Merrily whistling a tune which had enjoyed tiresome popularity at the time of his operation, Mark’s springy tread carried him momentarily closer to disaster in one of its milder forms.
He was wondering if it might not be a good idea to climb one of the higher trees and get a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding country. For all he knew his path might lead him endlessly through the woods, while a short distance to the right or left might lie the edge of the forest. He was on the point of climbing a likely looking tree when he was startled by a raucous yell and the sudden appearance of a score of half-naked, black-bearded men. Most of them were brandishing crude spears, but some of them were armed with knobby clubs.
With a draw which would have done credit to Wild Bill Hickok, Mark snapped his pistol into action.
The nearest of the attackers let fly with his spear just as the automatic left its holster. Mark dodged and fired. The savage collapsed like a puppet when the strings are dropped. But in the next instant Mark was felled by a club which struck him behind the knees. Firing wildly, he hit two others before being pinned helpless beneath the weight of a half-dozen vile-smelling bodies. He struggled for a moment, but he stopped when he found he wasn’t getting anywhere.
THE leader, an unkempt hulk of a man, placed the point of his stone-tipped spear at Mark’s throat and jabbered to the others to release him and form a circle about him. Lying flat, with the spear-point teasing his Adam’s apple, and a dozen more aimed in his general direction, Mark decided that he was outnumbered. The savages evidently didn’t intend to kill him, or they certainly would have done it by this time. That being the case, he might as well wait for a more auspicious moment to get away. The little gun in his pocket, with its load of several hundred poisoned needles, would take care of this nicely — if they failed to search him.
When the leader saw that his captive was going to be philosophic about the matter, he withdrew his weapon and motioned Mark to get up. The pack drew closer to inspect the specimen they had bagged, but the leader growled something and they stepped back, muttering in protest.
A series of moans and groans from a point outside the circle gave evidence that one of the victims of the pistol was still alive, but the savages paid no heed to their disabled comrade.
The leader’s eye was caught by the shiny, stainless steel axe, and he yanked it from its strap, hefted it, and placed it in the band at the top of the short skirtlike garment which was his only attire.
Mark submitted with the mental reservation that when the time came he would take it back with interest — in the form of a piece of the thief’s hide.
The gun had disappeared. Mark remembered it had been knocked from his hand when the pack had jumped him, but it didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight now. He supposed one of his attackers had purloined it before the chief had had a chance to see it. He piously hoped the unwashed devil would shoot himself with it.
The leader grunted a series of commands to his crew and they prepared to march off through the forest in a direction to the left of Mark’s former course. Mark gave a relieved sigh as he realized that they weren’t going to search him, and his tiny gun was safe.
He decided that his captors were unfamiliar with any wearing apparel more complicated than the crude loincloths they wore themselves. It was unlikely that they would think of the possibility that clothes might conceal weapons.
Two of the savages walked behind him, prodding his spine with their spears; while the rest of them gathered in front and on either side.
The leader looked at the two motionless figures of the men killed by Mark’s bullets, saw they were dead, and turned to the wounded man. The man stopped his groaning and looked up with eyes filled with a sort of fearful pleading. The leader prodded him with a foot and grunted a command. The wounded one lifted a hand and answered in a whine. The chiefs next act was to skewer the man neatly with his spear. He roughly withdrew it and ordered the party on its way, ignoring the final thrashings of the victim of his cold brutality.
Chapter 4: The Lady in the Cage
SEETHING inwardly, but unable to do anything about it, Mark trudged along to the accompaniment of an occasional prod from the spearmen behind him. They seemed to be having a lot of good, innocent fun, but fortunately their spear-tips were not very sharp and the jabs were seldom delivered with sufficient force to pierce the skin. Mark gave no sign that he so much as felt them — he remembered his James Fennimore Cooper and the savage’s reputed admiration for stoicism — but this failed to deter the torturers in the least.
They were evidently carrying on just for their own amusement and didn’t seem to care how Mark felt about it, one way or the other. As a matter of fact, the pain wasn’t so great and after a while he found it possible to ignore it completely and think of other things.
There was, of course, the language to consider. What he had heard of it seemed to consist of a series of guttural, grunting sounds, wholly unlike anything in his experience. Certainly it was not any dialect of English, Spanish or French.
Of course there were some pretty primitive Indian tongues, but these lads were certainly not Indians, even if they obviously were savages. They were altogether too hairy. They looked more like gorillas, he noticed, except that a gorilla wasn’t so ugly.
No, they certainly weren’t Indians; so they must be some kind of reverted white men; and their language, therefore, must be the degenerate remnant of some white man’s tongue. Possibly even English.
This was disheartening, since it plainly indicated that he had been in the tomb for a lot more than a mere hundred years or so. And if one group of humans had chased themselves back to the Stone Age, all mankind might very well be at the same level. Little Mark, he thought glumly, and His Time Machine. Little Mark and The Shape, for Pete’s sake, of Things to Come...
Their weapons, he saw, were even more primitive than those of the most backward peoples of his own time. Stone-tipped spears and rough-hewn clubs. No metal — not even bows and arrows. The Australian bushmen had been better equipped. They at least had the boomerang, which was a pretty scientific instrument; and they were accepted as the most primitive of the earth’s dwellers. Well, it seemed they had lost their claim to distinction. Meet the new champs.
This thought, and a few others that suddenly popped into his head, provided him with something that in a sufficiently murky atmosphere might pass for a purpose in life. This was how he looked at it. First: that at the end of any war or other catastrophe which might disrupt civilization, certain groups — aggregating millions of people, perhaps — would survive, separated from each other by distances not easily spanned, due to failure of ordinary means of transportation and communication. These groups would be faced with a flock of problems incident to continued survival. Some sort of government would be needed; food supplies must be provided, and clothing and housing against the inevitable approach of winter.
Each group would have so many things to do — things of immediate importance to its own continued existence — that no time could be wasted trying to contact the others. Another deterrent to communication would be the fact that in each community the leader, or clique of leaders, would be too jealous of the power gained to risk it by inviting overtures from other groups. This had happened after the fall of the Roman Empire and had very likely, happened again.
Each of these groups would thrive in a manner dependent upon the facilities at its disposal, the leadership available and the type of people to compose it. These factors would vary to a great degree in different groups, and in some cases civilization would not lose much, while in others retrogression would take place immediately and speedily. Mark was of the opinion that he had fallen into the hands of one of the latter, one which had slipped about as far as man could slip.
His hope was that somewhere there was a people who retained the culture which this bunch had lost, and he intended to start searching for them as soon as he made his escape.
The second thought that cheered him was that
even if the first thought was wrong and the world was completely populated with people like the ones he was mixed up with now, he would at least have a lot of fun looking for the other kind, even if they didn’t exist. For Mark had always found the hunt more exciting than the kill.
THEY eventually emerged from the forest and started across a broad plain. The destination of his captors was now in sight, a mile or two from the edge of the wood. Here lay a scattered group of mud huts, baking in the heat of the midday sun. There were about a hundred of them, a disordered cluster of decidedly unwholesome appearance.
Mark decided immediately that his visit was going to be of very short duration. As they drew closer, a vagrant breeze carried to them a tasty bouquet of decayed garbage and close-packed humanity.
The proddings of the two at Mark’s back became more insistent, and he obligingly increased his pace. The whole pack seemed anxious to arrive home as soon as possible to show him off. A clamor arose from the huddle of dwellings — Mark could not bring himself to think of them as houses — and a straggling crowd hurried to meet the conquering heroes. From that point on, Mark’s escort closed its ranks, completely blocking him. They seemed suddenly intent on shielding him from the curious gaze of the horde.
At least that is the way he interpreted their action, and he didn’t like it a bit. Not that he particularly wished to be admired, but when one considers that his captors had probably not had one bath between them in all their odorous lives, it is understandable that he preferred them not to crowd so close. As a matter of fact, he had guessed wrongly as to the meaning of their maneuver. They were merely protecting him from the exuberant spirits of the good villagers, who probably would have torn every piece of clothing from him and perhaps a bit of flesh as well.
In a few minutes Mark found himself thrust through the gate of a circular enclosure of ten-foot pikes, set a few inches apart, and secured from further separation by strands of tough vines. The gate was slammed shut and fastened by a simple latch which he could have opened by simply reaching hand through the pikes, except that a guard was stationed to see that he didn’t.
For a few minutes the hut-dwellers fought with the guard to open the gate and get in, but seeing that he had the situation well in hand they eventually desisted. This conclusion wasn’t reached, however, until several victims of the guard’s club lay unconscious on the ground. Paying no attention to these casualties, the crowd proceeded to relieve its high spirits by throwing garbage, stones and clods of dirt at the captive.
They soon tired, however, for the pikes were set too close together to make this sport worthwhile. A good proportion of the stones thrown bounced back and hit others in the crowd, which started a few minor riots, much to Mark’s savage delight. Mark was really surprised at the amount of venom these brutes uncovered in him.
He gave so much attention to the crowd that it wasn’t until it had quieted down that he noticed there was another tiny enclosure, similar to his own, just a few paces to the left.
His audience was milling about so much that it was some time before he was able to see whether or not it was occupied. None of the quaint villagers were molesting the other corral and for that reason he supposed it was empty. Of course, it might also be that the enclosure had an occupant who had been there for so long that he had lost popular appeal. His fickle public had deserted him in favor of a newer attraction — Mark — who was thinking he should have been in vaudeville.
FINALLY the crowd parted and he obtained an unobstructed view of the other pen. For a second he caught his breath, speechless. There was an occupant, all right, and it wasn’t a man. His fellow prisoner, as far as he could see through the close-set pikes, was a woman, and a decidedly lovely one at that.
It might be mentioned at this point that Mark had never been anything that could be thought of as a ladies’ man. And since his last brush with a member of the opposite sex, in the course of which he had been both annoyed and thoroughly disillusioned, he had been exceptionally wary and distrustful of all womankind. So when he saw this lovely creature regarding him steadily with one clear, brown eye — the other being behind a pike — there was a long, breathless instant in which he could do no more than stare dumbly back at her. It was during this endless instant that one of the fun-loving citizens managed to toss a clod of earth through the bars with commendable aim. The missile landed athwart Mark’s nearer ear, sprinkling clumps of dirt inside his shirt.
“Lovely people,” he finally remarked, wondering if the vision would grunt in reply. He wanted to tell her swiftly not to reply. Gibberish from those lips would have been sacrilege.
“Yes, aren’t they?” she returned, in accents clear and unmistakably English. “You should feel honored. They’ve deserted me completely.”
“Oh!” blurted Mark, “I didn’t expect you to speak English.”
The lady straightened up, indignantly. “You didn’t think I might be one of those?” She inquired haughtily.
Mark glanced confusedly at some of the unclad slatterns who made up a good proportion of the crowd which was now listening open-mouthed to the conversation of the prisoners.
“No, no,” he hastened to assure her. “It’s just that I’ve been asleep for a few thousand years, and I didn’t think the language had survived that long.”
She looked at him quizzically for a minute before replying. “You have been asleep for a few thousand years,” she repeated. “How interesting. I hope I’m not intruding.”
With this observation the young lady turned her back and gazed absorbedly through the opposite side of her prison. She quite evidently regarded Mark as being an unmitigated liar slightly on the boorish side. Ordinarily Mark would have been glad to see the end of the conversation, even on that basis, but this time he chose to deceive himself with the thought that here was his only chance to learn something about this new world, and therefore he must convince her that he was all right.
“Please forget I said that,” he begged. “It’s perfectly true but we’ll drop it if it bothers you. I hope I’m not stealing your thunder.”
She turned around. “You certainly are,” she said. “Although when I was captured this morning, most of the creatures were out in the fields. But those who were home managed to make quite a turnout. Look at me, would you?”
MARK would, gladly. The girl’s clothing covered slightly less than one-fifth of her well-formed anatomy, and consisted mainly of an abbreviated pair of shorts, and something eye-fillingly narrow that seemed to be a cross between a shirt and a brassiere. It covered her shoulders and had sleeves three inches in length which made it resemble a coat — but it fell justifiably short of concealing the lower ribs. The material was satinlike.
Mark gaped as the girl showed him those portions of her skin which had been bruised, soiled, and otherwise damaged by the missiles of the savages. His best offering in sympathy was a dry clucking of his tongue.
“Of course,” the girl remarked, “these brutes probably do that to make their victims more tender.”
“Tender?”
“Yes. I suppose they will give you another treatment. You will probably be too tough to suit them.”
Mark was silent for a minute trying to figure out this last. “I’m a bit dense,” he admitted, “but do I gather that these people intend to eat us?”
The girl looked surprised. “Of course,” she answered. “Didn’t you know? They always eat captives. It’s part of their charm.”
Mark suddenly felt weak in the knees. This was more than he had bargained for. Something would have to be done, he decided, and groped for the needle-gun inside his jacket pocket.
“You don’t seem very concerned,” he observed.
“Oh, but I am,” she insisted. “I’m so scared I’m beginning to jell.”
“You don’t look it,” Mark accused.
“Naturally not. From childhood my people are trained to be stoical. You see, it frequently happens that one of us gets captured by these wandering tribes. And th
at nearly always means torture. A person who shows no fear or pain gives very little entertainment for the torturers. So they soon get tired and kill him, which is a boon for the captive.”
“You aren’t very fussy about boons, are you? Wouldn’t it be a lot more sense to build a wall around your city and thus prevent these captures?”
“Our city has a wall,” she returned. “But our farm and pasture lands are too big to go inside it. And the cannibals are too clever to attack an armed body of our citizens. They always pounce on just one or two and make off before a rescue can be attempted.”
Chapter 5: Dinner at Four
MARK was aware that as they talked the mob of savages gradually lost interest and drifted away. There were now only a few remaining. He suddenly realized that no more likely moment to escape was apt to turn up. His guard was absently scratching himself sleepily and watching two boys engaged in a wrestling match. The other guard was, just as sleepily, contemplating the beauties of his prisoner.
This effrontery, Mark decided, entitled him to be the first to sample a few of the needles. He put the idea promptly into action. He fired. The guard stiffened, looked startled, and crumpled to the ground. The girl, without so much as batting an eye, reached a hand through the pikes to unfasten the latch, while Mark turned and treated his own guard to a short burst from the gun.
This one stiffened also, but declined to fall. Instead he looked reproachfully at his attacker and calmly unlatched the gate.
The Best of Argosy #2 - Minions on the Moon Page 3
