Starfall Muta

by Alan David

  Balfin was in control of himself, and did not move, but Clark knew the Major was ready with his Laser. It seemed that the giants would walk right into them, and Balfin would wait until the last possible minute before firing. The moments flitted by, and Clark was aware of his thudding heart and swiftly beating pulses.

  Then the four Ogrins halted and converged, their voices like the disagreement of wild animals as they conversed in their alien tongue. Clark dared not move to boost the transmuter, although he would liked to have heard what was being said. But he figured the Ogrins as creatures little better than savage animals, and felt that they would have the same savage instincts and senses.

  Presently the four began to move again, but in a slightly different direction, and it seemed that they would bypass Balfin on the right. Clark could feel Searby trembling at his side, and he slowly reached his right hand down to his waist to grasp the handle of his sidearm. The next moment there was a swishing in the short grass and the giants went shambling past.

  Clark was prepared to let them go without a fight, for he wanted no trouble, but it suddenly came home to him that the Ogrins might be making for Ralip’s farm. He clenched his teeth as he waited, and when the four Ogrins had passed by he called sharply to Balfin, the sound of his voice halting the giants in their tracks.

  ‘Cut them down, Kester!’ Clark shouted.

  Balfin’s reactions were so fast that the Laser beam was stabbing through the night like a brilliant white finger before Clark could complete his order. The four Ogrins were seared immediately, and Clark watched them going down with his eyes slitted, his hands clenched. The next moment he was upon his feet and moving swiftly forward.

  ‘Let’s get lost,’ he said urgently, ‘in case there’s anyone else around and watching.’

  They had barely started away from the area when bright lights flashed and several skyrafts appeared to blot out patches of stars overhead. The searchlights probed the ground, and Clark found himself huddled in a depression between Searby and Balfin as they sought cover.

  ‘We’ve stirred up trouble,’ Balfin muttered.

  ‘I figured to give Ralip a break,’ Clark said through his teeth. ‘It looked to me like the Ogrins were making in that direction.’

  ‘I was gonna cut them down whether you ordered it or not,’ the Major muttered. ‘But we’ve got trouble on our hands now.’

  The probing lights suddenly converged, and Clark saw they had picked up two of the fallen Ogrins. Stabbing rays of raw energy lanced downwards, and the bodies of the Ogrins were disintegrated. The skyrafts began to circle the area, searching for movement, and Clark gritted his teeth as he lay upon his back and watched their dark shapes swooping and climbing. Time seemed to stand still, and the future was a blank expanse his thoughts could not penetrate.

  When two of the craft suddenly landed and the tall figures of several Brutans alighted, Clark felt it was time they moved, and he led the way along the ditch, knowing it was taking them out of their way, but they had to break away without being seen and the extra distance would not matter if they managed to draw clear.

  By slow degrees they managed to get clear of the area, and Balfin took the lead once more when they left the ditch. But the ground was getting soggy under their feet, and Clark felt a pang of concern as he felt his boots sinking into black muck to the ankles.

  ‘Hold it, Kester,’ he commanded, thinking of the Marsh-men. ‘If the Brutans put a cordon around the jungle to keep the Avics in then they’ve very likely done the same thing around the marshes to prevent the Marscs from attacking. I think we’re walking into danger.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Balfin admitted readily. ‘We’re certainly a long way off the direction we had last night. We’ve got to angle left to get out of this bog.’

  Clark glanced at the sky, ever on the alert for the first grim sight of a skyraft, but the sky was clear and starry, with no small black patches to signify Brutan activity. He stared for a moment at the twin moons, and wished it were the sky surrounding Earth upon which he was gazing. He suddenly felt a long way from home, and a sense of remoteness sneaked into his mind. He was already of the opinion that he would never see Earth again, but he fought off the knowledge and the attendant dark fears and returned his full concentration to their situation. Balfin was talking, asking a question, and Clark only caught the tail-end of it.

  ‘Sorry, Kester,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t get that.’

  ‘I asked if we should try to make the jungle in one swift march,’ the Major repeated.

  ‘We’ll have to.’ Clark did not pause to think about it. ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t reach that tunnel before daylight, and once in the safety of the jungle we’ll be able to set our own pace without fear of discovery.’

  A splashing sound was slowly becoming louder as they peered around, and Clark tensed, raising himself up to peer into the surrounding night.

  ‘There’s someone around,’ Balfin said urgently, tightening his grip upon the Laser. ‘Can you see anything, Commander?’

  Before Clark could reply something hissed over their heads and dropped down neatly upon them. Clark felt wetness against his face, and threw up an arm, his fingers instantly tangling in a thin, sticky net. He heard Balfin curse, and the Major started to his feet, uttering a yell of startled anger. Searby remained on the ground, but Clark started up, tearing at the net, which seemed to mould itself about them, pinioning their arms and stifling them. It was no ordinary net, he remembered thinking remotely, and then he blacked out and knew nothing more …

  Clark awoke to the flicker of firelight, the murmur of alien voices that were shrill and piercing. Above his head, when he looked up, a roof of reeds prevented him seeing the night sky. He tried to move, and discovered that he was bound hand and foot. He turned his head to one side and caught a glimpse of Balfin’s figure, similarly tied, and Searby was on the other side of him. He did not speak, and could not tell if his companions were awake or still unconscious.

  He slowly took stock of his surroundings, and when he moved the stinking pallet upon which he lay rustled and exuded a stronger reek of dirty water and rotting vegetation.

  He lifted his head to trace the direction the voices were coming from, and spotted a group of a dozen men seated around the flickering fire.

  They were small men, about half his size, and he knew with a clenching of his teeth that they had fallen into the hands of the Marscs, the Marshmen. He stifled the sigh that tried to escape him, and blamed himself for permitting the Ogrins and the Brutans to detour him.

  The men were plainly arguing about something, and Clark fancied it was the fate of himself and his two unfortunate companions. He tested the bonds that held him, and found they were wet and tightening all the time about his wrists. Already they were cutting painfully into his flesh, and his fingers were throbbing sullenly, aching with the promise of pins and needles the moment his limbs were freed.

  There were trees about them, no doubt sheltering the fire from above, and the splash of water and the mournful cries of alien nocturnal life created a strange backcloth to the nightmare scene. Clark told himself that he was not dreaming, and he glanced once more at Balfin, wondering if they had been searched and deprived of their weapons and equipment.

  Presently one of the small men got up from his place at the fire and came under the rough shelter. He kicked Balfin in the ribs, waited for a response, and when there was none, came to Clark’s side and did the same to him. Clark clenched his teeth against the retort which came to his lips and feigned unconsciousness, and there was no response from Searby when the Marshman kicked him. The little man went back to the fire and sat down once more.

  Clark considered. He knew they could expect rough treatment from these small men. They lived primitive lives on the marshes, hunting Avics for food and fighting any strangers who crossed their domains. They were cannibals, Clark told himself, trying to recall all that he had learned about them.

  He stared at them, watc
hing the firelight flickering on their humanoid faces. If he stretched his imagination a little he could believe he was back on Earth, watching a group of campers relaxing for the evening, except that he could not understand their tongue and knew their outlook and attitudes were totally alien and unpredictable. He glanced at Balfin again, and saw the Major’s eyes glint in the reflected firelight. He nodded slowly. So Balfin was playing possum, watching their small captors before taking a chance on revealing the fact that he was aware of his surroundings once more.

  They were in a tight spot, and Clark realized that they might not get out of it. He tried to get free of his bonds, but they held him with no trouble, and tightened imperceptibly as the minutes passed.

  The Marsc came from the fire once more and kicked Balfin again, and this time Balfin cursed strongly. There was a chorus of shouts from around the fire, and the next moment all the men were standing around their prisoners. Clark was kicked several times before he voiced his objections, and a further chorus of cries greeted the sound of his tones. Searby was seized and shaken hard, but there was no response, and Clark tightened his lips when he saw Searby released and noted the way the man fell back apparently lifeless.

  Clark was grasped and dragged up into a sitting position, and he wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of these small men. He looked into small, sharp features and glinting dark eyes. The Marsc who had kicked him was evidently a leader of sorts, as he spoke to Clark in a brusque voice, asking a question, judging by his rising tones, but Clark could not understand. He shook his head slowly, glancing around, catching sight of their equipment and weapons lying in a heap nearby, and his eyes glinted as he took in the lines of the Laser that Balfin had been carrying. Then he saw the transmuter and a ray of hope filled him momentarily. If he could communicate with these little men he might be able to convince them that they were friends.

  ‘Try and get my meaning,’ he said authoritatively. ‘Untie my hands and let me get my box of tricks.’

  His words brought a silence to the little men, and he became the centre of attention. He motioned with his head towards the equipment, and the leader of the Marscs understood immediately. He went to the pile of equipment and picked up the Laser, turning to face Clark, and Clark turned cold when the terrible weapon was pointed at him. He shook his head furiously, calling loudly, and his apparent fear evoked gales of laughter from the little men.

  The Marsc leader threw down the Laser and picked up several items of the equipment, holding each up for inspection, and Clark shook his head. It was evidently some game to the Marshmen, for they chuckled and slapped each other’s backs whenever Clark shook his head. Then the transmuter was picked up, and silence came when Clark nodded eagerly. He motioned with his head, trying to get the Marsc to bring the equipment across to him, and eventually the little man did so, aware that the transmuter was not a weapon. He set the box down in front of Clark, then whipped out a fearsome dagger with a curved blade that glittered in the firelight.

  Clark leaned away from the blade as it was thrust towards him, not with any intention of stabbing him but as a threat, and he stared at the bright metal as it passed very close to his face. The Marsc said something in his thin tones, and then moved around behind Clark. The other Marshmen watched intently, their small faces leering, set in hard expression of anticipation, and Clark feared that his last moments had come. The knife blade suddenly appeared over his right shoulder and eased down towards his throat, and he stiffened and closed his eyes.

  Balfin shouted in anger and fear, certain Clark was about to be killed. But Clark kept his eyes closed and tried to prevent his imagination working. It was the worst moment of his entire life, and seemed to be his last.

  Chapter Ten

  The blade of the knife touched Clark’s flesh, and he could not prevent a tremor passing through him. But then the Marsh-man moved away, leaving Clark swaying in a sitting position, and the others laughed joyfully at what had been a grim joke. Clark turned his head and opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of the Marsc leader moving around to Searby. Clark saw the knife blade moving in towards Searby’s chest, and he called urgently, trying to attract attention.

  The Marsc leader paid no heed, and with a quick twist of his wrist he slashed open Searby’s clothes from the neck to the waist. Clark tensed, his eyes held by the slowly moving blade. One of the other Marscs called an unintelligible question, and the leader paused and reached out with his left hand, placing it upon Searby’s chest. He shook his head, and Clark took it to mean that Searby was dead.

  The next instant the Marsc leader had made a deft movement with the knife and sliced open Searby’s chest. Horror spilled through Clark, and the gleeful shouts of the watching Marshmen hammered against his ears. Balfin roared out frantically, and Clark threw a swift glance in the Major’s direction. Balfin was straining to get free of his bonds, but they held him tightly, and the horror that Clark felt was plainly visible on Balfin’s heavy face.

  Clark watched while the Marsc leader began to cut Searby’s body like a hunter preparing a steer for cooking. It came to Clark then that these men were cannibals, and the fact was borne out when a group of women appeared out of the shadows and grabbed the flesh, thrusting pieces on sharp sticks and turning to the fire.

  ‘The fiends!’ Balfin rasped, his tones tight with fury. ‘Was Searby dead?’

  ‘I think he was,’ Clark said unsteadily. ‘I hope he was.’

  ‘So we know what we can expect!’ Balfin redoubled his efforts to get free, and made so much noise that one of the Marshmen went to him and clouted him hard with a small club. Clark watched Balfin fall sideways and lie motionless, and once again he spoke to the Marsc leader, indicating the transmuter and trying to convey the message that he wanted his hands free.

  The Marsc came to confront him once more, the blade of his knife red with Searby’s blood. He spoke quickly and unintelligibly, and Clark shook his head, motioning to the transmuter. He received a kick in the face for his trouble, and fell sideways, his bound hands tingling and cramped.

  The Marshmen returned to their fire, and Clark lay watching them through slitted eyes. He worked on his bonds again, wanting to get free. He was ready to die fighting, knowing what lay in store for them. They would be eaten in their turn, and the thought was so nightmarish that he could not encompass it.

  Presently the Marshmen were feeding on Searby’s body, and Clark was nauseated and ill. He tried not to watch, and was only too aware of Searby’s mutilated remains lying beside him. The firelight flickering over the grim scene painted everything with a ruddy glow. It was a nightmare come true, and Clark felt that his sanity was buckling under the strain of the events which had taken place since their arrival on this alien planet.

  There appeared to be around thirty to forty of the alien pygmies grouped around the fire, and women and children were amongst them. They were probably a complete tribe, one of many that existed on the waterways of Muta. Clark knew he could not condemn them for their eating habits because it was their way of life, but the whole revolting business was foreign to his standards, and he closed his eyes and tried to keep himself mindless.

  A foot kicked him in the ribs and he opened his eyes to find the Marsc leader confronting him once more. The little man peered down at him for a moment, the big knife still in his hand, and then he bent and slashed through the bonds around Clark’s wrists. Clark stared up at him, unable to feel his hands. They were numb and swollen, and blood rushed through his veins as the constriction was removed. He was in agony almost at once, and had difficulty rubbing his hands in an attempt to chafe life back into them.

  The entire tribe watched him now, some still chewing meat that was only half roasted over the fire. Clark stared around, his nostrils nauseated by the sweet smell of human flesh being cooked. He sensed that he was about to be killed. He was not afraid of the fact as it stood. Horror at what had happened to Searby seemed to have frozen his emotions. It was all like a bad dream that seemed never endin
g.

  The Marsc leader held the point of his knife against Clark’s throat, forcing Clark’s head up so their gazes met. The blade nicked Clark’s chin and he felt the sharp pain of it, then the trickle of blood down his neck. The Marshman said something in harsh tones, then moved back a pace, and Clark sat up slowly, still rubbing his hands.

  He looked around and found he was the centre of attention once more. The leader of the Marscs snapped another string of unintelligible language at him, and motioned to the trans-muter, apparently demanding to know its function. Clark reached out slowly for the box, and several Marshmen lifted weapons and waved them menacingly.

  Clark switched on the transmuter and prepared to operate it. There was heavy silence around him, and all alien eyes were fixed on the red and green lights winking on the top of the transmuter. The Marsc leader held his knife ready to repel any treachery, and Clark moistened his lips when he was ready to speak.

  ‘Say something,’ he told the Marsc leader. ‘Say anything. If we can communicate we may come to some understanding.’

  The Marsc leader stared at him for a moment, then broke into a torrent of words. Clark nodded hopefully, waiting for the transmuter to operate. When the Marshman fell silent Clark spoke again, encouraging conversation, his mind still numb with the horror of what had taken place. But he felt he had a chance to get through to these little aliens, and he needed to convince them that killing him and Balfin would not be in their best interests.

  The Marsc leader came closer once more, knife ready, and he asked a spate of questions. Clark waited, and the next moment the unintelligible words were transmuted into English. He nodded slowly, and saw the surprise which came to the Marsc leader’s face as his own words were transmuted into the alien language.