by Andre Norton
Somewhere on that untidy lump of earth and stone must be the man who had ambushed him. And he wanted his blaster back, as well as to learn the motives which had established such a hideout.
Dusk was drawing in, the red points of fires on the mound promised not only warmth but food, also the presence of Joktar’s own kind. Only he believed that to try to climb that artificial hillock would bring a rough and perhaps fatal greeting. He went on along the wedge trail, passing the fort, following the cliff back as the outward curve of the wall widened, hoping to find a place to camp for the night.
The valley was larger than he had thought and he was well-away from the vicinity of the mound when he discovered what he was seeking as the trail sloped down into a funnel.
Joktar lay belly-down and felt below for what he hoped would be the holes necessary to the climbing pins. There they were! He pressed into service again the handful of pegs he had brought, to dangle from the last of those and drop into a cave slit.
He dared make no fire, and his dreams were haunted with terrifying climbs up walls as blaster bolts spit and crackled about him. He awoke, gasping, crawled to the mouth of the cave to look out upon a clear white night. Fenris’ large moon awoke a faint glitter along the ridges of snow banks and visibility was excellent.
The Terran studied the landscape, marking cover which would take him closer to the fort. If he could reach the grove of trees from here without leaving a betraying track on the snow, he might make the foot of the mound undetected. While he was assessing the possibilities of such a move he heard a sound. Was it the creak of snow crushed by a boot? On the air an indistinguishable murmur of voices. Men were coming towards him.
A black shape emerged from the grove, then turned to call back. Joktar saw, sharply outlined against the snow, a tell-tale silhouette: the fellow was armed with a vorp-rod! Another man, another vorp! These strangers weren’t playing. The deadliest weapons known: ones strictly forbidden except to be used by special permission of the patrol. A third and a fourth man, the last dragging a flat sled. And all four of them wore fittings over their boots which enabled them to cross the crusts on the drifts without breaking through.
“. . . a good report . . .”
“Teach ’em to spread those filthy holes of theirs west! Smear off a couple and they’ll learn. Those guards aren’t going to nose out hunting us.”
One of the squad laughed. “How true! Roose’ll lay a trail after we’re through that’ll leave ’em pop-eyed before their first rest break, they try to follow it. That trick of his using zazaar paws on his boots is enough to panic those dome hounds. They don’t like to get far away from their precious roads anyway.”
“What about the one Merrick discovered coming up the valley?” The new speaker did not sound as carefree as his companions.
“Merrick is going to gather him in today. He only wanted to let him run a little to soften him up. When he brings that snooper in we’ll hear the digger sing some pretty songs before we take the usual steps.”
“I don’t see how a stranger got in this far without being spotted.”
“Merrick thinks he’s a stray. Perhaps from some jumper caught in the last blanket. If his machine broke down the dim-wit might just be stupid enough to wander about hunting the road again. We’ll learn what happened when Merrick produces him.”
“Anyway, we’ve other business now.”
“Sure, a hole to scoop. We ought to hit about dawn. We’ll get the diggers out with some wake-up fireworks they’ll remember.”
Joktar watched the small party swing to the right, hidden again by trees. He hesitated for a moment and then made a gambler’s decision, to move after the raiders into the night.
Well past dawn, Joktar lay on the crest of a crag. Somewhere below him the raiding party was stationed; the light colored furs of their outerwear blending in with the snow. A track pressed by jumper treads formed a half-loop about a small dome, the interior sun lamp there was a-wink in the half-gloom.
Bit by bit he had built up his own explanation for the excursion he had dogged. The companies on Fenris were not supreme. There existed at least one outlaw organization, able to live off the bleak land and operate in the wilderness, who dared to challenge the monopoly. And who were those outlaws? Escapees from E-gangs, such as himself? That they were Terrans or men of some off-world breed he was certain.
There had been stories told back in the SunSpot of rebels on thinly colonized planets. Some men turned against civilization because they were born wanderers, impatient of any restraint, others were cashiered spacemen, criminals a few jumps ahead of the patrol. Fenris with its largely unexplored wilderness, in spite of its forbidding climate, could offer excellent asylum for such.
Joktar tensed. The raiders had parked their sled just below the crag on which he crouched, and now someone was coming back to it. He squirmed forward. One of the outlaws was shucking off his furs, standing up dressed only in a thermo suit and boots. He unrolled and proceeded to don another fur coat, wrapping a face scarf tightly about chin and mouth before he pulled the hood up over his dark thatch of hair. On the new garment were vividly colored patches of company insignia.
So disguised the raider walked briskly back to the jumper trail. Once out on the road his gait altered, he began to stagger as he circled toward the dome, falling to his knees, struggling up again. Joktar watched the performance critically. The act was good, for all the men in the dome could guess this was the survivor of some road wreck. And from his own position he could see the two vorpmen stationed in concealment on either side of the dome entrance.
The counterfeit wayfarer flopped realistically into a drift and lay there for a long moment before making feeble efforts to rise. He managed that drastic tumble so well that Joktar was certain this was not the first time he had played such a role. Two men issued from the dome running. They wore thermo suits and boots, but no furs. A raider arose to the left, the fourth man Joktar had not been able to spot. Now he skimmed to the door and whipped inside, slamming the cold lock behind him.
Just as the first of the company men reached the man in the drift, he moved with a quick sidewise flip Joktar recognized. One of his unsuspecting prey went off balance, reeling back into the wet embrace of the drift. The attack startled his companion into a momentary pause. In the dome, lights blinked three times. Now the vorpmen came into the open, the black noses of their weapons trained on the company men.
“Freeze! You’ve had it, diggers!”
No one argued with a vorp, not if he were sane. While the company men obediently “froze” the raider arose and slapped the evidence of drift-wallowing from his furs.
“Woods beasts!” spat the company man on the ground.
The man he had come to aid laughed. “Want your mouth scrubbed out, little man?” he inquired genially. “You make that sound like a naughty word. We’re free Fenris woods runners, and don’t forget it.” His tone, light on the surface, held a bite.
“Wearing a company coat!” The other refused to be intimidated.
The raider smoothed down his furs with one hand as if admiring their fit.
“Good workmanship,” he admired. “I’ll send Naolas a micro sometime and tell him so. They do you diggers proud. That’s why we come to you for help when we need to stock up on supplies. All right, boys, move in and clean out the place.”
The whole party entered the dome, raiders and prisoners together. Joktar came to life. His own target was the sled below. Not that he had any hope of finding a weapon there. But there were several bags on it and he had thoughts of adding to his supplies. Only he was not given time to loot. A man came from the dome and Joktar dropped behind a bush.
Peering through a screen which seemed very tenuous, indeed, he saw that the other had holstered his weapon. Apparently the raider feared no more trouble here. Joktar pulled his feet under him, studied the man and the terrain doubtfully. Before he could slam through the bush, the other, if he were any marksman at all, could easily burn h
im down. He had only the force axe as a counter. Now he felt the tiny throb in the haft as he pressed the button to release the pure energy which served as a blade.
The man picked up the sled cord, gave a sharp jerk to free the runners from the hold of the snow. He dragged it back to the dome, leaving Joktar bitterly disappointed. Caution, engrained in him during his years on the streets, had won.
Frustrated he watched the man re-enter the dome. To get to the sled now, he would have to cross the open and he was wearing a company coat.
It was then, through the earth under him, that he had advance notice of new arrivals. For a moment he did not connect that faint thud-thud with trouble. Then he recalled his own ride in a jumper. The dome was about to have some legitimate visitors and the raiders might well be trapped inside.
Joktar sat back on his heels and stared absently at the structure and the waiting sled. Suppose he was to dash down the road, flag the advancing jumper, and warn its crew? The ignominious defeat of the company men could be turned into a victory. And what might he expect in the way of gratitude from the new victors?
As matters stood, he had no cause to favor either party. To reveal himself to the company employees could send him straight back to the labor gangs. On the other hand the outlaws had already taken his blaster and had some rather sinister future plans for him. Perhaps it was to his own advantage just to wait and see if these two parties cancelled each other out. Having so logically and prudently balanced one scheme of action against the other, Joktar went to work to do the direct opposite of what good sense dictated.
6
Almost independently of his thoughts, Joktar’s hands moved, scraping up snow, packing the stuff with his fingers into a tight, hard ball. Joktar, who had never had a normal childhood, was instinctively fashioning a weapon known to Terran children far back into the mists of earth-bound time. He cradled the ball, tossed the sphere from one hand to the other. And then he threw with the skill of a practiced knife man.
The missile smashed against the dome with a crack almost as forceful as a blaster bolt. One of the raiders, complete with vorp, burst from the door, took refuge behind the sled, awaiting action.
Now more than vibration through the ground advertised the coming of the jumper. The crunch of its treads on ice and snow could be heard above the purr of an engine laboring to bore ahead. The man in ambush behind the sled whistled shrilly, and the second vorpman came out, crossed the clearing about the dome in a zig-zag rush. It seemed plain that the raiders were preparing to fight rather than run, a decision which surprised Joktar.
A third outlaw emerged and took cover. To all outward appearances the dome was as always when the jumper crawled into view. In the doorway of the dome stood a waiting figure, blaze of company badge on his chest, as one of the jumper’s crew climbed out of the control cabin.
Perhaps the sight of the sled alerted the newcomer. He cried out and his hand went to his blaster. Then he spun around and went down in the snow, picked off by a marksman in hiding. The chain lightning which was a vorp in action raked along the jumper just above ground level, leaving fused metal, turning the machine into scrap. Then the same fire struck across the control cabin fusing in turn a nose gun just sliding out to return fire.
Joktar admired the competence of the raiders. In the few minutes since his ball had struck the dome, they had rendered useless the enemy transportation and added its crew to their bag of prisoners. He waited eagerly for their next move.
The man who had been clipped by the blaster was collected, his partner ordered out of the jumper, both hustled inside the dome. There appeared to be no load-up on this trip. When the vorpmen explored the cargo they brought out two boxes to be dumped on the sled.
Joktar watched the raider in the company coat. The man stood on tiptoe to touch the smear of snow left by the Terran’s warning before he turned to study the landscape, sighting for the probable line of flight. Joktar dropped flat, feeling as if the other could spot him out. Instead they went about the business of looting the dome, adding their choice of goods to the sled.
The sun was well up to a mid-morning position before the job was finished, and the captives were brought out to stand by the impotent jumper. Stripped of their furs, the company men were tied to that vehicle, their coats dumped beyond reach. Then the vorpmen turned upon the dome, slicing the surface with the full force of their beams, cutting the tough substance into bits. As the jumper, the hole shelter would have to be written off the company books.
“By rights, diggers,” the raid leader’s voice carried easily to Joktar, “we ought to blast you. You’d burn us quick enough if the situation were reversed. But we’ll give you a chance. Pick yourselves free, and you can slog back to the next hole, if that’s still in existence by the time you make it. And you can tell Anson Burg that there won’t be any more holes left east of the mountain soon.”
There was an inarticulate growl in answer to that. Two of the raiders, flanked by the vorpmen, picked up the draw lines of the sled and headed toward Joktar’s hiding place.
He had waited too long to retreat. Now his body, numbed by the cold of which he was not entirely conscious, betrayed him. Trying to slip out of sight, he lurched into brush. Instantly a vorp beam snapped in answer.
The fact that his fur coat was too large saved him, as it had when he encountered the cat-bear. Dazedly he tumbled backward, aware of a burning agony spreading down his arm and across his chest from a point on his shoulder. He rolled in the snow, striving to ease that fire, and plunged back into empty space.
There was shouting, the crackle of dry brush. Joktar gave a small, animal whimper as the fire in his shoulder blazed, making him sick. He struggled to get to his feet, peering around with misty eyes to find that he was entrapped in a pocket beneath a broken crust of snow.
His left arm, his whole left side was useless. But with his right hand he pawed for the force axe. Overhead a furred arm swept back brush. Joktar, his lips tight against his teeth in a snarl of animal rage, swung up the axe to make a last stand.
“Here he is!”
He brought up the axe another fraction of an inch, caught his breath at the answering flash of pain across his chest. Then he threw the weapon, saw it whirl out, knock the blaster from the other’s hand.
Joktar leaned against the wall of the pocket. His groping hand found snow, smeared it across his face, hoping the cold wet would aid him to fight off the waves of weakness which blurred his eyes and pushed him close to a black out.
“Another digger?” The shadow of a vorp barrel fell across his face and body. “Let’s get him out for a look.”
They got him out right enough. Joktar bit his lips against a scream of pain as they lifted him. But he fought to keep on his feet when he was out of the pocket. One of the men facing him wore the disguise of the company coat, but only his eyes were to be seen between the overhang of hood and the breathing mask.
“No, I don’t think he’s one of this gang. You’ll find his tracks back there. He’s been trailing us all along.”
“Why?” demanded the vorpman.
“That’s what we’ll have to find out. We’ll take him back with us.”
“But—” the protest was interrupted as the leader spoke directly to Joktar.
“Did you throw that ball to warn us?”
“Yes,” somehow Joktar got the answer out as he sagged forward to his knees, writhed at the pull of the torn and singed furs across his body as the other caught his coat to keep him from falling back into the snow pocket. That last punishment was too much, he blacked out completely.
He lay on his back and yet his body moved, sometimes with a jerk which racked through his side. He opened his eyes to discover that he lay on the sled, lashed there with the rest of the cargo.
“Awake, digger?” The shadow of the speaker fell across Joktar’s face and he turned his head, to look up at the raider who still wore the company coat.
“I’m not from the mines,” he faltered.
Somehow it was very important to make that point clear.
“Then you’re wearing the wrong coat, digger.”
“So are you!” mocked Joktar, the Terran’s voice stronger and more steady this time.
“Hmmm . . .” The man broke step and then matched his stride once more to the glide of the sled.
“You one of Skene’s crowd? Or Kortoski’s? If so, you’re way out of your territory.”
“I’m out,” Joktar said deliberately, “of the cargo hold of a jumper where I was load-hop. I’m an emigrant.”
“And what happened to the jumper?” A note in that demanded proof for such a preposterous statement.
“Caught in an avalanche. The driver and guard were both dead when I got out. This coat belonged to the guard.”
“Nice story. Since when have they been shipping youngsters out in E-ships?” He reached down to pull Joktar’s hood well away from his face, inspecting the other with cold and unbelieving eyes.
“I’m older than I look. And when did the E-men worry about the catch in their nets? Jard-Nedlis bought my time at Siwaki all right.”
“If you’re talking straight, fella, you’ve pulled off a neat jump of your own. What planet did you emigrate from?”
Joktar’s eyes closed wearily. Talking required more effort than he could now find. “Terra,” he answered weakly. His eyes were tightly shut so he could not read the astonishment mirrored in those of his captor.
Then, suddenly it was warm and he no longer rode on the sled. There was artificial light in this place, the glow of an atom bulb. Joktar lay not far from a wall of piled stones slovenly chinked with straggles of moss. And the roof over his head was a mat of brush battened down. He shifted on the pallet, enjoying the warmth, to discover that he could not move his left arm, though the worst of the pain was gone out of his shoulder.
