Darkness crossed before her. Somehow she kept her feet.
“It has to be that,” he went on, glowering at a wall. “The description fits a human, and what other human could it be? For some reason, instead of begetting wonder, this seems to have made them wary of us—as if their finding something we haven’t told them about shows we may have designs on them. The chief demands I come explain.”
He shrugged. “So be it. I would want to give the matter my personal attention regardless. The trouble must be smoothed out, the effects on their society minimized; at the same time, observation of those effects may teach us something new. I’ll fly there tomorrow with—” He looked at her in surprise. “Why, Djana, you weep.”
“I’m sorry,” she said into her hands. The tears were salt on her tongue. “I can’t help it.”
“You knew he must be dead, the pure death to which you sent him.”
“Yes, but—but—” She raised her face. “Take me along,” she begged.
“Haadoch? No. Impossible. The Ruadrath would see you and—”
“And what?” She knelt before him and clutched at his.
“I want to say goodbye. And…and give him…what I can of a Christian burial. Don’t you understand, lord? He’ll lie here alone forever.”
“Let me think.” Ydwyr sat motionless and expressionless while she tried to control her sobbing. At last he smiled, stroked her hair again, and told her, “You may.”
She forgot to gesture gratitude. “Thank you, thank you,” she said in ragged Anglic.
“It would not be right to forbid your giving your dead their due. Besides, frankly, I see where it can be of help, showing the Ruadrath a live human. I must plan what we should tell them, and you must have your part learned before morning. Can you do that?”
“Certainly.” She lifted her chin. “Afterward, yes, I will work for Merseia.”
“Give no rash promises; yet I hope you will join our cause. That fugitive talent you have for making others want what you want—did you use it on me?’ Ydwyr blocked her denial with a lifted palm. “Hold. I realize you’d attempt no mind-intrusion consciously. But unconsciously—Khraich, I don’t suppose it makes any difference in this case. Go to your quarters, Djana daughter. Get some rest. I will be summoning you in a few hours.”
Chapter XVIII
Where their ranges overlapped, Domrath and Ruadrath normally had no particular relationship. The former tended to regard the latter as supernatural; the latter, having had chances to examine hibemator dens, looked more matter-of-factly on the former. Most Domrath left Ruadrath things strictly undisturbed—after trespassing groups had been decimated in their sleep—whereas the Ruadrath found no utility in the primitive Domrath artifacts. The majority of their own societies were chalcolithic.
But around Seething Springs—Ktha-g-thek, Wirrda’s—a pattern of mutuality had developed. Its origins were lost in myth. Ydwyr had speculated that once an unusual sequence of weather caused the pack to arrive here while the tribe was still awake. The Ruadrath allowed summertime use of their sturdy buildings, fine tools, and intricate decorations, provided that the users were careful and left abundant food, hides, fabrics, and similar payment. To the Domrath, this had become the keystone of their religion. The Ruadrath had found ceremonial objects and deduced as much. It made Wirrda’s a proud band.
Flandry discovered he could play on that as readily as on territorial instinct. You may admit the skyswimmers can do tricks you can’t. Nevertheless, when you are accustomed to being a god, you will resent their not having told you about the real situation in heaven.
Rrinn and his councilors were soon persuaded to carry out the human’s suggestion: Send an obscurely worded message, which Flandry helped compose. Keep back the fact that he was alive. Have nearly everyone go to the hinterland during the time the Merseians were expected; they could do nothing against firearms, and a youngster might happen to give the show away.
Thus the village lay silent when the airbus appeared.
Domed with the snow that paved the spiderweb passages between them, buildings looked dwarfed. The winter sky was so huge and blue, the treeless winter horizon so remote. Steam from the springs and geysers dazzled Flandry when he glimpsed it, ungoggled; for a minute residual light-spots hid the whitened mass of Mt. Thunderbelow and die glacier gleam on the Hell-kettle peaks. Fast condensing out, vapors no longer smoked above the Neverfreeze River. But its rushing rang loud in today’s ice quiet.
A lookout yelled, “Trreeann!” Flandry had learned that call. He peered upward and southward, located the glinting speck, and sprang into the house where he was to hide.
Its door had been left open, the entrance covered by a leather curtain—an ordinary practice which should not draw any Merseian heed. Within, among the strewn furs and stacked utensils of a prosperous owner, sunbeams straggled past cracks in the shutters to pick out of dimness the arsenal Flandry had taken from the vehicle he stole. He carried two handguns, blaster and stunner, plus a war knife, extra ammunition, and energy charges. That was about the practical limit. The rest Wirrda’s could inherit, maybe.
The house fronted on the central plaza. Directly opposite stood Rrinn’s, where the meeting was to take place. Thus the Ruad could step out and beckon the human to make a dramatic appearance if and when needed. (That’s what Rrinn thinks.) Through a minute hole in the curtain, Flandry saw the nine males who remained. They were armed. Ydwyr had never given them guns, which would have affected their culture too radically for his liking. But those bronze swords and tomahawks could do ample damage.
Rrinn spoke grimly into his short-range transceiver. Flandry knew the words he did not understand: “Set down at the edge of our village, next to the tannery. Enter afoot and weaponless.”
Ydwyr should obey. It’s either that or stop xenologizing this pack. And why should he fear? He’ll leave a few lads in the bus, monitoring by radio, ready to bail him out of any trouble.
That’s what Ydwyr thinks.
Some minutes later the Merseians showed up. They numbered four. Despite their muffling coldsuits, Flandry recognized the boss and three who had been on that previous trip to this country—how many years of weeks ago—
A small shape, made smaller yet by the tyrannosaurian bulks preceding, entered his field of view. He caught his breath. It was not really too surprising that Djana had also come. But after so much time, her delicate features and gold hair struck through the fishbowl helmet like a blow.
The Ruadrath gave brief greeting and took the newcomers inside. Rrinn entered last, drawing his own door curtain. The plaza lay bare.
Now.
Flandry’s hands shook. Sweat sprang forth on his skin, beneath which the heart thuttered. Soon he might be dead. And how piercingly marvelous the universe was!
The sweat began freezing on his unprotected face. The beard he had grown, after his last application of inhibitor lost effect, was stiff with ice. In a few more of Talwin’s short days, he would have used his final dietary capsule. Eating native food, minus practically every vitamin and two essential amino acids, was a scurvy way to die. Being shot was at least quick, whether by a Merseian or by himself if capture got imminent.
He stood a while, breathing slowly of the keen air, willing his pulse rate down, mentally reciting the formulas which drugs had conditioned him to associate with calm. The Academy could train you well if you had the foresight and persistence to cooperate. Loose and cool, he slipped outdoors. Thereafter he was too busy to be afraid.
A quick run around the house, lest somebody glance out of Rrinn’s and see him…a wall-hugging dash down the glistening streets, snow crunching under his boots…a peek around the corner of the outlying tannery…yes, the bus sat where it was supposed to be, a long streamlined box with a sun-shimmer off the windows.
If those inside spotted him and called an alarm, that was that. The odds say nobody will happen to be mooning in this direction
, you know what liars those odds are. He drew his stunner, crouched, and reached the main heat-lock in about two seconds.
Flattened against the side, he waited. Nothing occurred, except that his cheekbone touched the bus. Pain seared. He pulled free, leaving skin stuck fast to metal. Wiping away tears with a gloved hand, he set his teeth and reached for the outer valve.
It wasn’t locked. Why should it be, particularly when the Merseians might want to pass through in a hurry? He glided into the chamber. Again he waited. No sound.
He cracked the inner valve and leaned into the entry. It was deserted.
They’ll have somebody in front, by the controls and communication gear. And probably someone in the main room, but let’s go forward for openers. He oozed down the short passage.
A Merseian, who must have heard a noise or felt a breath of cold air—in this fantastic oily-smelling warmth—loomed into the control cabin doorway. Flandry fired. A purple light ray flashed, guiding the soundless hammer-blow of a supersonic beam. The big form had not toppled, unconscious, when Flandry was there. Another greenskin was turning from the pilot console. “Gwy—” He didn’t say further before he thudded to the deck.
Whirling, Flandry sped toward the rear. The saloon windows gave on the remaining three sides of the world; an observation dome showed everything else. Two more Merseians occupied that section. One was starting off to investigate. His gun was out, but Flandry, who entered shooting, dropped him. His partner, handicapped by being in the turret, was easier yet, and sagged into his seat with no great fuss.
Not pausing, the human hurried forward. Voices drifted from a speaker: Merseian basso, Ruadrath purr and trill, the former using vocalizers to create the latter. He verified that, to avoid distraction, there had been no transmission from the bus.
Then he allowed himself to sit down, gasp, and feel dizzy. I carried it off. I really did.
Well, the advantage of surprise—and he was only past the beginning. Trickier steps remained. He rose and searched about. When he had what he needed, he returned to his prisoners. They wouldn’t wake soon, but why take chances? One was Cnif. Flandry grinned with half a mouth. “Am I to make a hobby of collecting you?”
Having dragged the Merseians together, he wired them to bunks—“Thanks, Djana”—and gagged them. On the way back, he appropriated a vocalizer and a pair of sound recorders. In the pilot cabin he stopped the input from Rrinn’s house.
Now for the gristly part. Though he’d rehearsed a lot, that wasn’t sufficient without proper apparatus. Over and over he went through his lines, playing them back, readjusting the transducer, fiddling with speed and tone controls. (Between tests, he listened to the conference. The plan called for Rrinn to draw palaver out at length, pumping Ydwyr’s delegation. But the old xenologist was not naive—seemed, in fact, to be one of the wiliest characters Flandry had ever collided with—and might at any time do something unforeseeable. Words continued, however.) Finally the human had what he guessed was the best voice imitation he could produce under the circumstances.
He set his recorders near the pickup for long-range radio. Impulses flew across 300 white kilometers. A machine said: “The datholch Ydwyr calls Naval Operations. Priority for emergency. Respond!”
“The datholch’s call is acknowledged by Mei Chwioch, Vach Hallen,” answered a loudspeaker.
Flandry touched the same On button. “Record this order. Replay to your superiors at once. My impression was false. The Terran Flandry is alive. He is here at Seething Springs, at the point of death from malnutrition and exposure. The attempt must be made to save him, for he appears to have used some new and fiendishly effective technique of subversion on the Ruadrath, and we will need to interrogate him about that. Medical supplies appropriate to his species ought to be in the scout-boat that was taken. Time would be lost in ransacking it. Have it flown here immediately.”
“The datholch’s command is heard and shall be relayed. Does anyone know how to operate the vessel?”
Flandry turned on his second machine. It went “Kh-h-hr,” his all-purpose response. In this context, he hoped, it would pass for a rasping of scorn. A pilot who cant figure that out in five minutes, when we use the same basic design, should be broken down to galley swabber and set to peeling electrons. He made his first recorder say: “Land in the open circle at the center of the village. We have him in a house adjacent. Hurry! Now I must return to the Ruadrath and repair what damage I can. Do not interrupt me until the boat is down. Signing off. Honor to the God, the Race, and the Roidhun!”
He heard the response, stopped sending, and tuned the conference back in. It sounded as if fur was about to fly.
So, better not dawdle here. Besides, Jake should arrive in minutes if his scheme worked. If.
Well, they wouldn’t be intimately familiar with Ydwyr’s speech in the Navy section…aside from high-ranking officers like Morioch, who might be bypassed for the sake of speed, seeing as how Merseia encouraged initiative on the part of juniors…or if a senior did get a replay, he might not notice anything odd, or if he did he might put it down to a sore throat…or, or, or—
Flandry scrambled back into the overclothes he had shucked while working. He stuffed some cord in a pocket. A chronodial said close to an hour had fled. It stopped when he fired a blaster bolt at the main radio transmitter. On his way out, he sabotaged the engine too, by lifting a shield plate and shooting up the computer that regulated the grav projectors. He hoped not to kill anyone in his escape, but he didn’t want them sharing the news before he was long gone. Of course, if he must kill he would, and lose no sleep afterward, if there was an afterward.
The air stung his injury. He loped over creaking snow to Rrinn’s house. Closer, he moved cautiously, and stopped at the entrance to squeeze his eyes shut while raising his goggles. Charging indoors without dark-adapted pupils would be sheer tomfoolishness. Also dickfoolishness, harryfoolishness, and—Stunner in right hand, blaster in left, he pushed by the curtain. It rustled stiffly into place behind him.
Merseians and Ruadrath swiveled about where they tail-sat. They were at the far end of the single chamber, their parties on opposite daises. A fleeting part of Flandry noticed how vivid the murals were at their backs and regretted that he was about to lose the friendship of the artist.
Djana cried out. Rrinn hissed. Ydwyr uttered a sentence in no language the man had heard before. Several males of either species started off the platforms. Flandry brandished his blaster and shouted in Eriau: “Stay where you are! This thing’s set to wide beam! I can cook the lot of you in two shots!”
Tensed and snarling, they returned to their places. Djana remained standing, reaching toward Flandry, mouth open and working but no sound coming forth. Ydwyr snapped into his vocalizer. Rrinn snapped back. The Terran could guess: “What is this treachery?”
“Indeed we had him alive; yet I know not what he would seize.”
He interrupted: “I regret I must stun you. No harm will be done, aside from possible headaches when you awaken. If anyone tries to attack me, I’ll blast him. The blast will likely kill others. Rrinn, I give you a few breaths to tell your followers this.”
“You wouldn’t!” Djana protested wildly.
“Not to you, sweetheart,” Flandry said, while Ruadrath words spat around him. “Come over here by me.”
She gulped, clenched fists, straightened and regarded him squarely. “No.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t turn my coat like you.”
“I wasn’t aware I had.” Flandry glared at Ydwyr. “What have you done to her?”
“I showed her truth,” the Merseian answered. He had regained his calm. “What do you expect to accomplish?”
“You’ll see,” Flandry told him. To Rrinn: “Are you finished?”
“Ssnaga. ” No matter the Ruad was of another species; you could not mistake unutterable hatred.
Flandry sighed. “I griev
e. We traveled well together. Good hunting be yours for always.”
The guide ray struck and struck. The Ruadrath scuttled for shelter, but found nothing high enough. The Merseians took their medicine with iron dignity. After a minute, none among them was conscious save Ydwyr and Djana.
“Now.” Flandry tossed her the loop of cord. “Tie his wrists at his back, run his tail up there and make it fast, then pass down the end and hobble him.”
“No!” she shrieked.
“Girl,” said the gaunt, sun-darkened, wounded visage with the frost in its beard, “more’s involved than my life, and I’m fond of living to start with. I need a hostage. I’d prefer not to drag him. If I have to, though, I’ll knock you both out.”
“Obey,” Ydwyr told her. He considered Flandry. “Well done,” he said. “What is the next stage of your plan?”
“No comment,” the man replied. “I don’t wish to be discourteous, but what you don’t know you can’t arrange to counteract.”
“Correct. It becomes clear that your prior achievements were no result of luck. My compliments, Dominic Flandry.”
“I thank the datholch. Get cracking, woman!”
Djana’s gaze went bewildered between them. She struggled not to cry.
Her job of tying was less than expert; but Flandry, who supervised, felt Ydwyr couldn’t work out of it fast. When she was through, he beckoned her to him. “I want our playmate beyond your reach,” he said. Looking down into the blue eyes, he smiled. There was no immediate need now to aim a gun. He laid both hands on her waist. “And I want you in my reach.”
“Nicky,” she whispered, “you don’t know what you’re doing. Please, please listen.”
“Later.” A sonic boom made pots jump on a shelf. In spite of the dictatorship he had clamped down on himself, something leaped likewise in Flandry. “Hoy, that’s my ticket home.”
He peered past the curtain. Yes, Giacobini-Zinner, dear needle-nosed Jake, bulleting groundward, hovering, settling in a whirl of kicked-up snow…Wait! Far off in the sky whence she’d come—
A Circus of Hells Page 16
