Troy had no idea how far into the Wild they had
penetrated. As Dragur had foreseen, Rerne talked them safely
through the Clan patrols. Dawn came and mellowed into day, the day
sped west as they bore east. Troy put his head back against the
cabin walls, closed his eyes, but not to sleep.
His right hand braceleted his left wrist, moving around and
around on the smooth, cool surface of the band he had involuntarily
worn out of Ruhkarv, until that movement fell into rhythm with his
reaching thoughts.
The flitter moved at top speed, but surely thought could thrust
farther and faster than any machine. He tried to call up a sharp
picture of that tongue of woodland into which the animals had
fled—was it hours, or days ago? Simba, if he could contact
Simba! If he could persuade the cat, and through him the others, to
come back to that meeting point, be waiting there—
Norden—No, he must not think of Norden now, of how it
would be to ride free once more down the valley. With a wrench of
thought that was close to physical pain, Troy crushed down memory
and dreams born of that memory. He must concentrate with every part
of him, mental and physical, on the job at hand.
There was only Dragur’s word that none of them here could
communicate with the animals. But if that was not true, why did
they want his help so badly?
His whole body was taut with effort. He was not aware that his
face grew gaunt with strain or that dark finger-shaped bruises
appeared under his eyes. He did not know that Rerne was watching
him again with an intentness that approached his own
concentration.
Slip, slip, right, left, his fingers on the bracelet—his
silent call fanning out ahead of the ship. Troy aroused to chew a
concentrate block passed to him, hardly conscious of the others in
that cabin, so tired only his will flogged him into that fruitless
searching.
And to undermine his labors there was a growing dismay. Perhaps
the animals, having witnessed his capture, had pressed on past any
hope of their being located now. Only Sahiba’s injury could
curtail such a flight.
Nightfall found the flitter well into the plains. Dragur heeded
the protests of the Guildsman who alternated with Zul as pilot and
agreed to camp for the night.
“Which,” the agent remarked with courtesy
exaggerated enough to approach a taunt, “provides us with a
problem, noble Hunter. You, in this, your home territory, will have
to be bodily restrained. I trust you will forgive the practical
solution. Our young friend here needs no such limits on his
freedom.”
Rerne, hands and feet bound, made no protest as he was bedded
down between Zul and the Guildsman. Troy, oblivious to his company
and surroundings, fell asleep almost at once, his weariness like a
vast weight grinding him into darkness. Yet in that dark there was
no rest. He twisted, turned, raced breathlessly to finish some
fantastic task under the spur of time. And he awoke gasping, sweat
damp upon his body.
Stars were paling overhead. This was the dawn of the day in
which they would come to the wood. For a fraction of one fast
escaping moment he knew again that sensation of freedom and fresh
life that had first come to him on the plateau, which would always
signify for him the Wild. Then that was gone under the lash of
memory. Troy did not stir, save that his hand unconsciously once
more sought the band on his wrist, and from the touch of that
strange metal a quickening of spirit reached into body and mind.
His thoughts quested feverishly, picturing the fringe of saplings
and trees as he had seen it last. Simba crouched beneath a
bush—waiting—
“Found!”
Troy flung up his arm, the cool band of Ruhkarv pressed tight to
his forehead above his closed eyes. And under that touch his mental
picture leaped into instant sharp detail.
“You come?”
“I come,” Troy affirmed silently. “Be
ready—when I come.” He tried to marshal the necessary
arguments and promises that would draw them to the place where
Dragur would land.
“So—you have made contact at last, Range
Master?”
Troy’s arm fell away from his forehead. He frowned up at
the Confederation agent. But there was no reason to deny the truth.
What he had had to do he had done, to the best of his ability.
“Yes. They will be waiting.”
“Excellent. I must compliment you, Horan, on your
commendable speed in seeking to fulfill your part of the bargain.
We shall eat and then get on to the netting.”
Troy ate slowly. So much depended now on Simba’s response
to his appeal, on the cat’s dominance over his fellow
mutants. If the slight bond between man and animals was not stout
enough to lead them to trust him now—then he had failed
completely.
Back in the flitter he made no further attempt to keep in touch
with the fugitives. He had done all he could during that early
morning contact. Either they would be waiting—or they would
not. The future must be governed by one or the other of those
facts—which one he would not know until the flyer landed.
In midmorning, bright and clear, the flitter touched with an
expert’s jarless landing at the edge of the wood. Dragur
ordered them out, the barrel of his needier as much on Troy as on
Rerne.
“And now”—the agent faced the
woodland—“where are they, Horan?”
“In there.” Troy nodded to the cover. Yes, they were
all there, waiting in hiding. Whether they would show themselves
was again another matter.
The Guildsman drew his blaster, thumbed the butt dial to spray
beam. Troy gathered himself for a quick leap if the other touched
the button. But the agent spoke first. “No beaming,” he
snapped. “We have to be sure we get them all and in one
attack.” Then he turned to Troy. “Bring them
out.”
“I have no summoner, and they will not obey me to that
point. I cannot bring them against their wills. I can only hold
them where they are.”
For a second or two he was afraid that Dragur would refuse to
enter the shadow of the trees. Then Troy’s statement
apparently made sense to the agent.
“March!” Dragur’s tone sheared away the
urbanity of earlier hours. Troy obeyed, the agent close behind him,
needler ready.
Horan rounded a bush, stooped under a hanging branch.
“Here! Here! Here!”
Simba, Sargon, Sheba—
Troy threw himself face down into the leaf mold,
rolled—Dragur shrieked. Troy came to his knees again and
faced the man now plunging empty-handed toward him.
Simba clung with three taloned feet to the agent’s
shoulder, as with a fourth he clawed viciously at the man’s
face and eyes, while both foxes made a concentrated attack with
sharp fangs upon the agent’s ankles.
Troy caught up the needler the other had dropped when Simba had
sprung to his present perch from a low-hanging tree limb. Horan was
still on one knee, but he had the weapon up to cover Zul as the
small man burst through the bushes to them.
“Stand—and drop that!”
Zul’s eyes widened. Reluctantly his fingers loosened their
hold upon the blaster. The weapon thudded to the ground.
“You too!”
The Guildsman who had prodded Rerne on into this pocket clearing
obeyed Troy’s order. A furred shadow with a long tail crooked
above its back flitted out of cover, mouthed Zul’s blaster
and brought it to Troy, then went back for the guard’s
weapon. Dragur staggered around, his arms flailing about his head
where the blood dripped from ripped flesh on his face and neck.
Simba no longer rode his shoulders, but was now assisting the foxes
to drive the man, with sudden rushes and slashes at his feet and
legs.
Blinded, crying in pain, completely demoralized by the surprise
and the unexpected nature of that attack, the agent tripped and
fell, sprawling at Rerne’s feet, while Simba snarled and made
a last claw swipe at his face. The ranger stared in complete
amazement from the team of animal warriors to Troy.
“You planned this?” he asked in a voice loud enough
to carry over Dragur’s moaning.
“We planned this,” Troy corrected. He thrust the two
blasters into his belt, but he kept the needler aimed at the
others.
“Now”—he motioned to the
Guildsman—“you gather up Citizen Dragur and we will go
back to the flitter.”
There was no argument against the needler. Half carrying the
moaning agent, the Guildsman tramped sullenly back to the flyer,
Zul and Rerne in his wake, Troy bringing up the rear. He knew the
animals were active as flanking scouts though he no longer saw
them.
“You”—Troy nodded to Rerne—“unload
water, the emergency supplies.”
“You are staying here then?” The ranger showed no
surprise.
“We are staying,” Troy corrected once again,
watching as the other dumped from the flitter the things he might
need for survival in the Wild. Then the Guildsman, under
Horan’s orders, gave Dragur rough first aid, tied him up and
stowed him away, afterwards doing the same for Zul, before he,
himself, submitted to binding at Rerne’s hands.
“And how do you propose to deal with me?” the ranger
asked as he boosted the last of the invaders from Tikil into the
flitter.
“You can go—with them.” Troy hesitated for a
moment and then, almost against his will, he added roughly,
“I ask your pardon for that tap on the head at
Ruhkarv.”
Rerne gazed at him levelly. The mask he had worn in the city was
back, to make his features unreadable, though there was a spark of
some emotion deep in his eyes.
“You were within your rights—an oathbreaker
deserves little consideration.” But behind those flat words
was something Troy thought he could read a different meaning
into.
“Those waiting were not your men but patrollers?” He
demanded confirmation of what he had come to suspect.
Simba appeared out of the grass, by his presence urging an end
to this time-wasting talk.
“So you saw that much.” The flicker in Rerne’s
eyes glowed stronger.
“I saw, and I have had time to think.” It was an
apology, one Troy longed for the other to accept, though that
acceptance could lead to nothing between them now save a level
balancing of the old scales.
“I will come back—you understand that?” Rerne
stated a fact.
Troy smiled. The headiness of his victory bubbled in him.
Release from the strain of the past hours, or past days, was an
intoxicant he found hard to combat.
“If you wish, Rerne. I may not be your equal in the lore
of the Wild, but together we shall give you a good
run—”
“We?” Rerne’s head swung. If he was looking
for the other animals, he would not see them. But they were all
there, even to Sahiba crouched under the low branches of a
bush.
“Still we.”
“And Norden?”
Troy’s smile faded. That was a wicked backstroke he had
not expected from Rerne. His braceleted hand went to the belt where
the studs were no longer burnished bright.
“The crab did not jump,” he replied evenly.
“Perhaps it was not offered the right bait.” Rerne
shook his head. “This is the Wild and you are no trained
ranger. By our laws I cannot help you unless you ask for it, and
that would mean surrender.” He waited a long moment, as if he
actually hoped for some affirmative sign from Troy.
The other nodded. “I know. From now on it will be you and
yours against us. Only do not be too sure of the ending,
Rerne.”
He watched the flitter rise in the vertical climb of a master
pilot. Then the carrying strap of the needler across his shoulder,
he made a compact bundle of the supplies.
Sunset, sunrise, another nightfall—morning again—though here the sun made a pale greenish shimmer in the forest
depths. Troy only knew that they were still pointed east. At least
under such cover he could not be tracked by air patrols. Those
hunting him would have to go afoot and so be subject to discovery
by the keener senses of the animals. Shang took to the treetops,
Simba and the foxes ranged wide on the ground, able to scout about
Troy as he marched, carrying Sahiba.
Once Simba had been stalked in turn by a forest creature, and
Troy had blasted it into a charred mass as it leaped for the cat.
But otherwise they saw few living things as they pushed
forward.
To Troy the Wild did not threaten. About him it closed like a
vast envelope of content. And the memory of Norden was a whisper of
mist torn away by the wind rustling through the boughs over his
head. With the animals he had moved into a new world, and Tikil too
was a forgotten dream—a nightmare—small, far-off,
cramped and dusty, well lost. The only thing to trouble him was a
vague longing now and then for one of his own kind to share the
jubilation of some discovery, the exultation when he awoke here
feeling a measure of his birthright returned to him.
On the fifth day the ground began to rise, and once or twice
through a break in the trees Troy located peaks in the sky ahead.
Perhaps in those heights he could find a cave to shelter
them—something they would need soon if the now threatening
clouds meant a storm.
“Men!”
Troy froze. The sobering shock made him recoil against a tree.
He had half forgotten the chase behind. Now he heard Simba squall
in fear and rage, the fear thrusting into Troy’s brain in
turn as a spearhead. A pinner! The same force that had gripped him
at the time of Zul’s pursuit glued them all to the earth once
again. Yet there was no flitter in sight, no sign of a tracker.
“How far away?” he appealed to the scouts.
“Up slope—they are coming closer now.” From
three sides he had his replies as noses caught scents he could not
detect. “They have set a trap.”
Troy tried to subdue the rising panic of the animals. Yes, a
good trap. But how had they known that Troy and his companions
would emerge from the wood at that point? Or had they laid down a
long barrier of pinner beams just in case?
There was no chance for him to use the needler; he could not
raise his hand to the blasters at his belt. All of them would
remain where they were to await the leisure of the unseen enemy.
And the bitterness of that soured in his mouth, cramped his now
useless muscles.
Sahiba whimpered in his hold. The others were quiet now,
understanding his trap explanation. He knew that each small mind
was busy with the problem—one that they could not solve. Not
singly—but together?
Why had he thought that? Swiftly Troy touched each mind in
turn—Simba, Sargon, Sheba, Shang, Sahiba. Simba must be their
choice for the experiment. The black cat whose whole battle
technique depended upon quiet stalking, instant, lightning-swift
attack. If they could free Simba—!
This was a last fantastic attempt, but the only one left to
them. Troy focused the full force of his mind on a picture of Simba
free, Simba moving one padded paw skillfully before the other as he
crept up the slope before them to locate the pinner broadcaster.
The others took up that picture, fed into it their combined will
and mind force. The thread became a beam, a beam of such strength
as to amaze one part of Troy’s brain, even as he labored to
build it deeper, wider, tougher.
A trickle of moisture zigzagged down his cheek. It was crazy to
hope that mind could triumph over a body pinned. Perhaps only
because of the freedom of the past few days could their desperate
need nourish such a hope. Troy was weak, drained. Yet, as he had
fought to reach the animals from the flitter, so now he labored to
unleash Simba. And in that moment he knew that it could be
done!
Troy did not see that small streak of black bounding up the
hillside. And the man operating the pinner could not have seen it
coming. There was a howl of pain from above, and Troy was free. He
leaped out of the brush and went to one knee, the needler ready to
sweep the whole territory ahead.
Rerne arose from behind a rock well up the slope, his hands up
and empty. Out of the grass sped Sargon, Sheba, Shang, and,
descending in a series of bounds, Simba. Once more Troy was one in
their half circle of defense and offense.
“You broke pinner power!” Rerne came down at an even
pace, his eyes never leaving Troy’s face.
“And you found us.” In spite of his overwhelming
victory against the machine, Troy tasted the ultimate defeat. The
Wild no longer remained their coveted escape.
“We found you.” Rerne jerked one hand in a signal.
Two more men started to move along the hillside, their hands
conspicuously up and empty. One was Rogarkil; the other wore the
uniform of a Council attaché.
Rerne spoke to them over his shoulder. “So—now have
you seen for yourselves?”
“You underestimated the danger!” The Council
attaché’s voice was harsh and rough, he was breathing fast
through his nose, and it was plain he did not find his present
position one that he relished.
“Danger,” Rerne observed, “is relative. Belt
knives have been shifted from the sheath of one wearer to that of
another without losing their cutting edge. You might consider the
facts in this case before you commit those you represent to any
hasty course of action.”
Clansman spoke to Council as an equal, and, though the attaché
did not like it, here in the Wild he must accept that. His mouth
was now a tight slit of disapproval. In another place and company
those lips would be shaping orders to make men jump.
“I protest your arguments, Hunter!”
Rogarkil answered in a mild tone. “Your privilege, Gentle
Homo. Rerne does not ask that you agree; he merely requires that
you report, and that the matter be taken under sober consideration.
I will say also that one does not throw away a new thing merely
because it is strange—until one explores its usefulness. This
is the Wild.”
“And you rule here? The Council shall remember that
also!”
Rogarkil shrugged. “That is also your
privilege.”
With a last glare at Troy and the animals, the officer strode
back up the hill, joined, when he was at the crest, by an escort of
patrollers who gathered in from the rocks. Then he was gone, as the
wind brought the first gust of the storm down upon them all.
“Truce?” asked Rerne, his shoulders hunched against
the elements. Then he smiled a little.
Troy hesitated only for a moment before his own hand went up in
answer and he slung the needler. He ran toward the shelter the
ranger had indicated, a space between two leaning rocks. The area
so sheltered was small, and they were still two companies, Troy and
the animals on one side, the Clansmen on the other.
“That one will do some straighter thinking on the way back
to Tikil,” Rerne remarked.
Rogarkil nodded. “Time to think is often enough. When and
if they do move, we shall be ready.”
“Why are you doing this?” Troy demanded, guessing
from the crosscurrents of their speech that, incredibly, the Clans
seemed to be choosing his side.
“Because,” Rerne replied, “we do believe what
I said just now to Hawthol—a knife changing sheaths remains a
knife. And it can be used even to counter a blow from its first
owner. Kyger died because of a personal feud. But for that chance
this attack against the Council, and against Korwar, would have
succeeded. And because this espionage conspiracy was in a manner
aimed against Korwar, it concerns us. Our guests here, the Great
Ones of the galaxy, must be protected. As we told you that night in
Tikil, the continuance of our way of life here depends in turn upon
their comfort and safety. Anything that undermines that is a threat
to the Clans.
“Now if the Confederation tries this weapon on another
planet, well, that is the Council’s affair. But such an
attack is finished here. And I do not believe that Kyger, or
Dragur, or any of those behind them ever realized or cared about
the other potentials of the tools they developed to further their
plan. It could be very illuminating to see what might happen when
two or three species long associated in one fashion move into
equality with each other, to work as companions, not as servants
and masters—”
“And who is better fitted to make such a study than the
Clans?” asked Rogarkil.
Troy stiffened. They were taking too much for granted. Both men
and animals must have some voice in their future.
“Will the crab jump to his bait, Horan?” Rerne
leaned forward a little, raising his voice above the gathering fury
of the storm. “Rangers’ rights in the Wild for you and
your company here—granting us in return the right to know
them better? This may not rank with being a Range Master on
Norden—”
He paused nearly in mid-word at Troy’s involuntary wince.
But that hurt was fading fast. Troy’s thought touched circle
with the other five. He did not urge, tried in no way to influence
them. This was their decision more than his. And if they did not
wish to accept—well, he still had the needler.
The answer came. Troy raised his chin, looked to the rangers
with a cool measurement such as he could not have used a week
earlier, but which was now part of him.
“If you make that a trial agreement—”
Rerne smiled. “Caution is good in a man—and his
friends. Very well, rangers, this shall be a trial run as long as
you wish it so. I will admit that I am eager to have a catseye view
of life—if you will allow me into this hitherto closed
company of yours.”
Troy’s eyes met Rerne’s and the younger man drew an
uneven breath. Norden’s plains were gone now. Instead he had
a flash of another memory. A rockwalled room on a cliff above a
lake and Rerne’s voice talking of this world and its
fascinating concerns.
“Why?” He did not stop to think that perhaps his
question, which seemed so clear to him, might not be as
intelligible to the other. But—as if Rerne’s thought
could touch his like the animals’—the other answered
him: “We are of one kind, plains rider.” Then Rerne
looked beyond the man to the animals. “So shall we all be in
the end.”
“So be it.” Troy agreed, knowing now he spoke the
truth.
Troy had no idea how far into the Wild they had
penetrated. As Dragur had foreseen, Rerne talked them safely
through the Clan patrols. Dawn came and mellowed into day, the day
sped west as they bore east. Troy put his head back against the
cabin walls, closed his eyes, but not to sleep.
His right hand braceleted his left wrist, moving around and
around on the smooth, cool surface of the band he had involuntarily
worn out of Ruhkarv, until that movement fell into rhythm with his
reaching thoughts.
The flitter moved at top speed, but surely thought could thrust
farther and faster than any machine. He tried to call up a sharp
picture of that tongue of woodland into which the animals had
fled—was it hours, or days ago? Simba, if he could contact
Simba! If he could persuade the cat, and through him the others, to
come back to that meeting point, be waiting there—
Norden—No, he must not think of Norden now, of how it
would be to ride free once more down the valley. With a wrench of
thought that was close to physical pain, Troy crushed down memory
and dreams born of that memory. He must concentrate with every part
of him, mental and physical, on the job at hand.
There was only Dragur’s word that none of them here could
communicate with the animals. But if that was not true, why did
they want his help so badly?
His whole body was taut with effort. He was not aware that his
face grew gaunt with strain or that dark finger-shaped bruises
appeared under his eyes. He did not know that Rerne was watching
him again with an intentness that approached his own
concentration.
Slip, slip, right, left, his fingers on the bracelet—his
silent call fanning out ahead of the ship. Troy aroused to chew a
concentrate block passed to him, hardly conscious of the others in
that cabin, so tired only his will flogged him into that fruitless
searching.
And to undermine his labors there was a growing dismay. Perhaps
the animals, having witnessed his capture, had pressed on past any
hope of their being located now. Only Sahiba’s injury could
curtail such a flight.
Nightfall found the flitter well into the plains. Dragur heeded
the protests of the Guildsman who alternated with Zul as pilot and
agreed to camp for the night.
“Which,” the agent remarked with courtesy
exaggerated enough to approach a taunt, “provides us with a
problem, noble Hunter. You, in this, your home territory, will have
to be bodily restrained. I trust you will forgive the practical
solution. Our young friend here needs no such limits on his
freedom.”
Rerne, hands and feet bound, made no protest as he was bedded
down between Zul and the Guildsman. Troy, oblivious to his company
and surroundings, fell asleep almost at once, his weariness like a
vast weight grinding him into darkness. Yet in that dark there was
no rest. He twisted, turned, raced breathlessly to finish some
fantastic task under the spur of time. And he awoke gasping, sweat
damp upon his body.
Stars were paling overhead. This was the dawn of the day in
which they would come to the wood. For a fraction of one fast
escaping moment he knew again that sensation of freedom and fresh
life that had first come to him on the plateau, which would always
signify for him the Wild. Then that was gone under the lash of
memory. Troy did not stir, save that his hand unconsciously once
more sought the band on his wrist, and from the touch of that
strange metal a quickening of spirit reached into body and mind.
His thoughts quested feverishly, picturing the fringe of saplings
and trees as he had seen it last. Simba crouched beneath a
bush—waiting—
“Found!”
Troy flung up his arm, the cool band of Ruhkarv pressed tight to
his forehead above his closed eyes. And under that touch his mental
picture leaped into instant sharp detail.
“You come?”
“I come,” Troy affirmed silently. “Be
ready—when I come.” He tried to marshal the necessary
arguments and promises that would draw them to the place where
Dragur would land.
“So—you have made contact at last, Range
Master?”
Troy’s arm fell away from his forehead. He frowned up at
the Confederation agent. But there was no reason to deny the truth.
What he had had to do he had done, to the best of his ability.
“Yes. They will be waiting.”
“Excellent. I must compliment you, Horan, on your
commendable speed in seeking to fulfill your part of the bargain.
We shall eat and then get on to the netting.”
Troy ate slowly. So much depended now on Simba’s response
to his appeal, on the cat’s dominance over his fellow
mutants. If the slight bond between man and animals was not stout
enough to lead them to trust him now—then he had failed
completely.
Back in the flitter he made no further attempt to keep in touch
with the fugitives. He had done all he could during that early
morning contact. Either they would be waiting—or they would
not. The future must be governed by one or the other of those
facts—which one he would not know until the flyer landed.
In midmorning, bright and clear, the flitter touched with an
expert’s jarless landing at the edge of the wood. Dragur
ordered them out, the barrel of his needier as much on Troy as on
Rerne.
“And now”—the agent faced the
woodland—“where are they, Horan?”
“In there.” Troy nodded to the cover. Yes, they were
all there, waiting in hiding. Whether they would show themselves
was again another matter.
The Guildsman drew his blaster, thumbed the butt dial to spray
beam. Troy gathered himself for a quick leap if the other touched
the button. But the agent spoke first. “No beaming,” he
snapped. “We have to be sure we get them all and in one
attack.” Then he turned to Troy. “Bring them
out.”
“I have no summoner, and they will not obey me to that
point. I cannot bring them against their wills. I can only hold
them where they are.”
For a second or two he was afraid that Dragur would refuse to
enter the shadow of the trees. Then Troy’s statement
apparently made sense to the agent.
“March!” Dragur’s tone sheared away the
urbanity of earlier hours. Troy obeyed, the agent close behind him,
needler ready.
Horan rounded a bush, stooped under a hanging branch.
“Here! Here! Here!”
Simba, Sargon, Sheba—
Troy threw himself face down into the leaf mold,
rolled—Dragur shrieked. Troy came to his knees again and
faced the man now plunging empty-handed toward him.
Simba clung with three taloned feet to the agent’s
shoulder, as with a fourth he clawed viciously at the man’s
face and eyes, while both foxes made a concentrated attack with
sharp fangs upon the agent’s ankles.
Troy caught up the needler the other had dropped when Simba had
sprung to his present perch from a low-hanging tree limb. Horan was
still on one knee, but he had the weapon up to cover Zul as the
small man burst through the bushes to them.
“Stand—and drop that!”
Zul’s eyes widened. Reluctantly his fingers loosened their
hold upon the blaster. The weapon thudded to the ground.
“You too!”
The Guildsman who had prodded Rerne on into this pocket clearing
obeyed Troy’s order. A furred shadow with a long tail crooked
above its back flitted out of cover, mouthed Zul’s blaster
and brought it to Troy, then went back for the guard’s
weapon. Dragur staggered around, his arms flailing about his head
where the blood dripped from ripped flesh on his face and neck.
Simba no longer rode his shoulders, but was now assisting the foxes
to drive the man, with sudden rushes and slashes at his feet and
legs.
Blinded, crying in pain, completely demoralized by the surprise
and the unexpected nature of that attack, the agent tripped and
fell, sprawling at Rerne’s feet, while Simba snarled and made
a last claw swipe at his face. The ranger stared in complete
amazement from the team of animal warriors to Troy.
“You planned this?” he asked in a voice loud enough
to carry over Dragur’s moaning.
“We planned this,” Troy corrected. He thrust the two
blasters into his belt, but he kept the needler aimed at the
others.
“Now”—he motioned to the
Guildsman—“you gather up Citizen Dragur and we will go
back to the flitter.”
There was no argument against the needler. Half carrying the
moaning agent, the Guildsman tramped sullenly back to the flyer,
Zul and Rerne in his wake, Troy bringing up the rear. He knew the
animals were active as flanking scouts though he no longer saw
them.
“You”—Troy nodded to Rerne—“unload
water, the emergency supplies.”
“You are staying here then?” The ranger showed no
surprise.
“We are staying,” Troy corrected once again,
watching as the other dumped from the flitter the things he might
need for survival in the Wild. Then the Guildsman, under
Horan’s orders, gave Dragur rough first aid, tied him up and
stowed him away, afterwards doing the same for Zul, before he,
himself, submitted to binding at Rerne’s hands.
“And how do you propose to deal with me?” the ranger
asked as he boosted the last of the invaders from Tikil into the
flitter.
“You can go—with them.” Troy hesitated for a
moment and then, almost against his will, he added roughly,
“I ask your pardon for that tap on the head at
Ruhkarv.”
Rerne gazed at him levelly. The mask he had worn in the city was
back, to make his features unreadable, though there was a spark of
some emotion deep in his eyes.
“You were within your rights—an oathbreaker
deserves little consideration.” But behind those flat words
was something Troy thought he could read a different meaning
into.
“Those waiting were not your men but patrollers?” He
demanded confirmation of what he had come to suspect.
Simba appeared out of the grass, by his presence urging an end
to this time-wasting talk.
“So you saw that much.” The flicker in Rerne’s
eyes glowed stronger.
“I saw, and I have had time to think.” It was an
apology, one Troy longed for the other to accept, though that
acceptance could lead to nothing between them now save a level
balancing of the old scales.
“I will come back—you understand that?” Rerne
stated a fact.
Troy smiled. The headiness of his victory bubbled in him.
Release from the strain of the past hours, or past days, was an
intoxicant he found hard to combat.
“If you wish, Rerne. I may not be your equal in the lore
of the Wild, but together we shall give you a good
run—”
“We?” Rerne’s head swung. If he was looking
for the other animals, he would not see them. But they were all
there, even to Sahiba crouched under the low branches of a
bush.
“Still we.”
“And Norden?”
Troy’s smile faded. That was a wicked backstroke he had
not expected from Rerne. His braceleted hand went to the belt where
the studs were no longer burnished bright.
“The crab did not jump,” he replied evenly.
“Perhaps it was not offered the right bait.” Rerne
shook his head. “This is the Wild and you are no trained
ranger. By our laws I cannot help you unless you ask for it, and
that would mean surrender.” He waited a long moment, as if he
actually hoped for some affirmative sign from Troy.
The other nodded. “I know. From now on it will be you and
yours against us. Only do not be too sure of the ending,
Rerne.”
He watched the flitter rise in the vertical climb of a master
pilot. Then the carrying strap of the needler across his shoulder,
he made a compact bundle of the supplies.
Sunset, sunrise, another nightfall—morning again—though here the sun made a pale greenish shimmer in the forest
depths. Troy only knew that they were still pointed east. At least
under such cover he could not be tracked by air patrols. Those
hunting him would have to go afoot and so be subject to discovery
by the keener senses of the animals. Shang took to the treetops,
Simba and the foxes ranged wide on the ground, able to scout about
Troy as he marched, carrying Sahiba.
Once Simba had been stalked in turn by a forest creature, and
Troy had blasted it into a charred mass as it leaped for the cat.
But otherwise they saw few living things as they pushed
forward.
To Troy the Wild did not threaten. About him it closed like a
vast envelope of content. And the memory of Norden was a whisper of
mist torn away by the wind rustling through the boughs over his
head. With the animals he had moved into a new world, and Tikil too
was a forgotten dream—a nightmare—small, far-off,
cramped and dusty, well lost. The only thing to trouble him was a
vague longing now and then for one of his own kind to share the
jubilation of some discovery, the exultation when he awoke here
feeling a measure of his birthright returned to him.
On the fifth day the ground began to rise, and once or twice
through a break in the trees Troy located peaks in the sky ahead.
Perhaps in those heights he could find a cave to shelter
them—something they would need soon if the now threatening
clouds meant a storm.
“Men!”
Troy froze. The sobering shock made him recoil against a tree.
He had half forgotten the chase behind. Now he heard Simba squall
in fear and rage, the fear thrusting into Troy’s brain in
turn as a spearhead. A pinner! The same force that had gripped him
at the time of Zul’s pursuit glued them all to the earth once
again. Yet there was no flitter in sight, no sign of a tracker.
“How far away?” he appealed to the scouts.
“Up slope—they are coming closer now.” From
three sides he had his replies as noses caught scents he could not
detect. “They have set a trap.”
Troy tried to subdue the rising panic of the animals. Yes, a
good trap. But how had they known that Troy and his companions
would emerge from the wood at that point? Or had they laid down a
long barrier of pinner beams just in case?
There was no chance for him to use the needler; he could not
raise his hand to the blasters at his belt. All of them would
remain where they were to await the leisure of the unseen enemy.
And the bitterness of that soured in his mouth, cramped his now
useless muscles.
Sahiba whimpered in his hold. The others were quiet now,
understanding his trap explanation. He knew that each small mind
was busy with the problem—one that they could not solve. Not
singly—but together?
Why had he thought that? Swiftly Troy touched each mind in
turn—Simba, Sargon, Sheba, Shang, Sahiba. Simba must be their
choice for the experiment. The black cat whose whole battle
technique depended upon quiet stalking, instant, lightning-swift
attack. If they could free Simba—!
This was a last fantastic attempt, but the only one left to
them. Troy focused the full force of his mind on a picture of Simba
free, Simba moving one padded paw skillfully before the other as he
crept up the slope before them to locate the pinner broadcaster.
The others took up that picture, fed into it their combined will
and mind force. The thread became a beam, a beam of such strength
as to amaze one part of Troy’s brain, even as he labored to
build it deeper, wider, tougher.
A trickle of moisture zigzagged down his cheek. It was crazy to
hope that mind could triumph over a body pinned. Perhaps only
because of the freedom of the past few days could their desperate
need nourish such a hope. Troy was weak, drained. Yet, as he had
fought to reach the animals from the flitter, so now he labored to
unleash Simba. And in that moment he knew that it could be
done!
Troy did not see that small streak of black bounding up the
hillside. And the man operating the pinner could not have seen it
coming. There was a howl of pain from above, and Troy was free. He
leaped out of the brush and went to one knee, the needler ready to
sweep the whole territory ahead.
Rerne arose from behind a rock well up the slope, his hands up
and empty. Out of the grass sped Sargon, Sheba, Shang, and,
descending in a series of bounds, Simba. Once more Troy was one in
their half circle of defense and offense.
“You broke pinner power!” Rerne came down at an even
pace, his eyes never leaving Troy’s face.
“And you found us.” In spite of his overwhelming
victory against the machine, Troy tasted the ultimate defeat. The
Wild no longer remained their coveted escape.
“We found you.” Rerne jerked one hand in a signal.
Two more men started to move along the hillside, their hands
conspicuously up and empty. One was Rogarkil; the other wore the
uniform of a Council attaché.
Rerne spoke to them over his shoulder. “So—now have
you seen for yourselves?”
“You underestimated the danger!” The Council
attaché’s voice was harsh and rough, he was breathing fast
through his nose, and it was plain he did not find his present
position one that he relished.
“Danger,” Rerne observed, “is relative. Belt
knives have been shifted from the sheath of one wearer to that of
another without losing their cutting edge. You might consider the
facts in this case before you commit those you represent to any
hasty course of action.”
Clansman spoke to Council as an equal, and, though the attaché
did not like it, here in the Wild he must accept that. His mouth
was now a tight slit of disapproval. In another place and company
those lips would be shaping orders to make men jump.
“I protest your arguments, Hunter!”
Rogarkil answered in a mild tone. “Your privilege, Gentle
Homo. Rerne does not ask that you agree; he merely requires that
you report, and that the matter be taken under sober consideration.
I will say also that one does not throw away a new thing merely
because it is strange—until one explores its usefulness. This
is the Wild.”
“And you rule here? The Council shall remember that
also!”
Rogarkil shrugged. “That is also your
privilege.”
With a last glare at Troy and the animals, the officer strode
back up the hill, joined, when he was at the crest, by an escort of
patrollers who gathered in from the rocks. Then he was gone, as the
wind brought the first gust of the storm down upon them all.
“Truce?” asked Rerne, his shoulders hunched against
the elements. Then he smiled a little.
Troy hesitated only for a moment before his own hand went up in
answer and he slung the needler. He ran toward the shelter the
ranger had indicated, a space between two leaning rocks. The area
so sheltered was small, and they were still two companies, Troy and
the animals on one side, the Clansmen on the other.
“That one will do some straighter thinking on the way back
to Tikil,” Rerne remarked.
Rogarkil nodded. “Time to think is often enough. When and
if they do move, we shall be ready.”
“Why are you doing this?” Troy demanded, guessing
from the crosscurrents of their speech that, incredibly, the Clans
seemed to be choosing his side.
“Because,” Rerne replied, “we do believe what
I said just now to Hawthol—a knife changing sheaths remains a
knife. And it can be used even to counter a blow from its first
owner. Kyger died because of a personal feud. But for that chance
this attack against the Council, and against Korwar, would have
succeeded. And because this espionage conspiracy was in a manner
aimed against Korwar, it concerns us. Our guests here, the Great
Ones of the galaxy, must be protected. As we told you that night in
Tikil, the continuance of our way of life here depends in turn upon
their comfort and safety. Anything that undermines that is a threat
to the Clans.
“Now if the Confederation tries this weapon on another
planet, well, that is the Council’s affair. But such an
attack is finished here. And I do not believe that Kyger, or
Dragur, or any of those behind them ever realized or cared about
the other potentials of the tools they developed to further their
plan. It could be very illuminating to see what might happen when
two or three species long associated in one fashion move into
equality with each other, to work as companions, not as servants
and masters—”
“And who is better fitted to make such a study than the
Clans?” asked Rogarkil.
Troy stiffened. They were taking too much for granted. Both men
and animals must have some voice in their future.
“Will the crab jump to his bait, Horan?” Rerne
leaned forward a little, raising his voice above the gathering fury
of the storm. “Rangers’ rights in the Wild for you and
your company here—granting us in return the right to know
them better? This may not rank with being a Range Master on
Norden—”
He paused nearly in mid-word at Troy’s involuntary wince.
But that hurt was fading fast. Troy’s thought touched circle
with the other five. He did not urge, tried in no way to influence
them. This was their decision more than his. And if they did not
wish to accept—well, he still had the needler.
The answer came. Troy raised his chin, looked to the rangers
with a cool measurement such as he could not have used a week
earlier, but which was now part of him.
“If you make that a trial agreement—”
Rerne smiled. “Caution is good in a man—and his
friends. Very well, rangers, this shall be a trial run as long as
you wish it so. I will admit that I am eager to have a catseye view
of life—if you will allow me into this hitherto closed
company of yours.”
Troy’s eyes met Rerne’s and the younger man drew an
uneven breath. Norden’s plains were gone now. Instead he had
a flash of another memory. A rockwalled room on a cliff above a
lake and Rerne’s voice talking of this world and its
fascinating concerns.
“Why?” He did not stop to think that perhaps his
question, which seemed so clear to him, might not be as
intelligible to the other. But—as if Rerne’s thought
could touch his like the animals’—the other answered
him: “We are of one kind, plains rider.” Then Rerne
looked beyond the man to the animals. “So shall we all be in
the end.”
“So be it.” Troy agreed, knowing now he spoke the
truth.