Frontier of the Dark

by A Bertram Chandler

He came to a fork in the tunnel, hesitated.

  The scent in the right-hand branch was the fresher — but it was of Prenta and Durl only. To the left it was a compound of Terran and Doralan odors, male and female. Perhaps the Doralans, having taken a wrong turning, were now hopelessly lost. It would serve them right.

  “Come on!” he shouted to Linda as he followed the old scent.

  The air was fresher now, moisture-laden. There was light, dim but bright enough to make the going easier. Falsen ran faster. He could hear Linda panting behind him.

  And there was the Doralans’ scent again, strong, overlaying the older traces. They must have rejoined the main tunnel. They could be in the cab of the blimp before Falsen and Linda were clear of the caves, might even now be casting off. Falsen ran as he had never run before, his pumping legs driving him up the last uphill stretch. Suddenly the light coming from ahead was dazzlingly bright. The other bomb, that dropped in the lake? Had it been detonated already? There was darkness, then another flash. Lighting, it must be. There were reverberations of thunder, accompanied by a steady drumming noise:

  He burst out into the open, was almost flattened by the torrential downpour that flailed his skin. The visibility was minimal, but he could see the blimp. Two moorings were still out, one on either side of it. On the side of the cab that Falsen could see, a hand was out the open window, gripping the tripping line to that grapnel. It must belong to either Prenta or Durl — and on the other side either Durl or Prenta would have a hand out, waiting for Pansir’s order. And the pilot herself would be at her controls. If she knew that Falsen and Linda were safe, she would delay the lift-off.

  Falsen shouted, shouted again. He knew that it was hopeless; inside the cab the noise of the rain drumming on the airship’s envelope had to be deafening. The hand that he could see jerked upwards and the grapnel came free, its claws folding downward like the frame of a blown-inside-out umbrella. Almost simultaneously, the other anchor pulled clear of the sodden ground. The blimp began to lift sluggishly, struggling upward against the weight of the water pouring down on it from the dark sky. The skids were not yet impossibly high above the rain-filled depressions in which they had rested.

  Falsen jumped. His outstretched hands caught one of the vertical struts of the undercarriage. He hung on grimly. From the corner of his eye he saw Linda leap, her arms upraised. Her clawed fingers missed the skid by millimeters and she fell, sprawling facedown in the mud.

  But the blimp was dropping again; the man’s weight was too much for it. A vent opened in the underside of its envelope and a stream of water gushed out; Pansir was jettisoning ballast. Linda was on her feet. She caught Falsen’s dangling legs, clambered up his body. The airship was still falling despite the outflow of water ballast, a torrent that diminished to a trickle. It increased again; Pansir must be emptying another tank. But before this could take effect, Falsen’s feet had touched the ground and he was able to pull himself into a more secure position, sitting on one skid, hanging onto a strut, facing Linda who was sitting on the other.

  The blimp rose tiredly — then, as the downpour became even heavier, sagged to earth again.

  Something was going on overhead, in the control cab. There were scufflings, thuddings. An object fell heavily to the ground, barely missing Falsen in its descent. It was Pansir. She sprawled there on her back, unmoving. The front of her scarlet tunic was charred, as was the body beneath it.

  Prenta, who knew too well how little time was left, had done her own dumping of ballast.

  CHAPTER 45

  Again the blimp lifted sluggishly. The ground, and the sprawled figure of the murdered Pansir, fell slowly away and astern. The rain seemed to be easing, but there was wind — gusty, backing and veering. Presumably, Prenta was at the controls; she might, as she had claimed, have taken a crash course in the handling of lighter-than-air craft, but she was no airshipwoman. She was progressing in a series of swoops, yawing to port and to starboard. All too frequently the framework on which the Terrans were insecurely seated shuddered violently, almost shaking them off.

  Dipping and rolling, maintaining an uneasy course, the blimp blundered on. The driving rain soaked and chilled Linda and Falsen, the wind’s insistent fingers tried to rip the rags of their uniforms from their bodies. They clung to their struts with numbed hands, looking down at the dreary, waterlogged landscape, staring ahead every now and again into the wind wondering if they would ever see the tower that was the ship breaking the monotony of the distant gray horizon.

  Falsen thought longingly of the warmth and dryness of the cabin over his head. He might be able to climb up to it, might be able to force open the door from the outside. Prenta and Durl were armed, but that would not worry him unless that net-throwing pistol was used again. He would kill the pair of them — Prenta especially — with pleasure. Her murder of Pansir had been inexcusable. But suppose he did dispose of the two Doralans — what then? Prenta might be a barely competent airship pilot; he would be completely incompetent.

  “There she is!” called Linda, her voice barely audible above the creakings of the undercarriage structure, the whining of the wind.

  Falsen turned his head, screwing his eyes up against the lashing rain. Yes. there she was, a tiny uplifted finger seeming, as streaming moisture blurred his vision, to beckon — and then to burst into incandescence. Intense light blazed down from the overcast sky was reflected from the pools of water on the ground as well as from the metal hull of the distant spaceship. The very raindrops were arrows of flame.

  The glare faded from blue-white to yellow, to a sullen crimson, and as it did so the mind-numbing thunder of the atomic blasts hit the airship, buffeting it, slamming it up and forward. Falsen looked astern. The hill was still there and, in the relative safety of the blast shadow, the airship had survived almost unscathed. Beyond the hill the fireball was rising from the lake, from what had once been a lake but was now a burning crater. But the silhouetted outline of the rocky eminence was changing, slowly at first and then with frightening speed. It was like watching the birth of a mountain. Then all collapsed suddenly, as the towering walls of new rock fell in upon themselves.

  It had not been a birth after all, but an abortion.

  • • •

  There was warm rain, hot rain, falling in sheets. There was increasing turbulence. The blimp was lifted as though by a giant hand, then dashed downward. A low shrub snatched at Falsen’s dangling ankles, almost dragged him from his perch. The airship struggled to regain altitude, was caught by a sudden updraft and snatched to safety. She was off course, spinning about her vertical axis. It seemed that Prenta would never be able to get her under control again, but at last she did so.

  The spaceship was closer now. still standing, apparently unaffected by the cataclysm ordered by her captain. And the mooring mast was still there, some distance from her, a skeleton-pyramid of gleaming metal. Falsen wondered what the ground crew would think when they saw Linda and himself sitting on the skids. Prenta must already have made her report by radio-telephone to the Lady Mother, must have told her that Linda and Falsen — and Pansir — had been killed. And now, thought Falsen grimly, she would have some explaining to do.

  But there was no ground crew. Even in these vile weather conditions the scarlet uniforms should have been cleary visible. Perhaps they were waiting inside the spaceship until the rain stopped and the wind died down. From their viewpoint this was all very well, but from that of those aboard the blimp the situation was far from satisfactory.

  A port was opening high on the side of the spaceship, a circle of darkness in the sheer cliff of metal that was reflecting the dreadful, lurid light from the sky. Something came out of it — a helicopter. It was followed by a second machine. There were only two of the little aircraft — which meant that, between them, they would be carrying only four women. Such a small number of people might be able to moor the airship at her mast, but it would be a struggle.

  The helicopters flew swiftly toward
the blimp, rising to meet her, making no attempt to come in for a landing by the mooring mast. Their intention, it became obvious, was to pass on either side of her at control-car level. They drove in steadily. Falsen could see the pilots hunched intently over their controls and, behind them, the passengers. And what were they doing? They were leaning out from their seats, and weapons glittered in their hands. As they roared past the airship, they caught her in a crossfire of laser beams, slashing through the thin walls of the cab. There was a sudden acridity of hot metal and burned meat.

  They came back, the gunners still firing. Falsen’s shirt burst into flames. He tore the blazing rags from his body with his free hand, dropped them. With this second assault the wordless screaming that had been coming from the beam-riddled cab suddenly ceased.

  Astern of the blimp the helicopters turned again, made a final pass. This time they concentrated on the envelope. There was a soft thud of exploding gas cells. There was not enough whole fabric left to function even as a crude parachute. The airship fell heavily, faster and faster, struck and threw up a brief fountain of water and mud.

  It was no more than a tangle of twisted metal and smoldering rags.

  Within seconds the rain put out the last embers.

  CHAPTER 46

  Falsen crawled out of the wreckage.

  He stood up slowly, stretched his limbs cautiously, took a deep breath. There was nothing broken. (There should not have been, if the old legends were true. He already knew that there was some truth in them.) He fell to his hands and knees, began to burrow into the debris. One hand made contact with warm, living flesh. It was Linda. He got his shoulder under one of me skids that was pinning her to the ground, strained upward to release her. She scrambled free, wriggled past him out into the warm — the radioactive? — rain.

  He let the skid drop, backed out to join her.

  They stood there, letting the downpour wash the mud from their bodies. They looked at each other, each seeking reassurance from the other’s breathing presence.

  She said at last, shakily, “Just what the hell was all that about? She must know, that precious Lady Mother of yours. She tried to have us killed. She probably ordered Prenta to do away with us in the cave, and then when she saw that we were still alive, sent out the helicopters to finish us off.”

  “No,” said Falsen. “No. Those flygirls were out to get everybody and everything — the blimp, Prenta, Durl, Pansir even. I doubt if they knew that she’d already been murdered.”

  “It must have been her that sent the helicopters out.”

  But it couldn’t have been her, Falsen thought. What was happening? Who was giving the orders?

  He could guess.

  “Give me a hand,” he ordered.

  He began to clear the tatters of balloon and envelope fabric from the crumpled car. It had fallen onto its side. All the windows had shattered, and it was easy enough for him to get in.

  Prenta was dead, of course, as was Durl. Each had been hit several times by the flashing laser fire, mainly about their heads and chests, although Durl’s right foot had been burned off at the ankle. The middles of their bodies were untouched.

  He took Prenta’s hand laser from the assortment of tools and weaponry at her belt, passed it out to Linda. Durl’s pistol was already drawn; she must have been making a futile attempt at defense. He pried it out of her dead hand. He saw that, according to the meter set into its butt, it was almost fully charged. Nonetheless, he loosed a brief pulse at the instrument panel, adding to the considerable damage that it had already suffered.

  He clambered out through the broken window, rejoined Linda.

  He said, “We have to be ready for anything. To fight. This will be our last chance to take the ship … .”

  She looked at him, grinning wolfishly.

  She said, “So you’ve come to your senses. You’ve dropped that mad idea of becoming an academic on Dorala.”

  “It would never have worked,” he said, but not without regret.

  He fingered the sealseam of his shorts, stepped out of the garment as it fell about his ankles. Should it become necessary for him to … change, he wanted to be completely unhampered. Apart from his near-invulnerability, it would not be a fight against hopeless odds. If his suspicions were correct, the number of the spaceship’s crew must have been considerably reduced.

  But how close was she to lift-off?

  The inertial drive, which had been running when they left the ship for the caves, was silent now. The ramp, he could just see in spite of the distance and the rain, was still out, the after air-lock door still open. The glow from the fireball, the mushroom cloud, had died and, although it was not yet sunset, a murky darkness had fallen. Lights were on within the spaceship, bright in the gloom. A single searchlight was commencing its sweep. It would be easy enough for him and Linda to avoid its probing beam.

  And the bio-sensitive radar?

  But he and Linda were not the only relatively large living things abroad in this unnatural night. Not far from them something big broke from one of the pools, writhed over the wet ground to another stagnant mire. The pond from which it had emerged was steaming, its surface bubbling. The subterranean blast must have had all manner of disastrous effects.

  They moved as fast as they could over the sodden ground, falling to their faces as the searchlight beam swept in their direction and then, before they got to their feet, rolling in the mire to coat their pale, naked bodies with the black muck. They were careful to keep their weapons clear of the mud.

  As they got closer to the ship they moved more cautiously, frequently pausing to renew their coatings of camouflage. They could see, as they approached, that Carl in had no sentries out — but there was one member of the vessel’s complement who sat miserable and terrified in the mud, staring towards the bright lights that marked what had been, what never again would be, his home. Linda pounced on him before he was aware of their coming, held him high, squeezing him with deliberate cruelty.

  Pondor spat and tried to scratch, screamed something in Doralan. He glared wildly at Falsen, recognized him in spite of the mud covering his body. He mewed, “I warned you … They are killing, killing … The Lady Mother … dead … The others … ”

  Carlin … thought Falsen. The mutiny of which she had talked … The elimination of the captain and all loyal crew members … The shooting down of the returning blimp … very well, he told himself. He and Linda should be able to deal with the mutineers, and then the ship would be theirs.

  But it was a pity about the Lady Mother.

  “Be careful!” squealed the cat. “They are … ”

  He was not allowed to finish; his voice died in a choking gurgle as Linda’s teeth found his throat. The girl swallowed noisily, then threw the little lifeless body to one side.

  She muttered, “I needed that. An apéritif, shall we say?”

  “You fool!” snarled Falsen. “He was trying to warn us of something.”

  She shrugged and said, “I hated the beast, anyhow. As well kill him now as later.”

  He looked at her, standing defiantly in the glare of the lights from the ship. The rain had washed her pale naked body clean again. She was far too conspicuous — as he must be.

  He said, “We must change again.”

  “For dinner?” she asked sardonically. “That’s not funny.”

  “What about our pistols?” she said.

  “Carry them in our mouths. And be careful not to break anything.”

  He watched her, saw her white flesh creep and shift, darken and change, her graceful limbs shorten and warp. And as his own metamorphosis was initiated, he felt the pain that was somehow not a pain, the sense of freedom from the laws governing the conduct of civilized man. He dropped his hand laser when his forepaw could no longer grip it, fell to all fours and picked the weapon up from the mud with his teeth. So I’m a retriever now! he thought sardonically.

  Crouching low, moving swiftly and silently, a gray shadow among the
gray shadows, he streaked towards the circle of bright light that was the air-lock door. The smell of warm machinery and lubricants, of lifeless, inanimate metal, was stronger and stronger, repugnant in his nostrils. There was the smell, too, of alien flesh and blood.

  And of violent death.

  He made the last few meters of the journey on his belly. At the foot of the ramp he froze, listening and … feeling.

  Carlin, he thought, must be lax. Not only were there no sentries outside the ship, but there was nobody in the air lock. And why had this means of ingress been left so invitingly open? Probably, he told himself, during and after the general confusion of the mutiny, nobody had gotten around to closing it.

  He ran up the ramp into the brightly lit chamber, Linda after him. The inner door was open, too, giving access to the vestibule. Reluctantly, he decided to change again; human shape would be more efficient for the negotiation of the spiral staircase around the axial shaft. After picking up his pistol from the deck, he watched Linda as her body shuddered, warped and shifted, its mass redistributing itself until she became again, outwardly, a fully human woman.

  She made for the elevator shaft, her finger already extended to the call button.

  “Hold it!” he snapped. “We take the stairs.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to run the risk of being trapped in a cage between decks.”

  “You’re right,” she admitted.

  Still he hesitated before setting foot onto the first tread of the spiral staircase. There was something wrong, very wrong. There was the smell of violent death — itself not frightening to such as him — but the ship herself was far from dead. It pulsed with unseen life, whispered vaguely yet threateningly of the menace that was waiting on the next deck above, or on the deck or decks above that.

  Linda looked at him, fear plain on her face.

  “Come on!” he said. “They can’t hurt us. Come on.”

  And so they climbed, deck after deck, resting now and again to recover breath. They came upon evidence of the fate that had befallen those loyal to the Lady Mother. There were splashes of almost dried blood, but there were no bodies. Here and there paintwork had been blistered and metal scarred by laser fire. There must have been a fight, but who had won? Pondor’s already told us, he thought. Then, with a flash of sympathy, Poor bastard!