by Andre Norton
The Stars Are Ours!
( Astra - 1 )
Andre Norton
The Stars are Ours! is a 1954 science fiction novel describes the first interstellar voyage, undertaken to escape the tyranny that rules the Earth. This is the first novel in the Astra duology.
Followed by Star Born.
Andre Norton
THE STARS ARE OURS!
Book One
TERRA
PROLOGUE
(Excerpt from the Encyclopedia Galactica)
THE FIRST GALACTIC exploratory and colonization flight came as a direct outgrowth of a peculiar sociological-political situation on the planet Terra. As a result of a series of wars between nationalistic divisions atomic power was discovered. Afraid of the demon they had so loosed the nations then engaged in so-called “cold wars” during which all countries raced to outbuild each other in the stock piling of new and more drastic weapons and the mobilization of manpower into the ancient “armies.”
Scientific training became valued only for the aid it could render in helping to arm and fit a nation for war. For some time scientists and techneers of all classes were kept in a form of peonage by “security” regulations. But a unification of scientists fostered in a secret underground movement resulted in the formation of “Free Scientist” teams, groups of experts and specialists who sold their services to both private industry and governments as research workers. Since they gave no attention to the racial, political, or religious antecedents of their members, they became truly inter-national and planet—, instead of nation—, minded—a situation both hated and feared by their employers.
Under the stimulus of Free Scientist encouragement man achieved interplanetary flight. Terra was the third in a series of nine planets revolving about the sun, Sol I. It possessed one satellite, Luna.
Exploration ships made landings on Luna, and the two neighboring planets, Mars and Venus. None of these worlds were suitable for human colonization without vast expenditure, and they offered little or no return for such effort. Consequently, after the first flurry of interest, space flight died down, and there were few visitors to the other worlds, except for the purpose of research.
Three “space stations” had been constructed to serve Terra as artificial satellites. These were used for refueling interplanetary ships and astronomical and meteorological observation. One of these provided the weapon the nationalists had been searching for in their war against the “Free Scientists.”
The station was invaded and occupied by a party of unidentified armed men (later studies suggest that these men were mercenaries in the pay of nationalist forces). And this group, either by ignorant chance or with deliberate purpose, turned certain installations in the station into weapons for an attack upon Terra.
There are indications that they themselves had no idea of the power they unleashed, and that it was at once beyond their control. As a result the major portion of the thickly populated sections of the planet were completely devastated and no one was ever able to reckon the loss of life.
Among those who were the sole survivors of an entire family group was Arturo Renzi. Renzi, a man of unusual magnetic personality, was a believer in narrow and fanatical nationalist doctrines. Because of his personal loss he began to preach the evil of science (with propaganda that the Free Scientists themselves had turned the station against the earth that had apparently been carefully prepared even before the act) and the necessity for man to return to the simple life on the soil to save himself and Terra.
To a people already in psychic shock from the enormity of the disaster, Renzi appeared the great leader they needed and his party came into power around the world. But, fanatic and narrow as he was, his voiced policies were still too liberal for some of his supporters.
Renzi’s assassination, an act committed by a. man arbitrarily identified as an outlawed Free Scientist, touched off the terrible purge which lasted three days. At the end of which time the few scientists and techneers still alive had been driven into hiding, to be hunted down one by one through the following years as chance or man betrayed them.
Saxon Bort, a lieutenant of Renzi’s, assumed command of the leader’s forces and organized the tight dictatorship of the Company of Pax.
Learning, unless one was a privileged “Peaceman,” became suspect. Society was formed into three classes—the nobility as represented by the Peacemen of various grades, the peasantry on the land, and the work-slaves-descendants of suspected scientists or techneers.
With the stranglehold of Pax firmly established on Terra, old prejudices against different racial and religious origins again developed. All research, invention, and study was proscribed and the planet was fast slipping into an age of total darkness and retreat. Yet it was at this moment in her history that the first galactic flight was made.
SEE ALSO:
Astra: First Colony
Free Scientists
Renzi, Arturo
Terra: Space Flight
1: THE ROUNDUP
DARD NORDIS PAUSED beneath the low-hanging branches of a pine, sheltered for the moment from the worst of the cutting wind. The western sky was striped with color, dusky purple, gold, red almost as sultry as if this were August instead of late November. But for all their splendor the colors were as bleakly chill as the wind whipping his too—thin body through the sleazy rags of clothing.
He shrugged his shoulders, trying to settle more evenly the bundle of firewood which bowed him into an old man. There came a tug at the hide thong serving him as a belt. “Dard—there’s an animal watching—over there—”
He stiffened. To Dessie, with her odd kinship for all furred creatures, every animal was a friend. She might now be speaking of a squirrel or a wolf! He looked down to the smaller, ragged figure beside him and moistened suddenly dry lips.
“Is it a big one?” he asked.
Hands, which wrappings of sackcloth made into shapeless paws, projected to measure off slightly more than a foot of air.
“’So big. I think it’s a fox—it must be cold. Could we— could we take it home?” Those eyes, which seemed to fill about a quarter of the grimy little face turned up to his, were wistful as well as filled with a too-old patience.
He shook his head. “Foxes have thick fur skins—they’re warmer than we are, honey. He probably has a home and is going there now. Think you can pull the wood all the way down to the path?”
Her mouth twisted in an indignant pout. “’Course. I’m not a baby any more. It’s awfully cold, though, isn’t it, Dardie? Wish it were summer again.”
She gave a quick jerk on a piece of hide and brought into grudging motion the flat piece of battered wood which served as a sled. It was piled high with branches and a few pieces of shredded bark. Not much of a haul today, even combining Dessie’s bits and patches with his own load. But since their axe had vanished it was the best they could do.
He followed the little girl down the slope, retracing the tracks they had made two hours before. There was a frown drawing deep lines between his black brows. That axe—it hadn’t just been mislaid—it had been stolen. By whom? By someone who knew just what its loss would mean, who wanted to cripple them. And that would be Hew Folley. But Hew had not been near the farm for weeks—or had he—secretly?
If he could only get Lars to see that Folley was a danger. Folley was a landsman which made him a fanatic servant of Pax. The once independent farmers had always believed in peace—true peace, not the iron stagnation imposed by Pax—and they had early been won over as firm followers of Renzi. When their sturdy independence had been entirely swallowed up by the strangle controls of those who had assumed command after the death of the Prophet, some had rebelled—too late. Landsmen were now
as proud of their lack of education as they were retentive of the few favors allowed them. And it was from their ranks the hated Peace-men were recruited.
Folley was a fervid follower of Pax and for a long time he had wanted to add the few poor Nordis acres to his own holding. If he ever came to suspect their descent—that they were of Free Scientist blood! If he ever guessed what Lars was doing even now!
“Dardie, why must we run?”
Dard caught his breath in a half sob and slowed. That prick of frantic panic which had sent him plunging down to the main trail still goaded him. It was always this way when he was away from the farm even for an hour or two. Each time he feared to return to… Resolutely he closed his mind to the picture his imagination was only too ready to supply him. He forced his lips into a set half-smile for Dessie’s sake.
“Going to be dark early tonight, Dessie. See those big clouds?”
“Snow, Dardie?”
“Probably. We’ll be glad to have this wood.”
“I hope that the fox gets home to his den before the snow comes. He will, won’t he?”
“Of course he will. We’d better, too. Let’s try to run, Dessie—here along the trail—”
She regarded doubtfully the almost shapeless blobs of wrappings which concealed her feet. “My feet don’t run very well, Dardie. Too many coverings on them, maybe. And they’re cold now—”
Not frostbite—not frostbite! he prayed. They had been lucky so far. Of course they were always cold, and very often hungry. But they had had no accidents, nor serious illnesses.
“Run!” he commanded sharply, and Dessie’s short-legged shuffle became a trot.
But, when they reached the screen of second-growth brush at the end of the north field, she halted in obedience to old orders. Dard shrugged off the bundle of firewood and dropped to his hands and knees, crawling forward under cover until he could look down across the broken field-stone wall to the house.
Carefully he examined the sweep of snow about the half-ruined dwelling. There were the tracks he and Dessie had made about the yard. But the smooth expanse of white between house and main road was unbroken. There had been no invaders since they had left. Thankfully, though without any lessening of his habitual apprehension, he went back to gather up the wood.
“All right?” Dessie shifted impatiently from one cold foot to the other.
“All right.”
She jerked the sled into motion and plodded on along the wall where the snow had not drifted. There was a faint gleam of light in one of the windows below. Lars must be in the kitchen. Minutes later they stamped off snow and went in.
Lars Nordis raised his head as his daughter and then his brother entered. His smile of welcome was hardly more than a stretch of parchment skin over thrusting bones and Dard’s secret fear deepened as he studied Lars anxiously. They were always hungry, hut tonight Lars had the appearance of a man in the last stages of starvation.
“Good haul?” he asked Dard as the boy began to shed his first layer of the sacking which served him as a coat.
“Good as we could do without the axe. Dessie got a lot of pine cones.”
Lars swung around to his daughter who had squatted down before the small fire on the hearth where she began to methodically unwind the strips of burlap which were her mittens.
“Now that was lucky! Did you see anything interesting, Dessie?” He spoke to her as he might have addressed an adult.
“Just a fox.” she reported gravely. “It was watching us— from under a tree. It looked cold—but Dardie said it had a home—”
“So it did, honey,” Lars assured her. “A little cave or a hollow tree.”
“I wish I could have brought it home. It would be nice to have a fox or a squirrel—or something—to live with us.” She stretched her small, grime-encrusted, chapped hands out to the fire.
“Maybe someday…” Lars’ voice trailed oil He stared across Dessie’s head at the scanty flames.
Dard hung up the cobbled mass of tatters which was his outdoor coat and went to the cupboard. He lifted down an unwholesome block of salted meat as his brother spoke again.
“How are supplies?”
Dard tensed. There was more to that question than was merely routine. He surveyed the pitiful array on the shelves jealously.
“How much?” he asked, unable to keep out of his voice the almost despairing resentment he felt.
“Maybe enough for two days—if you can put up such a packet.”
Swiftly Dard’s eyes measured and portioned. “If it is really necessary—” he couldn’t stop that half-protest. This systematic robbing of their own, too scanty hoard—for what? If Lars would only explain! But he knew Lars’ answer to that, too: The less one knew, the better, these days. Even in a family that could be so. All right, he’d make up that packet of food and leave it here on the table and in the morning it would he gone—given to someone be didn’t know and would never see. And within a week, or maybe a month it would happen again…
“Tonight?” He asked only that as he sawed away at the wood-like meat.
“I don’t know.”
And at the tone of his brother’s answer Dard dropped the dull knife to turn and watch Lars’ face. There was a new light in the man’s eyes, a brightness about him that his younger brother had never seen since Dessie’s mother had died two years before.
“You’ve finished,” Dard said slowly, hardly daring tobelieve what might be true, that they might be free!
“I’ve finished. They’ll pass the word and then we’ll be sent for.”
“’Honey,” Dard called to Dessie, “bring in the pine cones. We’ll have a big fire tonight.”
As she scampered toward the shed Dard spoke over her head.
“There’s a heavy snow on the way, Lars.”
“So?” the man at the table did not appear worried.
“Well, snow’s never stopped them from coming before.” He was relaxed, at peace.
Dard was silent but his eyes flickered beyond Lars’ shoulder to the objects leaning against the wall. They were never mentioned, those crutches. But in deep snow! Lars never went outside in winter, he couldn’t! How could they get away unless the mysterious others had a horse or horses. But perhaps they did. That was always his greatest fault—worrying over the future-borrowing trouble ahead, as if they didn’t have enough already to go around!
Dessie was back to feed the fire slowly one cone at a time. Dard scraped the meat slivers into the iron pot and added a shriveled potato carefully diced. Then he grew reckless and wrenched off the lid of a can to pour its treasured contents to thicken the water. If they were going away they’d need feeding up to make the trip and there would be little sense in hoarding supplies they could not carry with them.
“Birthday?” Dessie watched this move in wide-eyed surprise. “But my birthday’s in the summer, and Daddy’s was last month, and yours,” she counted on her fingers, “is not for a long time yet, Dardie.”
“Not a birthday. Just a celebration. Get the spoon, Dessie, and stir this carefully.”
“’Celebration,” she considered the new word thoughtfully. “I like celebrations. You going to make tea, too, Dardie? Why, this is just like a birthday!”
Dard shook the dried leaves out on the palm of his hand Their aromatic fragrance reached him faintly.Mint, green and cool under the sun. He sensed that he was different from Lars—colors, scents, certain sounds meant more to him. Just as Dessie was different in her way-in her ability to make friends with birds and animals. He had seen her last summer, sitting perfectly still on the wall, two birds on her shoulders and a squirrel nuzzling her hand.
But Lars had gifts, too. Only he had been taught to use them. Dard shook the last crumbling leaf from his hand into the pot and wondered for the thousandth time what it would have been like to live in the old days when the Free Scientists had the right to teach and learn and experiment. It probably had been another kind of world altogether—the one which existed befo
re the Big Burning, before Renzi had preached the Great Peace.
All he could remember of his early childhood in those days was a vague happiness. The purge had come when he was eight and Lars twenty-five, and after that things simply got worse and worse. Of course, they’d been lucky to survive the purge at all belonging to a Scientific family. But their escape had left Lars a twisted cripple. He and Lars and Kathia had come here. But Kathia was different—she forgot everything, mercifully. And after Dessie had been born five months later it had been like caring for two babies at once. Kathia had been sweet and obedient and lovely, but she lived in her own dream world and neither of them had ever tried to bring her out of it. Seven, almost eight years now, they bad been here. But in all that time Dard had never quite dared to believe they were safe. He lived always on the ragged edge of fear. Maybe Kathia had been the luckiest one of all.
He took over the stirring of the stew and Dessie set the table, putting out the three wooden spoons, the battered crockery howl, the tin basin and the single chipped soup dish, the two tin cups and the graceful fluted china one which had been Dessie’s last birthday gift after he had found it hidden on a rafter out in the barn.
“Smells grand, Dard. You’re a good cook, son.” Lars offered praise.
Dessie bobbed her head in agreement until her two pencil-thick braids flopped up and down on shoulders where the blades, as she moved, took on the angular outlines of wings. “I like celebrations!” She announced. “Tonight may we play the word game?”
“We certainly shall!” Lars returned with emphatic promptness.
Dard did not pause in his stirring though he was alert to every inflection in Lars’ voice. Did he read a special significance into that last answer? Why did Lars want to play the word game? And why did he himself feel this aroused wariness—as if they were secure in a den while out in the dark danger prowled!
