The Space Barbarians

by Mack Reynolds

  There were four of them in all—the one named Mark, Guru of the Shrine of Krishna; two younger men, similarly robed and shod but obviously of lesser rank in the hierarchy of this new faith; and, last from the craft that flew through the air, the skipper of the spaceship, Harmon.

  Bertram of the Fowlers, senior bedel, came now and stood beside John. Perhaps his faith was stronger than that of the rank and file of his colleagues, but in his face, too, was something John of the Hawks was dismayed to see.

  The guru, as before, carried an aura of calm dignity that dominated all. He approached now and nodded gently to John of the Hawks.

  “My son,” he said, “have you considered as yet and decided to take the soma and enter into the Shrine of Kalkin?”

  John looked at him levelly. “Nor will I ever, Guru of the Marks.” He gestured to the seated sachems and caciques. “We are assembled now in the Dail of the Loch Confederation and are even at present discussing how to meet the coming of you from Beyond. I point out that receiving you in peace means eventual ending of all our institutions, even that of our faith.”

  The older man spoke gently, and he spoke to all, rather than just to John. “I come from afar in the sky to bring, not to take. All, all of you, will find your eternal peace through following the Lord Krishna to the Shrine of Kalkin.”

  Bertram of the Fowlers had regained some of his poise.

  Now he said, and his own dignity was considerable, “The Holy Book says,

  And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,

  Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die,

  Lift not your hands to It for help—

  for It As impotently moves as you or I.”

  The guru looked at him quizzically. “What holy book is that, my brother?”

  The bedel was surprised. “But there are only four. Holy Books, as surely all men know. Though still there are some who dispute the traditions that before the great fire, on the coming of the Holy Inverness Ark, there were many, many Holy Books which were lost, either in the fire or during the misty years. And some would make ceremony of mourning the loss of the Holy Books no longer possessed by humankind, but some of us find wisdom in:

  The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,

  Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

  Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

  Nor all your tears wash out a Word of it.”

  The guru was not beyond the capability for fine amusement. He smiled now and said, “My brother, there have been many holy books, and all have their element of good, perhaps. However, now, with the final avatara of Lord Vishnu, all faiths must unite into one, and all holy books are of little more than historic interest. Perhaps someday we shall have occasion to discuss some of them, to fill an idle hour. But as I say, they are of little more than passing interest, my brother.”

  “I am not your brother, we are not even kyn,” Bertram of the Fowlers said in indignation. “And one must not speak thus about the Holy Books; it is against the bann! And though my eyes, in retreat as my years advance, no longer allow me to contemplate them, so much have I read in the past that they are all but memorized.”

  The guru nodded and looked more closely at the other. “Cataracts,” he murmured. Then, “My, brother, as soon as we are established, you must be first to allow Lord Krishna to intervene in your behalf. You shall read again—tomorrow, at the latest.”

  The elderly bedel stared at him, his aged mouth working. “You mean… ?”

  “Yes,” the guru said simply. He looked about. “As soon as we can be settled in quarters, I shall invoke the Lord Krishna in your behalf immediately.”

  Thomas of the Polks was coming forward. He said. “We have not yet voted upon how to receive you, strangers from Beyond. However, you are travelers and hence welcome to a minimum of three days of hospitality, even though the last time your clannsmen visited Aberdeen our hospitality was abused.”

  John of the Hawks said to Harmon, who had been standing to one side, his face characteristically sardonic, “When you were here before, Mister of the Harmons, my quarters, in the longhouse of the Hawks, were relinquished to you. Though you are now my bloodfeud foe, it is as the sachem has said—you are travelers and hence eligible for three days of hospitality. If you wish, my quarters are again available.”

  Harmon made an amused half bow. He turned, to the Guru. “As good a place as any. I’ll have the men set up your portable clinic, ah, that is, your shrine.”

  The guru frowned at him, albeit gently. “A pagoda, my son, does not depend upon surroundings. It is where the heart of the follower of Lord Krishna is.”

  “Of course,” Harmon said dryly. He returned to the skimmer.

  John turned and left the amphitheater, heading back for the rows of sagamores, the subchiefs.

  Don was among them. John jerked his head toward the edge of the assembly, and Don, his eyebrows high in surprise, followed.

  “When they were out of earshot of everyone else, Don demanded, “Why in the name of the Holy did you offer that slink your quarters?”

  “You’ll see,” John growled. “Long years ago, through accident, I heard much of the plans of these men from Beyond. This time, it will be no accident. We must hurry, because almost surely, when they first enter the quarters, thinking themselves alone, they will discuss their purpose here.”

  Even as he strode along beside his blood comrade, Don was both mystified and surprised. He said hesitantly, “Do you mean you plan to spy upon the travelers who have been granted the hospitality of Aberdeen?”

  John snorted. “True enough. I would be stripped of my kilts, were the Keepers of the Faith to know. I did it before, long years ago, but then I was but a lad and not a full clannsman, and besides, as I say, it was an accident. However, this situation is more serious than most seem to know, and I sacrifice my honor for the greater need. Not only is Aberdeen at stake, but the whole Loch Confederation. Indeed, all Caledonia.”

  Don maintained an unhappy silence.

  They reached the Hawk longhouse, entered, and made their way by ladder to the flat roof. As they proceeded, John explained, “I always believed that those from Beyond would return. The explorer ship came first, and they were insufficient in number to achieve what they wished. I prepared for their return—if and when chance brought them again to Aberdeen and the longhouse of the Hawks.”

  They had reached the point immediately above his chambers. John knelt, and his hands moved deftly.

  “Here,” he said, stretching out on his belly.

  Don of the Clarks, still frowning, joined him. There were small holes leading down through the roof, and through these holes the living room of the small apartment below was observable.

  They had a wait of perhaps fifteen minutes; then two of the orange clad men from Beyond entered, carrying various equipment. Mark, the guru, entered next, followed by Harmon.

  Harmon was saying in amusement, “I see you follow the old adage “Don’t talk with angels, talk with God.’ ”

  The guru said, “I don’t believe I understand, my son.”

  Harmon chuckled. “Picking out their senior religious figure for your first miracle. Curing that old boy’s eyesight will have them flocking in. It will start with the really bad cases, paralytics and so forth, but before the week is out you’ll have half the town making your soma.”

  The guru said, “Down through all history, my son, the spreaders of faith have performed miracles in order to win their followers. Joshua of Nazereth, Mohammed, even Vishnu in his ninth avatara as the Buddha.”

  Harmon said, “But the followers of the Lord Krishna, such as yourself, Guru Mark, have a great advantage in miracles. Modern medicine certainly puts you in a position to perform miracles far and beyond those of any of your predecessors.”

  John could see the guru’s face, and it expressed surprise. “But my son, it all leads to their taking their soma and becoming one with Lord Krishna.”

  “And the ends justify the means,
eh?” Harmon laughed again. “I detect a slight Machiavellian quality.”

  Don whispered to his companion, “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” John said. “Listen.”

  Mark was saying, trouble in his voice. “My son, though you wear the robe of the acolyte, I sometimes wonder at your faith. For instance, when we first embarked upon this missionary expedition to a new world which had as yet not heard the message of the Lord Krishna, I did not know you had other interests than bringing the Shrine of Kalkin to Caledonia.”

  Harmon said, “Guru, somebody said once, I forget who, to give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and unto God that which is God’s. There are many facets to human existence, Only one of which is religion.”

  “By far the most important!”

  “Of course.” Harmon didn’t bother to keep cynical amusement from his voice. “However, there are other things. The syndicate which I represent is based on one of the new planets where—shall we call it free enterprise?—is still in full force. We are interested in bringing, ah, civilization to Caledonia, so that its minerals can be exploited. So long us this fantastic barbarism continues, we haven’t got a chance. Very good. You have no complaints. It was through us that you were able to mount your missionary expedition. It is through us that you are able to spread your message here. Lord knows—that is, Lord Krishna, of course—you don’t reach many ears elsewhere.”

  “There is deep cynicism throughout the League, my son. It is a great sadness that so few will take the soma and follow in the path of Lord Krishna.”

  “Well, at least you’re having your big chance on Caledonia.”

  One of the other orange robed ones spoke then, his words indistinguishable, and both Harmon and the guru moved out of range of the peep holes being utilized by John of the Hawks and Don of the Clarks.

  The two clannsmen looked at each other.

  Mystified, Don said, “But what is this soma?”

  John shook his head. “Whatever it is, I will go down to black death before taking it. These are shameless, clannless men of evil.

  Scowling Don said slowly, “No, not the old one. He is a holy man. Whether this new religion of his is a true religion, I will not say, but he is a holy man.”

  John of the Hawks snorted. “He serves evil,” he growled.

  Chapter Four

  John and Dewey of the Hawks and Don of the Clarks rode hard. Each man was mounted on one war steed and led two more. Periodically, they changed horses.

  Largely, they rode in silence, but Don broke it at last.

  He said, “It is no time to be leaving Aberdeen, with the strangers there. Bertram, Bedel of the Fowlers, has announced that if this so-called guru can cure his blindness, he will take the soma.”

  John said in irritation, “You know it is the only time. We have discussed and discussed, and there is no other time in which we could possibly force the city. Four years and more in planning this has taken. Another year and it might not work.”

  Dewey of the Hawks growled, “This year it may not work. The more I think about it, the more I am of the opinion that we all play the fool.”

  John didn’t answer him.

  “Let’s change horses,” Don said. “Mine becomes jaded. We must preserve them. They must be fresh on the return, since we will have half the Clann Thompson on our trail.”

  “We shall have all the Clann Thompson on our trail,” Dewey amended sourly.

  Eventually, they reached their destination, a clump of trees overlooking the Caledonian town below. Even though the distance was still considerable, they fell into whispers as they dismounted.

  John said, “Where is that confounded chart?”

  Dewey brought a large piece of parchment from a saddlebag. “By the Holy, it had better be correct.”

  John spread it out on the ground and hunkered down on his heels. “It is correct,” he growled. “It has taken four years to compile, from every source of information we could find.” He traced with a finger. “This is the longhouse of the Thompsons. These, the quarters of unwed lasses who do not live with their families. Here she must be, for she has no family, all having been killed in raid.”

  Don of the Clarks said unhappily, “If we’re spotted by warders…”

  John was impatient. “For all practical purposes there are no warders. All were at Aberdeen and the Dail.” He looked up at the sky. “Soon it will be dark enough. Listen!” He cocked an ear. “They are beginning to return. Hurry. The kilts.”

  He and Don began to strip, as Dewey brought forth clothing from another saddlebag.

  Dewey said, “Sally did a good job with the Thompson material. Aüi She must have been embarrassed. And imagine climbing into the kilts of another clann. Have you two no shame?”

  Don laughed. “None at all. Give me that.”

  They donned the disguises, and the Clark clannsman began to buckle his scabbard back around his waist. But John shook his head and hung his own sword and dagger over the pommel of his saddle.

  “Are you daft?” Don blurted. “You mean to go down into Caithness unarmed!”

  John of the Hawks brought his coup stick from its saddle sheath and tucked it in his belt. He said, “I cannot shed the blood of my bride’s kyn on the night I steal her. Especially since I steal her without honorable permission.”

  Don rolled his eyes upward in supplication. “But I can! For many a year I have raided, and been raided by, the Thompsons. They know me well, and any of their clannsmen that see me in Caithness would—”

  “No,” John said. “Besides, we will look less suspicious if we appear unarmed.”

  Don silently and unhappily hung his own scabbard over Iris animal’s pommel. He said to Dewey, “When we come back, we’ll come back on the fly. Have all ready.” He took up a coil of rope from behind his saddle.

  “I know, I know,” Dewey of the Hawks said. “If you come back. I still say we’re all three daft.”

  John had started down the hill. Don followed him, after shooting one last longing glance at his sword and dagger.

  They were already out of earshot when Dewey muttered, “There’ll be vendetta after this night. And a full year to go before a meeting of the Dail to reconcile it.”

  From the far side of town, John and Don could hear the returning clannsmen entering the main gate, and they hurried. When they reached the wall, relieved that there had been no shout of a warder spotting them, John brought forth the parchment chart.

  “Here. This is it,” he whispered, staring upward. This side of the longhouse was blank, being part of the wall defenses of the town.

  Don had been carrying his coil of rope, a grapple tied to one end. Now he swung it, tossed the grapple up and onto the roof. The first time it failed to catch and made what seemed a considerable noise when it scratched across the roof and then fell with a clatter back to their feet. John groaned.

  Don recoiled the rope, tossed again. It caught. He grinned success at his blood comrade and, without a word, started up the rope, hand over hand, his feet walking up the wall. When he was at the top, he looked about quickly, then turned and gestured for John. John followed him up the line.

  On the roof, they checked their map again. “This way,” John whispered. “Over there should be the entry nearest to the quarters of the unwed lasses.”

  “I know the way by heart,” Don muttered. They approached the roof entry and were relieved to find it open and a ladder in place. The nights were hot this time of year, and the occupants of the longhouse took full advantage of any breath of air that could be induced to enter their community home.

  They descended quietly, reached the hall below and took a brief pause to orient themselves. The building was all but Identical to their own longhouses back in Aberdeen, so the problem was inconsiderable. “This way,” John whispered.

  They found the area they sought. John of the Hawks took a breath and reached for the latch.

  A voice said, “Where in the name of the Holy are
you two going?” on whirled. A Thompson clannsman had stepped into the corridor from a room behind them. Even as the newcomer’s eyes began to widen, Don came in fast. His fist lashed out into the other’s belly. The Thompson doubled forward, his mouth trying to open in shout.

  John stepped in close and slugged him mercilessly on the side of the head. The man collapsed. Don caught him, his eyes darting up and down the corridor.

  “What’ll we do with him?”

  “Back into the room he just came from,” John snapped. “And say praises to the Holy that there’s no one else in there.” He took a quick step to the door through which the enemy clannsman had stepped and threw it open. The room was empty. A small room, evidently some sort of storage area.

  Don dragged the Thompson into the room and let him slump to the floor. He took his coup stick from his belt and looked down at the fallen clannsman.

  He scowled and said, “Can you count coup on a man who is unconscious?”

  John thought about it. “I don’t know. I have never heard of such a matter. However, he wasn’t unconscious when he first confronted us. And he is armed.”

  “It will have to be left to the Keepers of the Faith,” Don said. He brought” his coup stick from his belt and tapped the Thompson, saying, “I count coup.”

  John shrugged and brought forth his own coup stick. “I count second coup.”

  They stuck their coup sticks back in their belts and left the room again, after checking the unconscious one. He looked as though he would be out for quite a time.

  They returned to the quarters of the unmarried females of the Clann Thompson, and again John took the latch in hand. They pushed in and ran immediately into the presence of a girl who most certainly couldn’t have been more than sixteen years of age.

  Her eyes widened, as she opened her mouth to scream. Don grabbed her as gently as possible and stuck a hand over her mouth. John closed the door behind them.