That sigh of displaced air was not as loud as a
breeze, but it echoed monstrously in Shann’s ears. He could
not believe in his luck as that sound grew fainter, drew away into
the valley he had just left. With infinite caution he raised his
head from his arm, still hardly able to accept the fact that he had
not been sighted, that the Throgs and their flyer were gone.
But that black plate was spinning out into the sun haze. One of
the beetles might have suspected that there were Terran fugitives
and ordered a routine patrol. After all, how could the aliens know
that they had caught all but one of the Survey party in camp?
Though with all the Terran scout flitters grounded on the field,
the men dead in their bunks, the surprise would seem to be
complete.
As Shann moved, Taggi and Togi came to life also. They had gone
to earth with speed, and the man was sure that both beasts had
sensed danger. Not for the first time he knew a burning desire for
the formal education he had never had. In camp he had listened,
dragging out routine jobs in order to overhear reports and the
small talk of specialists keen on their own particular hobbies. But
so much of the information Shann had thus picked up to store in a
retentive memory he had not understood and could not fit together.
It had been as if he were trying to solve some highly important
puzzle with at least a quarter of the necessary pieces missing, or
with unrelated bits from others intermixed. How much control did a
trained animal scout have over his furred or feathered assistants?
And was part of that mastery a mental rapport built up between man
and animal?
How well would the wolverines obey him now, especially when they
would not return to camp where cages stood waiting as symbols of
human authority? Wouldn’t a trek into the wilderness bring
about a revolt for complete freedom? If Shann could depend upon the
animals, it would mean a great deal. Not only would their superior
hunting ability provide all three with food, but their scouting
senses, so much keener than his, might erect a slender wall between
life and death.
Few large native beasts had been discovered on Warlock by the
Terran explorers. And of those four or five different species, none
had proved hostile if unprovoked. But that did not mean that
somewhere back in the wild lands into which Shann was heading there
were not heretofore unknowns, perhaps slyer and as vicious as the
wolverines when they were aroused to rage.
Then there were the “dreams,” which had afforded the
prime source of camp discussion and dispute. Shann brushed coarse
sand from his boots and thought about the dreams. Did they or did
they not exist? You could start an argument any time by making a
definite statement for or against the peculiar sort of dreaming
reported by the first scout to set ship on this world.
The Circe system, of which Warlock was the second of three
planets, had first been scouted four years ago by one of those
explorers traveling solo in Survey service. Everyone knew that the
First-In Scouts were a weird breed, almost a mutation of Terran
stock—their reports were rife with strange observations.
So an alarming one concerning Circe, a solar-type yellow sun,
and her three planets was no novelty. Witch, the world nearest in
orbit to Circe, was too hot for human occupancy without drastic and
too costly world-changing. Wizard, the third out from the sun, was
mostly bare rock and highly poisonous water. But Warlock, swinging
through space between two forbidding neighbors, seemed to be just
what the settlement board ordered.
Then the Survey scout, even in the cocoon safety of his
well-armed ship, began to dream. And from those dreams a horror of
the apparently empty world developed, until he fled the planet to
preserve his sanity. There had been a second visit to Warlock to
confirm this—worlds so well adapted to human emigration could
not be lightly thrown away. But this time the report was negative.
There was no trace of dreams, no registration of any outside
influence on the delicate and complicated equipment the ship
carried. So the Survey team had been dispatched to prepare for the
coming of the first pioneers, and none of them had dreamed
either—at least, no more than the ordinary dreams all men
accepted.
Only there were those who pointed out that the seasons had
changed between the first and second visits to Warlock. That first
scout had planeted in summer; his successors had come in fall and
winter. They argued that the final release of world for settlement
should not be given until the full year on Warlock had been
sampled.
But pressure from Emigrant Control had forced their hands, that
and the fear of just what had eventually happened—an attack
from the Throgs. So they had speeded up the process of declaring
Warlock open. Only Ragnar Thorvald had protested that decision up
to the last and had gone back to headquarters on the supply ship a
month ago to make a last appeal for a more careful study.
Shann stopped brushing the sand from the tough fabric above his
knee. Ragnar Thorvald . . . He remembered back
to the port landing apron on another world, remembered with a sense
of loss he could not define. That had been about the second biggest
day of his short life; the biggest had come earlier when they had
actually allowed him to sign on for Survey duty.
He had tumbled off the cross-continent cargo carrier, his
kit—a very meager kit—slung over his thin shoulder, a
hot eagerness expanding inside him until he thought that he could
not continue to throttle down that wild happiness. There was a
waiting starship. And he—Shann Lantee from the Dumps of Tyr,
without any influence or schooling—was going to blast off in
her, wearing the brown-green uniform of Survey!
Then he had hesitated, had not quite dared cross the few feet of
apron lying between him and that compact group wearing the same
uniform—with a slight difference, that of service bars and
completion badges and rank insignia—with the unconscious
self-assurance of men who had done this many times before.
But after a moment that whole group had become in his own shy
appraisal just a background for one man. Shann had never before
known in his pinched and limited childhood, his lost boyhood,
anyone who aroused in him hero worship. And he could not have put a
name to the new emotion that added so suddenly to his burning
desire to make good, not only to hold the small niche in Survey
which he had already so painfully achieved, but to climb, until he
could stand so in such a group talking easily to that tall man, his
uncovered head bronze-yellow in the sunlight, his cool gray eyes
pale in his brown face.
Not that any of those wild dreams born in that minute or two had
been realized in the ensuing months. Probably those dreams had
always been as wild as the ones reported by the first scout on
Warlock. Shann grinned wryly now at the short period of childish
hope and half-confidence that he could do big things. Only one
Thorvald had ever noticed Shann’s existence in the Survey
camp, and that had been Garth.
Garth Thorvald, a far less impressive—one could say
“smudged”—copy of his brother. Swaggering with an
arrogance Ragnar never showed, Garth was a cadet on his first
mission, intent upon making Shann realize the unbridgeable gulf
between a labor hand and an officer-to-be. He had appeared to know
right from their first meeting just how to make Shann’s life
a misery.
Now, in this slit of valley wall away from the domes,
Shann’s fists balled. He pounded them against the earth in a
way he had so often hoped to plant them on Garth’s smoothly
handsome face, his well-muscled body. One didn’t survive the
Dumps of Tyr without learning how to use fists, and boots, and a
list of tricks they didn’t teach in any academy. He had
always been sure that he could take Garth if they mixed it up. But
if he had loosed the tight rein he had kept on his temper and
offered that challenge, he would have lost his chance with Survey.
Garth had proved himself able to talk his way out of any scrape,
even minor derelictions of duty, and he far outranked Shann. The
laborer from Tyr had had to swallow all that the other could dish
out and hope that on his next assignment he would not be a member
of young Thorvald’s team. Though, because of Garth Thorvald,
Shann’s toll of black record marks had mounted dangerously
high and each day the chance for any more duty tours had grown
dimmer.
Shann laughed, and the sound was ugly. That was one thing he
didn’t have to worry about any longer. There would be no
other assignments for him, the Throgs had seen to that. And
Garth . . . well, there would never be a
showdown between them now. He stood up. The Throg ship had
disappeared; they could push on.
He found a break in the cliff wall which was climbable, and he
coaxed the wolverines after him. When they stood on the heights
from which the falls tumbled, Taggi and Togi rubbed against him,
cried for his attention. They, too, appeared to need the
reassurance they got from contact with him, for they were also
fugitives on this alien world, the only representatives of their
kind.
Since he did not have any definite goal in view, Shann continued
to be guided by the stream, following its wanderings across a
plateau. The sun was warm, so he carried his jacket slung across
one shoulder. Taggi and Togi ranged ahead, twice catching
skitterers, which they devoured eagerly. A shadow on a sun-baked
rock sent the Terran skidding for cover until he saw that it was
cast by one of the questing falcons from the upper peaks. But that
shook his confidence, so he again sought cover, ashamed at his own
carelessness.
In the late afternoon he reached the far end of the plateau,
faced a climb to peaks which still bore cones of snow, now tinted a
soft peach by the sun. Shann studied that possible path and
distrusted his own powers to take it without proper equipment or
supplies. He must turn either north or south, though he would then
have to abandon a sure water supply in the stream. Tonight he would
camp where he was. He had not realized how tired he was until he
found a likely half-cave in the mountain wall and crawled in. There
was too much danger in fire here; he would have to do without that
basic comfort of his kind.
Luckily, the wolverines squeezed in beside him to fill the hole.
With their warm furred bodies sandwiching him, Shann dozed, awoke,
and dozed again, listening to night sounds—the screams,
cries, hunting calls, of the Warlock wilds. Now and again one of
the wolverines whined and moved uneasily.
Fingers of sun picked at Shann through a shaft among the rocks,
striking his eyes. He moved, blinked blearily awake, unable for the
first few seconds to understand why the smooth plasta wall of his
bunk had become rough red stone. Then he remembered. He was alone
and he threw himself frantically out of the cave, afraid the
wolverines had wandered off. Only both animals were busy clawing
under a boulder with a steady persistence which argued there was a
purpose behind that effort.
A sharp sting on the back of one hand made that purpose only too
clear to Shann, and he retreated hurriedly from the vicinity of the
excavation. They had found an earth-wasp’s burrow and were
hunting grubs, naturally arousing the rightful inhabitants to
bitter resentment.
Shann faced the problem of his own breakfast. He had had the
immunity shots given to all members of the team, and he had eaten
game brought in by exploring parties and labeled
“safe.” But how long he could keep to the varieties of
native food he knew was uncertain. Sooner or later he must
experiment for himself. Already he drank the stream water without
the aid of purifiers, and so far there had been no ill results from
that necessary recklessness. Now the stream suggested fish. But
instead he chanced upon another water inhabitant which had crawled
up on land for some obscure purpose of its own. It was a sluggish
scaled thing, an easy victim to his club, with thin, weak legs it
could project at will from a finned and armor-plated body.
Shann offered the head and guts to Togi, who had abandoned the
wasp nest. She sniffed in careful investigation and then gulped.
Shann built a small fire and seared the firm greenish flesh. The
taste was flat, lacking salt, but the food eased his emptiness.
Heartened, he started south, hoping to find water sometime during
the morning.
By noon he had his optimism justified with the discovery of a
spring, and the wolverines had brought down a slender-legged animal
whose coat was close in shade to the dusky purple of the
vegetation. Smaller than a Terran deer, its head bore, not horns,
but a ridge of stiffened hair rising in a point some twelve inches
above the skull dome. Shann haggled off some ragged steaks while
the wolverines feasted in earnest, carefully burying the head
afterward.
It was when Shann knelt by the spring pool to wash that he
caught the clamor of the clak-claks. He had seen or heard nothing
of the flyers since he had left the lake valley. But from the noise
now rising in an earsplitting volume, he thought there was a
sizable colony near-by and that the inhabitants were thoroughly
aroused.
He crept on his hands and knees to near-by brush cover, heading
toward the source of that outburst. If the claks were announcing a
Throg scouting party, he wanted to know it.
Lying flat, with branches forming a screen over him, the Terran
gazed out on a stretch of grassland which sloped at a fairly steep
angle to the south and which must lead to a portion of countryside
well below the level he was now traversing.
The clak-claks were skimming back and forth, shrieking their
staccato war cries. Following the erratic dashes of their flight
formation, Shann decided that whatever they railed against was on
the lower level, out of his sight from that point. Should he simply
withdraw, since the disturbance was not near him? Prudence dictated
that; yet still he hesitated.
He had no desire to travel north, or to try and scale the
mountains. No, south was his best path, and he should be very sure
that route was closed before he retreated.
Since any additional fuss the clak-claks might make on sighting
him would be undistinguished in their now general clamor, the
Terran crawled on to where tall grass provided a screen at the top
of the slope. There he stopped short, his hands digging into the
earth in sudden braking action.
Below, the ground steamed from a rocket flare-back, grasses
burned away from the fins of a small scoutship. But even as Shann
rose to one knee, his shout of welcome choked in his throat. One of
those fins sank, canting the ship crookedly, preventing any new
take-off. And over the crown of a low hill to the west swung the
ominous black plate of a Throg flyer.
The Throg ship came up in a burst of speed, and Shann waited
tensely for some countermove from the scout. Those small speedy
Terran ships were prudently provided with weapons triply deadly in
proportion to their size. He was sure that the Terran ship could
hold its own against the Throg, even eliminate the enemy. But there
was no fire from the slanting pencil of the scout. The Throg
circled warily, obviously expecting a trap. Twice it darted back in
the direction from which it had come. As it returned from its
second retreat, another of its kind showed, a black coin dot
against the amber of the sky.
Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any
advantage and perhaps all hope. The Throgs could box the other in,
cut the downed ship to pieces with their energy beams. He wanted to
crawl away and not witness this last disaster for his kind. But
some stubborn core of will kept him where he was.
The Throgs began to circle while beneath them the flock of
clak-claks screamed and dived at the slanting nose of the Terran
ship. Then that same slashing energy he had watched quarter the
camp snapped from the far plate across the stricken scout. The man
who had piloted her, if not dead already (which might account for
the lack of defense), must have fallen victim to that. But the
Throg was going to make very sure. The second flyer halted,
remaining poised long enough to unleash a second
bolt—dazzling any watching eyes and broadcasting a vibration
to make Shann’s skin crawl when the last faint ripple reached
his lookout post.
What happened then caught the overconfident Throg by surprise.
Shann cried out, burying his face on his arm, as pinwheels of
scarlet light blotted out normal sight. There was an explosion, a
deafening blast. He cowered, blind, unable to hear. Then, rubbing
at his eyes, he tried to see what had happened.
Through watery blurs he made out the Throg ship, not swinging
now in serene indifference to Warlock’s gravity, but whirling
end over end across the sky as might a leaf tossed in a gust of
wind. Its rim caught against a rust-red cliff, it rebounded and
crumpled. Then it came down, smashing perhaps half a mile away from
the smoking crater in which lay the mangled wreckage of the Terran
ship. The disabled scout pilot must have played a last desperate
game, making his ship bait for a trap.
The Terran had taken one Throg with him. Shann rubbed again at
his eyes, just barely able to catch a glimpse of the second ship
flashing away westward. Perhaps it was only his impaired sight, but
it appeared to him that the Throg followed an erratic path, either
as if the pilot feared to be caught by a second shot, or because
that ship had also suffered some injury.
Acid smoke wreathed up from the valley making Shann retch and
cough. There could be no survivor from that Terran scout, and he
did not believe that any Throg had lived to crawl free of the
crumpled plate. But there would be other beetles swarming here
soon. They would not dare to leave the scene unsearched. He
wondered about that scout. Had the pilot been aiming for the Survey
camp, the absence of any rider beam from there warning him off so
that he made the detour which brought him here? Or had the Throgs
tried to blast the Terran ship in the upper atmosphere, crippling
it, making this a forced landing? But at least this battle had cost
the Throgs, settling a small portion of the Terran debt for the
lost camp.
The length of time between Shann’s sighting of the
grounded ship and the attack by the Throgs had been so short that
he had not really developed any strong hope of rescue to be
destroyed by the end of the crippled ship. On the other hand,
seeing the Throgs taking a beating had exploded his subconscious
acceptance of their superiority. He might not have even the
resources of a damaged scout at his command. But he did have Taggi,
Togi, and his own brain. Since he was fated to permanent exile on
Warlock, there might just be some way to make the beetles pay for
that.
He licked his lips. Real action against the aliens would take a
lot of planning. Shann would have to know more about what made a
Throg a Throg, more than all the wild stories he had heard over the
years. There had to be some way a Terran could move
effectively against a beetle-head. And he had a lot of time, maybe
the rest of his life to work out a few answers. That Throg ship
lying wrecked at the foot of the
cliff . . . perhaps he could do a little
investigating before any rescue squad arrived. Shann decided such a
move was worth the try and whistled to the wolverines.
That sigh of displaced air was not as loud as a
breeze, but it echoed monstrously in Shann’s ears. He could
not believe in his luck as that sound grew fainter, drew away into
the valley he had just left. With infinite caution he raised his
head from his arm, still hardly able to accept the fact that he had
not been sighted, that the Throgs and their flyer were gone.
But that black plate was spinning out into the sun haze. One of
the beetles might have suspected that there were Terran fugitives
and ordered a routine patrol. After all, how could the aliens know
that they had caught all but one of the Survey party in camp?
Though with all the Terran scout flitters grounded on the field,
the men dead in their bunks, the surprise would seem to be
complete.
As Shann moved, Taggi and Togi came to life also. They had gone
to earth with speed, and the man was sure that both beasts had
sensed danger. Not for the first time he knew a burning desire for
the formal education he had never had. In camp he had listened,
dragging out routine jobs in order to overhear reports and the
small talk of specialists keen on their own particular hobbies. But
so much of the information Shann had thus picked up to store in a
retentive memory he had not understood and could not fit together.
It had been as if he were trying to solve some highly important
puzzle with at least a quarter of the necessary pieces missing, or
with unrelated bits from others intermixed. How much control did a
trained animal scout have over his furred or feathered assistants?
And was part of that mastery a mental rapport built up between man
and animal?
How well would the wolverines obey him now, especially when they
would not return to camp where cages stood waiting as symbols of
human authority? Wouldn’t a trek into the wilderness bring
about a revolt for complete freedom? If Shann could depend upon the
animals, it would mean a great deal. Not only would their superior
hunting ability provide all three with food, but their scouting
senses, so much keener than his, might erect a slender wall between
life and death.
Few large native beasts had been discovered on Warlock by the
Terran explorers. And of those four or five different species, none
had proved hostile if unprovoked. But that did not mean that
somewhere back in the wild lands into which Shann was heading there
were not heretofore unknowns, perhaps slyer and as vicious as the
wolverines when they were aroused to rage.
Then there were the “dreams,” which had afforded the
prime source of camp discussion and dispute. Shann brushed coarse
sand from his boots and thought about the dreams. Did they or did
they not exist? You could start an argument any time by making a
definite statement for or against the peculiar sort of dreaming
reported by the first scout to set ship on this world.
The Circe system, of which Warlock was the second of three
planets, had first been scouted four years ago by one of those
explorers traveling solo in Survey service. Everyone knew that the
First-In Scouts were a weird breed, almost a mutation of Terran
stock—their reports were rife with strange observations.
So an alarming one concerning Circe, a solar-type yellow sun,
and her three planets was no novelty. Witch, the world nearest in
orbit to Circe, was too hot for human occupancy without drastic and
too costly world-changing. Wizard, the third out from the sun, was
mostly bare rock and highly poisonous water. But Warlock, swinging
through space between two forbidding neighbors, seemed to be just
what the settlement board ordered.
Then the Survey scout, even in the cocoon safety of his
well-armed ship, began to dream. And from those dreams a horror of
the apparently empty world developed, until he fled the planet to
preserve his sanity. There had been a second visit to Warlock to
confirm this—worlds so well adapted to human emigration could
not be lightly thrown away. But this time the report was negative.
There was no trace of dreams, no registration of any outside
influence on the delicate and complicated equipment the ship
carried. So the Survey team had been dispatched to prepare for the
coming of the first pioneers, and none of them had dreamed
either—at least, no more than the ordinary dreams all men
accepted.
Only there were those who pointed out that the seasons had
changed between the first and second visits to Warlock. That first
scout had planeted in summer; his successors had come in fall and
winter. They argued that the final release of world for settlement
should not be given until the full year on Warlock had been
sampled.
But pressure from Emigrant Control had forced their hands, that
and the fear of just what had eventually happened—an attack
from the Throgs. So they had speeded up the process of declaring
Warlock open. Only Ragnar Thorvald had protested that decision up
to the last and had gone back to headquarters on the supply ship a
month ago to make a last appeal for a more careful study.
Shann stopped brushing the sand from the tough fabric above his
knee. Ragnar Thorvald . . . He remembered back
to the port landing apron on another world, remembered with a sense
of loss he could not define. That had been about the second biggest
day of his short life; the biggest had come earlier when they had
actually allowed him to sign on for Survey duty.
He had tumbled off the cross-continent cargo carrier, his
kit—a very meager kit—slung over his thin shoulder, a
hot eagerness expanding inside him until he thought that he could
not continue to throttle down that wild happiness. There was a
waiting starship. And he—Shann Lantee from the Dumps of Tyr,
without any influence or schooling—was going to blast off in
her, wearing the brown-green uniform of Survey!
Then he had hesitated, had not quite dared cross the few feet of
apron lying between him and that compact group wearing the same
uniform—with a slight difference, that of service bars and
completion badges and rank insignia—with the unconscious
self-assurance of men who had done this many times before.
But after a moment that whole group had become in his own shy
appraisal just a background for one man. Shann had never before
known in his pinched and limited childhood, his lost boyhood,
anyone who aroused in him hero worship. And he could not have put a
name to the new emotion that added so suddenly to his burning
desire to make good, not only to hold the small niche in Survey
which he had already so painfully achieved, but to climb, until he
could stand so in such a group talking easily to that tall man, his
uncovered head bronze-yellow in the sunlight, his cool gray eyes
pale in his brown face.
Not that any of those wild dreams born in that minute or two had
been realized in the ensuing months. Probably those dreams had
always been as wild as the ones reported by the first scout on
Warlock. Shann grinned wryly now at the short period of childish
hope and half-confidence that he could do big things. Only one
Thorvald had ever noticed Shann’s existence in the Survey
camp, and that had been Garth.
Garth Thorvald, a far less impressive—one could say
“smudged”—copy of his brother. Swaggering with an
arrogance Ragnar never showed, Garth was a cadet on his first
mission, intent upon making Shann realize the unbridgeable gulf
between a labor hand and an officer-to-be. He had appeared to know
right from their first meeting just how to make Shann’s life
a misery.
Now, in this slit of valley wall away from the domes,
Shann’s fists balled. He pounded them against the earth in a
way he had so often hoped to plant them on Garth’s smoothly
handsome face, his well-muscled body. One didn’t survive the
Dumps of Tyr without learning how to use fists, and boots, and a
list of tricks they didn’t teach in any academy. He had
always been sure that he could take Garth if they mixed it up. But
if he had loosed the tight rein he had kept on his temper and
offered that challenge, he would have lost his chance with Survey.
Garth had proved himself able to talk his way out of any scrape,
even minor derelictions of duty, and he far outranked Shann. The
laborer from Tyr had had to swallow all that the other could dish
out and hope that on his next assignment he would not be a member
of young Thorvald’s team. Though, because of Garth Thorvald,
Shann’s toll of black record marks had mounted dangerously
high and each day the chance for any more duty tours had grown
dimmer.
Shann laughed, and the sound was ugly. That was one thing he
didn’t have to worry about any longer. There would be no
other assignments for him, the Throgs had seen to that. And
Garth . . . well, there would never be a
showdown between them now. He stood up. The Throg ship had
disappeared; they could push on.
He found a break in the cliff wall which was climbable, and he
coaxed the wolverines after him. When they stood on the heights
from which the falls tumbled, Taggi and Togi rubbed against him,
cried for his attention. They, too, appeared to need the
reassurance they got from contact with him, for they were also
fugitives on this alien world, the only representatives of their
kind.
Since he did not have any definite goal in view, Shann continued
to be guided by the stream, following its wanderings across a
plateau. The sun was warm, so he carried his jacket slung across
one shoulder. Taggi and Togi ranged ahead, twice catching
skitterers, which they devoured eagerly. A shadow on a sun-baked
rock sent the Terran skidding for cover until he saw that it was
cast by one of the questing falcons from the upper peaks. But that
shook his confidence, so he again sought cover, ashamed at his own
carelessness.
In the late afternoon he reached the far end of the plateau,
faced a climb to peaks which still bore cones of snow, now tinted a
soft peach by the sun. Shann studied that possible path and
distrusted his own powers to take it without proper equipment or
supplies. He must turn either north or south, though he would then
have to abandon a sure water supply in the stream. Tonight he would
camp where he was. He had not realized how tired he was until he
found a likely half-cave in the mountain wall and crawled in. There
was too much danger in fire here; he would have to do without that
basic comfort of his kind.
Luckily, the wolverines squeezed in beside him to fill the hole.
With their warm furred bodies sandwiching him, Shann dozed, awoke,
and dozed again, listening to night sounds—the screams,
cries, hunting calls, of the Warlock wilds. Now and again one of
the wolverines whined and moved uneasily.
Fingers of sun picked at Shann through a shaft among the rocks,
striking his eyes. He moved, blinked blearily awake, unable for the
first few seconds to understand why the smooth plasta wall of his
bunk had become rough red stone. Then he remembered. He was alone
and he threw himself frantically out of the cave, afraid the
wolverines had wandered off. Only both animals were busy clawing
under a boulder with a steady persistence which argued there was a
purpose behind that effort.
A sharp sting on the back of one hand made that purpose only too
clear to Shann, and he retreated hurriedly from the vicinity of the
excavation. They had found an earth-wasp’s burrow and were
hunting grubs, naturally arousing the rightful inhabitants to
bitter resentment.
Shann faced the problem of his own breakfast. He had had the
immunity shots given to all members of the team, and he had eaten
game brought in by exploring parties and labeled
“safe.” But how long he could keep to the varieties of
native food he knew was uncertain. Sooner or later he must
experiment for himself. Already he drank the stream water without
the aid of purifiers, and so far there had been no ill results from
that necessary recklessness. Now the stream suggested fish. But
instead he chanced upon another water inhabitant which had crawled
up on land for some obscure purpose of its own. It was a sluggish
scaled thing, an easy victim to his club, with thin, weak legs it
could project at will from a finned and armor-plated body.
Shann offered the head and guts to Togi, who had abandoned the
wasp nest. She sniffed in careful investigation and then gulped.
Shann built a small fire and seared the firm greenish flesh. The
taste was flat, lacking salt, but the food eased his emptiness.
Heartened, he started south, hoping to find water sometime during
the morning.
By noon he had his optimism justified with the discovery of a
spring, and the wolverines had brought down a slender-legged animal
whose coat was close in shade to the dusky purple of the
vegetation. Smaller than a Terran deer, its head bore, not horns,
but a ridge of stiffened hair rising in a point some twelve inches
above the skull dome. Shann haggled off some ragged steaks while
the wolverines feasted in earnest, carefully burying the head
afterward.
It was when Shann knelt by the spring pool to wash that he
caught the clamor of the clak-claks. He had seen or heard nothing
of the flyers since he had left the lake valley. But from the noise
now rising in an earsplitting volume, he thought there was a
sizable colony near-by and that the inhabitants were thoroughly
aroused.
He crept on his hands and knees to near-by brush cover, heading
toward the source of that outburst. If the claks were announcing a
Throg scouting party, he wanted to know it.
Lying flat, with branches forming a screen over him, the Terran
gazed out on a stretch of grassland which sloped at a fairly steep
angle to the south and which must lead to a portion of countryside
well below the level he was now traversing.
The clak-claks were skimming back and forth, shrieking their
staccato war cries. Following the erratic dashes of their flight
formation, Shann decided that whatever they railed against was on
the lower level, out of his sight from that point. Should he simply
withdraw, since the disturbance was not near him? Prudence dictated
that; yet still he hesitated.
He had no desire to travel north, or to try and scale the
mountains. No, south was his best path, and he should be very sure
that route was closed before he retreated.
Since any additional fuss the clak-claks might make on sighting
him would be undistinguished in their now general clamor, the
Terran crawled on to where tall grass provided a screen at the top
of the slope. There he stopped short, his hands digging into the
earth in sudden braking action.
Below, the ground steamed from a rocket flare-back, grasses
burned away from the fins of a small scoutship. But even as Shann
rose to one knee, his shout of welcome choked in his throat. One of
those fins sank, canting the ship crookedly, preventing any new
take-off. And over the crown of a low hill to the west swung the
ominous black plate of a Throg flyer.
The Throg ship came up in a burst of speed, and Shann waited
tensely for some countermove from the scout. Those small speedy
Terran ships were prudently provided with weapons triply deadly in
proportion to their size. He was sure that the Terran ship could
hold its own against the Throg, even eliminate the enemy. But there
was no fire from the slanting pencil of the scout. The Throg
circled warily, obviously expecting a trap. Twice it darted back in
the direction from which it had come. As it returned from its
second retreat, another of its kind showed, a black coin dot
against the amber of the sky.
Shann felt sick inside. Now the Terran scout had lost any
advantage and perhaps all hope. The Throgs could box the other in,
cut the downed ship to pieces with their energy beams. He wanted to
crawl away and not witness this last disaster for his kind. But
some stubborn core of will kept him where he was.
The Throgs began to circle while beneath them the flock of
clak-claks screamed and dived at the slanting nose of the Terran
ship. Then that same slashing energy he had watched quarter the
camp snapped from the far plate across the stricken scout. The man
who had piloted her, if not dead already (which might account for
the lack of defense), must have fallen victim to that. But the
Throg was going to make very sure. The second flyer halted,
remaining poised long enough to unleash a second
bolt—dazzling any watching eyes and broadcasting a vibration
to make Shann’s skin crawl when the last faint ripple reached
his lookout post.
What happened then caught the overconfident Throg by surprise.
Shann cried out, burying his face on his arm, as pinwheels of
scarlet light blotted out normal sight. There was an explosion, a
deafening blast. He cowered, blind, unable to hear. Then, rubbing
at his eyes, he tried to see what had happened.
Through watery blurs he made out the Throg ship, not swinging
now in serene indifference to Warlock’s gravity, but whirling
end over end across the sky as might a leaf tossed in a gust of
wind. Its rim caught against a rust-red cliff, it rebounded and
crumpled. Then it came down, smashing perhaps half a mile away from
the smoking crater in which lay the mangled wreckage of the Terran
ship. The disabled scout pilot must have played a last desperate
game, making his ship bait for a trap.
The Terran had taken one Throg with him. Shann rubbed again at
his eyes, just barely able to catch a glimpse of the second ship
flashing away westward. Perhaps it was only his impaired sight, but
it appeared to him that the Throg followed an erratic path, either
as if the pilot feared to be caught by a second shot, or because
that ship had also suffered some injury.
Acid smoke wreathed up from the valley making Shann retch and
cough. There could be no survivor from that Terran scout, and he
did not believe that any Throg had lived to crawl free of the
crumpled plate. But there would be other beetles swarming here
soon. They would not dare to leave the scene unsearched. He
wondered about that scout. Had the pilot been aiming for the Survey
camp, the absence of any rider beam from there warning him off so
that he made the detour which brought him here? Or had the Throgs
tried to blast the Terran ship in the upper atmosphere, crippling
it, making this a forced landing? But at least this battle had cost
the Throgs, settling a small portion of the Terran debt for the
lost camp.
The length of time between Shann’s sighting of the
grounded ship and the attack by the Throgs had been so short that
he had not really developed any strong hope of rescue to be
destroyed by the end of the crippled ship. On the other hand,
seeing the Throgs taking a beating had exploded his subconscious
acceptance of their superiority. He might not have even the
resources of a damaged scout at his command. But he did have Taggi,
Togi, and his own brain. Since he was fated to permanent exile on
Warlock, there might just be some way to make the beetles pay for
that.
He licked his lips. Real action against the aliens would take a
lot of planning. Shann would have to know more about what made a
Throg a Throg, more than all the wild stories he had heard over the
years. There had to be some way a Terran could move
effectively against a beetle-head. And he had a lot of time, maybe
the rest of his life to work out a few answers. That Throg ship
lying wrecked at the foot of the
cliff . . . perhaps he could do a little
investigating before any rescue squad arrived. Shann decided such a
move was worth the try and whistled to the wolverines.