Space 1999 #4 - Collision Course

by E. C. Tubb

  ‘We’ll have to raise something, Alan. Children, then?’

  ‘Children.’ His touch was tender. ‘Yes, Sandra, lots of children.’

  Later they had slept and she had dreamed of a white house with neat railings and a smooth lawn over which birds glided with sparkling, colourful wings.

  Waking, she stretched.

  ‘Alan?’

  She opened her eyes at the lack of an answer and saw the place where he had settled empty, his duvet thrown aside on the floor of the passenger compartment. Her own joined it as she rose and went into the command module. Carter was nowhere to be seen. Sitting in the pilot’s chair she unclipped her commlock.

  ‘Eagle Two to Carter. Eagle Two to Carter. Where are you, Alan?’ She relaxed as his face appeared on the screen. ‘So there you are. What are you doing?’

  ‘Just having a look round. You were asleep and it seemed a pity to wake you, so I figured I’d make a quick recce. The air’s clear, no mist, and the sun is warming things up nicely.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve found the trail they marked with coloured arrows and I’ll follow it for a bit.’

  ‘Be careful, Alan, and don’t be long.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sandra. I’m a big boy now.’

  Carter smiled as he broke the connection. She was quite a woman in more ways than one and he was lucky that she liked him. He lost the smile as he pressed on, his eyes wary, ears alert for the slightest sound. From all sides came the murmur of life; bird-calls, the stridulation of insects, small rustles, in the undergrowth and, once, a crashing which sent his hand flying to the butt of his laser.

  Drawing the weapon he stood listening, catching a hint of movement, a glimpse of something man-like lower down the trail.

  ‘Hey, there!’ Carter ran forward, lifting the gun. ‘You there! Hold it!’

  The ground vanished from beneath his feet.

  He fell, catching a glimpse of smoothed dirt, the sides of the pit which a thin layer of fronds had covered, and cursed himself for a fool. He had been skilfully lured, the man-like thing attracting his attention, causing him to look up instead of down. Now all he could do was to twist so as to break his fall. He landed heavily, the back of his head thudding against the side of the pit, his legs squelching in mud.

  Groggily he climbed to his feet.

  The edge of the pit was too high for him to reach and his gun was lost somewhere in the mud, but he had hands and feet and a thinking brain. Holes could be gouged from the dirt and a series of holds made up which he could climb. As he reached up to tear away more soil he froze, looking at the faces which appeared against the sky looking down at him, the men they belonged to.

  Three men, all savages, one armed with a spear.

  It was a rough wooden shaft tipped with a stone flaked to a point, a crude weapon but effective at close range. Carter dropped, backing as the jagged point lanced towards his face.

  ‘Hold it! I’m a friend! Friend, understand?’

  The man with the spear snarled, lifted it, threw it with a jerk of his powerful arm. Carter lunged aside just in time; the spear slammed into the dirt before which he had stood. As he tore at the weapon its owner sprang into the pit after it.

  A clenched fist smashed against the side of Carter’s head, a blow which sent him reeling, dazed and almost unconscious. Releasing the spear he kicked out, felt the jar as his boot made contact, and followed it with a punch to the stomach. It was like hitting a stone wall. Before he could strike again the savage had knocked him down, torn free the spear and, lifting it, poised it to thrust the point into Carter’s chest.

  The commlock buzzed before it came down.

  ‘Alan?’ Sandra was impatient. ‘How much longer are you going to be? Alan, answer me!’

  The spear lowered as the savage leaned forward to snatch the instrument from Carter’s belt. He stared at the girl’s face, at his companions, then back at the face again. One thick finger rose to touch the screen, a broken nail making a thin grating noise as he passed it over the picture.

  One of his companions snarled, beating at his chest, and the savage in the pit snarled back. Lifting his spear he waited until the others had caught it and almost ran up the side of the pit, holding the spear in one hand, the commlock in the other. Together they stared at the face of the girl on the screen and, then, as if one, turned and ran down the trail towards the grounded Eagles.

  Carter groaned, sitting upright, lifting one hand to his head. The light hurt his eyes and the faces before him were blurred.

  ‘Give him another dose,’ said Bergman. ‘I don’t think there are any skull fractures but there is obviously some concussion and the results of shock. Alan, snap out of it, man!’

  ‘My head!’

  ‘The pain will ease in a few seconds. David has given you a double dose of triphilyene-X. Now can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘Victor!’ Carter tried to stand upright, felt himself. restrained by Kano. ‘And you, David. What’s going on?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like you to tell us,’ said Bergman. ‘Sandra reported that you had failed to maintain contact. We were already on our way so we lost no time, but when we arrived we found no sign of life and started looking. You were lying on the edge of a pit.’

  ‘The edge?’

  ‘Yes, about three feet away from the rim. From the look of it you’d torn down soil and dug yourself out. You had no gun or commlock.’

  ‘The gun’s in the mud somewhere.’ Carter frowned, remembering a time of nightmare in which he had dug and clawed and fought his way upwards. He must have won free, crawled clear and then collapsed. ‘The commlock? I don’t know. I don’t remember Sandra calling, but I could have been unconscious at the time. Those savages weren’t gentle.’ He described them and explained what had happened. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t kill me—it must be my lucky day. I guess Sandra was worried.’

  ‘When she called in, yes, Alan, she was.’

  ‘You’d better let her know you’ve found me.’ Carter looked at their faces and reared to his feet. This time no one tried to stop him. ‘Wait minute! You said that, when you landed, you saw no sign of life. But Sandra—’

  ‘She was missing, Alan,’ said Bergman gently. ‘She wasn’t anywhere to be seen.’

  ‘Sandra? Gone?’

  ‘Steady!’ Kano caught the pilot by the arms. ‘There’s no sense in going off half-cocked, Alan. We’ve got to think this thing out. If she was taken then we’ll find her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’ It would have to be soon, but Kano didn’t mention that. ‘Now let’s get you back to the Eagles and get rid of some of that dirt.’

  For a moment Carter stood poised and then, recognizing the sense of the advice, nodded. Without a gun, without any means of communication, he would be quickly lost and could do Sandra no good. If she was dead then haste was unnecessary. If she was alive then it would only be a matter of time before he found her.

  And, when he did, those responsible would pay.

  ‘It must have been those savages,’ he said when, later, in the Eagle, washed and with clean clothes, armed and equipped, he sipped at a cup of coffee. Bergman had insisted that he eat and drink. And there was time for both. Outside the ranked Eagles men were busy scouting the terrain. ‘There were three of them, as I told you. Big, strong, rough characters. But how could they have managed to get into the Eagle?’

  ‘They couldn’t,’ said Kano. ‘Sandra must either have let them in or she had gone outside.’

  ‘And it must have happened after she called us,’ said Bergman. ‘Now let us speculate a little. Those savages could have taken your commlock, Alan. Sandra said that she had called you and her voice may have distracted them from killing you. They would have seen her face, but until they pressed the button she wouldn’t have heard or seen them. Now we know they are possessed of rudimentary intelligence; the construction of the pit and the flaking of the stone tipping the spear pro
ves that. They could have worked out that the face on the screen and the Eagles were connected. They may have seen you leave the ship, Alan, and deduced that the woman had remained inside.’

  ‘Where she would have stayed, Victor. Sandra was no fool. She wouldn’t have opened the doors to that bunch of primitives.’

  ‘Bear with me.’ Bergman rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. ‘I am trying to separate what happened to the others from what could have happened to Sandra. I do not think the two things are similar—and yet the disappearances are the same.’

  ‘It could have happened like this,’ said Kano, He set aside his cup and lifted his own commlock from his belt. ‘Let’s assume that, after calling us, Sandra again tried to contact Alan. The savage who held his commlock could have held it like this,’ He gripped his own so that the scanner pointed at the floor. ‘When she spoke his hand may have tightened and his finger hit the button. Now, if it did, all Sandra would have seen would have been the ground moving past. If they were close she might have seen a flash of an Eagle. She could have thought that Alan was ill or hurt or she could have been so pleased to make contact that she didn’t stop to think. She ran outside or opened the door and—’

  ‘They got her,’ said Carter bleakly. ‘Those savages got her and took her somewhere. But where?’ He looked at them, his eyes baffled. ‘I checked this entire area and saw no sign of a village or encampment. For God’s sake, Victor, where could she be?’

  It had been a nightmare, the sudden hope so quickly dashed, the shock of seeing the savages, the stench, the bestial snarls, the irresistible strength which had swept her up and flung her over a shoulder, the blow which had sent her senses whirling into darkness when she had tried to fight.

  A casual cuff without malice.

  A lesson from her new master.

  She watched him where he stood in the light of a fire, a heap of glowing embers burning in a surrounding ring of stone. Smoke from the fuel rose to coil under the roof of the cavern, joining other smoke from other fires. Between them men and women sat, eating, teeth tearing at barely cooked meat, lips sucking at the marrow of juicy bones.

  Men and women but no children; if any existed they were out of sight, possibly in a separate cavern.

  Sandra could not eat. She looked at the bone the man who had taken her had thrown towards her, the meat red, stringy, dripping with fat. The harvest of his spear, she thought, looking to where he stood leaning on the weapon. It gave him a status the others did not have; they were armed with clubs made of branches, a few with staves holding lashed stones. To one side of the cavern gaped an opening adorned with daubs of red pigment and skulls held to the rock by globs of dried mud. The floor before it was smooth and a fire burned more brightly than the others. The cave behind the opening held a pale glimmer as if a second fire, much smaller, lay within.

  The abode of the leader, she guessed. The palace of a Stone Age king.

  Already, even in a society as primitive as this had to be, rank and privilege were making themselves obvious.

  Would her master—the Spearman—have to present her to the court? Would he have to defend her or fight to retain possession of her? In this crude association of peoples would a woman have any rights at all?

  She knew the answer to that—none.

  Here only muscle power counted, brute force and vicious savagery. Pressed, she could find the latter, but nothing could give her the physical bulk necessary to beat any of the men to the ground. The blows which alone would command respect and obedience.

  Among these primitives she was a serf, a chattel, a thing to be used.

  Spearman took a step towards her, grunting as he gestured at the bone she held, the food she hadn’t been able to force herself to touch. A man standing to one side suddenly ran forward, snatched it, tried to escape with his prize. Spearman roared, chased him, smashed him down with a single blow of his hammer-like fist. Picking up the fallen meat he carried it to where Sandra sat and offered it in a soiled and grimed hand.

  An ape offering a civilized woman a morsel of fruit.

  A bribe?

  A gift?

  Food to fatten her up for the arduous life she now had to expect, the trials and tribulations, the endless, unremitting labour, the dirt, the disease, the degradation.

  Wildly she thought of a woman with whom she had once attended social classes at college. A fanatic of the simple life who preached the concept of the noble savage and advocated a return to the land. A disciple of mid-nineteenth century romantics who dreamed of Arcadia and who conveniently forgot that the simplest luxuries—heat, shelter, tender food—all had to be torn from nature as if they were trophies won in a terrible war.

  And life was a war, an unremitting war of ceaseless violence in which only the strong could hope to survive. The strong, the cunning, the hard, the ruthless.

  What hope did a civilized woman with all that implied have in such a world?

  Spearman moved again, coming closer, reaching out with one hand to touch her foot, ran the splayed fingers up her leg, to touch her thigh, frowning at the texture of her clothing.

  She suffered him, looking at the barrel of his chest, the skins which covered the dirt, the glinting shape of the commlock which he had casually thrust into his clothing.

  ‘I—that is will you give me that?’ She pointed at it. ‘Please?’

  His stare was the unresponsive glare of an animal.

  Again she tried, reaching out to touch his shoulder, letting her fingers fall, to trail over the upper torso, to touch the metal of the instrument. A snatch and it could be hers, but time would be needed to establish contact and she doubted if she would be given the time. Later, when he was asleep, perhaps, the chance would come.

  Sandra gagged when, with a sudden gesture, he rammed the bone against her mouth.

  ‘No!’ She spat, tasting char, blood, grease and grit. ‘I don’t want it! No!’

  He grunted, mouth opening, deep gutterals coming from deep within his chest. A finger jabbed at the meat, at his mouth, at hers, each in turn.

  ‘No!’ she said again. ‘I can’t! I—’ She broke off, cowering beneath the threat of the uplifted hand, a fist which halted its downward path as a roar echoed through the cavern.

  A deep-chested bellow which came from a tall figure standing before the mouth of the small, decorated cave.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He was dressed in fine skins and was now alone. Beside him, standing a little to his rear, stood a woman as finely dressed. The king and queen, thought Sandra wildly, the rulers of this savage tribe. And, obviously, she had attracted the chief’s attention.

  He came towards her and she rose, Spearman at her side, his eyes wary like those of a hunted beast. As the tall figure came near he stepped forward, grunting, lifting his hand, palm outwards and upheld in a gesture of rejection.

  The chief snarled.

  To one side a fire sprang into sudden life as flames rose from added fuel, the dancing light touching and illuminating the scene, the watching faces. It flickered on those of the chief and the woman who had followed him. Faces which, incredibly, Sandra recognized.

  ‘Commander! Doctor Russell!’

  Both ignored her.

  ‘John! Helena! Please!’

  The woman’s eyes flickered once in her direction but the man didn’t look at her at all. His entire attention was concentrated on Spearman. Now he lifted his hand, pointed to Sandra, to the woman and then to himself.

  Spearman shook his head, his hand stabbing at the girl and then at himself.

  Again the chief moved his hand, signalling his intention to take Sandra, to add her to his women, to keep her for himself.

  Spearman snarled, backing, his eyes darting from side to side. As he lunged for his spear the chief darted forward, his clenched fist falling like a hammer on the other’s skull. Spearman rolled, staggered to his feet and struck at the tall figure. The chief caught his arms, lifted him and, with an explosion of muscular energy, flung him in
to one of the fires.

  Spearman rolled, screaming, beating out flames and sparks as he ran to the far side of the cavern. Before she could follow him Sandra was gripped by the woman and dragged into the smaller cave.

  The chief followed, standing before the door, staring.

  ‘Commander!’ The likeness was too strong to be coincidence, yet what else could it be? ‘Doctor Russell! Both of you, please help me!’

  A grunted signal and the woman slipped from the cave, leaving Sandra alone with her new master. The fire within the chamber was banked against the rear wall, the stone thick with soot, the roof hidden beneath coiling smoke. The air was thick and hard to breath, odorous with the stench of pelts which lay heaped to one side, a bed towards which she was flung.

  As she landed one outstretched hand touched something hard.

  A stone shaped to be gripped. A primitive hand-axe or hammer which she snatched up and lifted as the chief came towards her, one hand ripping the tunic from her shoulders and torso.

  As the fabric parted and fell free Sandra slammed the stone against the chief’s skull.

  He grunted, swayed a little, one hand lifting to guard his head. She struck again, a third time, blood staining the stone, her hand, his matted hair.

  As he slumped she darted past him, through the cave opening and into the main cavern beyond. The woman was standing far to one side before a fire which she tended with handfuls of twigs. From other fires men watched the flash and sheen of her bare white skin, the mane of hair which hung loosely over her naked shoulders, but none made a move to come close. She was the property of the chief, he had fought for her and had almost killed for her. He would fight again if anyone tried to take her for his own.

  Spearman was nowhere to be seen.

  He must be hiding somewhere in the distant reaches of the cavern, nursing his burns and brooding over his loss. With him would be the commlock Sandra had hoped to obtain. Now all she could do was to run and hope to get back to the Eagles before the chief could recapture her.

  Already he was on his way.

  She caught a glimpse of him as she ran across the cavern. He stood in the decorated opening, swaying, blood dappling his face, his eyes glazed. From his open mouth came a series of harsh gutterals and his hands gestured in unmistakable sign language.