by Phillip Mann
“You still haven’t told me what you felt out there, facing the Hammer. I know what you did, but not what you felt.”
Pawl didn’t answer immediately but lay back, looking at the flickering lights which shone palely through the window and listening to the steady beat of the generator. The particle fence never slept. He was thinking how frail their defences were and wondering just how large the population of the Hammer really was and how extensive their technology.
“Humbled,” he said finally. “I think that was what I felt. I hold no man my master but I have never in my life met anything, any human, any creature that so impressed me with its vitality. It made me feel like a shadow. You know, when it looked at me I wanted to crawl away and hide. And yet we talked to it. It understood us. And it beat me at Corfu. And it was funny too.”
“Funny?”
“Yes. It had a sense of humour.”
“I wish I’d come.”
“So do I. I think you’d have understood it better than me.”
Laurel shrugged and snuggled closer. “I don’t know. I’m not very good with aliens,” she whispered.
Pawl yawned. “Well, there’s a lot to admire about the Hammer, but not very much to like. They are cruel and overbearing and I can’t imagine them ever working with another species. No, the Hammer are top or nothing. But I’d hate to be the Wongs if ever the Hammer got loose.”
Peron was quartered in a small office at the end of one of the long bunk rooms. He sat at an improvised desk and was reviewing parts of the vivante they had made while talking to Trader. Like Pawl, he was trying to sort out his reactions to the Hammer. In front of him was his journal. Peron did not write songs, like Pawl, but he was an inveterate note taker, and his journal never left him.
He wrote, “The Hammer are gamblers. Hope Master Pawl did not reveal too much of his mind when he lost that game. That could be dangerous.” On the vivante was a close-up of the mouth of the Hammer. Peron remembered being dragged and the stench. He wrote. “If their technology mirrors their nervous system then I think that in battle they will be invincible. They belong to a stronger order of life than our own … one more in tune, I suspect, with the harsh reality of creation.” He looked at that sentence and wondered exactly what he meant. “We have ingenious brains but weak bodies. They have quick brains and are very strong.” He looked at the red weals where the Hammer’s tentacle had wrapped round his arm. “They respect courage. They seem to treat the Inner Circle as servants. That is interesting. I wonder what part little Odin plays in all of this. He seems to know a great deal. I am now reasonably certain that he communicates telepathically. No doubt he communicated with that creature called Lake and I am convinced that Odin cleared our way and kept us safe. I do not see how it could be otherwise. Which brings me to the final question, ‘Why?’ I do not believe in simple philanthropy. Odin has his reasons. I shall watch him more closely than ever.”
Peron set his pencil down and stared at the vivante. The final images were of the hill where thousands of Hammer beat and crawled over one another. Then the image vanished and the vivante machine hummed to itself as it reset the program. He added one last sentence. “I believe that we are being taught, that we are being edged along a certain path of understanding.” He could think of nothing more to say and so set his papers aside, stretched and crawled into his low camp bed. He was asleep within minutes.
Paris was nursing his side, touching a livid bruise where the Hammer had flicked him. He had not let the others know how badly he was hurt. No bones were broken but he would have to move with care for some days.
He was thinking about the Hammer. He was thinking about the giant sting. How he would like to have one as a trophy. He wanted to see them fight, to see that sting in action. He wanted to kill one. He imagined himself like the famous archer on Portal Reclusi, driving a bolt straight into that stinking hole it called a mouth.
Odin was recovering after the hard day. He had found a place under one of the huts and there sent his roots down to draw what nourishment he could from the dry stony soil.
He knew the Hammer of old. They were like a bonfire in the mind. They did not have thoughts that were easy to live with. They were just bundles of feelings that flowed like lava down terraces. They were bright as beacons, hard as shell, and always moved just ahead of comprehension. With the Hammer true communication was impossible. But the visit had been worthwhile. Pawl’s eyes were becoming open. He was becoming interested in the aliens and that was just how it should be.
7
IN ELLIOTT’S POCKET
The departure from Forge was uneventful and the small party set out on the last long jump to Elliott’s Pocket. Here they hoped to rest before returning to the Paxwax Home world and the busy, full life of managing the affairs of the Paxwax Empire. Much to his surprise Pawl found that he was looking forward to taking up the reins of the Paxwax. He was pleased also that Laurel seemed so much more cheerful. She had not yet told him about the baby inside her. She was waiting for the right moment.
The main Way Gate in Elliott’s Pocket was above the planet called Lumb. Waiting here to greet them was the giant Pettet and his wife, the witch-woman, Raleigh.
Pettet, well over nine feet tall and with a mass of black curly hair and a tangled beard which reached down almost to his belt, took Pawl’s hand when he emerged from the Way Gate and then threw his arm round his shoulders and squeezed him. In his affection Pettet was as clumsy as a bear. As a man he was frequently inarticulate and this led to a blunt, formal way of speaking, until he relaxed. Raleigh rescued Pawl and planted a kiss squarely on his forehead. She was a broad-shouldered woman with frizzy blond hair, full sensuous lips and startling blue eyes. She stood a good three inches taller than Pawl.
Pawl made the introductions. He had tried to prepare Laurel for what to expect but could see she was perplexed when the giant bowed down low to her and took her small hand and kissed it. Ancient traditions still held sway in the Pocket. Laurel did not know what to say and was grateful when Raleigh took her other hand and led her through into the reception area.
The other introductions were straightforward. Pettet welcomed Peron and Paris and gave them gifts. But he didn’t know what to do when Odin glided up to him. The small domed creature scarcely reached to his knees.
“I … er, knew you had a member of the Inner Circle with you but I didn’t expect….”
“Allow me to introduce Odin,” said Pawl.
The giant bent down and peered inside Odin’s cowl. He poked him gently with his finger. He was looking for some way to bid him welcome. Then he straightened up and whispered to Pawl, “Is it human? I’ve not met many members of the Inner Circle. They don’t have much business in the Pocket.”
“Not human,” whispered Pawl. “Alien. A Gerbes.”
Pettet looked blank.
“Once called Quaam.”
That name registered with Pettet. “Quaam. Surely that was a food, a delicacy served before the main meal. I’ve heard of that.”
Pawl threw his eyes to the ceiling. Only in the Pocket could quirky little fragments of knowledge such as that persist. Then he realized what thoughts might be passing through Pettet’s mind. “But we don’t call Odin a Quaam. That name is dishonourable to them. And we don’t eat them,” he whispered.
Pettet shrugged. There was a humorous glint in his eyes. “Any friend of Pawl’s is welcome here.” He turned to Pawl. “We’ve got a couple of cows and a sheep down below you might like to meet….”
“Bah….” said Pawl, but then he saw the funny side and couldn’t stop himself from laughing. At the same time he wondered how Odin was faring. He could not contact the small creature and wondered just what effect the giant’s thought was having.
“Have no fear for me, Master Pawl,” came Odin’s voice in his mind. “Your friend does not savour me. It is you that he is laughing at. Besides, I have my defences.”
Pettet shook his head as though dismissing a thought. “Shall I car
ry it?” he asked.
“No, Odin can manage on his own.”
“Can you speak with it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“With this.” Pawl tapped his head.
Pettet nodded gravely. “Yes, such is not unknown. I shall be interested to know what Raleigh makes of it. Well, come on through. We live in strange times. Strange things are happening in the Pocket.”
The reception room of the Way Gate was decked out with festoons of scarlet and yellow cloth making it bright and cheerful.
“In my honour?” asked Pawl. “You shouldn’t; I told you no ceremony.”
Pettet grinned and his craggy face seemed suddenly younger. “No, not for you. Though no doubt we would have done something. We are expecting many visitors.”
Beneath the bunting was a frieze of pictures painted by children. They showed the adventures of a big black space ship with long tapering fins. It was called the Fare-Thee-Well. Staring down into the room was a portrait of a man with glaring eyes. Behind the portrait was the image of a blazing planet. “John Death Elliott,” said Pettet, nodding up to the portrait. “Today is the beginning of the Elliott Festival.”
“You said strange things were happening in the Pocket,” said Pawl. “What did you mean?”
Pettet’s face clouded over again and worry lines appeared. “This,” he said, and led the way out of the reception room and into the shuttle chamber.
Windows rose from floor to ceiling. The other members of Pawl’s party were standing there with their mouths open, staring out into space. They were drenched in vivid green light.
“Wow,” said Paris, “is that Emerald Lake? It’s bigger than ever I expected and brighter.”
“It is brighter than ever I can remember,” rumbled Pettet, “and I have lived with it all my life. Something is happening in there. We don’t know what. We think that perhaps there is a great sun rising. What effect it will have we cannot tell. We have many stories about things hiding in the Lake. You have come at an interesting time.”
“If that is a sun rising,” said Peron, his eyes glittering greenly, “then you may find it scorches this world. Surely.”
Pettet nodded. “Indeed, and we are ready to abandon this world at an hour’s notice and steal away on the dark side. We are always ready.”
Laurel shivered. The blazing green sky seemed to oppress her. She glanced up into Pawl’s face and was amazed to see that the green light had made his eyes glow a bright lime colour. It was as though the illumination came from inside him. She slipped her arm round him and felt his arm rest on her shoulders. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Don’t stare for too long,” called Raleigh. “You’ll be mesmerized. We’ve all noticed it. Come round here and look at the other side of the Pocket.”
Reluctantly Pawl dragged his eyes away from the brightness of Emerald Lake and let himself be led to one of the other great windows.
“I recognize that,” said Laurel, pointing out to where a coil of asteroids lifted. “That’s the Snake. Right?”
“Right,” said Raleigh. “And do you notice that bright sun in the centre of its forehead? That is the Eye of the Snake.”
“I thought it was supposed to be dangerous,” said Paris.
“It is. There is a vortex in the eye which ejects particles. It destroys anything it looks at. Many ships have been destroyed, many women and men too. There is even an old space creature that was caught before it could flee. They are all still out there. We have visited them. Well, Pettet has. They are like sculptures made of glass and copper. Nothing can live in the full light of the snake. Not unless it is buried deep.”
A dapper brown-skinned man with a face like the blade of an axe approached them. He wore a bright red scarf round his head and a gold earring.
“This is Haberjin,” said Raleigh. “Now if you want to know anything about the Snake, ask him. He knows more about it than any man you’ll ever meet.”
Haberjin laughed. “That is because I am alive. I was once caught in the glare of the Snake for a few seconds. It made me boil. But I lived. I should be a glass man, but I am not.”
“Haberjin is the greatest pilot in the Pocket,” said Raleigh affectionately. “But he takes risks. I only hope he lives long enough to tell his stories to his grandchildren.”
Haberjin shrugged. "Life is a risk. If I die out there, at least I’ll die discovering something. And there are so many ways of dying.” He laughed again, looking into the serious faces of the visitors. They were not used to hearing death talked about so freely and so frankly. “Come on. Away Pettet. Let’s get these people down below. They’ll begin to think we are morbid in the Pocket. The Snake’s Eye is turning fast and the sooner we get below the longer we’ll have for fun.” He winked roguishly at Laurel and that lady found herself starting to blush. The reason was obvious. Haberjin wore his life openly and lightly and was terribly attractive.
Pettet nodded. “We should move. We’re expecting a lot of people through today. Come on. Let’s go down.”
As they moved away Raleigh took Laurel’s arm. “Pay no attention to Haberjin. He can’t help himself. He’d flirt with the mother of God given half the chance.” Laurel laughed at that.
Pettet led the way, ducking under the trusses which supported the roof of the Way Platform and down to the shuttle port.
Seated in the shuttle they looked down. Beneath them was a planet of fur. It looked like a cat rolled into a ball. Peron took out his journal and began taking notes. Leaning over his shoulder Pettet watched him draw. “You know the entire planet is covered with one single shrub. It is the only form of life I know that actually feeds on the radiation from the Snake.”
“One shrub? How deep is it?”
“Miles. Each time we descend we have to cut a path. That is how quickly it grows.”
“And where do you live? In its roots?”
“No, we live deep under the rock. That is the only place that is safe from the Snake. You’ll see.”
They descended slowly. Eventually they brushed through the upper fronds of the shrub. From time to time shuttle attendants wearing survival suits climbed out and cut branches back using sharp machetes.
“Surely you don’t do this every time the shuttle goes up and down?” asked Peron.
“Not every time. It depends on the growth. Sometimes we just blast through, sometimes we fit saw blades under the shuttle. But you can’t use particle fire on this stuff. It just drinks it up.”
Odin, squatting alone, followed this conversation and at the same time let his mind wander outside and flow through the close clinging shrub. He was not surprised to discover a crude sentience there. The shrub took pleasure in the passage of the shuttle and enjoyed the periodic pruning.
Midway down, the fibres became tightly packed. Creatures with narrow white carapaces grazed there. “Those are Testudoes,” said Pettet. “They never venture to the surface. They exude a kind of milk which we think is a delicacy. You may try some.”
“Yuk,” said Paris.
Gradually the fibres became thicker until they were the consistency of peat. “Now watch,” said Pettet. “We are close to the surface.”
Suddenly the fibres gave way to thick ropy roots which twisted round each other. The roots gripped the surface rock as though they had once been molten and flowed like wax and poured into every fissure and cranny. Then the walls became smooth stone. “You see,” explained Pettet, “what we call the planet of Lumb was once just a ball of rock spinning round close to the Snake. Then it broke away – probably pulled away by a monster like Mabel – and here we are. They say that the caverns you are now entering were first quarried by aliens and then opened up fully by John Death Elliott using his ship the Fare-Thee-Well. Who knows? But at least we are safe from the Snake here and we live a comfortable life.”
“Are there any other inhabited planets in Elliott’s Pocket?” asked Peron.
“Oh many. Not all a
s secretive as this. We keep close contact. We are more like a family than you might think.”
“Ah,” said Peron, “you have Way Gates and spaceships, like the rest of us?” To Peron, Elliott’s Pocket was a totally new area of space. Like most outsiders, he had been brought up to believe that it was occupied by savages. This was a myth encouraged by the inhabitants of Elliott’s Pocket.
“Yes,” said Haberjin with a wink at Pettet. “We have Way Gates and spaceships and people like Raleigh.”
Peron looked blank. “I don’t….”
“What Haberjin means is that Raleigh is a psychic. Many women here are psychic. We trust them as much as you trust radio or vivante aerials. Elliott’s Pocket is not like most of space. Different laws apply.”
Peron busied himself in his notebook.
The shuttle entered a cavern. Stone doors closed above them. Below were patterns of lights.
“Is that your city?” asked Paris.
“No,” answered Pettet. “Those are our workshops. We don’t have a city. When you come to know us better you will understand.”
“Life in the Pocket is precarious,” chimed in Raleigh. “We have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. So the workshops are the most important parts of our civilization. We live in burrows. It is very comfortable.”
The shuttle landed on a stone ramp under the glare of arc lights and its doors swung open. There was no one to greet them. How different, thought Laurel, from our other landings on the civilized worlds.
Outside the air smelled surprisingly sweet. They seemed to have landed in a giant hangar. As they filed outside they found themselves amid a fleet of black spaceships of a design they had never seen. A man with braided blond hair sat astride a high antenna and waved to them. “Welcome to Lumb,” he called. “How are things up top?”
