Star Born

by Andre Norton

  15

  ARENA

  The dull pain which throbbed through Dalgard's skull with every beatof his heart was confusing, and it was hard to think clearly. But thecolony scout, soon after he had fought his way back to consciousness,had learned that he was imprisoned somewhere in the globe ship. Justas he now knew that he had been brought across the sea from thecontinent on which Homeport was situated and that he had no hope ofrescue.

  He had seen little of his captors, and the guards, who had hustled himfrom one place of imprisonment to another, had not spoken to him, norhad he tried to communicate with them. At first he had been too sickand confused, then too wary. These were clearly Those Others and theconditioning which had surrounded him from birth had instilled in hima deep distrust of the former masters of Astra.

  Now Dalgard was more alert, and his being brought to this room in whatwas certainly the center of the alien civilization made him believethat he was about to meet the rulers of the enemy. So he staredcuriously about him as the guards jostled him through the door.

  On a dais fashioned of heaped-up rainbow-colored pads were threealiens, their legs folded under them at what seemed impossible angles.One wore the black wrappings, the breastplate of the guards, but theother two had indulged their love of color in weird, eye-disturbingcombinations of shades in the bandages wrapping the thin limbs andpaunchy bodies. They were, as far as he could see through the thicklayers of paint overlaying their skins, older than their officercompanion. But nothing in their attitude suggested that age hadmellowed them.

  Dalgard was brought to stand before the trio as before a tribunal ofjudges. His sword-knife had been taken from his belt before he hadregained his senses, his hands were twisted behind his back and lockedtogether in a bar and hoop arrangement. He certainly could offerlittle threat to the company, yet they ringed him in, weapons ready,watching his every move. The scout licked cracked lips. There was onething they could not control, could not prevent him from doing.Somewhere, not too far away, was help ...

  Not from the merpeople, but he was sure that he had been in contactwith another friendly mind. Since the hour of his awakening on boardthe globe ship, when he had half-consciously sent out an appeal foraid over the band which united him with Sssuri's race, and had touchedthat other consciousness--not the cold alien stream about him--he hadbeen sure that somewhere within the enemy throng there was a potentialsavior. Was it among those who manned the strange flyer, those themerpeople had spied upon but whom he had not yet seen?

  Dalgard had striven since that moment of contact to keep in touch withthe nebulous other mind, to project his need for help. But he had beenunable to enter in freely as he could with his own kind, or withSssuri and the sea people. Now, even as he stood in the heart of theenemy territory completely at the mercy of the aliens, he felt, morestrongly than ever before, that another, whose mind he could not enterand yet who was in some queer way sensitive to his appeal, was closeat hand. He searched the painted faces before him trying to probebehind each locked mask, but he was certain that the one he sought wasnot there. Only--he must be! The contact was so strong--Dalgard'sstartled eyes went to the wall behind the dais, tried vainly to tracewhat could only be felt. He would be willing to give a knife oath thatthe stranger was within seeing, listening distance at this minute!

  While he was so engrossed in his own problem, the guard had moved. Thehooped bar which locked his wrists was loosened, and his arms, eachtight in the grip of one of the warriors were brought out before him.The officer on the dais tossed a metal ring to one of the guards.

  Roughly the warrior holding Dalgard's left arm forced the band overhis hand and jerked it up his forearm as far as it would go. As itwinked in the light the scout was reminded of a similar bracelet hehad seen--where? On the front leg of the snake-devil he had shot!

  The officer produced a second ring, slipping it smoothly over his ownarm, adjusting it to touch bare skin and not the wrappings whichserved him as a sleeve. Dalgard thought he understood. A device tofacilitate communication. And straightway he was wary. When hisancestors had first met the merpeople, they had established a means ofspeech through touch, the palm of one resting against the palm of theother. In later generations, when they had developed their new senses,physical contact had not been necessary. However, here--Dalgard's eyesnarrowed, the line along his jaw was hard.

  He had always accepted the merpeople's estimate of Those Others, thattheir ancient enemies were all-seeing and all-knowing, with mentalpowers far beyond their own definition or description. Now he halfexpected to be ruthlessly mind-invaded, stripped of everything theenemy desired to know.

  So he was astonished when the words which formed in his thoughts weresimple, almost childish. And while he prepared to answer them, anotherpart of him watched and listened, waiting for the attack he was surewould come.

  "You--are--who--what?"

  He forced a look of astonishment. Nor did he make the mistake ofanswering that mentally. If Those Others did not know he could usethe mind speech, why betray his power?

  "I am of the stars," he answered slowly, aloud, using the speech ofHomeport. He had so little occasion to talk lately that his voicesounded curiously rusty and harsh in his own ears. Nor had he theleast idea of the impression those few archaically accented wordswould have on one who heard them.

  To Dalgard's inner surprise the answer did not astonish hisinterrogator. The alien officer might well have been expecting to hearjust that. But he pulled off his own arm band before he turned to hisfellows with a spurt of the twittering speech they used amongthemselves. While the two civilians were still trilling, the officeredged forward an inch or so and stared at Dalgard intently as hereplaced the band.

  "You not look--same--as others--"

  "I do not know what you mean. Here are not others like me."

  One of the civilians twitched at the officer's sleeve, apparentlydemanding a translation, but the other shook him off impatiently.

  "You come from sky--now?"

  Dalgard shook his head, then realized that gesture might not meananything to his audience. "Long ago before I was, my people came."

  The alien digested that, then again took off his band before herelayed it to his companions. The excited twitter of their speechscaled up.

  "You travel with the beasts--" the alien's accusation came crisplywhile the others gabbled. "That which hunts could not have tracked youhad not the stink of the beast things been on you."

  "I know no beasts," Dalgard faced up to that squarely. "The sea peopleare my friends!"

  It was hard to read any emotion on these lacquered and bedaubed faces,but before the officer once more broke bracelet contact, Dalgard didsense the other's almost hysterical aversion. The scout might justhave admitted to the most revolting practices as far as the alien wasconcerned. After he had translated, all three of those on the daiswere silent. Even the guards edged away from the captive as if in somemanner they might be defiled by proximity. One of the civilians madean emphatic statement, got creakily to his feet, and walked always asif he would have nothing more to do with this matter. After a secondor two of hesitation his fellow followed his example.

  The officer turned the bracelet around in his fingers, his dark eyeswith their slitted pupils never leaving Dalgard's face. Then he cameto a decision. He pushed the ring up his arm, and the words whichreached the prisoner were coldly remote, as if the captive were nolonger judged an intelligent living creature but something which hadno right of existence in a well-ordered universe.

  "Beast friends with beast. As the beasts--so shall you end. It isspoken."

  One of the guards tore the bracelet from Dalgard's arm, trying not totouch the scout's flesh in the process. And those who once moreshackled his wrists ostentatiously wiped their hands up and down thewrappings on their thighs afterwards.

  But before they jabbed him into movement with the muzzles of theirweapons, Dalgard located at last the source of that disturbing mentaltouch, not only located it, but in so
me manner broke through theexisting barrier between the strange mind and his and communicated asclearly with it as he might have with Sssuri. And the excitement ofhis discovery almost led to self-betrayal!

  Terran! One of those who traveled with the aliens? Yet he read clearlythe other's distrust of that company, the fact that he lay inconcealment here without their knowledge. And he was notunfriendly--surely he could not be a Peaceman of Pax! Another fugitivefrom a newly-come colony ship--? Dalgard beamed a warning to theother. If he who was free could only reach the merpeople! It mightmean the turning point in their whole venture!

  Dalgard was furiously planning, simplifying, trying to impress themost imperative message on that other mind as he stumbled away in themidst of the guards. The stranger was confused, apparently Dalgard'sarrival, his use of the mind touch, had been an overwhelming surprise.But if he could only make the right move--would make it--The scoutfrom Homeport had no idea what was in store for him, but with one ofhis own breed here and suspicious of the aliens he had at least a slimchance. He snapped the thread of communication. Now he must be readyfor any opportunity--

  Raf watched that amazing apparition go out of the room below. He wasshaking with a chill born of no outside cold. First the shock ofhearing that language, queerly accented as the words were, then thatsharp contact, mind to mind. He was being clearly warned againstrevealing himself. The stranger was a Terran, Raf would swear to that.So somewhere on this world there was a Terran colony! One of thoselegendary ships of outlaws, who had taken to space during the rule ofPax, had made the crossing safely and had here established a foothold.

  While one part of Raf's brain fitted together the jigsaw of bits andpatches of information, the other section dealt with that message ofwarning the other had beamed to him. The pilot knew that the captivemust be in immediate danger. He could not understand all that hadhappened in that interview with the aliens, but he was left with theimpression that the prisoner had been not only tried but condemned.And it was up to him to help.

  But how? By the time he got back to the flitter or was able to findHobart and the others, it might already be too late. _He_ must makethe move, and soon, for there had been unmistakable urgency in thecaptive's message. Raf's hands fumbled at the grid before him, andthen he realized that the opening was far too small to admit him tothe room on the other side of the wall.

  To return to the underground ways might be a waste of time, but hecould see no other course open to him. What if he could not find thecaptive later? Where in the maze of the half-deserted city could hehope to come across the trail again? Even as he sorted out all thepoints which could defeat him, Raf's hands and feet felt for thenotched steps which would take him down. He had gone only two floorswhen he was faced with a grille opening which was much larger. Onimpulse he stopped to measure it, sure he could squeeze through here,if he could work loose the grid.

  Prying with one hand and a tool from his belt pouch, he struggled notonly against the stubborn metal but against time. That strange mentalcommunication had ceased. Though he was sure that he still received atrace of it from time to time, just enough to reassure him that theprisoner was still alive. And each time it touched him Raf redoubledhis efforts on the metal clasps of the grid. At last his determinationtriumphed, and the grille swung out, to fall with an appalling clatterto the floor.

  The pilot thrust his feet through the opening and wriggleddesperately, expecting any moment to confront a reception committeedrawn by the noise. But when he reached the floor, the hallway wasstill vacant. In fact, he was conscious of a hush in the wholebuilding, as if those who made their homes within its walls wereelsewhere. That silence acted on him as a spur.

  Raf ran along the corridor, trying to subdue the clatter of his spaceboots, coming to a downward ramp. There he paused, unable to decidewhether to go down--until he caught sight of a party of aliens below,walking swiftly enough to suggest that they too were in a hurry.

  This small group was apparently on its way to some gathering. And init for the first time the Terran saw the women of the aliens, or atleast the fully veiled, gliding creatures he guessed were the femalesof the painted people. There were four of them in the group ahead,escorted by two of the males, and the high fluting of their voicesresounded along the corridor as might the cheeping of birds. If themales were colorful in their choice of body wrappings, the femaleswere gorgeous beyond belief, as cloudy stuff which had the changinghues of Terran opals frothed about them to completely conceal theirfigures.

  The harsher twittering of the men had an impatient note, and the wholeparty quickened pace until their glide was close to an undignifiedtrot. Raf, forced to keep well behind lest his boots betray him,fumed.

  They did not go into the open, but took another way which sloped downonce more. Luckily the journey was not a long one. Ahead was lightwhich suggested the outdoors.

  Raf sucked in his breath as he came out a goodly distance behind thealiens. Established in what was once a court surrounded by the towersand buildings of the city was a miniature of that other arena where hehad seen the dead lizard things. The glittering, gayly dressed alienswere taking their places on the tiers of seats. But the place whichhad been built to accommodate at least a thousand spectators nowhoused less than half the number. If this was the extent of the aliennation, it was the dregs of a dwindling race.

  Directly below where Raf lingered in an aisle dividing the tiers ofseats, there was a manhole opening with a barred gate across it, anentrance to the sand-covered enclosure. And fortunately the alienswere all clustered close to the oval far from that spot.

  Also the attention of the audience was firmly riveted on events below.A door at the sand level had been flung open, and through it was nowhustled the prisoner. Either the aliens still possessed some idea offair play or they hoped to prolong a contest to satisfy their ownpleasure, for the captive's hands were unbound and he clutched aspear.

  Remembering far-off legends of earlier and more savage civilizationson his own world, Raf was now sure that the lone man below was aboutto fight for his life. The question was, against what?

  Another of the mouthlike openings around the edge of the arena opened,and one of the furry people shambled out, weaving weakly from side toside as he came, a spear in his scaled paws. He halted a step or twointo the open, his round head swinging from side to side, spittledrooling from his gaping mouth. His body was covered with raw soresand bare patches from which the fur had been torn away, and it wasapparent that he had long been the victim of ill-usage, if nottorture.

  Shrill cries arose from the alien spectators as the furred one blinkedin the light and then sighted the man some feet away. He stiffened,his arm drew back, the spear poised. Then as suddenly it dropped tohis side, and he fell on his knees before wriggling across the sand,his paws held out imploringly to his fellow captive.

  The cries from the watching aliens were threatening. Several rose intheir seats gesturing to the two below. And Raf, thankful for theirabsorption, sped down to the manhole, discovering to his delight itcould be readily opened from his side. As he edged it around, therewas another sound below. This was no high-pitched fluting from aliensdeprived of their sport, but a hissing nightmare cry.

  Raf's line of vision, limited by the door, framed a portion of scaledback, as it looked, immediately below him. His hand went to the blastbombs as he descended the runway, and his boots hit the sand just asthe drama below reached its climax.

  The furred one lay prone in the sand, uncaring. Above that mistreatedbody, the human stood in the half-crouch of a fighting man, the punyspear pointed up bravely at a mark it could not hope to reach, thesoft throat of one of the giant lizards. The reptile did not move tospeedily destroy. Instead, hissing, it reared above the two as ifstudying them with a vicious intelligence. But there was no time towonder how long it would delay striking.

  Raf's strong teeth ripped loose the tag end of the blast bomb, and helobbed it straight with a practiced arm so that the ball spiraledacross the arena to co
me to rest between the massive hind legs of thelizard. He saw the man's eyes widen as they fastened on him. And thenthe human captive flung himself to the earth, half covering the bodyof the furred one. The reptile grabbed in the same instant, itsgrasping claws cutting only air, and before it could try a second timethe bomb went off.

  Literally torn apart by the explosion, the creature must have died atonce. But the captive moved. He was on his feet again, pulling hiscompanion up with him, before the startled spectators could guess whathad happened. Then half carrying the other prisoner, he ran, notonward to the waiting Raf, but for the gate through which he had comeinto the arena. At the same time a message beat into the Terran'sbrain--

  "This way!"

  Avoiding bits of horrible refuse, Raf obeyed that order, catching upin a couple of strides with the other two and linking his arm throughthe dangling one of the furred creature to take some of the strainfrom the stranger.

  "Have you any more of the power things?" the words came in the archaicspeech of his own world.

  "Two more bombs," he answered.

  "We may have to blow the gate here," the other panted breathlessly.

  Instead Raf drew his stun gun. The gate was already opening, a wedgeof the painted warriors heading through, flame-throwers ready. Hesprayed wide, and on the highest level. A spout of fire singed thecloth of his tunic across the top of his shoulder as one of the lastaliens fired before his legs buckled and he went down. Then,opposition momentarily gone, the two with their semiconscious chargestumbled over the bodies of the guards and reached the corridorbeyond.