. From the band dangled a cord. Also, his back—he was being pressed down on all fours in spite of his frantic struggles.
The woman who was Maba caught the point of her rod through the looped cord, drew it to her. She laughed a second time, stepped away from the box which had held her for so long.
“You see,” she said lightly, “you cannot be both—man and animal. Animals are ruled, men rule.” Her twitch on the cord appeared light but drew Jony after her. She began to descend the ledges, never looking at him now as he followed on all fours at her heels, the animal so easily tamed.
TEN
The growth about Jony was sodden with a rain which fell with a steady persistence. That same rain erased any tracks of the People which might otherwise have been traced from that place of disaster in the open. Had all the clan been captured?
Jony roused from a night of unquiet rest, still ridden by that singularly forceful dream. It was seldom possible, beyond a few moments when one first awakes, to remember such details. But he continued to be haunted by vivid memory, just as he had by that earlier vision, when the sleeper, awaking in his box of stone, had worn Jony's own face, not Maba's. The feel of the constricting collar remained with him also. So that, now and then, his hand went half-consciously to his throat to see if the hoop still hung loose.
He caught no sound of any flyer. Perhaps the bad weather had driven it from a stormy sky. However, the same rain and wind did not keep Jony from his steady course south. And, after a climb up another line of ridge land, he came upon what he had sought ever since that flash of evil-to-come had swept across the night sky.
Below was a valley cut by a sizable stream, angling south and west. Not too far from that placidly flowing water stood a sky ship erect on its fins. About those supports the ground was charred, blackened, fused by the force of the beams down which it had ridden to this landing.
Jony concentrated on the ship. He was quite sure this one was not as large as that of the Big Ones, though it was of the same general shape. Perhaps most sky ships, no matter who piloted them, fo
llowed a like pattern. He had expected a ramp out from an open hatch, but the body remained sleekly closed, no manner of opening to be seen at all.
Nearby, however, there rested on the ground the flyer which had sent him into cover the day before. Now that Jony could view it from above instead of below he could pick out the features which made it readily recognizable as an intricate machine. There was an over-curved hood covering the top, under which, he supposed, the pilot and any passengers could shelter while the thing was aloft.
On the side of the standing ship there was a marking also, though it was dim, as if old.
Jony stirred unhappily. Here his shelter from the storm was poor, and there seemed to be no way of finding out what was going on below within the sealed ship. He wondered if he dared to try a thought-send—but hesitated. Somehow he was sure it was by that means he had attracted the attention of the flyer before. But—
He stiffened, instantly alert. At last something was happening. A roll-back opening appeared in the side of the ship; a ramp for landing curved out as might a questing tongue. That struck the ground, anchored firmly. Now, down that incline walked a man.
Not a Big One. Jony knew relief, then immediately regained his wary distrust. What kind of men rode the sky? They might be mind-controlled. If the kinfolk of Rutee had at last made their way here . . . But then why had they attacked the People?
Maba—Geogee—and how many of the clan were now down there, imprisoned?
The spaceman's whole body was covered with clothing fastened about his arms, his legs, up to his throat. The material was a green-brown in color, making his face seem very dark. His hair had been trimmed into a short stiff brush. Now the invader descended to the end of the ramp, to just stand there, holding something before his eyes, turning the upper part of his body very slowly. As if, through that object Jony could not distinguish very clearly, the stranger was making a careful survey of the very slope upon which the boy crouched.
