“Well?” she asked with a hint of testiness.
“Well, this is a serious matter,” said Davis frantically. “You should think it over . . . look here . . . but—”
“But nothing!”Small calloused hands closed on his wrists.
Davis talked. And talked. And talked. He wasn’t sure what he said, but it included words like sanctity. At the end, sweating, he asked her if she understood at all.
“No,” she sighed. “But I imagine you know best.”
“I wonder—never mind! Of course I do.”
“There’ll be other times, darling. Whenever you want to fer—”
“Cut that out!” groaned Davis. “Give me a kiss and go to bed.”
She gave him a lengthy one. Then, rising: “There’s one thing, dearest. The others in our party—you know it could make trouble—don’t let’s let on to anyone. Don’t even talk to me about it unless I say the coast is clear.”
“All right. That does make sense. Run along, sweetheart.”
“Goodnight, Bertie. I care for you.”
“The word,” he said, “is ‘love.’ ”
“I love you, then.” She laughed, with a little sob, and sped off.
She ran like a deer, Davis thought. Evil, why couldn’t she be trained for spatial survey? Married teams were common enough.
The girl stumbled. She spread her hands, regained balance, and continued.
Davis felt the wind go out of him. There had been a scar on her left hand . . .
IX
Barbara woke up and wished she hadn’t. What had she been drinking?
She rolled over on her stomach and buried her face in her hands. Foggy recollections came back, yes, Val had helped her to bed and then she passed out . . . Davis making eyes at that Yvonne trollop—Father!
A young O’Brien entered with breakfast, which helped. Barbara tottered out into the open. It was a little past eclipse, and the islanders were going leisurely about their business. Prezden Yvonne ran warbling to greet her, received a bloodshot glare, and backed off. Barbara smoldered her way toward a fruit grove.
Valeria came into sight, wringing out her hair. “O, hello, little one,” she grinned. “I recommend a swim. The water’s fine.”
“What have you got to be so Father-damned happy about?” grouched Barbara.
Valeria did a few steps of die soldier’s ax dance. “Beautiful, beautiful day,” she caroled. “I love this place!”
“Then it’s too bad we’re getting the hell out of here.”
“Whatever for?”
“What reason is there to stay?” Barbara kicked miserably at the turf. “So Davis can make up to all the women in Lysum? I suppose he’s still sleeping it off.”
“Well, he did go to bed quite late, poor dear. But he just walked around, thinking.” Valeria flushed at Barbara’s look. “I couldn’t sleep—sat up watching.”
Quickly, she jumped after a red fruit and crunched it between small white teeth. “Look, Babs, we do need a rest. So do our orspers; there aren’t any here.”
“Don’t you know?” said Barbara. “One of those yuts told me yesterday. This river runs straight to the sea. They have boats here, we’ll take one and make the trip twice as fast. The Lysumites get to the Ship that way—buy passage from—”
“Oh, hell, Babs. Life’s too good to waste. I say let’s stay here a few more days, at least.” Valeria wandered off.
Barbara drifted glumly to the bridge. She didn’t like the idea. That Yvonne—ugh!
A swim did help. Seated again on the rocky bank, she found her head clear enough to hold the problem. Which was that she wanted Davis for herself.
Just what that would mean, she wasn’t sure, but the thought made her hot and cold by turns. She no longer doubted he was a Man, but it wasn’t just any Man, it was him. Hell fry her if she let anyone else get him!
Then the thing to do was sneak out tonight, find him and—It took more courage than facing a wounded stamper. But to know where she stood and what she meant to do about it was like a fresh cup of that wine drink. She put her kilt back on and returned almost merrily.
Davis was just emerging from his hut. He looked wretched. Barbara’s heart turned over with pity, she ran toward him calling his dear name and wondered why he jerked.
“Bert, what’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”
“No,” said Davis hollowly.
Valeria joined them, walking in a new undulant fashion. Was everybody falling sick? “Lemme out of here,” Davis muttered.
The musical winding of a horn interrupted them.
“Somebody’s coming,” said Barbara. “Over the bridge.”
“It may not mean anything,” said Valeria, “but let’s get out of the way, just in case. Better collect the Dyckman.”
Barbara nodded and ran off. Elinor, stretching herself langorously before a burly Holloway, found herself suddenly prodded up the slope at dagger point. Valeria and Davis joined them in a tanglewood stand on the rim. They stood peering through the leaves at a bustle down in the village, the Lysumites leaping to form ceremonial ranks.
“Father!” breathed Valeria. “It’s a legate—messenger from the Doctors!”
The awe of a lifetime rose within Barbara. She had rarely seen a legate; now and then one had come to Freetoon to discuss such matters as the payment of annual tribute.
This was a tall woman. She wore a travel-stained uniform: hooded blue cloak, trousers and boots under a white gown, heavy veil. She was mounted on an orsper and led remounts and a pack-bird. As she stepped to earth, Yvonne prostrated herself.
Valeria snapped her fingers. “Of course!” she said excitedly. “Messengers from Freetoon to the Ship . . . remember? The Doctors must have sent to every town to inquire—”
“Well,” said Davis. “Well, this is terrific! Our troubles are over, girls.”
The veiled woman entered a hut. Her baggage was brought in after her, then she was alone. A party of women ran up the slope, calling: “Man! Man, the legate wants to see you!”
Davis smiled importantly and led the way down. He seated himself on the dais, much to the shock of the crowded islanders—nobody sat in a Doctor’s presence!—and waited. Stillness lay thick.
When the legate finally emerged, Barbara’s knees bumped together.
The woman had changed into ceremonials: green robe, gloved hands holding a metal staff, a plumed mask in the shape of an orsper head covering her own and making it coldly unhuman.
Davis got up. “Hello, ma’m,” he smiled. There was no answer. He faltered. “I am the Man,” he stumbled. “You, uh, know about me?”
“Yes,” said the legate. She had a low voice and a stiff accent. “The Ship and all Atlantis have awaited the Men for three hundred years. How many of you are there?”
“Just me,” said Davis. “I need your help—the Doctors’ help. Otherwise,” he finished dramatically, “there won’t be any Men coming for a long time yet.”
The legate neither moved nor spoke. Davis looked disconcerted, but launched into his story. He warmed up to it as he went along, and clenched his fists to emphasize the main point: the Doctors could order his boat returned to him, and he would fetch the Men. Barbara thought he looked much too smug, but lovable all the same.
At the end, the legate asked coolly: “Have you any weapons?”
“No, I told you. Just this dirk here. But—”
“I understand.”
She strode from him, toward the bridge guards who stood holding their bows in what Barbara considered a miserable approximation of dress parade. Her voice rang out:
“This is no Man, it’s a Monster. Kill it!”
X
For a moment nobody stirred.
The legate whirled on Yvonne.
“I order you in the name of Father,” she cried. “Kill the filthy thing!”
Barbara had no time to think. She jumped, snatched a bow from a half paralyzed guard, and lifted it to her shoulder. “The first one of yo
u to move gets a bolt in the belly,” she announced.
Valeria’s dagger flared directly before the legate. “And this witch gets a slit throat,” she added. Her voice cracked across. “Hold still, you!”
In Freetoon the arbalests would have been snapping already. But these were a timid folk who had not known battle for generations. “Drop your weapons,” said Barbara. She swiveled her own from guard to guard. Armament clattered to the grass. A moan went through the densely packed crowd.
Davis shook a benumbed head. “What’s the matter?” he croaked. “I am a Man. Give me a chance to prove it!”
“You’ve already proved yourself a Monster by assaulting the Ship’s own envoy,” shouted the legate. “Prezden, do your duty!”
Yvonne Craig shuddered her way backward, lifting helpless hands. “You mustn’t,” she whimpered. “You can’t—”
Through a haze of terror, Barbara saw Davis shake himself. He spoke swiftly then: “Unless you want to die, lady, you’d better tell these people to obey us.”
Valeria emphasized the request with a dagger flourish. Malevolence answered him: “So be it, then . . . for now! Don’t think you’ll escape Father.”
Davis turned to the Whitleys. He was pale and breathed hard, but the words rattled from him: “We have to get out of here. Keep these people covered. I’ll take charge. You, you, you, you—” his finger chose young, horror-smitten girls. “Fetch out all our stuff. And the legate’s pack. And food, plenty of it. Elinor, pick up some bows.”
“No—no, you Monster,” she gasped.
“Suit yourself,” he laughed harshly. “Stay here if you want to be torn to pieces as soon as we’re gone.”
Shaking, she collected an armful of weapons.
When the supplies were ready, Davis led his group up the path, a scared and sullen village trailing them several meters behind and staring into the Whitley bow-sights. Once over the bridge, he cut the cables with a few hard ax strokes. The bridge collapsed into the water and broke up.
“How do we get back?” cried a young Holloway.
“You can swim out and let ’em lower ropes for you,” said Davis. “Now, take us to those boats I heard somebody mention.”
The burdened women trudged along the shaly bank while Yvonne stood on the cliffs and howled loyal curses. On the other side of a bluff, jutting into the river, a score of long slim bark canoes with carved stemposts were drawn up. Davis told his prisoners to load one. “And set the others afire,” he added to Barbara.
She nodded mutely and took forth tinder and fire piston from her pouch. Flame licked across the hulls. Her mind felt gluey, she didn’t know if she could have moved without him to think for her.
“All right, said Davis when the job was done. “Scram, you females. Boo!” He waved his arms and the youngsters fled screaming.
Barbara took a certain satisfaction in binding the legate’s wrists and ankles and tossing her among the bundles. Elinor huddled near the captive, big help she’d be! They shoved the canoe into the river and climbed aboard. Davis demonstrated the use of paddles, set Valeria in the bow and Barbara in the stern, and said he and Elinor could spell them.
Ariadne rose above Ay-set, and Theseus was already up. It would be a bright night. Father! Barbara could have wished for clouds, she felt so exposed under the naked sky. There was a blotch on Minos like a great bloodshot eye glaring down at her.
No, she told herself, Father was a lie . . . at least, the stiff lightning-tossing Father of the Ship did not exist, or if he did
then Bert with his long legs and blue eyes and tawny beard was a stronger god. Merely looking at him made her want to cry.
He grinned and wiped sweat off his face. “Holy Valdaoth, I don’t want to go through that again!” he said.
Valeria looked over her shoulder. “But we got away,” she whispered. “Thanks to you, we got away.”
“To me? Thunderation! If you two hadn’t—Well, let’s take the cash and let the credit go.” He regarded the legate thoughtfully. “I wonder what’s beneath that helmet,” he said.
He lifted the gilt orsper head. Barbara, who had half expected haloes or some such item, was almost disappointed when the ash-blonde hair and coldly regular features of a Trevor appeared.
Elinor covered her eyes and crouched shivering. “I d-d-didn’t want to see, main,” she pleaded.
“You’ve fallen into bad company, child,” said the Trevor. Then, to Davis: “Are you satisfied, Monster?”
“No.” He ran a hand through unkempt yellow hair and asked plaintively: “What have you got against me? Don’t you know I’m a Man? You must have some biological knowledge to operate that parthenogenetic wingding.”
“You aren’t a Man.” The Trevor lay back, scowling in the light that spilled from the sky.
After a moment, Davis murmured: “I see. It’s a common enough pattern in history. You Doctors have had it soft for a long time. You must always have dreaded the day when the Men would finally arrive and upset your little wagon. When I told you I’m alone and there won’t be any others for a long time yet if I don’t return—well, your bosses at the Ship must already have told you what to do if that was the case.”
“You’re a Monster!” said the Trevor. Dogmatic as ever.
“Even if you honestly thought I was, you wouldn’t have ordered them to cut me down. Even a Monster could go home and call the true Men. No, no, my friend, you’re a pretty sophisticated lot at the Ship, and you’ve just decided to rub out the competition.”
“Be still before Father strikes you dead!” she cried.
“Legates sent to every town,” went on Davis. “Orders to learn what the facts are—dicker with the Men if there really arc a number of them or if they can call for help; otherwise kill them and deny everything.”
“I’d like to kill her” said Barbara between her teeth.
“Babs, have you any idea who the Doctors are . . . how many, what families?”
She frowned, trying to remember. A child always picked up scraps of information meant only for initiates . . . she overheard this, was blabbed that by a garrulous helot. “There are a few thousand of them, I believe. And they’re said to be of the best families.”
“Uh-huh. I thought so. Inferior types couldn’t maintain this system. Even with that tremendous monopoly of theirs, there’d have been more conflict between Church and State unless—Yeh. Trevors, Whitleys, Burkes, that sort—die high castes of Freetoon, with the wits and courage and personality to override any local chief. Well.”
Barbara shoved her paddle through murmurous moonlit waters. “But what are we going to do?” she asked in helplessness.
“I think—yes. I really think we can get away with it.” Davis took a long breath. “The word from Lysum will be far behind us. Now, either of you two is about the size of this dame. You can pass for a legate yourself—”
Barbara choked. After a moment, Valeria shook her head. “No, Bert. It can’t be done. Every child in the soldier families gets that idea as soon as it can talk: why not pass a Freetoon Whitley off as a Greendaler? There are countersigns to prevent just that.”
“It isn’t what I meant,” said Davis. “Look here. How are the sea people to know you’re not a genuine legate, bringing back a genuine Man? Only, on his behalf, you requisition an escort and a lot of fast orspers. We ride back to Freetoon, demand my own boat—oh, yes, our pseudo-legate can also order your town set free. Then we all hop into my spaceship and ride to Nerthus—and return with a thousand armed Men!”
Barbara thought dazedly that only he could have forged such a plan.
XI
Eighteen Atlantean days later, the canoe nosed into Shield Skerry harbor.
The enormous, shifting tides raised by the other great moons turned the coasts into salt marshes at ebb, brackish lakes at flow. But the local life had adapted, there were even trees and grass, and a few of the low-caste families lived here, sunken to a naked neolithic stage but available as guides. Valeria, impress
ive in robe and veil, commandeered their help.
Davis had tried to quiz the legate. Beyond the information that her name was Joyce and he was a Monster destined for hell’s hottest griddle, she would tell him nothing.
For Davis, lack of privacy and the weariness of incessant paddling had its good points. It staved off his own problem. The notion that someday he’d face it again—maybe alone in space with two jealous Whitleys, because he couldn’t leave them defenseless against the Doctors’ revenge—made his nerves curl up and quiver at the ends.
Unless he gave himself to a psychadjuster on Nerthus and had his own hankerings electronically exorcised—which he didn’t want to do—he would have to pick one or the other. And now that he knew them both, he couldn’t choose!
What have I done to deserve this?
Elinor had been very quiet on the trip. She made herself useful to Joyce, probably too scared of both sides to reach a decision. Davis felt sorry for her, in a patronizing fashion.
And then finally they were out of the marsh.
The chief Nicholson had told him in her barely intelligible argot that there were many many seafolk on many many islands, that Shield Skerry was only a port for the inland trade. Davis looked eagerly ahead. Behind him die swamps were a vaporous gray, low in the sea, a storm of shrieking birds made a white wing-cloud under Minos and the two suns—otherwise there were only the huge foam-flanked waves that marched out of the west. The water was a chill steely bluish-gray, the wind shrill in his ears.
The rock was nearly hidden by the stone walls erected on its back: massive blocks cut square, a primitive lighthouse where oil fires behind glass burned in front of polished copper reflectors, two long jetties enclosing a small harbor. As they entered this, Davis saw that a good-sized ship—by Atlantean standards—was in. A capstan-powered crane was unloading baled cargo. Strong suntanned women bustled about, barefoot, clad in wide trousers and halters, their hair cut off just below the ears. Beyond the dock were warehouses and dwelling units. They were of stone, with shingle roofs, in the same uncompromising angular style as the town wall and the pharos.
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