Pallahaxi

by Michael G. Coney

  Squint munched winternuts, eyes wide.

  “What about smuggling?” Wolff broke in abruptly. “Have you come across much smuggling in your time, Silverjack?”

  A wiggle appeared in our otherwise straight wake astern and I wondered if Wolff noticed it. He couldn’t know of Silverjack’s involvement with the Golden Grummet, surely.

  “Smuggling?” I could see alarm in the small eyes under the hairy brows. “Smuggling? Yes, I’ve heard tell of smuggling.”

  “Well, tell me who hasn’t,” trilled Ribbon. I regarded her sourly. It was difficult to imagine her as I’d last seen her: dirty and ragged, crawling through a sewer. She sat beside Wolff but rarely looked at him; in fact she rarely looked at anyone, seeming content to regard the sea and smile secretly to herself from time to time at her personal, mature deliberations. I preferred her as she had been: objectionably domineering but at least genuine.

  We had rounded Finger Point and the stark black cliffs were falling away to the flatter land of the estuary, where the new cannery was. The waves were higher and the launch bounced noticeably as it puffed along. We were trailing two lines but had not caught any fish.

  “Well?” said Wolff into the hiatus.

  Silverjack launched into a long and complex yarn the moral of which was that smuggling didn’t pay—particularly in times of war. As he approached the conclusion, great hairy paw waving before him indicating the wrong-doers swinging from the scaffold, his voice shook with emotion and the whole performance took on the atmosphere of repentance, of a confessional. He finished, his fictional wife sobbing into her handkerchief while the lorin carted his autobiographical hero off to the burial grounds. He kept glancing at me as though for reassurance that he was putting on a good show. I felt hot and uncomfortable, wondering how much he knew I knew—and if he knew I wouldn’t tell anyone. Then he rose to his feet and excused himself, asking that I take the helm; he needed a rest. He eased himself down the steps into the tiny cabin and shut the hatch behind him, leaving the rest of us looking uneasily at one another. It seemed we had upset the captain.

  Then we ran into a shoal of fish and for a while there was intense activity as the other three wound the lines in, detached the fish in a flapping spray of blood and scales, threw the lines out and instantly had to repeat the performance. I noticed that Ribbon, in the excitement of the moment, dropped her poised act and worked away eagerly with Wolff and Squint, hands crimson and dripping. I struggled to concentrate on my steering, a little annoyed that they seemed to be having all the fun. A small steam dinghy lay in our path; I could see no sign of its crew and at first thought it was drifting aimlessly, but as we approached I saw a fishing rod projecting over the gunwale.

  We were quite close to the estuary and the new cannery. Although the cliffs were not so lofty and precipitous as those back at Finger Point, there was still a fair jumble of rocks and boulders at the water’s edge where the waves churned into white foam. It again seemed to me that the steam dinghy was drifting in that direction and I surmised that its occupant had fallen asleep. I blew a few short blasts on the hooter.

  Ribbon paused from wrestling a fish off the hook. “Da you have to play around like a kid?”

  I indicated the dinghy, now about twenty paces away. Fishing forgotten, they stood and regarded the drifting craft. We slowed down as I throttled back. We could see a man lying on his back on the bottomboards, head pillowed on his hands.

  “He’s had a heart attack,” guessed Squint. “He was fishing and he hooked a big one and the excitement was too much for him, and he dropped down dead.”

  “Shut up, Squint,” commanded Ribbon. “Make yourself useful. Go and fetch Silverjack.”

  “Pull alongside,” said Wolff, just as I was pulling alongside.

  Squint climbed from the cabin, looking pink and a little scared. “I can’t wake Silverjack,” he said. “He smells funny.”

  It was quite unreal, the manner in which responsibility had been thrust upon us. A moment ago we had been fishing happily; now, without warning, we had two bodies on our hands. I remember wondering wildly if it was putrefaction that Squint could smell in the cabin. The pressure gauge on the boiler had fallen and I was not sure what to do about it. The other boat was bumping against us and Wolff and Ribbon were looking to me for orders, having conveniently chosen this moment to disclaim command. The water was choppy and the cliffs looked close. The wind was freshening, swinging us around.

  “I feel sick,” said Squint.

  “Ribbon,” I said decisively, “you go and try to wake Silverjack. Squint, get over to the leeward side. Wolff, get the boat-hook and poke that man with it.” As they leaped to obey, I realized the advantages of responsibility. Once he has given his orders, the man in charge is free to relax. I sat down and allowed events to take their course.

  Squint vomited over the side. Ribbon glanced at him briefly, then stared belligerently at me. “Wake Silverjack yourself. That cabin’s no place for a woman.”

  Meanwhile Wolff had seized the boathook and, over-balancing slightly as the launch rolled with the swell, drove the pointed end into the stranger’s ribs.

  Any doubts we had as to the health of the man were resolved as he screamed in agony, scrambled to his feet clutching at his side, then cut loose with a tirade of abuse which stopped as abruptly as it began. Suddenly everyone was silent, everyone stared wide-eyed as the boats bumped together.

  We watched as the stranger took up his fishing rod and reeled it swiftly in with strange, spatulate fingers. Moving economically he checked his gauges, seated himself at the helm and thrust the throttle forward. He didn’t look in our direction again. The engine puffed rapidly and water boiled around the stern. Gathering way smoothly, the steam dinghy accelerated on a wide curve and headed towards the mouth of the estuary.

  We looked at each other and I know that we were all frightened. For a while nobody spoke, then at last Wolff voiced our thoughts as he said almost meditatively:

  “Odd that he should have spoken in the Astan dialect.”

  Squint was more forthright. “He was a spy,” he said decisively. “A dirty Astan spy.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “After him!” urged young Squint as I fingered the throttle irresolutely.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Wolff.

  The dinghy was receding rapidly and was clearly a speedier vessel than Silverjack’s fishing launch. There was undeniably a temptation to set off at once in pursuit, but it seemed to me that such a policy would be shortsighted. You don’t pursue anyone unless you intend to catch him—and I didn’t relish the idea of catching an Astan spy, desperate and maybe armed. “Let him go,” I said. “We’ll report him later.”

  “Let him go?” said Wolff incredulously. “What sort of patriot are you, Alika-Drove? The least we can do is to investigate. Catch the man up and confront him, then if he’s on the level there’s no harm done.”

  “I didn’t see you doing much confronting a moment ago!”

  “It was an awkward situation, Alika-Drove. You can’t confront a man you’ve just stabbed in the ribs. Besides, we were all taken by surprise. You don’t expect to meet an Astan spy face to face in these waters.”

  “Hurry, hurry!” yelled Squint, capering about and rocking the boat dangerously. “The freezer’s escaping!”

  “Go and see what Silverjack says, Wolff,” I suggested desperately.

  He disappeared into the cabin and Squint continued to leap and shout. Ribbon was watching me speculatively. I knew she was going to tell me I was scared, so I busied myself loading dried bark and small logs into the tiny furnace. The fire had burned low, which explained the drop in boiler pressure.

  Wolff was standing over me. “Silverjack’s drunk,” he said. He seemed quite matter-of-fact about it. “He’s in no shape to make any decisions.”

  I straightened up, surveying the ocean. The only vessel in sight belonged to the receding spy. Midsummer is always a q
uiet time at sea; the deep-hulled vessels are being laid up and die water is not yet suitable for skimmers. “We must take the boat back to Pallahaxi, then,” I said.

  “Since when did you become captain, Alika-Drove?”

  “If you remember, Silverjack handed me the helm before he went below.”

  “You’re wasting time! You’re wasting time!” Squint was beside himself.

  “Right, all of you.” Wolff addressed Ribbon and Squint. “Who’s in favour of following the spy?”

  “Me! Me!” shouted Squint. Ribbon nodded poisedly.

  “I have a majority,” observed Wolff with satisfaction. “Move over, Alika-Drove. I’m relieving you of your command.”

  “That’s mutiny!”

  He seized my arm, dragging my hand away from the throttle—symbol of my authority. I put up a token struggle but was very conscious of the fact that they were all against me. Shrugging, I left the cockpit, edged around the cabin and made my way to the fordeck to sulk. I sat down and watched the shore, thankful that the cabin roof concealed me from my conquerors. I hated them quietly and intensely; Wolff with his supercilious manner, Ribbon with her domineering personality. Rax, I thought, they deserve each other.

  The boat trembled beneath me as Wolff urged the engine to full speed. I looked ahead to see the steam dinghy passing between the low headlands of the estuary; it seemed to have reduced speed. I heard Squint’s excited voice. The spy was heading inland and I wondered just where he was making for. Whatever his reasons for being in Erton waters, he must have a base to operate from; that tiny dinghy would never survive in the open sea. There must be traitors in the area.

  Soon our quarry disappeared from sight among the fishing boats moored in the estuary. I wondered how the cannery would obtain its supplies when the grume came; with the fall in water level the estuary would be navigable only to the smallest skimmers. On the headlands stood square buildings; at the time I thought they were merely lookout posts guarding against a surprise attack on the cannery.

  Suddenly thick columns of smoke rose rapidly from each lookout post and after a moment the pounding of powerful engines was borne across the water, audible even above our own puttering unit. We were almost between the headlands; men stood looking down at us and gesticulating. They wanted us to stop. I jumped to my feet and made my way aft; I had no confidence in the boat’s new commander.

  On stepping down into the cockpit I found a situation of total anarchy. Squint, his small face set in determined lines, was clinging on to the throttle which he had thrust full ahead, while Wolff struggled to detach his hand and steer at the same time. Ribbon was shouting at her brother but this only served to reinforce the youngster’s determination to push on at all costs.

  “I tell you they want to stop, Squint! Let go, freeze you. You’ll have us into the rocks!”

  It was none of my business. If they wanted to wreck the boat that was their concern, not mine. I was about to sit down when I saw Squint’s eyes widen in sudden fear. His mouth dropped open as he jerked the throttle Sack frantically. As the engine slowed I looked forward.

  Something was rising from the water ahead of us, something huge and black, dripping and weed-festooned. In the first terror-stricken moment I thought only of Silverjack’s eerie yarns of unknown waters and the strange creatures that dwelt there. Before us reared Ragina, queen of the ice-devils and legendary lover of the dead planet Rax. It did not occur to me to wonder why so regal a monster should trouble herself with four kids in a boat. The thing before us became a swaying tentacle, barring our course.

  The boat heeled violently as Wolff put the helm down. As we stumbled about the cockpit, off balance, the spell was broken. We were running parallel to a thick, rusty cable from which vertical chains dangled into the water, all slung between the two buildings on the headlands and obviously designed to protect the estuary and consequently the cannery from alien invaders. Yet they had let the other boat in…The columns of smoke were emitted by steam winches which, on the approach of a strange boat, hoisted the apparatus from the bottom of the sea.

  “Somebody’s coming,” said Squint nervously.

  A fast launch swept out from a wharf below one of the headlands. As Wolff swung the boat around and headed back for the open sea I saw men grouped on the foredeck, working at a large and complex piece of machinery. Suddenly they were enveloped in a white cloud and I heard a curious noise; a hissing thud. Water suddenly fountained up a few paces off our bows.

  “That’s a steam gun!” grunted Wolff in alarm. “Rax…we’ll have to stop.” He throttled back and we pitched gently on the waves while the gunboat drew rapidly nearer. His face was flushed and his fear changed quickly to temper. “What right do they have to fire on us, that’s what I’d like to know! This is Erto! Have they taken leave of their senses? I shall speak to my father about this!”

  “You do that, Wolff,” I said sarcastically. “Meanwhile, talk us out of this. You know as well as I do that the cannery is a restricted area. That gunboat thinks we’re Astans!”

  He gave me a venomous look which turned to an ingratiating smile as the gunboat drew alongside. I noticed that Squint, Ribbon and I had automatically crowded to the forward end of the cockpit leaving Wolff alone in the stern, holding the incriminating helm.

  “It’s only a bunch of kids,” I heard someone shout, then the boat rocked as a man jumped aboard. He wore the dark-blue uniform of the Erton navy and he stood in the centre of the cockpit, dominating us. “All right,” he said. “Whose boat is this?”

  “It belongs to Pallahaxi-Silverjack,” said Wolff eagerly. “He’s drunk in the cabin and we had to take over. We were coming to you for help.”

  There was a brief struggle around the cabin door as the naval man, who didn’t believe in wasting words, thrust us aside and climbed down into the cabin to check Wolff’s story out. Squint was staring at Wolff accusingly.

  “What about the spy?” he whispered loudly. “You didn’t tell him about the spy!”

  “Shut up!” Wolff hissed back. “We can’t change our story now, and it’s better this way. They’d never believe a spy, but at least we can prove that Silverjack’s drunk.”

  The man emerged from the cabin, wiping his hands fastidiously on a piece of cloth. “Yes,” he said. “Are you aware that the estuary is a restricted area for the duration of the war? We have more important things to do than playing nursemaid to a crowd of stupid kids. You realize you might have been killed, going in under our guns like that? And suppose you’d run into the boom?”

  “Yes, but we thought it would be all right,” babbled Wolff, demoralized by the naval officer’s manner.

  Personally, I was not demoralized. I was infuriated; the man was just the supercilious type of freezer I seemed to be meeting too often, the type who—like Wolff himself—assumes that all but he are fools. He had boarded the boat without permission and now he saw fit to lecture us. Through a red curtain of rage I found I was speaking.

  “We wouldn’t have been killed because your captain would have the sense to make sure of his facts before sinking us—even if you wouldn’t. The same goes for any guns on the headlands. And I’m quite sure the winches are started up at the first sight of approach, so any fool has time to avoid the boom. And if you don’t agree with me, then the proof’s right here under your freezing nose. We’re still alive. We were never in danger.”

  The officer was watching me coldly, tall and indomitable, and suddenly I knew that was a pose too, that the man was beaten—that all he had left was his age and his uniform. Underneath he was merely an intelligent life form; like myself, but inferior.

  Wolff grabbed himself a ride on my rising morale. “And I think I ought to tell you that my friend’s father holds a very important position at the cannery. His name is Alika-Burt.”

  Freeze you, Wolff, freeze you, I thought. Can’t you understand that I don’t need my father? I don’t want my father?

  “Is that so?
” The man was still looking at me.

  I believe that there is a point in our lives when our characters crystallize like an ice-devil; when, after all the uncertainties, the external influences, the subjection and irresponsibility of childhood, a person will decide: that is the way I am going. I have seen it all, I have listened to the views of my parents and teachers, and although I concede that there are facts I do not yet know, nevertheless my character is now so formed that I will not be thrown by new facts. They will increase my knowledge of the world but they will not change my attitude to that world or my conception of my own role in that world. At last I know enough of other people to know when I am right.

  Thus I did not deny the fact that my father had influence in the cannery, because to do so would be to display a childish obstinacy, a lack of appreciation that a man must use the weapons he has. In front of me stood a tall man in uniform, symbolic of adulthood, symbolic of authority—and he had to be beaten. And when I had beaten him, then I would have rid myself of the smothering burden which had hampered the development of my personality since the cradle.