The Ardath Mayhar MEGAPACK®

by John Maclay

  A period of two years was little enough time to try and observe a whole planet, geophysically, climatically, ecologi­cally. When you added a factor like the almost year-round enmity of the two dominant races, who could only be ob­served during the yearly hunting truce, you doubled the difficulty.

  The car buzzed swiftly and quietly onward, its cameras noiselessly recording everything within eye-range, its beeper keeping the Station constantly informed of its position. Crossing a broad area of stunted tree-like growth, they en­tered another of the great savannahs, cruising low, in order to check the vegetation closely.

  To one side of the savannah, there was a group of natives, busy at skinning and carving up a zdin. Immediately in front of the observation car, a small group of Cagodot hovered over one of their brethren, who was lying on the grass, cov­ered with his own purplish blood.

  Miss Pirtle-Smith’s nose wrinkled with distaste, but she nodded with brisk satisfaction. Gambel, sensing an oppor­tunity for contact, eased the car to a landing. “If you get out of this car, I’ll wring your neck,” he said to his passenger who, for once, believed him.

  Reaching into a compartment, he took out his emergen­cy medical kit. Securing the door behind him, he walked toward the Cagodot, holding his arms out from his sides and trying to look friendly. The Cagodot perceived his approach with astonishment. mingled with alarm. They drew into a tight circle about their injured brother, but made no motion to throw their light spears.

  Gambel walked slowly and steadily, making no sudden motions, until he was within a few feet of the nearest war­rior. Consulting his memory, he located therein the proper Cagodot greeting for two hours before noon on a warm but cloudy fall day. “Lodog wegota,” he said pleasantly.

  The Cagodot stirred as if a breeze had passed over them, but it was only their crest-plumes and arm-feathers stirring with surprise.

  Pleased with the result of his first use of the Cagodot tongue, he blessed his first officer, who was the semantics man and linguist. Trying to recall every intonation precisely as Burke had recorded, he essayed another comment. “Doti selo? Doti bodot? (Is he hurt? Is he suffering?)”

  The leader of the group spread his hands in the gesture of assent, his feathers rippling as he moved from his recumbent companion. At his gesture the others also moved, and Gam­bel knelt beside the injured native. Its light body scarcely crushed the grass it lay on, and its blue plumage was torn and splattered with blood.

  With gentle fingers, Gambel examined him for injury, but his body was unhurt. Evidently, the torn feathers had sustained the injury. Making a mental note to record the odd fact that the creatures’ plumage was supplied with blood vessels and nerve endings, he opened his kit and took out a jar of the soothing antibiotic which his biochemist had recommended for use on the natives, should the need arise.

  Anointing all the injured places he could find, he closed the jar and stood up, observing his patient closely. The Cagodot had closed its great purplish eyes at his ap­proach, but now it opened them and gazed up at him. Moving its head, then its arms, it gestured to its compan­ions, who helped it to its feet. Though its feathers were rumpled and stained, the salve had evidently eased its pain considerably. It laid its hand to its cheek, in the gesture of gratitude, and Gambel spread his hands, regretting his lack of feathers to give the gesture true elegance. Gathering up his kit, he handed the jar of ointment to the leader of the group, who also indicated gratitude.

  His return to the car was observed with acute interest by the Cagodot. His passenger, though, was unimpressed. He was greeted by a contemptuous sniff and cold silence. He was grateful for the silence.

  Completing the last leg of their observation pattern, Gambel pressed the homing button, and the little car made a neat ninety-degree turn and moved off toward the Station, still continuing its low-level camera work.

  Landing in the tightly fenced enclosure which encir­cled the Station and the ship, they were met by Rolf Burke, the aforementioned first officer, who helped Gambel to unload the film packs from the cameras.

  “What happened to the Great Stone Face?” he inquir­ed, nodding at Miss Pirtle-Smith’s retreating figure. “She looked like fury, when she passed me.”

  “Tried to make me stop a hunt,” grunted the Observer . “Fool woman’s going to get someone killed, if she doesn’t learn some sense.”

  Burke grinned, but suppressed his mirth quickly. He had a mental picture of the event, which, if not entirely accurate, was true enough to the characters involved to be amusing.

  Gambel looked up, as he finished reloading the last camera and caught the last remnant of a grin, as it slid off Burke’s face. “Glad you can find it amusing,” he remarked. “She tickles me about as much as a spear in the gut.... A Blgat spear,” he added thoughtfully.

  “Come on and have a cup of coffee. Mardi’s almost through in the lab, and the rest of them are waiting for lunch. It’s zdin steak,” he added, glancing sidewise at his superior. “The last batch of warriors that came by left us a haunch, in return for some salt and a carton of chocolate bars.”

  Gambel stopped in his tracks and raised his face prayer­fully. A wide grin became a subdued rumble of laughter. He stood there laughing for a few seconds, then said to Burke, “Don’t tell her! Don’t anyone tell her—until after lunch.” He choked again, but waved his hand commandingly in the direction of the mess hall, and Burke, understanding immed­iately, went quickly ahead to warn the rest of the Terrans not to spoil the joke.

  Gambel went to his quarters and cleaned up, then, sur­prisingly easy at heart, headed for the mess hall. Miss Pirtle­-Smith reached the tent at the same time, and he stood po­litely aside to allow her to enter.

  Mardi Lindsay, the biochemist, had finished her morn­ing’s work in the laboratory and sat, dark eyes alert, beside Burke, whose solemn face hid the spark of mischief in his eyes. Jan Huffstedt, ecologist and zoologist, had placed his square form at the far end of the table, and his pale eyes surveyed the newcomers with angelic innocence.

  “Come in,” he wheezed, “and sit down. You seem to have had a long morning of it. But we have a good lunch for you, eh, Prue?” And he turned to their tall brown geo­physicist, Prue Lynes, who smiled easily back. “I didn’t scorch the steak, if that’s what you mean,” she answered. “Fall to, people.”

  And they did.

  When they had finished eating, they settled back in their chairs for their customary recapitulation of the morning. As they had expected, Miss Pirtle-Smith’s was the first voice heard.

  “I must ask to enter a protest in the report,” she said icily. “You people try to frustrate every effort I make on behalf of the animals here. This morning Mr. Gambel refused—utterly refused—to prevent the slaughter of a boar-ox. I was forced to sit there....”—Her voice broke—“...and watch its death.”

  Gambel’s grey eyes lost their devilish twinkle. With a regretful shrug he shook his head slightly at Burke, and that young officer gave a sigh and turned to speak to Mardi Lindsay, who had missed none of the byplay.

  Gambel, meanwhile, had pulled his chair close to that of Miss Pirtle-Smith.

  “You may enter whatever you wish in the report,” he said gently. “That is your right, just as it is my right to en­ter my reasons for refusing to help you this morning. I think we haven’t made our purpose clear to you, Miss Pirtle-Smith. We are not here to alter anything. The Interga­lactic Service has no interest save one, and that is to find out all it can about the planets in every sector under their jurisdiction. They want to know which can be colonized and should be, which can be but shouldn’t, and which can’t be. They have no intention of disrupting the ways and lives of the native peoples they encounter during the pro­cess of observation. Surely you can see that we can’t go about trying to draft these beings into the Society for the Preservation of Alien Fauna, when their lives depend upon their success in hunting the very creatur
es you are trying to protect.”

  Huffstedt leaned across the table. “I think you can have no objection to the way we treat the beasts we examine in the lab, eh, Miss Smith? We are not heartless, I assure you, either in our work or privately.”

  But the light of compassion in the eyes of the two men was not mirrored in those of the thin woman. Uncompre­hending hostility wrapped her about, as she rose and said, “Don’t think to persuade me to alter my report, Gentlemen. I see through you quite well.”

  Prue Lynes grimaced as the door banged behind the wo­man. “You lost your laugh for nothing,” she said to Gambel, who shook his head slowly.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not sorry we let her go without teas­ing her. The poor woman’s really insane on the subject of animals, I think. I suppose she’s just the cross we’ll have to bear, until we get back to port. Try to bear her kindly! She seems so unhappy, poor soul.” He rose, handling his big body easily. “Your turn with the observation car, Prue. See if you can cover the pattern from a good height. I’m afraid your passenger will try to jump out and run to the rescue of any hunted animal you may see.”

  Prue chuckled wryly. “I’m quite likely to let her,” she teased. “If the Cagodot and the Blgat didn’t get her, the zdin would, and she’d be out of her misery—and our hair.”

  Nevertheless, as the car pulled out, Gambel was pleased to note that Prue was holding a good altitude, swinging into the pattern which she was assigned to search.

  The afternoon passed busily. Gambel’s daily report was ready for the final entries, when he leaned back and stretched luxuriously. Rubbing the back of his neck, he rose and stepped to the door, gazing into the purpling sky. A sharp exclamation from the radio shack drew his attention. Run­ning a brown hand through his cowlick, he ambled with deceptive speed over to the building and asked, “What now? Sugar beetles in the transistors?”

  “Look at the blip!” Rolf answered tersely.

  The speck of light which was the tell-tale of the air-car had veered sharply from the search pattern and was danc­ing wildly across the screen. Suddenly it halted, hesitated for several minutes, then turned and fled madly in the dir­ection of the home camp.

  “Uh, oh,” grunted Gambel. But his face was anxious, as the two men watched the car’s progress across the screen.

  * * * *

  Night was drawing in as the heavily laden warriors toiled through the tear-grass. Though the Cagodot had taken their fair half of the kill, there was still much meat for the Blgat to bear home to their village. Old Grkh, bringing up the rear, as was fitting, surveyed the dripping haunches and ribs with approval. The time of cold winds would find his folk well prepared this year. The head of the zdin, borne upon a litter before him, seemed to glare more savagely than in life, fixing the patriarch with a glazed and scornful eye.

  Annoyed, both by the beast’s dead gaze and by the buzzing of some strange insect close behind him, Grkh raised his spear and gave the severed head a great whack with the flat of the blade, then turned to lay low the daring gnat buzzing behind his ear.

  Much to his astonishment, an anguished shriek pierced his ear, and the huge and oddly shaped insect dropped a bundle, which turned into an angular creature with long arms. The creature bore down upon the dumbfounded Grkh and began to belabor him with a stick. Her insane frenzy enabled her to give him a puffed lip, a bruised eye, and several sore ribs, before he got his huge hands on her brittle arms. The warriors before him dropped their burdens and hurried back to their chief, but he had subdued the creature and was standing on her, as she was being tied.

  Ulh, the shaman of the tribe, raised his hands toward the setting sun. “This demon came from the sky and sought to injure Grkh. It is fitting that it should suffer the Torture.”

  A grunt of assent came from the assembled warriors, and Grkh nodded, prodding his prisoner with a great toe. At this instant, the insect, which had been hanging motionless, buzzed off at great speed across the savannah. The shaman made an excessively insulting sign, and the proces­sion got under way again, ignoring the dwindling speck in the sky.

  * * * *

  The air car rocketed into its berth, and the two officers dashed to meet it. They were met by a white and shaken Prue.

  “Oh, Dan!”

  Gambel nodded, patted the girl on the shoulder, and said, “Take it slow and easy, Prue. Let’s go into the mess hall and get some coffee, then you can tell us all about it.”

  Rolf Burke, who had been opening the passenger door of the air-car, in order to help Miss Pirtle-Smith to descend, gave a low whistle, as his efforts disclosed a cab which was entirely innocent of that lady’s presence. Gambel looked back over his shoulder and shook his head warningly. Burke nodded and followed them to the mess-hall.

  The others were already there, drawn by the sound of the air-ear’s landing. When Gambel, Prue, and Burke entered without Miss Pirtle-Smith, Huffstedt’s pale eyes widened and Mardi Lindsay opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it, but moved to pour coffee from the ever-ready pot.

  Prue took a long sip and sighed.

  “Can you tell us what happened now?” asked Gambel.

  “Yes, Dan, but it seems more like a fantastic dream than the real happening. We had almost completed the pattern and were entering the last leg, when that crazy woman saw a line of Blgat moving across the flat to our left. She wanted to see what they were doing. I hesitated at first, but I knew that it was too late in the day for them to be hunt­ing, and I thought no harm could come of going over to observe them.

  “I had the control lock on the passenger door, remember that, please. You had warned me, and I was careful to secure it the first thing. Well, we went in low enough to see details. They were evidently returning from a successful hunt, for they were loaded with fresh meat. At the tail of the proces­sion, a huge warrior was swaggering along behind the group that carried the zdin’s head.

  “There were some odd air currents along there, and I was pretty busy holding the car steady and keeping a little altitude, but I was still watching them as well as I could. Anyway, the big bruiser suddenly banged the zdin’s head across the snout with his spear. That woman gave a screech like a wounded toucan and wrenched the door open with her bare hands. She did.” Prue repeated, to their incredu­lous stares. “Just examine that door, if you don’t believe me. It was built for keeping things out, not for keeping people in. Anyway, she bailed out of the car and went for that tough old warrior with a stick. She gave him a rough couple of seconds, too, before he got hold of her. I was sort of proud of her, in a way.” She laughed, but sobered quickly.

  “I just hung there. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out anything to do for her, so I let the cameras get everything they could pick up, then I scatted for home.” The girl picked up her cup with a hand that was slightly unsteady.

  Burke was on his feet at once. “I’ll get those film packs.”

  Mardi and Prue went to their quarters, leaving Gambel and Huffstedt at the table, staring silently into cups of cool­ing coffee, while the red sun went down in unobserved glo­ry. .

  “Will they kill her, Dan?” Huffstedt’s voice was oddly hopeful.

  “It’s likely,” Gambel grunted. “Probably with frills; from what the Cagodot say, I gather that they have a pretty gory record for torturing their captives.” He drained his cof­fee cup and stood up.

  “We’re pretty well stymied, Jan. We can’t go in there and take her out. Those Blgat don’t put up with such things. We’d have to kill about half of them. Which is utterly against everything we and the Service stand for. Oh, hell! I’ve known from the beginning that Pirtle-Smith....”—He grimaced at the taste of the name—“...was going to foul us up, somehow, be­fore she got through. Let’s go look at the films. Maybe they’ll give us an idea of some sort.”

  The two men met Rolf at the door of the projection room, and they soon had the
record of the trip unreeling before them. Their amazing cameras had tremendous range and versatility. Color was true to the nth degree. Sound was imprinted in the tape, along with long and short-range detail which was considerably more complete than the hu­man eye can encompass.

  The file of warriors stood before them, in all but living flesh. The direction finder, in the upper left corner of each frame, gave an accurate fix on their destination, as well as their position at the time. The camera moved closer, as the air-car drew near and hovered. Old Grkh showed up brightly, with his brilliant coat of hair still dappled with dried blood. The head of the boar-ox gazed ferociously, and it was easy to see why, in a moment or two, the old warrior should give it a blow on the snout. At that moment, the action grew blurred, as the air-car swung with the movements of its departing passenger. Then it steadied to show their animal lover charging down upon the astonished Grkh. His bellows of rage, as she caught him across the face with her flailing stick, nearly deafened the watchers. The words of the sha­man were clearly audible, though their meaning would have to be deciphered later. As the car moved away, Rolf switch­ed off the projector and turned up the lights.

  “The old girl did sort of go at the thing like a heroine, didn’t she?” he asked.

  Huffstedt grinned. “Notwithstanding the fact that she has us squarely in an impossible position, I must admit that, given her peculiar set of ideals, she acted heroically to up­hold them.”

  “It’s much easier to admire her, when the Blgat have to put up with her,” said Gambel, dourly. “Come on, boys, and get to work. Rolf, find out what the old witch doctor was saying, while Jan and I service the ground car. I don’t know what earthly good we can do, but we’ll get as close as we can to their village and then play it by ear.”

  * * * *