"Station MRK-3, Station MRK-3 . . ." said the voice. "This is Overseer Unit Station 49. Repeat, this is Overseer Unit Station 49. I am receiving your signal, Station MRK-3. I am receiving your signal. Is this the Resident at Muddy Nose Village, Dilbia?"
"Overseer Unit Station 49, this is Station MRK-3," replied Bill, speaking into the microphone grill of the console before him. "This is the Residency at Muddy Nose Village, Dilbia. But I am not the Resident. Repeat, not the Resident. I am trainee-assistant William Waltham, just arrived at this Residency yesterday. The only other Trainee-Assistant here is unavailable, and I understand the Resident has been taken off-planet for medical attention for a broken leg. Can you locate him, please? I would like to talk to him over this relay. If he cannot be located will you connect me with my next available superior? Will you connect me with the Resident or my next available superior officer? Over to you, Overseer Unit Station 49."
"This is Overseer Unit Station 49. This is Overseer Unit Station 49. Your message received, Station MRK-3, Trainee-Assistant William Waltham. We can relay your communication only to Hospital Spaceship Paar. Repeat, communication from your transmitting point can be relayed only to Spaceship Paar. Please hold. Repeat, please hold. We are relaying your call to Hospital Spaceship Paar."
Overhead, the voice ceased. Bill settled back to wait.
"Station MRK-3, Muddy Nose Village, Dilbia, Trainee-Assistant William Waltham, this is Hospital Spaceship Paar, Information Center, accepting your call on behalf of Patient Lafe Greentree. This is Hospital Spaceship Paar—" It repeated the statement several more times. Then it continued. "Are you there, William Waltham at Station MRK-3?"
"This is Trainee-Assistant William Waltham at Station MRK-3," replied Bill. "Receiving you clearly, Hospital Spaceship Paar, Information Center. Please go on."
"This is Hospital Spaceship Paar Information Center Computer Unit, answering for Patient Lafe Greentree."
"May I speak to Mr. Greentree, please?" asked Bill.
There was a slightly longer than usual time lag, before the Computer Unit answered again. "Patient Greentree," it announced, "is not able to communicate at the moment. Repeat, the patient is not able to communicate. You may speak with the Computer Unit which now addresses you."
"But I have to speak with him," protested Bill. "If I can't speak with him, will you relay my call to my next nearest superior?"
"Patient Greentree is unable to speak," replied the voice after the usual pause. "I have no authority to relay your call to anyone else. You may speak with the Computer Unit now addressing you."
"Computer Unit! Listen!" said Bill desperately. "Listen to me. This is an emergency. Emergency! Mayday! Emergency! Please bypass normal programming, and connect me at once with my nearest superior. If you cannot connect me with my nearest superior, please connect me with any other human aboard the Hospital Spaceship! I repeat, this is an emergency. Bypass your usual programming!"
Again, there was a longer than usual pause. Then the Computer Unit's voice replied once more.
"Negative. I regret, but the response must be negative. This is a military ship. I cannot bypass programming without instructions from proper authority. You show no such authority. I cannot, therefore, bypass programming. I cannot let you speak to Patient Greentree. If you wish, I can give you the latest bulletin on Patient Greentree's condition. That is all."
Bill stared, tight-jawed, at the communications equipment. Like any other trainee-assistant he had been taught to operate such sub-time communicators. But of course he had not yet been informed on local code calls and bypass authorization procedures. That information would have to come to him in the normal course from the Resident himself. He was exactly in the position of a man who picks up a phone and finds himself connected with an automatic answering service, stubbornly repeating its recorded message over and over again.
"All right," he said, finally, defeated. "Tell me how Resident Greentree is, and how soon he'll be coming back to his duty post, here."
He waited.
"Patient Greentree's condition is stated as good," said the machine. "The period of his hospitalization remains indefinite. I have no information on when he will be returning to his post. This is the extent of the information I can give you about this patient."
"Acknowledged," said Bill grimly. "Ceasing communication."
"Ceasing communication with you, Station MRK-3," said the speaker.
It fell silent.
Numbly and automatically, Bill reached out to shut off the power to the equipment. After it was shut off, he sat where he was, staring at the unlighted console. The suspicion which had first stirred in him yesterday when he had arrived to find a deserted Residency was now confirmed and grown into a practical certainty.
Something was crooked in the state of affairs on Dilbia, particularly within the general vicinity of Muddy Nose Village; and no more evidence was needed to make it clear that he was the man on the spot, in more ways than one. If he had only had time to check the communications equipment out thoroughly on his arrival, he would never have left the Residency without discovering that crookedness before he got himself irretrievably involved in local affairs.
The power cable, detached by either Hemnoid or human hands, had kept him in ignorance of his actual isolation here just long enough for him to get himself into trouble. As it stood now, he was cut off from outside human aid, cut off even from his immediate superior, Greentree, and faced not only with a captive co-worker, plus a highly trained and experienced enemy agent, but the prospect of a duel which meant death as certainly as stepping off the top of one of the vertical cliffs walling in Outlaw Valley.
One thing was certain. Whatever other aims there might be in the mind or minds of those who had planned this situation for him, one thing was certain. His own death or destruction was part of the general plan. It would ruin any scheme if he was left alive to testify to what had happened to him. Possibly Anita's death was scheduled, too, for the same reason.
He was faced with essentially certain death, in a situation involving aliens with which he was unfamiliar, on a world for which he had not been trained; and he was left to his own devices. From here on out, he must save himself as best he could, and with no help from off-planet.
—Which just about threw out all the rules.
Chapter 10
Bill did not sit for long, thinking in front of the console. A glance at his watch woke him to the fact that he had less than four hours until the noon meal, and it was right after that meal that he had promised to outdo the village blacksmith. It was high time he was getting busy. He got up from his chair before the power console panel of the communications equipment, and went out of the room. He headed toward the storeroom containing the battery set at the back of the Residency, where he hoped he would find what he needed.
Bill had very little trouble finding what he looked for first. He discovered a coil of quarter-inch rope among the farming tools, and measured out and cut off forty feet of it. Then he started to look for a second item—an item he was pretty sure he would not find.
Indeed, he did not. What he was looking for was nothing less than a ready-made block-and-tackle. But after some forty minutes had gone by without his finding one, he realized he could spend no more time looking for it. He would have to make his own block-and-tackle.
This was not as difficult as it might have seemed to someone with both a theoretical and practical knowledge of such a simple machine. Earlier, as he had stepped into the dim storeroom with its warehouselike smells of plastic wrappings and paper boxes, he had identified a self-programming lathe over against the wall in the one corner that seemed to be a general work area, fitted out with several machines and a multitude of tools racked and hung about the walls.
Now he hunted for some metal stock, but was not able to find what he wanted. He would have to use something else. The outer walls of the Residency, like the walls of most Dilbian buildings, were made of heavy logs. Detaching a power saw from
the tool rack on the work-area wall, Bill took it over to a doorway in the back wall of the building. Opening the door, he used the power saw to cut off a four-foot section of one of the logs that ended against the frame of the doorway.
Bill took the log back to the lathe and cut it up into four sections, approximately one foot in length and a foot in diameter. Then he put the sections aside, and turned on the programming screen of the lathe. Picking up the stylus he began to sketch on the screen the pulley-wheel sections that he wanted to construct.
The parts took shape with approximate accuracy in three dimensions, and the programming section of the lathe took it from there. Eventually a red light lit up below the screen, revealing the black letters of the word "ready." Bill pressed the replay button, and before him on the screen there appeared completed and corrected, three-dimensional blueprints of the components for a block-and-tackle.
The lathe was now prepared to go to work. Bill fed his log sections to it, one by one, and ended up fifteen minutes later with twelve lathe-turned, wooden parts which he proceeded to join into two separate units by wood-weld processing. The first unit consisted of two double pulleys welded together, or four movable pulleys. This was the fixed block and had a brake and lock as well as a heavy wooden hook welded to the top of it. The other unit was the movable block which contained three pulleys. The two units, combined with the rope, together should give Bill a block-and-tackle with a lifting power seven times whatever pull he could put upon the fall rope. Flat Fingers, being a little bigger than most Dilbians, outweighed Bill by—Bill calculated—about five to one. In other words, the village blacksmith could probably lift about his own body weight of nine hundred pounds. However, the block-and-tackle Bill had constructed gave him a seven-times advantage. Therefore, if he could put upon the rope he would be holding a pull equal to his own human body weight of a hundred and sixty-five pounds, he should be able to lift well over a half-ton. Bill looked at what he had constructed, feeling satisfied.
He looked at his wristwatch. The hands, recalibrated to Dilbian time, stood at about half an hour short of noon. He was reminded, suddenly, that he had had no breakfast, and no evening meal the day before except for the Dilbian fare he had choked down in Outlaw Valley. He remembered seeing a well-stocked kitchen in his earlier exploration of the Residency. He turned away from the block-and-tackle, leaving it where it was on the workbench, and opened the doorway to the hallway leading back to the living quarters of the building. The hallway was dim, but as he stepped into it he thought he saw a flicker of movement from behind the door as it opened before him.
But that was all he saw. For a second later a smashing blow on the back of his head sent him tumbling down and away into spark-shot darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, it was at first with the confused impression that he was still asleep in his bed at the Residency. Then he became conscious of a headache that gradually increased in intensity until it seemed to fit his head like a skullcap, and, following this, he was made aware of a sickly taste in his nose and mouth, as if he had been inhaling some sort of anesthetic gas.
Cautiously he opened his eyes. He found himself seated in a small woodland clearing, by the banks of a stream about fifteen or twenty feet wide. The dell was completely walled about by underbrush, beyond which could be seen the trunks and the trees of the forest.
He blinked. For before him, seated crosslegged like an enormous Buddha on the ground with his robe spread about him, was Mula-ay. Seeing himself recognized, the Hemnoid produced one of his rich, gurgling chuckles.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, ah—Pick-and-Shovel," said Mula-ay cheerfully. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come to."
"What do you mean, knocking me on the head and bringing me here—" Bill was beginning, when the thunder of his own voice and the working of his own jaw muscles so jarred his skullcap of headache pain that he was forced to stop.
"I?" replied Mula-ay, in a tone of mild, if unctuous surprise, folding his hands comfortably upon his cloth-swathed belly. "How can you suspect me of such a thing? I give you my word I was simply out for a stroll through these woods, and noticed you tied up here."
"Tied up—?" began Bill, too jolted by the words to pay attention to the stab of pain that the effort of speaking sent through his skull, from back to front. He became aware that his hands were pulled around behind him, and a moment's experimentation revealed that his wrists were tied together on the opposite side of the narrow tree trunk that was serving him for a backrest.
"You can't get away with this sort of thing!" he stormed at Mula-ay. "You know no Dilbian would do something like this. You're breaking the Human-Hemnoid treaty on Dilbia. Your own superiors will have your hide for this!"
"Come now, my young friend," chuckled Mula-ay. "As I say—my superiors are reasonable individuals. And where are the witnesses who can call me a liar? I was merely wandering through the woods and happened to see you here, and sat down to wait for you to wake up."
"If that's true," said Bill, his headache by this time completely disregarded, "how about untying my hands and turning me loose?"
"Well, now, I don't know if I could do anything like that!" said Mula-ay thoughtfully. "That might be interference in native affairs—expressly forbidden, as you yourself point out, by the Hemnoid-Human agreements. For all I know you've been caught in the act of committing some crime, and the local inhabitants have tied you up here, until you can be taken back to face their native justice." He shook his head. "No, no, my dear Pick-and-Shovel. I couldn't take it on myself to untie you—much, of course, as I'd like to."
"You can't get away with claiming something like that!" exploded Bill. "You—" He became aware abruptly of a sheer look of enjoyment on the round face opposite him, and checked himself with sudden understanding. He was rewarded by seeing a slight shade of disappointment overshadow the smile with which Mula-ay had been regarding him up until now.
"All right," said Bill, as coolly as he could. "You've had your fun. Now suppose you tell me what this is all about. I suppose you want to make some kind of deal with me, and your idea in kidnapping me and tying me up here is to start me out at a disadvantage. Is that right?"
Mula-ay chuckled again and rubbed his large hands together.
"Very good," he said. "Oh, very, very good, young Pick-and-Shovel! If you'd only had a little more training and experience, you might have made quite a decent undercover agent—for a human, that is. Of course, that was the last thing your superiors wanted, in this case—someone with training and experience. Oh, the last thing!"
He chuckled once more.
"Cut it out!" said Bill in a level voice. "I told you, you've had all the enjoyment out of me you are going to have. Quit hinting and come right out with whatever it is you've got to say. I'm not going to squirm just to please you."
Mula-ay shook his head, and his smile evaporated.
"You really are uninformed, aren't you, Pick-and-Shovel?" he said seriously. "Your knowledge of my race is only that kind of half-rumor that circulates among humans who have never done anything but listen to tall tales about Hemnoids. Do you seriously think that my business here on Dilbia would allow me to engage in that special and demanding art form among my people which you humans consider to be merely the exercise of a taste for deliberate cruelty? To be sure, I'm mildly pleased by your responses when they verge on sana, as our great art is known among us. But any serious consideration of such is impossible in this time and place."
"Oh, is that a fact?" said Bill ironically.
"Indeed," said Mula-ay steadily, "it is so. Let me try to draw you a parallel out of your own human experience. You humans have a response called empathy—the emotional ability to put yourself in another's skin and echo in your own feelings what that other is feeling. As you know empathy, we Hemnoids do not have it. But our sana is a comparable response, among us, even though you humans would consider it quite the opposite. Sana, like empathy, is a response that puts t
wo individuals into a special relationship with one another. Like your empathy, it requires a powerful involvement on the part of the individual engaging in it."
"Only you don't happen to feel like engaging in it right now, I suppose?"
"Your skepticism," said Mula-ay steadily, "shows a closed mind. You humans do not empathize lightly, and neither do we engage in sana easily or casually. I would no more consider you a subject of sana on the basis of our casual acquaintance here, than you would be likely to empathize with—say—Bone Breaker, or any of the Dilbians, on the slight basis of the acquaintanceship you have with them so far."
Bill stared at the Hemnoid. Mula-ay was apparently being as frank and honest as it was possible for him to be, in his own terms. And the Hemnoid's argument was convincing. Only, just at that moment, something inside Bill suddenly clamored like an alarm bell in denial of something Mula-ay had just said.
"So—you understand," Mula-ay was going on, "and you can put your own interior human fears to rest on that subject. Just as," Mula-ay chuckled again briefly, "you can abandon the idea that I brought you here to make some kind of deal with you. My dear young human, you are not one of those with whom deals are made. You are only a pawn in the game here on Dilbia—an unconscious pawn, at that."
He stopped speaking and sat beaming at Bill.
"I see," said Bill, while the back of his mind was still busily digging, trying to identify the note of misstatement he had sensed in Mula-ay's earlier explanation. Suddenly he wanted very much to hear more from the Hemnoid. "I'm supposed to ask you why I'm here, then? Well, consider I've asked it."
The Right to Arm Bears Page 20
