by Andre Norton
A hand appeared, drew a fur robe back over his bandaged chest. Joktar looked up. No hood or mask hid this man’s thin face, and the Terran recognized the badge of that deep brown skin, the brand of deep space worn by the crewmen of star ships. But what was a spaceman doing here?
“They tell me you claim to be from Terra,” the stranger said abruptly. “What port? Melwambe? Chein-Ho? Warramura? N’Yok?”
“N’Yok.”
“JetTown?” Joktar knew by the faint inflection in that tone that this man must know the streets.
He tested the spaceman’s knowledge in turn. “I was a dealer for Kern.” Had he ever faced this man across a table at the SunSpot? He didn’t think so.
“The SunSpot.”
He had been right. This man knew JetTown.
“Star-and-comet, three-worlds-wild, nigs-and-naughts.”
“Star-and-comet.”
“Rather young to spread ’em out on that table, weren’t you?”
Absurdly irritated, Joktar replied with a heat he instantly regretted. “I’ve dealt for five years, spacer. And if you know Kern’s you know no fumbler could keep a table going for him that long!”
To his surprise the other laughed. “You can always touch a man on the raw when you needle his professional pride,” he commented. “Yes, I know Kern’s reputation, so I’ll concede you were a three-point-down man at the tables. As for your age,” he rubbed a thumb back and forth under his lower lip and surveyed Joktar measuringly. “There’ve always been precocious brats in every business. What’s your name, dealer?”
“Joktar.”
The thumb was still, the measurement became a fixed stare.
“Just Joktar?” As the other pronounced it, the name now had an unfamiliar lilt. “Where did you get a name like that?”
“I don’t know. Where did you get yours?”
But the other was smiling again. “Not from the Ffallian, that’s certain. Gwyfl sanzu korg a llywun.
That collection of sounds made no sense, yet their cadence fell into a pattern which pricked at the Terran’s mind. Was their meaning behind that wall in his brain where Kern’s psych-medic had forever erased his past? Joktar struggled up on his elbow to demand:
“What language is that? What did you say?”
The eagerness went out of the spaceman’s face. He was cold-eyed now. “If you don’t know, then it means nothing to you. You were picked up on a regular E-raid?”
Disappointed, Joktar nodded as he dropped back on the pallet. Now the interrogator proceeded to draw out of him all the details of his life since he had come out of the deep-freeze in Siwaki. When the Terran finished the spaceman shook his head.
“You’re covered with luck.”
“You believe everything I told you?” mocked Joktar, his patience worn to a very fine thread.
The other laughed. “Boy, you couldn’t give me a wrong answer if you wanted to. You had a sniff of ver-talk before you came around.”
Joktar’s good fist clamped on the fur robe over him. “Don’t take any chances, do you?” he asked in a voice which was even enough, but his eyes were less well-controlled.
“On Fenris, you don’t. Not if you want to keep out of the companies’ claws. You might have been a plant.”
Joktar had to accept the truth of that. But the thought of being drugged before he was questioned rankled.
“Who are you?” he shot back.
“My name’s Rysdyke, not that that would mean anything to you.”
A spark of anger dictated Joktar’s reply.
“Erased the rolls?” he asked casually, watching the other to see if that shot took effect. And he was avenged in measure by seeing a dark stain spread under the other’s deep tan. However, if that question had stabbed deep in a hidden tender spot, Rysdyke did not permit the jab to rattle him.
“Erased the rolls,” he agreed. Then he stood up. “Get yourself some bunk time. The chief’ll be in to see you later.”
He turned down the atom lamp and went out. But Joktar did not sleep. Instead he reached back into his memory as far as he could, shuffling and dealing out in patterns all the scraps of recollection, as he might have dealt kas-cards, hoping for a winning hand. Only nothing fell properly into place, there were no brilliants on which to bet.
Dim, very dim, pictures of a big ship. Of a woman who crooned to herself, or spoke to him, urging always that they must take care, that they were in danger, that men in uniform personified that danger.
Men in uniform! What uniform? The police? He had never shrunk from them, just known the wariness of the lawless against the law. Spacemen? He had faced hundreds of them across his table with only a general interest in the yarns they could spin, and a slight contempt for their inept playing of a highly skilled game of chance.
There was the officer in gray, the one who had questioned him at the E-station. Perhaps that sniff of ver-talk had heightened his powers of recall, sparked some hidden memory. Yes, it was a gray tunic he hated. He must fear gray tunics, but why?
If he could only force past that mental curtain the long-ago conditioning had left in his mind! Rysdyke must know something. What was so odd about his name? And who were the Ffallian? Who spoke that language which had dripped so liquidly from the spaceman’s tongue?
True, most of the men he knew had two names. But on the streets nicknames were accepted; admittedly, Joktar was unlike any other he had ever heard. Joktar . . . Ffallian . . . his thoughts began to spin fantastic patterns as he drifted into sleep.
Rysdyke did not return to the hut for the next two days where Joktar, his disappointment and frustration growing, waited to pin him down for an explanation. His nurse, caring for him brusquely but with some experience, was a taciturn man who commented now and then on the state of the weather and carried with him a none-too-pleasant aroma of half-cured skins. He only became animated when Joktar chanced to mention the cat-bear, and then he would favor his patient with a lecture on the habits and natures of various animals to be found in the Fenrian wilderness, pouring forth a flood of facts the Terran found to be interesting after all.
And the more he heard from Roose, the more Joktar began to realize that his own trek across this territory was in the nature of a fabulous exploit. For someone green to Fenris to survive both blanket storm and an attack from a zazaar was astonishing to Roose.
“You did as good as a regular woods-runner, boy,” he commented. “You’d be able to run a prime trap line. Wait ’til you get that burn of yours scarred over good and you ‘n’ me’ll head out into the breaks and get us some real hunting.”
“But I thought you people were in the business of raiding company holes,” Joktar hoped to draw out more information.
“Sure, we do that. But we run fur traps, too. Can’t get all the grub and supplies we need raiding. ’Bout a dozen of the fellas have lines out and have regular hunting sections up back . . .” He jerked a thumb toward the forepart of the hut. “The chief, he was a trader, he knows how to sell our stuff to smugglers.”
“Thank you for the recommendation, Roose.”
Joktar recognized the voice, though he had not seen before the face of the man who now entered the hut. This was the raider who had led the attack on the mine hole wearing the livery of the company.
He was as tall as Roose, having the advantage of Rysdyke by several inches. But unlike the ursine trapper, this man was slender and moved lithely. Now he squatted down by the Terran’s pallet.
“So you plan to hit the hills with Roose?”
“Ah, chief, the kid’s good! He’d have to be, or he couldn’t get him a zazaar and last out a blanket.”
The other nodded. “Exactly, Roose. In fact he’s so good he bothers me. But there are a lot of surprises in the universe, and by this time we should be used to bombs out of a blue, yellow, or pink sky. Kauto fflywryl orta . . .”
Again the words meant nothing, yet pried at Joktar’s memory.
“I don’t understand . . .”
; The other sighed. “No, you don’t. Which is a pity. But maybe time’ll solve that problem. You were handy with that snowball back at the hole. I gather you have a dislike for the companies.”
“Wouldn’t you, under the circumstances?”
“Maybe. But you could have warned them and been given free status.”
“Would I?” Joktar returned dryly.
He answered with a smile. “No, probably not. You’ve guessed rightly just how far their gratitude would reach.”
“I know the streets.”
“And you’re lucky. About one man in a thousand ever escapes, and out of that number, one in five hundred lasts out his first week of freedom.”
“You get your recruits the hard way.”
“We have exactly two escaped emigrants in this mob. The rest of us are free trappers and a few who do not explain their past occupations.”
“But you all hate the companies.”
“Not the companies,” the other corrected him. “Fenris would be a deserted hell hole without the mines. But we are at war with their methods and their deliberate hogging of this planet. The alibite mines occupy a few pimples on this continent, the companies exploit them and that’s that. They will do nothing to build up trade or import any goods save the supplies they themselves need. They won’t sell passage on their ships to free men, but they bring in their bonded employees and emigrants they can control utterly. The freeze-out is on and has been for two years. Not a single free trader can get field clearance at Siwaki. No ship save a company one or a patrol cruiser can set down here. They think they have Fenris sewn up tight and they want to keep it that way.
“If free man can establish independent holdings on this world the companies can’t hold their emigrant gangs without triple the number of guards they now employ or other expensive safety devices. Now the country itself is a barrier against escape, with settlements it wouldn’t be.
“They want alibite only. We want other things. Sure, this climate is grim, almost six months of winter, or what seems winter to Terrans. But second-generation settlers from Kanbod, or Nord, or Aesir could live well here. Men can adapt, you’re an example.”
Of what? Joktar wanted to ask when the chief was hailed from outside the hut.
(Closed com between Kronfeld and Morle)
M: Scouts aren’t on to our man. The one who took the disc really thought subject had helped mug his partner. He’s shipped out since. Serves in the Third Sector, no contact with critical Fifth in the past. Doesn’t know Lennox as far as I can learn. So that angle can be washed out.
K: It’s pleasant to be able to eliminate one small factor anyway. Did your man get to Kern?
M: We’re trying. Kern’s a vip on the streets. Even the port authorities are touchy about pushing him.
K: Why was he raided then?
M: Funny thing about that. The word around is that Kern arranged that bit of action himself, to get rid of some underlings he didn’t trust. And the E-men exceeded their instructions, making a clean sweep. I know he never intended our man to be held and he unpocketed for ten others who were pulled in. Hudd did discover that Kern took in the woman and child. Woman died soon after. She was ill when she arrived. He can now establish that the child was our subject. What about the Fenris angle, any word from there?
K: One of Thom’s agents tried to bid him in at the auction, but didn’t make it; couldn’t press that without blowing his cover. He’ll pass the word in the outlands. There’s a brawl cooking up there and maybe we can spring them during the trouble. But if our information is correct, this lad can take worse than Fenris and still come up fighting. We have to have him. I’d cheerfully fry those service fanatics if I could get these two hands on them and had a hot enough fire handy.
(Report to home office, Harband Mining Company, Project 65, Fenris)
Prospect Hole, Blue Mountain district destroyed by local outlaw group. Request permission to go all out against these woods-runners. May we appeal to the patrol for assistance?
(Reply from home office)
Do nothing. Committee on way to investigate situation. Ramifications reach beyond Fenris. Must be no trouble. Repeat, no trouble while Councilor Cullan is on Loki.
7
“Samms is going to move. Since he’s had the blast out with Raymark and made himself top man in the Kortoski mob, everything’s been quiet. Now he wants a general council.”
Joktar stood within the slightly open hut door. The major portion of the men housed on the mound-fort were gathered outside listening to a report from a man dressed in full trail kit.
“His runner’s going through the Five Peak district. They want us and Ebers’ crowd. Samms aims to make it a bit parley. Swears he has a major chance for all of us now—”
Rysdyke interrupted. “This could be the break we’ve been waiting for, Hogan. Raymark was no good to deal with; he wanted our sections kept separate so we wouldn’t have to share any good loot. Samms may be a different sort.”
“Samms and Ebers,” the chief repeated thoughtfully. “Well, a meet won’t do any harm. We can listen to what they have to offer but we don’t have to commit ourselves. That is, if this is on a straight orbit. Suppose we say we’ll meet them at the River Island,” he glanced at the sky, “and, since the signs look promising for a quiet weather spell, make that three days from now. You can tell that to this runner, Marco. Then you take two of the boys with vorps and full supplies. I just want to make sure that no one is planning an incident.”
Several of the listening men grinned wolfishly. Joktar gathered that one’s trust in one’s fellow men did not spread any further on Fenris than it had in the streets. The company broke apart and only Rysdyke and the chief remained before Joktar’s hut.
“What do you make of this?” the ex-spaceman wanted to know.
The other’s answer was cryptic. “Perks supported Samms just before he called Raymark out.”
“Perks? But he turned yellow-belly, sold out to the companies. He doesn’t dare leave the Harband compound; he’d be shot on sight after what happened to his squad in that ambush. Oh, do you think Samms might be following the same flight pattern? That why you sent the vorps ahead?”
“Might be.” There was a lazy, teasing note in that answer. “Joktar!” He had not turned his head, but he spoke the eavesdropper’s name with certainty. The quasi-prisoner opened the makeshift door of the hut.
“Here’s the problem, boy,” Hogan continued. “You should know it’s like from the streets. The Kortoski mob—they range north of here—had Raymark for their boss. He wasn’t too bright when it came to planning capers, but he was a good fighter and had what it took to keep his boys in hand, an old time trapper. Then his mob picked up an escapee last year. He’d had luck about as spectacular as yours. Seems Samms is a third-generation Martian colonist and so adapts better to this god-forsaken climate.
“Samms began to pick up a following of his own inside the mob, among them one very bright boy, Perks. Perks had furnished a lot of the brains behind Raymark before then. He can plan but he’s no leader; most of the mob hate his guts. Then, about four months ago, Perks apparently got fed up. He and a squad he was leading were captured in a quite obvious trap. And since then Perks has fared well at company hands.”
“Sold out his own men!” Rysdyke exploded.
“So it appears. Then, a very short time ago, Samms called Raymark to a blast out. Raymark was erased, and Samms is top man. Now,” Hogan glanced at Joktar for the first time, “give me your unvarnished appraisal of the situation.”
“I’d say Samms was planted.”
“Where, by whom, for what?” Hogan inquired in that lazy voice.
“On the surface by the companies, maybe to do just what he did, climb to the top in some mob then to take it out of running, or use it to cut down some of the other independents.”
“And Perks?”
“Was his runner.”
“But you said ‘on the surface.’ What could lie under that su
rface?”
“That Samms is straight and the Perks situation is in reverse. Perks has been planted on the company by Samms. When he’s rooted there solid, Samms moves to take over the mob. Maybe Perks got news to him to spark that jump.”
Hogan laughed. Rysdyke’s scowl faded as he chewed on that.
“So speaks a man who knows the streets. That the way a vip such as Kern would move?”
Joktar shrugged, bit his lip as that gesture pulled his sore shoulder.
“With variations. Both are pretty simple set-ups for a man like Kern.” He gave credit where it was due. Kern, the intriguer, had been fascinating to watch in operation, and Kern’s plans had always worked with the precision of well-tended machinery.
“Then this hot news Samms wants to share with us—” Rysdyke began.
“Could conceivably be the real goods. So we’ll attend Samms’ council with our own precautions laid down in advance. My young friend,” he spoke again directly to Joktar, “the criminal mind is sometimes a distinct asset. I think you should meet Samms, your private estimation of him and his proposal may be enlightening. Suppose you set yourself to the business of getting on your feet in time to accompany us.”
The party which left on the third day was a small, select one. As yet Joktar knew only a small portion of the mob. Most of them had been trappers, individuals who had pioneered in the Fenrian backlands before the companies took over. One or two had been prospectors frozen out by the monopolies. The two major exceptions were Rysdyke, a cashiered spaceman, and the chief, Hogan, who had once been a trader in Siwaki, losing his business when the companies closed the port to free ships.
Now Hogan, Rysdyke, Roose, and another trapper named Tolkus, with Joktar in tow, left for the council. But the Terran believed that others had gone before them more secretly.
The day was a fine one with no wind and Joktar stripped off his face mask, having learned that he could do as well without that added covering. Their trail wove into the grove and the Terran tried to picture this country as it was when the big thaw was in progress. Fenris must be a totally different world then. Another track joined the trail they followed. Roose pointed to it.
