by Andre Norton
“What’s all this about shielding?” Widders broke in.
Hosteen explained. If the ’copter was shielded so that the pilot dared to take off before dusk, then they could make one flight over the edge of the Blue at once, before the coming of any Norbies. Widders grabbed at the chance.
“We can lift now?” He rounded on Forgee, the pilot.
“We?” repeated Hosteen. “Do you propose to go also, Gentle Homo?”
“I do.” Again that adamant refusal to consider anything else expressed in every line of his face and body. Widders set the map broadcaster down on a supply box and advanced, to thrust a forefinger violently into the picture so that the shadow of his hand blotted out a fourth of the territory. “Right here—your officials have pinpointed the LB broadcast as best they could.”
Gorgol scrambled to his feet, his twittering squeaked high. Momentarily, the Norbie had foresaken finger speech to register angry protest in his native tongue. Then, as if he recollected the limitations of the off-worlders, he flexed his fingers before him and began a series of gestures so swift and intricate that Hosteen had difficulty in reading them.
“This off-world man wishes to go there? But that is not for strangers—it is medicine—the medicine of those who eat THE MEAT—This cannot be done!”
“What does he say?” Widders demanded.
“That that is cannibal territory and dangerous—” But Hosteen was certain Gorgol feared more than cannibals.
“We knew all that before we came.” Widders was contemptuous. “Does he think his cannibals can bring a ’copter down by bows and arrows?”
Forgee stirred. “Look here, Gentle Homo, this Blue is tricky. Air currents in there have never been charted. And what we do know about them is enough to make a man think twice about trying to get very far in.”
“We have every safety device built into that flyer that human ingenuity can or has devised,” Widders flared, “including quite a few that never reached this back-water world before. Come—let’s take off and see for ourselves what this Blue is like.”
Kavok half crouched by the doorway. His knife was out and ready in his hand, his enmity so openly displayed that Hosteen was startled.
“What—?” The Terran’s hand sign was addressed to Gorgol, and the Norbie replied, less swiftly, with the attitude of one pushed into a corner.
“Medicine—big medicine. The off-worlder cannot go there. If he tries, he will die.”
“That answers it.” For the first time Logan entered the conversation. “Gorgol says that is medicine country—you can’t fly over it now.”
Widders’ contempt was plain as he raked Logan from head to foot in one long stare of measurement and dismissal, assessing the other’s Norbie dress and rating him low because of wearing it. Under that stare Logan flushed angrily, but when he moved, it was to stand beside Kavok by the door, his hand hovering over the butt of his stunner.
“That is true.” Hosteen spoke carefully, his position now, he thought, that of a very thin and breakable wall between two male yoris at mating season. “There is no arguing with ‘medicine.’ If the Norbies have declared that country out of bounds for such a reason, we are stopped.”
He had never underrated Widders’ determination and self-confidence, he had only underrated the man’s recourse to action. Widders did not go for his stunner, a move that would have alerted them. Instead he snapped a small pellet to the floor of the tent at a point midway between Hosteen and Gorgol and the two now guarding the door. A flash of light answered—then nothing, nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
C
alling District Station Peaks—come in—D.S. Peaks—come in!”
There was a frantic note in that repetition that reached Hosteen through the fog in his head. He was also aware of moisture on his cheek and the rasp of a rough tongue. He opened his eyes to discover Surra crouched over him, striving to bring him back to consciousness by her own method.
Gorgol and Kavok sat on the floor, their elbows propped on their bent knees, each with his head between his hands. Beyond them, Logan was up on a swing seat pulled out from the table, one hand to his head, the other holding the call mike of a com to his lips as he got out, between gasping breaths not far removed from moans, his air appeal—
“D.S. Peaks—come in! Come in!”
As Hosteen squirmed up to a sitting position, a red-hot lance of pain cut through his head just behind his eyeballs. And every movement, no matter how cautious, brought on another throb of that agony. He had been stun-rayed once, but this was worse than the after effects of a blasting from that most common of stellar weapons. To get to his feet was an action beyond his powers of endurance, but he managed to slide across to the table edge, to look up at Logan.
“What—are—you—doing?” The shaping of words brought on further pain, and he wondered at Logan’s persistence in trying to use the com.
His half-brother glanced down, eyes wide and painfilled in a face that was a mirror for the punishment he was taking.
“Widders took off—in ’copter—trouble—” Logan’s hand dropped from his head and gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles stood out as pale knobs.
Hosteen remembered and began to think again with some measure of clarity. Widders had knocked them all out with an off-world gadget, then had taken off in the ’copter, flying straight for the forbidden territory. The Norbies could and probably would be affronted enough by the invasion of their medicine country to retaliate. And settlers such as Dumaroy would return any attack from the natives without trying to negotiate. A fire might have been kindled here and now that would sear this whole world as fatally as Terra had been scorched by the Xik blast.
The Terran hitched away from the table, biting his lip against the torture inside his skull, managing to reach Gorgol. The Norbie’s eyelids were tightly closed; there was a thin beading of moisture along the hairless arch of his forehead. It was plain he was feeling all that Hosteen did, if not more, since one could not assess the reaction of alien physiology to an off-world weapon.
But there was no time to waste in useless sympathy. Hosteen touched the native’s forearm with all the gentleness he could muster. There was a whistle of sound from Gorgol. His eyes came open and moved in their sockets to focus on the Terran as if he dared not try to turn his head.
Somehow Hosteen balanced himself in that hunched position so that he could free his hands for talking.
“The off-worlder has gone. We must—”
He was not allowed to finish. Gorgol’s head thumped back against the wall of the tent. He gave a small, stifled trill, and then his fingers moved in answer:
“He has done evil—much evil—and we have allowed it. There will be a judging—”
“I have done evil.” Hosteen signed. “For it is I who listened to his story and brought him here—though I did not know he would come. You carry no blame in this matter—none of us knew that he would attack us to get his desire—”
“He flies the sky thing into the medicine country. Those-Who-Drum-Thunder, loose the lightning arrows, will be swelling in their wrath. This is not good—evil! Evil!” To finger signs Gorgol added a thin wailing of his own untranslatable vocal sounds.
Kavok’s eyes opened. He spat with much the same hissing hate as Surra mustered upon proper occasion. But before Gorgol could continue, they were interrupted by words—spoken in good Galactic basic—issuing from the mike Logan still held.
“TRI calling base camp—” There was a smug note in that voice that aroused Hosteen’s temper to the point of seething. “TRI calling base camp—”
He lurched across the space between wall and table, fighting off the sickness the pain of that effort cost him. Then he wrenched the mike away from Logan and leaned weakly against the table edge as he called:
“Widders!”
“So—you’ve come around!” The voice out of the air held a trace of amusement that did nothing to dampen the Terran’s temper.
&n
bsp; Hosteen fought for control, achieved enough to demand:
“Are you already into the Blue, Widders?”
“On our way right up to that check point. How’s your headache, Storm? Told you I was doing this myself—I know my business—”
“Widders—listen, man—turn back—turn back right now!” The Terran knew even as he made that plea he was urging uselessly. But in that ’copter was the pilot, and surely Forgee had been long enough on Arzor, had been well enough trained by Survey, to realize the danger of what they were doing. “Forgee—don’t be a fool! Get back in a hurry. You’re breaking ‘medicine’—not just of one clan, but of all the tribes! Turn back before they spot you. You can be planet-banned for a stunt like this—”
“My, Storm, that headache must be a bad one,” Widders began lightly. Then the steel ripped out of the sheath as he added: “These natives won’t even see us—I have a shield force up—and we are going in to the check point. Nobody—nobody, Storm—is telling me what I may or may not do when my son’s life may be at stake. We’ll keep you informed. TRI signing off—”
There was the click of a broken connection. Hosteen put down the mike. He looked at Logan, and the younger man’s face was drawn, sickly pallid under its weathering.
“He’s going right ahead—”
Gorgol was on his feet, standing unsteadily with one hand braced against the wall of the tent. With the other he signed:
“Krotag—we ride for Krotag—”
“No!” Hosteen answered and saw the stiffness in Gorgol’s expression. The Terran indicated the mike. “We call the Peace Officer. He will bring in the law—”
“Off-world law!” Gorgol’s whole body expressed his contempt.
Logan pushed away from the table and stood, weaving, yet free of support, using both hands. His Norbie dress did not look strange as he gestured, and the smooth flow of his signs was akin to the ceremonial speech of a chief meeting.
“Last wet season there was Hadzap, who came down into the herds of Quade, not asking for hunter’s rights—which those of Quade’s clan would have freely granted as is the custom. But he came in secret, without speech, and slew, taking only hides. And these he carried to the Port and would have sold to off-world men, asking for those things that he believed would make him greater in the clan. Was this not a shame upon all those of the Zamle totem? Yet did Quade’s clansmen come to take Hadzap for judging under off-world laws? No—not so. Quade sent me to Krotag to ask for speech between one clan chief and another as is rightful custom. And Krotag replied—let it be so—you, Kavok, riding with me to report to Quade as was right and proper, for we are both sons to chiefs.
“Then Quade came and Krotag, and they sat down together. Quade telling of what had been done. But when he had finished, he rode out to your camp leaving Hadzap to the justice of Krotag, nor did he afterwards inquire what punishment had been set—for this is as it should be when chief deals with chief. Is this not so?”
“That is so,” assented both Norbies.
“You may say now that this evil committed by an off-worlder is greater than the evil wrought by Hadzap. In that you are right. But do not think that we do not also consider it an evil. Did not this person of no totem strike us down also, for he knew that we would have prevented him by force from what he would do. And the Peace Officer will deal with him after our laws, even as Hadzap was dealt with by yours, for this is a grievous act and one that will harm both settlers and Norbies.”
“This is truth,” Gorgol agreed. “Yet Krotag must be told—for he gave you the right to ride here, and he, also, will be answerable to others for this evil act.”
“That is so,” Hosteen agreed. “Let one of you ride for Krotag, and we shall remain here, trying to call our Peace Officer through the air talker—”
“And you swear it on the blood that you will wait here?” Gorgol looked from Hosteen to Logan. “Yes, it is so, for you are not of those who give their word and then make nothing of it for reasons of their own. I ride—let Kavok stay—since other than Zamle men may come and he can talk under the truce pole should that be needful.”
They took alternate shifts at the com after Gorgol departed, trying to reach the Peaks office with their calls—but silence was their only answer. Nor did Hosteen’s periodic demands upon the ’copter bring any reply from Widders or Forgee. The Terran tried to deduce how far into the Blue the flyer could go before the two would have to return to escape the day heat—without much success.
“They could even set down somewhere in there and take cover,” Logan pointed out.
“Once a fool, always a fool—that’s what you think of the civ? That’s cannibal territory—he’s been warned—”
“Widders is the type who wouldn’t expect any danger from natives,” Logan retorted. “And he’s armed with about every possible defensive gadget he could find. I wouldn’t put it past him to have smuggled a blaster in on that ’copter! He’d believe he could stand off any Norbie attack.”
And Logan was entirely right. Widders would think himself invulnerable as a modern, civilized man coping with natives armed only with primitive weapons. But, as all civs from off-world, he would thereby seriously underestimate the Norbies if he relied on mechanics to defeat those who had mastered nature in the Arzoran outback.
“Sleeee—” The hissing whistle cut through the open door of the bubble tent and startled both men.
Hosteen went out. There had been no alert from Baku or Surra, which meant the newcomers must be known to both members of the team. But he was angry at himself for not having briefed both cat and bird to give warning of any arrival.
It was not until the riders filed out of shadows into the open floor of the canyon that Hosteen recognized Krotag heading a party of warriors. The Terran waited in the path of light from the doorway, not advancing to meet the chief when he dismounted. He must take his cue from Krotag. This was no time for excuses or explanations. The native leader must have had the story from Gorgol—and he must already have been on his way here or he would not have arrived so soon after the messenger left. What action he would take was his decision, and according to custom Hosteen must wait for the Norbie’s verdict.
The Terran stepped back as Krotag came up, allowing the chief to enter the tent, and then he gave way for a second tall figure.
Unlike the warriors, this native wore no arms belt or protective shield collar of yoris fangs. Instead, his bony frame was covered with a striking tunic fashioned of black-and-white feathers woven skillfully into a net foundation of frawn yarn. His horns were stained dead black, and each of his deep-set eyes were encircled by an inch-wide ring of black paint, which gave his face a skull-like aspect, daunting to the beholder. In addition to his feather tunic, he wore a short knee-length cloak, also a feathered net, but this of a brilliant yellow-green. And around his neck, on white cords, was slung a small black drum.
“I see you who wears the name of Krotag.” Hosteen signed formal salutation.
“I see you—stranger—”
Not a good beginning, but one he had to accept. Hosteen looked at the Drummer.
“I see also the one who can summon the bright sky arrows,” he continued. “And this one also wears a name?”
Silence, so complete that they could hear from outside the stir of a horse. Then the Drummer’s hands came out before him, palms up, while those black-ringed eyes caught and held Hosteen’s in a compelling stare.
Hardly aware of his action, the Terran raised his own hands, moved them out until palm met palm, and so they stood linked by the touch of flesh against flesh, Hosteen and the Norbie medicine man. Once before in his life the Amerindian had felt a power, not human and far beyond the control of any man, fill and move him. Then he had been swept up and used by that power to bring prisoners out of a Nitra camp. But at that time he had deliberately evoked the “medicine” of his own people. And now—
Words came out of him, words the Drummer could not understand—or could he?
&nbs
p; “I have a song—and an offering—
In the midst of Blue Thunder am I walking—
Now to the straight lightning would I go.
Along the trail that the Rainbow covers—
For to the Big Snake, and to the Blue Thunder
Have I made offering—
Around me falls the white rain,
And pleasant again will all become!”
Bits, fragments, dragged from the depths of memory by some power—perhaps borrowed from this Drummer. No true Song, just as Hosteen was no true Singer, yet those words stirred the power where it lay coiled deep in his body—or his mind.
Hosteen blinked. The maze of colors that had rippled before his eyes was gone. He fronted an alien face with round skull-set eyes. Only for a moment was there a flicker in those eyes, a belief or an emotion or a thought that matched what Hosteen felt. Then it was gone, and Hosteen was only a Terran settler fitting his hands to those of a Norbie medicine man. The hands drew away from his.
“This one wears the name of Ukurti. You are one who can also summon clouds—younger brother.”
“Not so.” Hosteen disclaimed any wizard powers. “But on my world, and long ago, my grandfather was such a one. Perhaps he laid upon me something of his own at his passing—”
Ukurti nodded. “That is as it should be, for it is a burden laid upon us who have the strength to pass it to those who can bear it well in their own time. Now there are other matters—this one who has taken the airways into the medicine country rashly and against the laws of your people and mine. This, too, is a part of your burden, younger brother.”
Hosteen bowed his head. “This burden do I accept, for it is partly by my doing that he came into this country, and his rashness and evil are as mine.”
“That one has gone in—he will not return.” Krotag’s gestures were emphatic, but he eyed Hosteen with a mixtures of wonder and exasperation.
