Horn: Green

by Perry Rhodan

  "We weren't able to overtake the Terran and the woman, Patriarch," reported their spokesman. "They had too big a head start. It's obvious that they're on the run."

  "What a lousy break for us that we have far-sighted idiots like you around here!" Valmonze shouted at him. "Well, I'll flush those Terrans out if I have to burn down the whole forest!"

  For a brief moment there was a flash of rebellion in the eyes of the younger man he was speaking to but then the conventional dictates of tradition won out. It was impossible to contradict a patriarch. The Springer lowered his gaze and said, "We ran into some of the bird men, Patriarch. They told us the fugitives were on their way to the Great Basin. If we take a glider we can get there ahead of them."

  Valmonze's eyes gleamed angrily under his bushy brows. As the clan leader he preferred to give all the orders himself and yet he expected his clansman at the same time to develop a strength of self-reliance. He wasn't aware of the other's momentary thought of rebellion. His power was of a totalitarian nature and thus far such ideas had not yet occurred to any of his followers.

  "So what are you still waiting for?" he bellowed, waving his fists in the air. "Razmon will fly with you in the glider to the Great Basin."

  "Are you really so childish?" asked a cold voice in the back of the room.

  Valmonze stiffened. The chamber became abnormally silent. Then all Springers present turned to the person who had dared to insult their patriarch so brazenly. They stared into the emotionless features of Amat-Palong, the Ara. Tall but thin compared to the Springers, he was standing there leaning against a file cabinet. As Valmonze looked across at him, a faint smile touched his lips.

  Certainly among the Springers there were a few who took a malicious delight in his challenge. But if they had expected Valmonze to turn upon Amat-Palong like a cyclone they were disappointed. At the moment the patriarch revealed that he was quite capable of controlling his feelings whenever it was important to do so.

  "Your criticism indicates that you have a better idea, Ara," said Valmonze tonelessly. "We're anxious to hear it."

  Amat-Palong shoved himself away from the cabinet with a shoulder and looked at the Springers with an air of weary boredom. "Place a glider at my disposal," he challenged Valmonze. "I'll bring you this Pincer person."

  If the patriarch had ever revealed an insidious smile on his face it was certainly now. Amat-Palong was placing his reputation on the line. If he did not keep his promise he would lose face. "Do you perchance wish to fly to the Great Basin also?" he asked the Ara.

  "No," replied the other curtly. It was obvious that he preferred to keep his destination a secret.

  "You may have a glider," said Valmonze. "Nevertheless, Razmon will fly to the Basin."

  Amat-Palong nodded indifferently and leisurely left the room. With a gesture of the head Valmonze also sent the Springers out who were to go with Razmon and renew their search for Pincer.

  The loudspeaker crackled on the intercom panel. "Shaugnessy has just landed, Patriarch. What are your instructions?'

  "I'll be in the main office," Valmonze called back. "Have the Terran brought to me."

  Less than 15 minutes later, Clifton Shaugnessy walked into the patriarch's office. He was a short but broad-shouldered man with a round face and a narrow hooked nose that was rather repugnant. The smuggler wore a short jacket with fancy embroidery and in his belt he carried an older model thermo weapon. When he spoke his lips revealed his teeth as though he were snarling and it gave a hollow sound to his voice.

  "Perry Rhodan had Terra locked in with a quarantine," he said by way of greeting. "That's why I couldn't make it on time. I don't have anything with me— neither poppy seeds nor the regular stuff. Aplied thinks it's too dangerous right now to pick up the business again. The patrol ships are making real sharp inspections. No freighters can take off without special permits. Even in Terrania itself no takeoffs or landings are allowed. The reason for it was a strange kind of epidemic. There's a rumor that Rhodan himself was afflicted by it. They say he became infected during an experiment. And there are a lot of speculations— particularly about that experiment—that are causing plenty of people to worry. The grapevine has it that Rhodan made a successful test flight with a new kind of spacedrive and it brought him into contact with an alien race that's supposed to be much more powerful than Arkon, Terra and the Springer clans all put together."

  "So you bring me rumors," said Valmonze angrily. "We are waiting for merchandise and Aplied sends you here with rumors that sound improbable and have no value for us."

  Shaugnessy shrugged. He looked like a man who seldom worried about anything—certainly not about the problems of the Galactic Traders.

  "Do you know a man named Pincer who works for Aplied?" asked Valmonze.

  "Pincer?" Shaugnessy repeated the name and fingered the zipper of his jacket as though to help him think. "No," he said finally. "Never heard of the name."

  "He showed up here claiming he represented you. He brought us a load of poppy seeds that turned out to be an imitation of the real stuff," Valmonze reported.

  Shaugnessy nodded as though wryly amused. "The guy must be wild," he said with a matter-of-factness that was incomprehensible to Valmonze. "Where is he now?"

  "On the lam. But we'll soon have him back again. Can you figure who this man might be? He has a woman with him."

  "Maybe one of Rhodan's agents," said Shaugnessy, who didn't seem to be disturbed by his own suspicions. "Sooner or later they'll pick up our trail."

  Valmonze refrained from explaining to the smuggler why Rhodan must not uncover the people behind the narcotics ring at this early stage of the game, under any circumstances. It would be purposeless to educate this small-fry bandit concerning galactic politics. Shaugnessy merely transported opium for Aplied and Valmonze. In addition he supplied six other patriarchs. There were eight other such contact men under Aplied who "took care of" various Springer clans. This made exactly 63 Traders who were receiving the hard stuff in order to undermine the interstellar commerce of the Solar Imperium. Probably Shaugnessy wasn't even aware that the main reason the Traders were dealing in narcotics was in the hope of weakening Terra. From an economical standpoint they were not profiting any more from the opium trade than they were from their usual businesses. The chief profiteer of them all was Vincent Aplied in Cape Town.

  "Whoever this Pincer may be," said Valmonze, "we have to find him. He can't leave the planet so we'll grab him sooner or later."

  "If you're really dealing with an agent of Solar Intelligence," warned Shaugnessy, "you may run into some difficulties with him. But if he's just somebody pulling a fast one for a buck, at least you have to admire his guts."

  Valmonze made a deprecating gesture. The patriarch's chief emotion relating to the fugitive Terran was the hatred of the deceived. But in such a state Valmonze was dangerous. His wrath would descend upon the youngster—hard and without mercy.

  • • •

  At this particular moment, however, the vice-president of the Intercosmic Fruit Company presented a sorry spectacle. If Valmonze could have seen him he would have quickly abandoned his suspicions that John Edgar Pincer was an agent of any kind or description.

  At first glance it appeared that he was in a medium that offered no support. Soaring at a dizzying height above the forest, Pincer had nothing under him other than a narrow slat, 10 inches wide, from the ends of which were ropes leading up to Schnitz and Lupatz, who were sailing along with outstretched wings. Since his stomach wasn't built to take even the sensations of an ordinary elevator, Pincer was going through the worst hour of his life. In fact his stomach felt as though it had collapsed entirely. The lack of blood in his brain blurred his vision, which was just as well, perhaps, because for Pincer the view of what lay below him might have been devastating.

  About 20 meters ahead of him, Cora was being transported by Kankantz and Tonitutz. Pincer secretly congratulated himself that he had let his wife go ahead of him. In this way s
he was spared the sight of his pitiable condition and the embarrassing inferences that might be drawn from it. The wings of the birdmen had a considerable span and their movements created a constant wind blast that caused Pincer to cringe with fright.

  His hands grasping the support lines were practically paralyzed. He did not dare to make the slightest movement. The thin slat beneath him shook and swayed. His state of mind allowed him no concept of the speed of their flight. Although every moment carried him farther away from the Springer base he would have been happy to exchange his airborne roost for a seat in Valmonze's spaceship.

  But then he reminded himself that this was purely a selfish consideration. He must not think that way. His valiant little wife had to face the same perils as he did. If he were to weaken, he would throw away his chances of informing Rhodan of what was going on. And so he continued to bear up under his suffering, a cramped and frightened figure on a little narrow board in the sky.

  He could not have estimated how long the flight lasted. Just when he thought he couldn't hold on any longer, Schnitz and Lupatz began to glide downward. But the landing was the worst part of all. Pincer broke into a cold sweat. Shadows and blotches appeared before his eyes and there were brightly-colored rings that in his color-blindness he had never suspected existed. He gasped for air. Suddenly he felt a rough jolt and was rolling over solid ground.

  "Flight ended," he heard Schnitz announce indifferently. "No-fly now can stand up."

  However, Pincer had to recover from a delayed nervous reaction. He managed to crawl a slight distance on trembling knees. His first attempt to get up failed miserably. Finally when he did regain his feet his legs were wobbling and his head was roaring. When his vision cleared he saw that he was in a meadow surrounded by the forest. Cora had landed about 100 meters away. She was approaching him in the company of Kankantz and Tonitutz. Pincer struggled to somehow give a vigorous impression. He took long strides with his skinny legs as he went to meet his wife.

  "Wasn't that a terrific flight, Johnny?" Cora called to him. "It really refreshed me!"

  Pincer blushed to his hair roots. His momentary veneer of manliness vanished and once more he became the same stiff and clumsy John Edgar Pincer that he had always been. "Yeah, sure, sweetheart," he said. His faint smile disappeared when she threw her arms around him. "But this is no picnic," he admonished her sternly. "Don't forget that Valmonze mentioned a number of control stations when I tried to send a radio message from the Error."

  "That's not necessarily so," she corrected him. "He only mentioned that the whole area was kept under a constant radio surveillance."

  Pincer raised a thin pontifical finger toward her. "It's therefore quite possible that there are a number of radio stations on Alazee's planet. And it's our task to find one of them."

  He turned to Schnitz and went back to using Intercosmo. "Aside from the spaceport, do the Springers have other stations here?" he inquired. "Do you know where we could find one of them?"

  Schnitz's blue crown of feathers whipped up and down in his struggle to comprehend. "Schnitz no savvy no-fly man," he said. "First want go away—then go Springers again."

  Pincer glanced imploringly at his wife but made an attempt to explain. "It's a bit complicated, Schnitz. We wish to make contact with friends on another planet so that they can come here and rescue us. For that we need certain instruments that we do not have. The Springers have such equipment. That's why we have to find one of their other bases.

  Schnitz rattled his beak in new comprehension. Was Pincer imagining things or did he see in that birdman face the actual traces of a cunning grin?

  "No-fly want make big-speak far away?" asked the aborigine with a new show of instinct for the problem. "Schnitz savvy plenty-know heap stations. Many far fly-away place—too much fly. Only one much close. All station work by birdman people—learn black-box magic from Springers," he explained.

  Pincer gave his wife a signal of his relief. if Schnitz could lead them to a radio monitor station they would only be dealing with aborigines, not with the Springers themselves.

  "My friend, lead us to this place," he requested of Schnitz.

  For the first time since he had come to know the birdmen he detected a trace of uncertainty in them. Schnitz spread out his flying membranes.

  "No go!" he said, somewhat louder than was necessary. "Place of other breed— not friends of Schnitz." He talked the matter over with his companions in their own language. The responsive gestures from Kankantz, Lupatz and Tonitutz needed no translation for Pincer. They were decidedly against going into the

  territory of an enemy offshoot of their race.

  "My wife and I will go it alone," Pincer announced. "Just show us the way."

  "Much better not," contradicted Schnitz emphatically. "No-fly people die in this land."

  "We'll die in any case," said Pincer. "Why shouldn't we try for the slightest chance we can find? Schnitz, we're asking you to help us just this one more time. Tell us where we can find the station."

  Suddenly, Schnitz became very grave. He stretched out a claw and pointed across the meadow. "No-flies go that way. Still before dark-fall, they come

  station."

  "Good," muttered Pincer. "In that case, well get started."

  "Wait yet," said Schnitz softly. He produced the cigarette carton that Pincer had given him. There was a glitter of remorse in his dark eyes. "Schnitz no take present from dead no-flies," he crowed mournfully.

  Without protestation, Pincer took the package back. Cora came silently to his side. He nodded farewell to the birdmen and took his wife by the hand. Together they traversed the meadow in the direction of the forest.

  The feathered aborigines waited for a few more seconds; then they spread out their flying membranes and lifted off from the ground. Pincer heard the swish of their wings but when he glanced around the meadow was empty.

  "They've gone," he said to Cora. "Now we're on our own book again. We'd better hurry so we can get to that station before it starts to get dark."

  But he came to realize sooner than he expected that his plan wasn't feasible, in fact Schnitz had been right. They had no sooner penetrated the forest than they ran into an ambush. About 30 birdmen broke from the cover of the trees, brandishing primitive lances. Their leader stood directly in front of Cora and John and raised his weapon.

  "We have presents for you," said Pincer in a friendly manner. "In exchange all you have to do is let us continue onward. We still have a long way ahead of us."

  Once again, John Edgar Pincer had to revise his notion that the universe was populated by peace-loving entities like himself. The native creature showed him quite drastically what he thought of presents. He swung his lance and rammed it

  into the ground at Pincer's feet

  "He looks awfully mad," Cora whispered anxiously.

  Pincer pressed her hand reassuringly. Then with a disarming nonchalance he pulled the spear out of the ground and examined it curiously. He figured that this was the best psychological procedure but he was wrong again. Half the birdman group fell upon them and tied them with ropes.

  In his laced-up condition he looked thinner than usual as he called out words of encouragement to his wife. Secretly he had to confess that the distance they had gained from the spaceport was now all to no avail. They had eluded the Springers at the cost of being captured by primitive aborigines who seemed to be as pitiless and remorseless as the Galactic Traders themselves. The birdmen picked them up bodily and carried them on into the forest.

  Pincer's long-sought cosmic adventure had become a reality. However, now that he was physically aware of how dangerous this could be, his youthful dreams of the past appeared to him as rather stupid. Every man should just do what he was cut out for, he thought dejectedly. However true this might be, the question remained: what was John Edgar Pincer cut out for when nothing but hard luck dogged his footsteps? If the son of the great Archibald Pincer had been a philosopher he might, perchance, have found
an answer, but he was just a helpless young man who had been caught awry in some highly involved machinations.

  His train of thought was roughly shattered as the birdmen simply dropped him on the ground. Between the trees was a large area that had been cleared of foliage and underbrush. In the surrounding trees Pincer could make out numerous tree buts where the native creatures squatted or stood and greeted the arrivals with a murderous screeching outcry. Cora and John were carried into the center of the clearing and were dropped again onto the bare ground where the village inhabitants crowded around them.

  "Can you imagine what they will do to us, Johnny?" asked Cora. She struggled in her bonds to roll over so that she was facing him.

  Pincer's imagination was vivid enough to envision many things that might happen to them in the next few hours but they were not the kinds of things one should tell a woman in a situation like this—certainly not the woman he loved. So all he said was that he didn't know.

  A one-legged birdman limped over to them, supported by a crutch. He was obviously older than the others and his Intercosmo was perfect. "Where do you come from?" he wanted to know.

  "Urt," said Pincer. "From the Earth."

  The old birdman stood on his one leg and pointed his primitive crutch at the sky. The crowd behind him was respectfully silent. "From there?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Pincer. "From there."

  "Then do you have the white powder with you?" the oldster inquired, and for the first time Pincer noted signs of a craving intentness in his manner.

  He realized then to his horror that the poor creature was a narcotics addict. His pity for this practically helpless being overcame his distrust. He was sure there was some way to help the old birdman and other addicts who might be present.

  "The powder is harmful!" he called out to the crowd. Although most likely no one but the old one could understand him. "You must not take it. It will make you sick and you will die from it!"