THE GORP HUNTERS straggled through the grass
forest in family groups, and the Terrans saw that the enterprise
had forced another uneasy truce upon the district, for there were
representatives from more than just Paft’s own clan. All the
Salariki were young and the parties babbled together in excitement.
It was plain that this hunt, staged upon a large scale, was not
only a means of revenge upon a hated enemy but, also, a sporting
event of outstanding prestige.
Now the grass trees began to show ragged gaps, open spaces
between their clumps, until the forest was only scattered groups
and the party the Terrans had joined walked along a trail cloaked
in knee-high, yellow-red fern growth. Most of the Salariki carried
unlit torches, some having four or five bundled together, as if
Gorp hunting must be done after nightfall. And it was
fairly late in the afternoon before they topped a rise of ground
and looked out upon one of Sargol’s seas.
The water was a dull, metallic gray, broken by great swaths of
purple as if an artist had slapped a brush of color across it in a
hit or miss fashion. Sand of the red grit, lightened by the golden
flecks which glittered in the sun, stretched to the edge of the
wavelets breaking with oily languor on the curve of earth. The bulk
of islands arose in serried ranks farther out—crowned with
grass trees all rippling under the sea wind.
They came out upon the beach where one of the purple patches
touched the shore and Dane noted that it left a scummy deposit
there. The Terrans went on to the water’s edge. Where it was
clear of the purple stuff they could get a murky glimpse of the
bottom, but the scum hid long stretches of shoreline and outer
wave, and Dane wondered if the Gorp used it as a protective
covering.
For the moment the Salariki made no move toward the sea which
was to be their hunting ground. Instead the youngest members of the
party, some of whom were adolescents not yet entitled to wear the
claw knife of manhood, spread out along the shore and set
industriously to gathering driftwood, which they brought back to
heap on the sand. Dane, watching that harvest, caught sight of a
smoothly polished length. He called Weeks’ attention to the
water rounded cylinder.
The oiler’s eyes lighted and he stooped to pick it up.
Where the other sticks were from grass trees this was something
else. And among the bleached pile it had the vividness of flame.
For it was a strident scarlet. Weeks turned it over in his hands,
running his fingers lovingly across its perfect grain. Even in this
crude state it had beauty. He stopped the Salarik who had just
brought in another armload of wood.
“This is what?” he spoke the Trade Lingo
haltingly.
The native gazed somewhat indifferently at the branch.
“Tansil,” he answered. “It grows on the
islands—” He made a vague gesture to include a good
section of the western sea before he hurried away.
Weeks now went along the tide line on his own quest, Dane
trailing him. At the end of a quarter hour when a hail summoned
them back to the site of the now lighted fire, they had some ten
pieces of the tansil wood between them. The finds ranged from a
three foot section some four inches in diameter, to some slender
twigs no larger than a writing steelo—but all with high
polish, the warm flame coloring. Weeks lashed them together before
he joined the group where Groft was outlining the technique of Gorp hunting for the
benefit of the Terrans.
Some two hundred feet away a reef, often awash and stained with
the purple scum, angled out into the sea in a long curve which
formed a natural breakwater. This was the point of attack. But
first the purple film must be removed so that land and sea dwellers
could meet on common terms.
The fire blazed up, eating hungrily into the driftwood. And from
it ran the young Salariki with lighted brands, which at the
water’s edge they whirled about their heads and then hurled
out onto the purple patches. Fire arose from the water and ran with
frantic speed across the crests of the low waves, while the
Salariki coughed and buried their noses in their perfume boxes, for
the wind drove shoreward an overpowering stench.
Where the cleansing fire had run on the water there was now only
the natural metallic gray of the liquid, the cover was gone. Older
Salariki warriors were choosing torches from those they had
brought, doing it with care. Groft approached the Terrans carrying
four.
“These you use now—”
What for? Dane wondered. The sky was still sunlit. He held the
torch watching to see how the Salariki made use of them.
Groft led the advance—running lightly out along the reef
with agile and graceful leaps to cross the breaks where the sea
hurled in over the rock. And after him followed the other natives,
each with a lighted torch in hand—the torch they hunkered
down to plant firmly in some crevice of the rock before taking a
stand beside that beacon.
The Terrans, less surefooted in the space boots, picked their
way along the same path, wet with spray, wrinkling their noses
against the lingering puffs of the stench from the water.
Following the example of the Salariki they faced seaward—but Dane did not know what to watch for. Cam had left only
the vaguest general descriptions of Gorp and beyond the fact that they were reptilian, intelligent and dangerous, the
Terrans had not been briefed.
Once the warriors had taken up their stand along the reef, the
younger Salariki went into action once more. Lighting more torches
at the fire, they ran out along the line of their elders and flung
their torches as far as they could hurl them into the sea outside
the reef.
The gray steel of the water was now yellow with the reflection
of the sinking sun. But that ocher and gold became more brilliant
yet as the torches of the Salariki set blazing up far floating
patches of scum. Dane shielded his eyes against the glare and tried
to watch the water, with some idea that this move must be
provocation and what they hunted would so be driven into view.
He held his sleep rod ready, just as the Salarik on his right
had claw knife in one hand and in the other, open and waiting, the
net intended to entangle and hold fast a victim, binding him for
the kill.
But it was at the far tip of the barrier—the post of
greatest honor which Groft had jealously claimed as his, that the
Gorp struck first. At a wild shout of defiance Dane half turned to
see the Salarik noble cast his net at sea level and then stab
viciously with a well practiced blow. When he raised his arm for a
second thrust, greenish ichor ran from the blade down his
wrist.
“Dane!”
Thorson’s head jerked around. He saw the vee of ripples
headed straight for the rocks where he balanced. But he’d
have to wait for a better target than a moving wedge of water.
Instinctively he half crouched in the stance of an embattled
spaceman, wishing now that he did have a blaster.
Neither of the Salariki stationed on either side of him made any
move and he guessed that that was hunt etiquette. Each man was
supposed to face and kill the monster that challenged
him—without assistance. And upon his skill during the next
few minutes might rest the reputation of all Terrans as far as the
natives were concerned.
There was a shadow outline beneath the surface of the metallic
water now, but he could not see well because of the distortion of
the murky waves. He must wait until he was sure.
Then the thing gave a spurt and, only inches beyond the toes of
his boots, a nightmare creature sprang half-way out of the water,
pincher claws as long as his own arms snapping at him. Without
being conscious of his act, he pressed the stud of the sleep rod,
aiming in the general direction of that horror from the sea.
But to his utter amazement the creature did not fall supinely
back into watery world from which it had emerged. Instead those
claws snapped again, this time scrapping across the top of
Dane’s foot, leaving a furrow in material the keenest of
knives could not have scored.
“Give it to him!” That was Rip shouting
encouragement from his own place farther along the reef.
Dane pressed the firing stud again and again. The claws waved as
the monstrosity slavered from a gaping frog’s mouth, a mouth
which was fanged with a shark’s vicious teeth. It was almost
wholly out of the water, creeping on a crab’s many legs, with
the clawed upper limbs reaching for him, when suddenly it stopped,
its huge head turning from side to side in the sheltering carapace
of scaled natural armor. It settled back as if crouching for a
final spring—a spring which would push Dane into the
ocean.
But that attack never came. Instead the Gorp drew in upon itself
until it resembled an unwieldy ball of indestructible armor and
there it remained.
The Salariki on either side of Dane let out cries of triumph and
edged closer. One of them twirled his net suggestively, seeing that
the Terran lacked what was to him an essential piece of hunting
equipment. Dane nodded vigorously in agreement and the tough
strands swung out in a skilful cast which engulfed the motionless
creature on the reef. But it was so protected by its scales that
there was no opening for the claw knife. They had made a capture but they could not make a
kill.
However, the Salariki were highly delighted. And several
abandoned their posts to help the boys drag the monster ashore
where it was pinned down to the beach by stakes driven through the
edges of the net.
But the hunting party was given little time to gloat over this
stroke of fortune. The Gorp killed by Groft and the one stunned by
Dane were only the van of an army and within moments the hunters on
the reef were confronted by trouble armed with slashing claws and
diabolic fighting ability.
The battle was anything but one-sided. Dane whirled, as the air
was rent by a shriek of agony, just in time to see one of the
Salariki, already torn by the claws of a Gorp, being drawn under
the water. It was too late to save the hunter, though Dane,
balanced on the very edge of the reef, aimed a beam into the bloody
waves. If the Gorp was affected by this attack he could not tell,
for both attacker and victim could no longer be seen.
But Ali had better luck in rescuing the Salarik who shared his
particular section of reef, and the native, gashed and spurting
blood from a wound in his thigh, was hauled to safety. While the
Gorp, coiling too slowly under the Terran ray, was literally hewn
to pieces by the revengeful knives of the hunter’s kin.
The fight broke into a series of individual duels carried on now
by the light of the torches as the evening closed in. The last of
the purple patches had burned away to nothing. Dane crouched by his
standard torch, his eyes fastened on the sea, watching for an
ominous vee of ripples betraying another Gorp on its way to launch
against the rock barrier.
There was such wild confusion along that line of water sprayed
rocks that he had no idea of how the engagement was going. But so
far the Gorp showed no signs of having had enough.
Dane was shaken out of his absorption by another scream. One, he
was sure, which had not come from any Salariki throat. He got to his feet. Rip was stationed four men beyond
him. Yes, the tall Astrogator-apprentice was there, outlined
against torch flare. Ali? No—there was the assistant
Engineer. Weeks? But Weeks was picking his way back along the reef
toward the shore, haste expressed in every line of his figure. The
scream sounded for a second time, freezing the Terrans.
“Come back—!” That was Weeks gesturing
violently at the shore and something floundering in the protecting
circle of the reef. The younger Salariki who had been feeding the
fire were now clustered at the water’s edge.
Ali ran and with a leap covered the last few feet, landing
recklessly knee deep in the waves. Dane saw light strike on his rod
as he swung it in a wide arc to center on the struggle churning the
water into foam. A third scream died to a moan and then the
Salariki dashed into the sea, their nets spread, drawing back with
them through the surf a dark and now quiet mass.
The fact that at least one Gorp had managed to get on the inner
side of the reef made an impression on the rest of the native
hunters. After an uncertain minute or two Groft gave the signal to
withdraw—which they did with grisly trophies. Dane counted
seven Gorp bodies—which did not include the prisoner ashore.
And more might have slid into the sea to die. On the other hand two
Salariki were dead—one had been drawn into the sea before
Dane’s eyes—and at least one was badly wounded. But who
had been pulled down in the shallows—someone sent out from
the Queen with a message?
Dane raced back along the reef, not waiting to pull up his
torch, and before he reached the shore Rip was overtaking him. But
the man who lay groaning on the sand was not from the Queen. The
torn and bloodstained tunic covering his lacerated shoulders had
the I-S badge. Ali was already at work on his wounds, giving
temporary first aid from his belt kit. To all their questions he
was stubbornly silent—either he couldn’t or
wouldn’t answer.
In the end they helped the Salariki rig three stretchers.
On one, the largest, the captive Gorp, still curled in a round
carapace protected ball, was bound with the net. The second
supported the wounded Salarik clansman and onto the third the
Terrans lifted the I-S man.
“We’ll deliver him to his own ship,” Rip
decided. “He must have tailed us here as a spy—”
He asked a passing Salarik as to where they could find the Company
spacer.
“They might just think we are responsible,” Ali
pointed out. “But I see your point. If we do pack him back to
the Queen and he doesn’t make it, they might say that we
fired his rockets for him. All right, boys, let’s
up-ship—he doesn’t look too good to me.”
With a torch-bearing Salarik boy as a guide, they hurried along
a path taking in turns the burden of the stretcher. Luckily the I-S
ship was even closer to the sea than the Queen and as they crossed
the slagged ground, congealed by the break fire, they were
trotting.
Though the Company ship was probably one of the smallest
Inter-Solar carried on her rosters, it was a third again as large
as the Queen—with part of that third undoubtedly dedicated to
extra cargo space. Beside her their own spacer would seem not only
smaller, but battered and worn. But no Free Trader would have
willingly assumed the badges of a Company man, not even for the
command of such a ship fresh from the cradles of a builder.
When a man went up from the training Pool for his first
assignment, he was sent to the ship where his temperament, training
and abilities best fitted. And those who were designated as Free
Traders could never fit into the pattern of Company men. Of late
years the breech between those who lived under the strict parental
control of one of the five great galaxy wide organizations and
those still too much of an individual to live any life but that of
the half-explorer-half-pioneer which was the Free Trader’s
had widened alarmingly. Antagonism flared, rivalry was strong. But
as yet the great Companies themselves were at polite cold war with
one another for the big plums of the scattered systems. The
Free Traders took the crumbs and there was not much disputing—save in cases such as had arisen on Sargol, when suddenly crumbs
assumed the guise of very rich cake, rich and large enough to
attract a giant.
The party from the Queen was given a peremptory challenge as
they reached the other ship’s ramp. Rip demanded to see the
officer of the watch and then told the story of the wounded man as
far as they knew it. The Eysie was hurried aboard—nor did his
shipmates give a word of thanks.
“That’s that.” Rip shrugged.
“Let’s go before they slam the hatch so hard
they’ll rock their ship off her fins!”
“Polite, aren’t they?” asked Weeks mildly.
“What do you expect of Eysies?” Ali wanted to know.
“To them Free Traders are just rim planet trash. Let’s
report back where we are appreciated.”
They took a shortcut which brought them back to the Queen and
they filed up her ramp to make their report to the Captain.
But they were not yet satisfied with Groft and his Gorp slayers.
No Salarik appeared for trade in the morning—surprising the
Terrans. Instead a second delegation, this time of older men and a
storm priest, visited the spacer with an invitation to attend
Paft’s funeral feast, a rite which would be followed by the
formal elevation of Groft to his father’s position, now that
he had revenged that parent. And from remarks dropped by members of
the delegation it was plain that the bearing of the Terrans who had
joined the hunting party was esteemed to have been in highest
accord with Salariki tradition.
They drew lots to decide which two must remain with the ship and
the rest perfumed themselves so as to give no offense which might
upset their now cordial relations. Again it was mid-afternoon when
the Salariki escort sent to do them honor waited at the edge of the
wood and Mura and Tang saw them off. With a herald booming before
them, they traveled the beaten earth road in the opposite direction
from the trading center, off through the forest until they came to
a wide section of several miles which had been rigorously cleared
of any vegetation which might give cover to a lurking enemy. In the
center of this was a twelve-foot-high stockade of the bright red,
burnished wood which had attracted Weeks on the shore. Each paling
was the trunk of a tree and it had been sharpened at the top to a
wicked point. On the field side was a wide ditch, crossed at
the gate by a bridge, the planking of which might be removed at
will. And as Dane passed over he looked down into a moat that was
dry. The Salariki did not depend upon water for a defense—but
on something else which his experience of the previous night had
taught him to respect. There was no mistaking that shade of purple.
The highly inflammable scum the hunters had burnt from the top of
the waves had been brought inland and lay a greasy blanket some
eight feet below. It would only be necessary to toss a torch on
that and the defenders of the stockade would create a wall of fire
to baffle any attacker. The Salariki knew how to make the most of
their world’s natural resources.
THE GORP HUNTERS straggled through the grass
forest in family groups, and the Terrans saw that the enterprise
had forced another uneasy truce upon the district, for there were
representatives from more than just Paft’s own clan. All the
Salariki were young and the parties babbled together in excitement.
It was plain that this hunt, staged upon a large scale, was not
only a means of revenge upon a hated enemy but, also, a sporting
event of outstanding prestige.
Now the grass trees began to show ragged gaps, open spaces
between their clumps, until the forest was only scattered groups
and the party the Terrans had joined walked along a trail cloaked
in knee-high, yellow-red fern growth. Most of the Salariki carried
unlit torches, some having four or five bundled together, as if
Gorp hunting must be done after nightfall. And it was
fairly late in the afternoon before they topped a rise of ground
and looked out upon one of Sargol’s seas.
The water was a dull, metallic gray, broken by great swaths of
purple as if an artist had slapped a brush of color across it in a
hit or miss fashion. Sand of the red grit, lightened by the golden
flecks which glittered in the sun, stretched to the edge of the
wavelets breaking with oily languor on the curve of earth. The bulk
of islands arose in serried ranks farther out—crowned with
grass trees all rippling under the sea wind.
They came out upon the beach where one of the purple patches
touched the shore and Dane noted that it left a scummy deposit
there. The Terrans went on to the water’s edge. Where it was
clear of the purple stuff they could get a murky glimpse of the
bottom, but the scum hid long stretches of shoreline and outer
wave, and Dane wondered if the Gorp used it as a protective
covering.
For the moment the Salariki made no move toward the sea which
was to be their hunting ground. Instead the youngest members of the
party, some of whom were adolescents not yet entitled to wear the
claw knife of manhood, spread out along the shore and set
industriously to gathering driftwood, which they brought back to
heap on the sand. Dane, watching that harvest, caught sight of a
smoothly polished length. He called Weeks’ attention to the
water rounded cylinder.
The oiler’s eyes lighted and he stooped to pick it up.
Where the other sticks were from grass trees this was something
else. And among the bleached pile it had the vividness of flame.
For it was a strident scarlet. Weeks turned it over in his hands,
running his fingers lovingly across its perfect grain. Even in this
crude state it had beauty. He stopped the Salarik who had just
brought in another armload of wood.
“This is what?” he spoke the Trade Lingo
haltingly.
The native gazed somewhat indifferently at the branch.
“Tansil,” he answered. “It grows on the
islands—” He made a vague gesture to include a good
section of the western sea before he hurried away.
Weeks now went along the tide line on his own quest, Dane
trailing him. At the end of a quarter hour when a hail summoned
them back to the site of the now lighted fire, they had some ten
pieces of the tansil wood between them. The finds ranged from a
three foot section some four inches in diameter, to some slender
twigs no larger than a writing steelo—but all with high
polish, the warm flame coloring. Weeks lashed them together before
he joined the group where Groft was outlining the technique of Gorp hunting for the
benefit of the Terrans.
Some two hundred feet away a reef, often awash and stained with
the purple scum, angled out into the sea in a long curve which
formed a natural breakwater. This was the point of attack. But
first the purple film must be removed so that land and sea dwellers
could meet on common terms.
The fire blazed up, eating hungrily into the driftwood. And from
it ran the young Salariki with lighted brands, which at the
water’s edge they whirled about their heads and then hurled
out onto the purple patches. Fire arose from the water and ran with
frantic speed across the crests of the low waves, while the
Salariki coughed and buried their noses in their perfume boxes, for
the wind drove shoreward an overpowering stench.
Where the cleansing fire had run on the water there was now only
the natural metallic gray of the liquid, the cover was gone. Older
Salariki warriors were choosing torches from those they had
brought, doing it with care. Groft approached the Terrans carrying
four.
“These you use now—”
What for? Dane wondered. The sky was still sunlit. He held the
torch watching to see how the Salariki made use of them.
Groft led the advance—running lightly out along the reef
with agile and graceful leaps to cross the breaks where the sea
hurled in over the rock. And after him followed the other natives,
each with a lighted torch in hand—the torch they hunkered
down to plant firmly in some crevice of the rock before taking a
stand beside that beacon.
The Terrans, less surefooted in the space boots, picked their
way along the same path, wet with spray, wrinkling their noses
against the lingering puffs of the stench from the water.
Following the example of the Salariki they faced seaward—but Dane did not know what to watch for. Cam had left only
the vaguest general descriptions of Gorp and beyond the fact that they were reptilian, intelligent and dangerous, the
Terrans had not been briefed.
Once the warriors had taken up their stand along the reef, the
younger Salariki went into action once more. Lighting more torches
at the fire, they ran out along the line of their elders and flung
their torches as far as they could hurl them into the sea outside
the reef.
The gray steel of the water was now yellow with the reflection
of the sinking sun. But that ocher and gold became more brilliant
yet as the torches of the Salariki set blazing up far floating
patches of scum. Dane shielded his eyes against the glare and tried
to watch the water, with some idea that this move must be
provocation and what they hunted would so be driven into view.
He held his sleep rod ready, just as the Salarik on his right
had claw knife in one hand and in the other, open and waiting, the
net intended to entangle and hold fast a victim, binding him for
the kill.
But it was at the far tip of the barrier—the post of
greatest honor which Groft had jealously claimed as his, that the
Gorp struck first. At a wild shout of defiance Dane half turned to
see the Salarik noble cast his net at sea level and then stab
viciously with a well practiced blow. When he raised his arm for a
second thrust, greenish ichor ran from the blade down his
wrist.
“Dane!”
Thorson’s head jerked around. He saw the vee of ripples
headed straight for the rocks where he balanced. But he’d
have to wait for a better target than a moving wedge of water.
Instinctively he half crouched in the stance of an embattled
spaceman, wishing now that he did have a blaster.
Neither of the Salariki stationed on either side of him made any
move and he guessed that that was hunt etiquette. Each man was
supposed to face and kill the monster that challenged
him—without assistance. And upon his skill during the next
few minutes might rest the reputation of all Terrans as far as the
natives were concerned.
There was a shadow outline beneath the surface of the metallic
water now, but he could not see well because of the distortion of
the murky waves. He must wait until he was sure.
Then the thing gave a spurt and, only inches beyond the toes of
his boots, a nightmare creature sprang half-way out of the water,
pincher claws as long as his own arms snapping at him. Without
being conscious of his act, he pressed the stud of the sleep rod,
aiming in the general direction of that horror from the sea.
But to his utter amazement the creature did not fall supinely
back into watery world from which it had emerged. Instead those
claws snapped again, this time scrapping across the top of
Dane’s foot, leaving a furrow in material the keenest of
knives could not have scored.
“Give it to him!” That was Rip shouting
encouragement from his own place farther along the reef.
Dane pressed the firing stud again and again. The claws waved as
the monstrosity slavered from a gaping frog’s mouth, a mouth
which was fanged with a shark’s vicious teeth. It was almost
wholly out of the water, creeping on a crab’s many legs, with
the clawed upper limbs reaching for him, when suddenly it stopped,
its huge head turning from side to side in the sheltering carapace
of scaled natural armor. It settled back as if crouching for a
final spring—a spring which would push Dane into the
ocean.
But that attack never came. Instead the Gorp drew in upon itself
until it resembled an unwieldy ball of indestructible armor and
there it remained.
The Salariki on either side of Dane let out cries of triumph and
edged closer. One of them twirled his net suggestively, seeing that
the Terran lacked what was to him an essential piece of hunting
equipment. Dane nodded vigorously in agreement and the tough
strands swung out in a skilful cast which engulfed the motionless
creature on the reef. But it was so protected by its scales that
there was no opening for the claw knife. They had made a capture but they could not make a
kill.
However, the Salariki were highly delighted. And several
abandoned their posts to help the boys drag the monster ashore
where it was pinned down to the beach by stakes driven through the
edges of the net.
But the hunting party was given little time to gloat over this
stroke of fortune. The Gorp killed by Groft and the one stunned by
Dane were only the van of an army and within moments the hunters on
the reef were confronted by trouble armed with slashing claws and
diabolic fighting ability.
The battle was anything but one-sided. Dane whirled, as the air
was rent by a shriek of agony, just in time to see one of the
Salariki, already torn by the claws of a Gorp, being drawn under
the water. It was too late to save the hunter, though Dane,
balanced on the very edge of the reef, aimed a beam into the bloody
waves. If the Gorp was affected by this attack he could not tell,
for both attacker and victim could no longer be seen.
But Ali had better luck in rescuing the Salarik who shared his
particular section of reef, and the native, gashed and spurting
blood from a wound in his thigh, was hauled to safety. While the
Gorp, coiling too slowly under the Terran ray, was literally hewn
to pieces by the revengeful knives of the hunter’s kin.
The fight broke into a series of individual duels carried on now
by the light of the torches as the evening closed in. The last of
the purple patches had burned away to nothing. Dane crouched by his
standard torch, his eyes fastened on the sea, watching for an
ominous vee of ripples betraying another Gorp on its way to launch
against the rock barrier.
There was such wild confusion along that line of water sprayed
rocks that he had no idea of how the engagement was going. But so
far the Gorp showed no signs of having had enough.
Dane was shaken out of his absorption by another scream. One, he
was sure, which had not come from any Salariki throat. He got to his feet. Rip was stationed four men beyond
him. Yes, the tall Astrogator-apprentice was there, outlined
against torch flare. Ali? No—there was the assistant
Engineer. Weeks? But Weeks was picking his way back along the reef
toward the shore, haste expressed in every line of his figure. The
scream sounded for a second time, freezing the Terrans.
“Come back—!” That was Weeks gesturing
violently at the shore and something floundering in the protecting
circle of the reef. The younger Salariki who had been feeding the
fire were now clustered at the water’s edge.
Ali ran and with a leap covered the last few feet, landing
recklessly knee deep in the waves. Dane saw light strike on his rod
as he swung it in a wide arc to center on the struggle churning the
water into foam. A third scream died to a moan and then the
Salariki dashed into the sea, their nets spread, drawing back with
them through the surf a dark and now quiet mass.
The fact that at least one Gorp had managed to get on the inner
side of the reef made an impression on the rest of the native
hunters. After an uncertain minute or two Groft gave the signal to
withdraw—which they did with grisly trophies. Dane counted
seven Gorp bodies—which did not include the prisoner ashore.
And more might have slid into the sea to die. On the other hand two
Salariki were dead—one had been drawn into the sea before
Dane’s eyes—and at least one was badly wounded. But who
had been pulled down in the shallows—someone sent out from
the Queen with a message?
Dane raced back along the reef, not waiting to pull up his
torch, and before he reached the shore Rip was overtaking him. But
the man who lay groaning on the sand was not from the Queen. The
torn and bloodstained tunic covering his lacerated shoulders had
the I-S badge. Ali was already at work on his wounds, giving
temporary first aid from his belt kit. To all their questions he
was stubbornly silent—either he couldn’t or
wouldn’t answer.
In the end they helped the Salariki rig three stretchers.
On one, the largest, the captive Gorp, still curled in a round
carapace protected ball, was bound with the net. The second
supported the wounded Salarik clansman and onto the third the
Terrans lifted the I-S man.
“We’ll deliver him to his own ship,” Rip
decided. “He must have tailed us here as a spy—”
He asked a passing Salarik as to where they could find the Company
spacer.
“They might just think we are responsible,” Ali
pointed out. “But I see your point. If we do pack him back to
the Queen and he doesn’t make it, they might say that we
fired his rockets for him. All right, boys, let’s
up-ship—he doesn’t look too good to me.”
With a torch-bearing Salarik boy as a guide, they hurried along
a path taking in turns the burden of the stretcher. Luckily the I-S
ship was even closer to the sea than the Queen and as they crossed
the slagged ground, congealed by the break fire, they were
trotting.
Though the Company ship was probably one of the smallest
Inter-Solar carried on her rosters, it was a third again as large
as the Queen—with part of that third undoubtedly dedicated to
extra cargo space. Beside her their own spacer would seem not only
smaller, but battered and worn. But no Free Trader would have
willingly assumed the badges of a Company man, not even for the
command of such a ship fresh from the cradles of a builder.
When a man went up from the training Pool for his first
assignment, he was sent to the ship where his temperament, training
and abilities best fitted. And those who were designated as Free
Traders could never fit into the pattern of Company men. Of late
years the breech between those who lived under the strict parental
control of one of the five great galaxy wide organizations and
those still too much of an individual to live any life but that of
the half-explorer-half-pioneer which was the Free Trader’s
had widened alarmingly. Antagonism flared, rivalry was strong. But
as yet the great Companies themselves were at polite cold war with
one another for the big plums of the scattered systems. The
Free Traders took the crumbs and there was not much disputing—save in cases such as had arisen on Sargol, when suddenly crumbs
assumed the guise of very rich cake, rich and large enough to
attract a giant.
The party from the Queen was given a peremptory challenge as
they reached the other ship’s ramp. Rip demanded to see the
officer of the watch and then told the story of the wounded man as
far as they knew it. The Eysie was hurried aboard—nor did his
shipmates give a word of thanks.
“That’s that.” Rip shrugged.
“Let’s go before they slam the hatch so hard
they’ll rock their ship off her fins!”
“Polite, aren’t they?” asked Weeks mildly.
“What do you expect of Eysies?” Ali wanted to know.
“To them Free Traders are just rim planet trash. Let’s
report back where we are appreciated.”
They took a shortcut which brought them back to the Queen and
they filed up her ramp to make their report to the Captain.
But they were not yet satisfied with Groft and his Gorp slayers.
No Salarik appeared for trade in the morning—surprising the
Terrans. Instead a second delegation, this time of older men and a
storm priest, visited the spacer with an invitation to attend
Paft’s funeral feast, a rite which would be followed by the
formal elevation of Groft to his father’s position, now that
he had revenged that parent. And from remarks dropped by members of
the delegation it was plain that the bearing of the Terrans who had
joined the hunting party was esteemed to have been in highest
accord with Salariki tradition.
They drew lots to decide which two must remain with the ship and
the rest perfumed themselves so as to give no offense which might
upset their now cordial relations. Again it was mid-afternoon when
the Salariki escort sent to do them honor waited at the edge of the
wood and Mura and Tang saw them off. With a herald booming before
them, they traveled the beaten earth road in the opposite direction
from the trading center, off through the forest until they came to
a wide section of several miles which had been rigorously cleared
of any vegetation which might give cover to a lurking enemy. In the
center of this was a twelve-foot-high stockade of the bright red,
burnished wood which had attracted Weeks on the shore. Each paling
was the trunk of a tree and it had been sharpened at the top to a
wicked point. On the field side was a wide ditch, crossed at
the gate by a bridge, the planking of which might be removed at
will. And as Dane passed over he looked down into a moat that was
dry. The Salariki did not depend upon water for a defense—but
on something else which his experience of the previous night had
taught him to respect. There was no mistaking that shade of purple.
The highly inflammable scum the hunters had burnt from the top of
the waves had been brought inland and lay a greasy blanket some
eight feet below. It would only be necessary to toss a torch on
that and the defenders of the stockade would create a wall of fire
to baffle any attacker. The Salariki knew how to make the most of
their world’s natural resources.