by Andre Norton
There was no use giving this madman a blanket denial; he would not accept that. Listen to his story, get the reason behind this insane plan, then prove to him its utter folly—that was the only way to proceed.
“Why the Blue?” Hosteen asked as he spooned up some lorg sauce and spread it neatly over a horva fritter.
“Because my son’s there—”
Again Hosteen glanced at Kelson. The Blue was unknown. Those mountains, which were its western ramparts, were known, and appeared on the maps of the Peak country. But what lay behind that barrier existed only as a series of hazy aerial photos. The treacherous air currents of those heights had kept out ’copter surveys, and the territory was the hunting ground of the feared wild Norbie cannibals, hated, shunned, and fought by their own kind of generations. No one—government man, settler, yoris hunter—had ever gone into the Blue and returned. It was posted off limits by government order. Yet here was Kelson listening to a proposal to invade the forbidden section as if Widders was doing no more than suggesting a stroll down a Galwadi street. Again Hosteen waited for enlightenment.
“You’re a veteran of Confed forces, Storm. Well, my son is, too. He served with a Breakaway Task Force—”
Hosteen was a little jarred. To find an inner planet man among the Breakaways—those tough, very tough, first-in-fighters—was unusual.
“He was wounded, badly, just before the Xik collapse. Since then he has been on Allpeace—”
Allpeace, one of the rehabilitation worlds where men were rebuilt from human wreckage to live passably normal lives again. But if young Widders had been on Allpeace, how had he gotten into the Blue on Arzor?
“Eight months ago a transport left Allpeace with a hundred discharged veterans on board, Iton among them. On the fringe of this system, that ship hit a derelict hyper bomb.” Widders might have been discussing the weather if you did not watch his eyes and note that small twitch of lip he could not control.
“Just a month ago a lifeboat from that ship was discovered on Mayho, this planet’s sister world. There were two survivors. They reported that at least one more LB left the transport, and they cruised with her into this system. Their boat was damaged, and they had to set down on Mayho. Their companion headed on here to Arzor, promising to send back help—”
“And didn’t arrive,” Hosteen stated instead of questioned.
But Kelson was shaking his head. “No—there is a chance she did arrive, that she crashed in the Blue. Weak signals of some sort were recorded on robot coms in two different line camps out in the Peaks. A cross check gives us a Blue landing point.”
“And your local climate would mean death to any survivors out there without adequate supplies or transportation at this season,” Widders continued. “I want you to guide me in—to get my son out—”
If he was on that LB and is still alive, Hosteen added silently. But he made his oral reply as plain as he could.
“You are asking the impossible, Gentle Homo. To go into the Blue at this time is simply suicide, and there is no possible way of getting behind the Peaks during the Big Dry.”
“Natives live there all year around, don’t they?” Widders’ voice scaled up a note or two.
“Yes, the Norbies live there. But their knowledge of the country is not shared with us.”
“You can hire native guides, anything you need. There is no limit on funds—”
“Credits can’t buy water knowledge from a Norbie. And there is also this—right now the tribes are making medicine in the Peak country. We would not be able to ride in under those conditions even in the Wet Time when all the odds are in our favor.”
“I’ve heard about that,” Kelson said. “It has to be looked into—”
“Not by me!” Hosteen shook his head. “There’s trouble shaping up back there. I’m down here partly to report it and to try and hire riders to replace our Norbies. Every native has pulled out of the Peak country during the past week—every one—”
Kelson did not appear surprised. “So we heard. And they are moving northeast.”
“Into the Blue.” Hosteen digested that.
“Just so. You were a short way into that country when you discovered that Xik nest. And Logan—he’s hunted along there. You’re the only two settlers who have any ground-level information we can use,” Kelson added.
“No.” Hosteen tried to make that negative sound final. “I’m not completely crazy. Sorry, Gentle Homo, the Blue is closed country—in more ways than one.”
Widders’ eyes were no longer bleak. There was a spark of anger in their gray depths. “If I refuse to accept that?”
Hosteen slipped a credit disk into the table slot. “That is your privilege, Gentle Homo, and none of my business. See you later, Kelson.” He rose and walked away from Widders and his problems. He had his own to deal with now.
CHAPTER THREE
T
hat’s it—” For some reason Storm could not sit still but strode up and down the length of the big main room of the holding while he gave the results of his mission to Galwadi. “I hired just one rider, and I had to bail him out of Confinement—”
“What had he done?” Brad Quade asked.
“Tried to wipe off the pavement of a street, using the aeropilot of the Valodian minister for a mop. The minister was rather upset about it—his protests got Havers twenty days or forty credits. He’d lost his last credit at Star and Comet, so he was sweating out the twenty days. Had served three of them when I paid his fine. He seems to know his business, though.”
“And you saw Kelson?”
“Kelson saw me. He’s blown all his rockets and is spinning in for a big smash if you ask me.” Unconsciously Storm dropped into the old service slang.
There was a soft growl from the shadows, where Surra picked up his mood of irritation and faint apprehension, translating it into her own form of protest.
“What did he say?”
“He had an inner-planet civ in tow. They wanted a guide into the Blue—right now!”
“What?” Quade’s incredulity was as great as Hosteen’s own had been back in Galwadi.
Swiftly he outlined Widders’ story.
“That could all be true, though why he’s so sure his son was on board that LB—wish-thinking, I suppose.” Quade shook his head. “A Norbie might just make it. Only you’re not going to find a Norbie who will try, now now. On the other hand—” Quade’s voice trailed off. He was sitting quietly at his file desk, two of Hing’s kits curled up in his lap, a third cuddled down on his shoulder. Now he looked to the map on the wall. “On the other hand, that might be just the direction in which we should do some prospecting.”
“Why?”
“Dort Lancin made a swing up the valley in his ’copter. He spotted two clans on the march, and they weren’t just shifting camp. They were moving with a purpose—so fast they had left a stray mare—”
Storm stopped pacing, eying his stepfather with startled interest. For a Norbie to abandon a horse under any circumstances, except to save life, was so unheard of as to join in magnitude Widders’ desire to enter the Blue.
“Heading northeast?” He was not the least surprised to be answered by a nod.
“I can’t understand it. That’s worse than Nitra country—that’s where they eat THE MEAT.” He made the Arzoran sign for the cannibal tribes. “No Shosonna or Warpt or Fanga would head in that direction. He’d be ritually unclean for years—”
“Just so. But that’s where they’re going—not raiding parties but the clans, with their women and children. So I agree this much with Kelson—we ought to know what is going on back there. But how any of us could get in—that is a different matter.”
Storm went to the map. “ ’Copter would crack up if those wind currents are all they’re reported to be.”
“They are, all right,” Quade returned with grim emphasis. “You might—with a crack pilot—do some exploring along the fringe under the right conditions and weather. But you couldn’t m
ake any long survey flight into that region. Any exploring party would have to go on horses or afoot.”
“The Norbies do have wells—”
“Which are clan secrets and not shared with us.”
Storm was still tracing the lines of the mountains on the mural map. “Did Logan ever learn any well calls?”
Though the human voice box could not duplicate Norbie speech, nor a Norbie produce anything like a Galactic basic word, there was a rarer form of communication that some of the Arzor-born settlers—those initiated deeply enough into native ways—could understand, even if they could not imitate it themselves. Long, lilting calls, which were almost like songs, were a known code. These were used by native scouts as warnings or reports, and it was common knowledge among the riders that some were used only to signal the appearance or disappearance of water.
“He might have.”
“You’re sure he is riding with Krotag?”
“He wouldn’t be allowed to join any other clan.”
The meercats awoke, squeaked. Again Surra growled, alert to the tension behind that quiet answer. Then the big cat padded soft-footed to the door.
“Someone’s coming—” Storm stated the obvious. Surra was familiar with every living thing at the holding, human, animal, Norbie. She was waiting now for a stranger.
The dune cat’s phenomenal hearing and her better than human nose had heralded the newcomers long before they reached the door, where Quade now stood in the cool gloom of very early morning to welcome them. A path of light from the window picked out the green tunic of a Peace Officer, and a moment later the visitor’s hail came in Kelson’s voice.
“Hallo—the holding!”
“The fire is waiting!” Brad Quade called back the customary answer.
Storm was not in the least surprised to see that Kelson’s companion was Widders, who, in his finicky civ dress, looked even more out of place in the comfortable but rather rough-hewn main chamber. Its chief decorations were trophies of Norbie weapons on the walls, its heavy furnishings were made out of native wood by settler hands, and a few off-world mementos of Brad Quade’s roving past as an officer of Survey were scattered around.
Widders crossed the threshold with an authoritative stride and then halted quickly as he fronted Surra. The big cat regarded him with a long, wide-eyed stare. Storm knew that she had not only imprinted the civ’s appearance on her memory for all time but had also made up her mind concerning him, and that her opinion was not in any way flattering to the off-world Gentle Homo. Majestically, she moved to the far side of the room and leaped to the low couch, which was her own particular seat. But she did not curl up at ease; instead she sat upright, the nervous tip of her fluffy fox tail just brushing her foretoes, her vulpine ears at attention.
Storm busied himself at the heating unit to produce the inevitable cups of swankee. His early tension was increased now. Kelson had brought Widders here. That meant that neither the off-worlder nor the officer had given up the wild scheme about the Blue, but Quade’s word would carry weight. Hosteen did not believe that the others were going to be satisfied with the outcome of the interview.
“Glad you came,” Quade said to Kelson. “We’ve a problem here—”
“I have a problem, Gentle Homo,” Widders cut in. “I understand you have a son who knows the outback regions very well, has hunted over them. I’d like to see him—as soon as possible—”
Quade’s face showed no signs of a frown, but just as Hosteen knew Surra’s emotions, he was aware of the flick of temper that brash beginning aroused in Brad Quade.
“I have two sons,” the settler replied deliberately, “both of whom can claim a rather extensive knowledge of the Peaks. Hosteen has already told me of your wish to enter the Blue.”
“And he has refused to try it.” Widders was smoldering under his shell. He was not a man used to, or able to accept, opposition.
“If he had agreed, he would need remedial attention from a conditioner,” Quade returned dryly. “Kelson, you know the utter folly of such a plan.”
The Peace Officer was staring into the container of swankee he held. “Yes, I know all the risks, Brad. But we have to get in there—it’s imperative! And chiefs such as Krotag will accept a mission like this as an excuse—they can understand a father in search of his son.”
So that was it—a big piece of puzzle slipped neatly into place. Hosteen began to realize that Kelson was making sense after all. There was a reason for exploring the Blue, an imperative reason. And Widders’ quest would be understandable to the Norbies, among whom family and clan ties were close. A father in search of his missing son—yes, that could be a talking point, which normally would gain Widders native guides, mounts, maybe even the use of some of the hidden water sources. But the important word in that was “normally.” This was not a normal Big Dry, and the clans were acting very abnormally.
“Logan has blood drink-brothers or a brother with Krotag’s clan, hasn’t he?” Kelson pushed on. “And you”—he looked to Hosteen—“are a hunt and war companion of Gorgol.”
“Gorgol’s gone.”
“And so has Logan,” Quade added. “He rode off five days ago to join Krotag’s drift—”
“Into the Blue!” Kelson exclaimed.
“I don’t know.”
“The Zamle clan were in the First Finger.” Kelson put down his drink and went to the wall map. “They were in camp here last time I checked.” He stabbed a forefinger on one of the long, narrow canyons striking up into the Peaks, almost a roadway into the Blue.
Storm moved uneasily, picked up a wandering meercat kit, and held it cupped against his chest, where it patted him with small forepaws and chittered drowsily. Logan had gone with the clan. The reasons for doing it might matter, but the fact that he had gone mattered more. The boy might be condemned by his own recklessness, facing more than just the perils of the Big Dry.
Continuing to stare at the map without really seeing its configurations, Hosteen began to plan. Rain—no, he could not ride Rain. The stallion was an off-world import without even one year’s seasoning here. He’d need native-bred mounts—two at least, though four would be better. A man had to keep changing horses in the Big Dry. He’d need two pack animals per man for water transport. Other supplies would necessarily be concentrates that did not satisfy a body used to normal food but which provided the necessary energy to keep men going for days.
Surra? Hosteen’s head turned ever so slightly; he linked to the cat in mental contact. Yes—Surra. There was an answering thrust of eagerness that met his wordless question. Surra—Baku—Hing had her maternal duties here, and there would be no need for her particular talents as a saboteur. With Baku and Surra, maybe no chance became a small chance. Their senses, so much keener than any human’s or Norbie’s, might locate those needful wells in the outback.
Now Quade broke the short silence with a question, deferring to his stepson with the respect for the other’s training and ability he had always shown. “A chance?”
“I don’t know—” Storm refused to be hurried. “Seasoned mounts, concentrates, water transport—”
“Supplies can be flown in by ’copter!” Widders pounced at the hint of possible victory.
“You’ll have to have an experienced pilot, a fine machine, and even then you dare not go too far into those heights,” Quade declared. “The air currents are crazy back there—”
“Dumps stationed along the line of march.” Kelson’s voice held a note almost as eager as Widders’. “We could plant those by ’copter—water, supplies—all the way through the foothills.”
The idea became less impossible as each man visualized the possibilities of using off-world transportation in part. Yes, supply dumps could nurse an expedition along to the last barrier walling off the Blue, providing there was no hostile reaction from the Norbies. But beyond that barrier, much would depend upon the nature of the territory the heights guarded.
“How soon can you start?” Widders
demanded. “I can have supplies, an expert pilot, a ’copter ready to go in a day.”
Again the antagonism Hosteen had felt at their first meeting awoke in the younger man.
“I have not yet decided whether I shall go,” he replied coldly. “ ’Asizi,” he said, giving Quade the title of Navajo chieftainship and slipping into the common tongue of the Amerindian Tribal Council, “do you think this thing can be done?”
“With the favor of the Above Ones and the fortune of good medicine, there is a chance of success for a warrior. That is my true word—over the pipe,” Quade answered in the same language.
“There is this.” In basic, Storm again addressed both Widders and Kelson. “Let it be understood that I am undertaking this expecting trouble. On the trail, the decision is mine when there comes a time to say go forward or retreat.”
Widders frowned and plucked at a pouted lower lip with thumb and forefinger. “You mean, you are to be in absolute command—to have all the right of judgment?”
“That is correct. It is my life I risk, and those of my team. Long ago I learned the folly of charging against too high odds. The decisions must be mine.”
A hot glance from those coals that lay banked behind Widders’ eyes told him of the civ’s resentment.
“How many men do you want?” Kelson asked. “I can spare you two, maybe three from the Corps.”
Storm shook his head. “Me alone, with Surra and Baku. I shall strike up the First Finger and try to locate Krotag’s clan. With Logan—and Gorgol, if I am able to persuade him to join us—there will be enough. A small party, traveling light, that is the only way.”
“But I am going!” Widders flared.
Hosteen answered that crisply. “You are off-world, not only off-world but not even trail-trained. I go my way or not at all!”
For a second or so it seemed that Widders would hold stubbornly to his determination to make one of the party. Then he shrugged when glances at Kelson and Quade told him they believed Hosteen was right.
“Well—how soon?”
“I must select range stock, make other preparations—two days—”
