TALK OF HEAT—or better not—on Xecho.
This water-logged world combined all the most unattractive features
of a steam bath and one could only dream of coolness,
greenness—more land than a stingy string of islands.
The young man on the promontory above the crash of the waves
wore the winged cap of a spaceman with the insignia of a
cargo-master and not much else, save a pair of very short shorts.
He wiped one hand absently across his bare chest and brought it
away damp as he studied, through protective sun goggles, the
treacherous promise of the bright sea. One could
swim—if he wanted to lose most of his skin. There were minute
organisms in that liquid that smacked their lips—if they had
lips—every time they thought of a Terran.
Dane Thorson licked his own lips, tasting salt, and plodded back
through the sand of the spaceport to the berth of the Solar
Queen. This had been a long day, and one with more snarl-ups
than he cared to count, keeping him on a constant, dogged trot
between the ship and the fitting yard where riggers labored with
the slowest motions possible to the human body—or so it
seemed to the exasperated acting-Cargo-Master of the Free Trader.
Captain Jellico had long ago taken refuge in his cabin to preserve
the remnants of his temper. Dane had been allowed no such
escape.
The Queen had a schedule for refitting to serve as a
mail ship, and that time allowance did not allow for humidity
playing the devil with the innards of robot fitters. She
had to be ready to lift when the Combine ship now plying
that run set down and formally signed off in her favor. Luckily,
most of the work was done and Dane had given a last searching
inspection before signing the rigger’s book and reporting to
his captain.
The air-conditioned interior of the Queen comforted him
as he climbed to his quarters. Ship air was flat, chemically pure
but unappetizing stuff. Today it was a relief to breath. Dane went
on to the bather. At least there was no lack of water—with
the local skinners filtered out. It was chill but relaxing on his
gaunt young body.
He was sealing on his lightest tunic when the ramp buzzer
sounded. A visitor—oh, not the supervisor-rigger again! Dane
went to answer with dragging feet. For the crew of the
Queen at the moment numbered exactly four, with himself
for general errand boy. Captain Jellico was in his quarters two
levels above, Medic Tau was presumably overhauling his supplies,
and Sinbad, ship’s cat, asleep in some empty cabin.
Dane jerked his tunic into place, very much on his guard as he
came to the head of the ramp. But it was not the supervisor-rigger.
Dane, thoroughly used to unusual-appearing strangers, both human
and alien, was impressed by this visitor.
He was tall, this quiet man, his great height accented by a fit
leanness, a narrowness of waist and hip, a length of leg and arm.
His main article of clothing was the universal shorts of the Xecho
settler. But, being fashioned of saffron yellow, they were the more
brilliant because of his darkness of skin. For he was not the warm
brown of the Terran Negroes Dane had served beside, though he
shared their general features. His flesh was really black, black
with an almost bluish sheen. Instead of shirt or tunic, his deep
chest was crossed by two wide straps, the big medallion marking
their intersection giving forth flashes of gem fire when he
breathed. He wore at his belt not the standard stun gun of a
spaceman, but a weapon which resembled the more deadly Patrol
blaster, as well as a long knife housed in a jeweled and fringed
sheath. To the eye he was an example of barbaric force tamed and trimmed
to civilized efficiency.
He saluted, palm out, and spoke Galactic Basic with only a
suggestion of accent.
“I am Kort Asaki. I believe Captain Jellico expects
me.”
“Yes. sir!” Dane snapped to attention. So this was
the Chief Ranger from fabulous Khatka, Xecho’s sister
planet.
The other ascended the cat ladder easily, missing no detail of
the ship’s interior as he passed. His expression was still
one of polite interest as his guide rapped on the panel door of
Jellico’s cabin. And a horrible screech from Queex, the
captain’s pet hoobat, drowned out any immediate answer. Then
followed that automatic thump on the floor of the blue-feathered,
crab-parrot-toad’s cage, announcing that its master was in
residence.
Since the captain’s cordial welcome extended only to his
guest, Dane regretfully descended to the mess cabin to make
unskilled preparations for supper—though there was not much
you could do to foul up concentrates in an automatic cooker.
“Company?” Tau sat beyond the cooking unit nursing a
mug of Terran coffee. “And do you have to serve
music with the meals, especially that particular
selection?”
Dane flushed, stopped whistling in mid-note. “Terran
Bound” was old and pretty well worn out; he
didn’t know why he always unconsciously sounded off with
that.
“A Chief Ranger from Khatka just came on board,” he
reported, carefully offhand, as he busied himself reading labels.
He knew better than to serve fish or any of its derivatives in
disguise again.
“Khatka!” Tau sat up straighter. “Now
there’s a planet worth visiting!”
“Not on a Free Trader’s pay,” commented
Dane.
“You can always hope to make a big strike, boy. But what I
wouldn’t give to lift ship for there!”
“Why? You’re no hunter. How come you want to heat
jets for that port?”
“Oh, I don’t care about the game preserves, though
they’re worth seeing, too. It’s the people
themselves—”
“But they’re Terran settlers, or at least from
Terran stock, aren’t they?”
“Sure,” Tau sipped his coffee slowly. “But
there are settlers and settlers, son. And a lot depends upon when
they left Terran and why, and who they were—also what
happened to them after they landed out here.”
“And Khatkans are really special?”
“Well, they have an amazing history. The colony was
founded by escaped prisoners—and just one racial stock. They
took off from Earth close to the end of the Second Atomic War. That
was a race war, remember? Which made it doubly ugly.”
Tau’s mouth twisted in disgust. “As if the color of a
man’s skin makes any difference in what lies under it! One
side in that line-up tried to take over Africa—herded most of
the natives into a giant concentration camp and practiced genocide
on a grand scale. Then they were cracked themselves, hard and
heavy. During the confusion some survivors in the camp staged a
revolt, helped by the enemy. They captured an experimental station
hidden in the center of the camp and made a break into space in two
ships which had been built there. That voyage must have been a
nightmare, but they were desperate. Somehow they made it out here
to the Rim and set down on Khatka without power enough to take off
again—and by then most of them were dead.
“But we humans, no matter what our race, are a tough
breed. The refugees discovered that climatically their new world
was not too different from Africa, a lucky chance which might
happen only once in a thousand times. So they thrived, the handful
who survived. But the white technicians they had kidnaped to run
the ships didn’t. For they set up a color bar in reverse. The
lighter your skin, the lower you were in the social scale. By that
kind of selective breeding the present Khatkans are very dark
indeed.
“They reverted to the primitive for survival. Then, about
two hundred years ago, long before the first Survey Scout
discovered them, something happened. Either the parent race
mutated, or, as sometimes occurs, a line of people of superior
gifts emerged—not in a few isolated births, but with
surprising regularity in five family clans. There was a short
period of power struggle until they realized the foolishness of
civil war and formed an oligarchy, heading a loose tribal
organization. With the Five Families to push and lead, a new
civilization developed, and when Survey came to call they were no
longer savages. Combine bought the trade rights about seventy-five
years ago. Then the Company and the Five Families got together and
marketed a luxury item to the galaxy. You know how every super-jet
big shot on twenty-five planets wants to say he’s hunted on
Khatka. And if he can point out a qraz head on his wall, or wear a
tail bracelet, he’s able to strut with the best. To holiday
on Khatka is both fabulous and fashionable—and very, very
profitable for the natives and for Combine who sells transportation
to the travelers.”
“I hear they have poachers, too,” Dane remarked.
“Yes, that naturally follows. You know what a glam skin
brings on the market. Wherever you have a rigidly controlled export
you’re going to have poachers and smugglers. But the Patrol
doesn’t go to Khatka. The natives handle their own criminals.
Personally, I’d cheerfully take a ninety-nine-year sentence
in the Lunar mines in place of what the Khatkans dish out to a
poacher they net!”
“So that rumor has spread satisfactorily!”
Coffee slopped over the brim of Tau’s mug and Dane dropped
the packet of steak concentrate he was about to feed into the
cooker. Chief Ranger Asaki loomed in the doorway of the mess as
suddenly as if he had been teleported to that point.
The medic arose to his feet and smiled politely at the
visitor.
”Do I detect in that observation, sir, the suggestion that
the tales I have heard were deliberately set to blast where they
would do the most good as deterrents?”
A fleeting grin broke the impassive somberness of the black
face.
“I was informed you are a man skilled in
‘magic,’ Medic. You certainly display the traditional
sorcerer’s quickness of wit. But this rumor is also
truth.” The quirk of good humor had gone again, and there was
an edge in the Chief Ranger’s voice which cut.
“Poachers on Khatka would welcome the Patrol in place of the
attention they now receive.”
He came into the mess cabin, Jellico behind him, and Dane pulled
down two of the snap seats. He was holding a mug under the spout of
the coffee dispenser as the captain made introductions.
“Thorson—our acting-cargo-master.”
“Thorson,” the Khatkan acknowledged with a grave nod
of his head, and then glanced down to floor level with a look of
surprise. Weaving a pattern about his legs, purring loudly, Sinbad
was offering an unusually fervent welcome of his own. The Ranger
went down on one knee, his hand out for Sinbad’s inquiring
sniff. Then the cat butted that dark palm, batted at it playfully
with claw-sheathed paw.
“A Terran cat! It is of the lion family?”
“Far removed,” Jellico supplied. “You’d
have to add a lot of bulk to Sinbad to promote him to the lion
class.”
“We have only the old tales.” Asaki sounded almost
wistful as the cat jumped to his knee and clawed for a hold on his
chest belts. “But I do not believe that lions were ever so
friendly toward my ancestors.”
Dane would have removed the cat, but the Khatkan arose with
Sinbad, still purring loudly, resting in the crook of his arm. The
Ranger was smiling with a gentleness which changed the whole
arrogant cast of his countenance.
“Do not bring this one to Khatka with you, Captain, or you
will never take him away again. Those who dwell in the inner courts would not let him vanish from their sight. Ah, so
this pleases you, small lion?” He rubbed Sinbad gently under
the throat and the cat stretched his neck, his yellow eyes half
closed in bliss.
“Thorson,” the Captain turned to Dane, “that
arrival report on my desk was the final one from
Combine?”
“Yes, sir. There’s no hope of the Rover
setting down here before that date.”
Asaki sat down, still holding the cat. “So you see,
Captain, fortune has arranged it all. You have two tens of days.
Four days to go in my cruiser, four days for your return here, and
the rest to explore the preserve. We could not ask for better luck,
for I do not know when our paths may cross again. In the normal
course of events I will not have another mission to Xecho for a
year, perhaps longer. Also—” He hesitated and then
spoke to Tau. “Medic, Captain Jellico has informed me that
you have made a study of magic on many worlds.”
“That is so, sir.”
“Do you then believe that it is real force, or that it is
only a superstition for child-people who set up demons to howl
petitions to when some darkness falls upon them?”
“Some of the magic I have seen is trickery, some of it
founded upon an inner knowledge of men and their ways which a
shrewd witch doctor can use to his advantage. There always
remains” —Tau put down his mug, “—there
always remains a small residue of happenings and results for which
we have not yet found any logical explanations—”
“And I believe,” Asaki interrupted, “it is
also true that a race can be conditioned from birth to be sensitive
to forms of magic so that men of that blood are particularly
susceptible.” That was more of a statement than a question,
but Tau answered it.
“That is very true. A Lamorian, for example, can be
‘sung’ to death. I have witnessed such a case. But upon
a Terran or another off-world man the same suggestion would have no
effect.”
“Those who settled Khatka brought such magic with
them.” The Chief Ranger’s fingers still moved about
Sinbad’s jaw and throat soothingly, but his tone was chill,
the coldest thing in the cramped space of the mess cabin.
“Yes, a highly developed form of it,” Tau
agreed.
“More highly developed perhaps than even you can believe,
Medic!” That came in a hiss of cold rage. “I think that
its present manifestation—death by a beast that is not a
beast—could be worth your detailed study.”
“Why?” Tau came bluntly to the point.
“Because it is a killing magic and it is being carefully
used to rid my world of key men, men we need badly. If there is a
weak point in this cloudy attack shaping against us, we must learn
it, and soon!”
It was Jellico who added the rest. “We are invited to
visit Khatka and survey a new hunting range as Chief Ranger
Asaki’s personal term guests.”
Dane drew a deep breath of wonder. Guest rights on Khatka were
jealously guarded—they were too valuable to their owners to
waste. Whole families lived on the income from the yearly rental of
even half a one. But the Rangers, by right of office, had several
which they could grant to visiting scientists or men from other
worlds holding positions similar to their own. To have such an
opportunity offered to an ordinary Trader was almost
incredible.
His wonder was matched by Tau’s and must have been plain
to read for the Chief Ranger smiled.
“For a long time Captain Jellico and I have exchanged
biological data on alien life-forms—his skill in
photographing such, his knowledge as an xenobiologist are widely
recognized. And so I have permission for him to visit the new
Zoboru preserve, not yet officially opened. And you, Medic Tau,
your help, or at least your diagnosis, we need in another
direction. So, one expert comes openly, another not so openly. Though, Medic, your task is approved by my superiors.
And” —he glanced at Dane— “perhaps to
muddle the trail for the suspicious, shall we not ask this young
man also?”
Dane’s eyes went to the captain. Jellico was always fair
and his crew would have snapped into action on his word
alone—even if they were fronting a rain of Thorkian death
darts and that order was to advance. But, on the other hand, Dane
would never have asked a favor, and the best he hoped for was to be
able to perform his duties without unfavorable comment upon their
commission. He had no reason to believe Jellico was willing to
agree to this.
“You have two weeks’ planet-side leave coming,
Thorson. If you want to spend it on Khatka . . . ” Jellico
actually grinned then. “I take it that you do. When do we
up-ship, sir?”
“You said that you must wait for the return of your other
crew members—shall we say mid-afternoon tomorrow?” The
Chief Ranger stood up and put Sinbad down though the cat protested
with several sharp meows.
“Small lion,” the tall Khatkan spoke to the cat as
to an equal, “this is your jungle, and mine lies elsewhere.
But should you ever grow tired of traveling the stars, there is
always a home for you in my courts.”
When the Chief Ranger went out the door, Sinbad did not try to
follow, but he uttered one mournful little cry of protest and
loss.
“So he wants a troubleshooter, does he?” Tau asked.
“All right, I’ll try to hunt out his goblins for him;
it’ll be worth that to visit Khatka!”
Dane, remembering the hot glare of the Xecho spaceport, the sea
one could not swim in, contrasted that with the tri-dees he had
seen of the green hunters’ paradise on the next planet of the
system. “Yes, sir!” he echoed and made a haphazard
choice for the cooker.
“Don’t be too lighthearted,” Tau warned.
“I’ll say that any stew which was too hot for that
Ranger to handle might give us burned fingers—and quick. When
we land on Khatka, walk softly and look over your shoulder, and be
prepared for the worst.”
TALK OF HEAT—or better not—on Xecho.
This water-logged world combined all the most unattractive features
of a steam bath and one could only dream of coolness,
greenness—more land than a stingy string of islands.
The young man on the promontory above the crash of the waves
wore the winged cap of a spaceman with the insignia of a
cargo-master and not much else, save a pair of very short shorts.
He wiped one hand absently across his bare chest and brought it
away damp as he studied, through protective sun goggles, the
treacherous promise of the bright sea. One could
swim—if he wanted to lose most of his skin. There were minute
organisms in that liquid that smacked their lips—if they had
lips—every time they thought of a Terran.
Dane Thorson licked his own lips, tasting salt, and plodded back
through the sand of the spaceport to the berth of the Solar
Queen. This had been a long day, and one with more snarl-ups
than he cared to count, keeping him on a constant, dogged trot
between the ship and the fitting yard where riggers labored with
the slowest motions possible to the human body—or so it
seemed to the exasperated acting-Cargo-Master of the Free Trader.
Captain Jellico had long ago taken refuge in his cabin to preserve
the remnants of his temper. Dane had been allowed no such
escape.
The Queen had a schedule for refitting to serve as a
mail ship, and that time allowance did not allow for humidity
playing the devil with the innards of robot fitters. She
had to be ready to lift when the Combine ship now plying
that run set down and formally signed off in her favor. Luckily,
most of the work was done and Dane had given a last searching
inspection before signing the rigger’s book and reporting to
his captain.
The air-conditioned interior of the Queen comforted him
as he climbed to his quarters. Ship air was flat, chemically pure
but unappetizing stuff. Today it was a relief to breath. Dane went
on to the bather. At least there was no lack of water—with
the local skinners filtered out. It was chill but relaxing on his
gaunt young body.
He was sealing on his lightest tunic when the ramp buzzer
sounded. A visitor—oh, not the supervisor-rigger again! Dane
went to answer with dragging feet. For the crew of the
Queen at the moment numbered exactly four, with himself
for general errand boy. Captain Jellico was in his quarters two
levels above, Medic Tau was presumably overhauling his supplies,
and Sinbad, ship’s cat, asleep in some empty cabin.
Dane jerked his tunic into place, very much on his guard as he
came to the head of the ramp. But it was not the supervisor-rigger.
Dane, thoroughly used to unusual-appearing strangers, both human
and alien, was impressed by this visitor.
He was tall, this quiet man, his great height accented by a fit
leanness, a narrowness of waist and hip, a length of leg and arm.
His main article of clothing was the universal shorts of the Xecho
settler. But, being fashioned of saffron yellow, they were the more
brilliant because of his darkness of skin. For he was not the warm
brown of the Terran Negroes Dane had served beside, though he
shared their general features. His flesh was really black, black
with an almost bluish sheen. Instead of shirt or tunic, his deep
chest was crossed by two wide straps, the big medallion marking
their intersection giving forth flashes of gem fire when he
breathed. He wore at his belt not the standard stun gun of a
spaceman, but a weapon which resembled the more deadly Patrol
blaster, as well as a long knife housed in a jeweled and fringed
sheath. To the eye he was an example of barbaric force tamed and trimmed
to civilized efficiency.
He saluted, palm out, and spoke Galactic Basic with only a
suggestion of accent.
“I am Kort Asaki. I believe Captain Jellico expects
me.”
“Yes. sir!” Dane snapped to attention. So this was
the Chief Ranger from fabulous Khatka, Xecho’s sister
planet.
The other ascended the cat ladder easily, missing no detail of
the ship’s interior as he passed. His expression was still
one of polite interest as his guide rapped on the panel door of
Jellico’s cabin. And a horrible screech from Queex, the
captain’s pet hoobat, drowned out any immediate answer. Then
followed that automatic thump on the floor of the blue-feathered,
crab-parrot-toad’s cage, announcing that its master was in
residence.
Since the captain’s cordial welcome extended only to his
guest, Dane regretfully descended to the mess cabin to make
unskilled preparations for supper—though there was not much
you could do to foul up concentrates in an automatic cooker.
“Company?” Tau sat beyond the cooking unit nursing a
mug of Terran coffee. “And do you have to serve
music with the meals, especially that particular
selection?”
Dane flushed, stopped whistling in mid-note. “Terran
Bound” was old and pretty well worn out; he
didn’t know why he always unconsciously sounded off with
that.
“A Chief Ranger from Khatka just came on board,” he
reported, carefully offhand, as he busied himself reading labels.
He knew better than to serve fish or any of its derivatives in
disguise again.
“Khatka!” Tau sat up straighter. “Now
there’s a planet worth visiting!”
“Not on a Free Trader’s pay,” commented
Dane.
“You can always hope to make a big strike, boy. But what I
wouldn’t give to lift ship for there!”
“Why? You’re no hunter. How come you want to heat
jets for that port?”
“Oh, I don’t care about the game preserves, though
they’re worth seeing, too. It’s the people
themselves—”
“But they’re Terran settlers, or at least from
Terran stock, aren’t they?”
“Sure,” Tau sipped his coffee slowly. “But
there are settlers and settlers, son. And a lot depends upon when
they left Terran and why, and who they were—also what
happened to them after they landed out here.”
“And Khatkans are really special?”
“Well, they have an amazing history. The colony was
founded by escaped prisoners—and just one racial stock. They
took off from Earth close to the end of the Second Atomic War. That
was a race war, remember? Which made it doubly ugly.”
Tau’s mouth twisted in disgust. “As if the color of a
man’s skin makes any difference in what lies under it! One
side in that line-up tried to take over Africa—herded most of
the natives into a giant concentration camp and practiced genocide
on a grand scale. Then they were cracked themselves, hard and
heavy. During the confusion some survivors in the camp staged a
revolt, helped by the enemy. They captured an experimental station
hidden in the center of the camp and made a break into space in two
ships which had been built there. That voyage must have been a
nightmare, but they were desperate. Somehow they made it out here
to the Rim and set down on Khatka without power enough to take off
again—and by then most of them were dead.
“But we humans, no matter what our race, are a tough
breed. The refugees discovered that climatically their new world
was not too different from Africa, a lucky chance which might
happen only once in a thousand times. So they thrived, the handful
who survived. But the white technicians they had kidnaped to run
the ships didn’t. For they set up a color bar in reverse. The
lighter your skin, the lower you were in the social scale. By that
kind of selective breeding the present Khatkans are very dark
indeed.
“They reverted to the primitive for survival. Then, about
two hundred years ago, long before the first Survey Scout
discovered them, something happened. Either the parent race
mutated, or, as sometimes occurs, a line of people of superior
gifts emerged—not in a few isolated births, but with
surprising regularity in five family clans. There was a short
period of power struggle until they realized the foolishness of
civil war and formed an oligarchy, heading a loose tribal
organization. With the Five Families to push and lead, a new
civilization developed, and when Survey came to call they were no
longer savages. Combine bought the trade rights about seventy-five
years ago. Then the Company and the Five Families got together and
marketed a luxury item to the galaxy. You know how every super-jet
big shot on twenty-five planets wants to say he’s hunted on
Khatka. And if he can point out a qraz head on his wall, or wear a
tail bracelet, he’s able to strut with the best. To holiday
on Khatka is both fabulous and fashionable—and very, very
profitable for the natives and for Combine who sells transportation
to the travelers.”
“I hear they have poachers, too,” Dane remarked.
“Yes, that naturally follows. You know what a glam skin
brings on the market. Wherever you have a rigidly controlled export
you’re going to have poachers and smugglers. But the Patrol
doesn’t go to Khatka. The natives handle their own criminals.
Personally, I’d cheerfully take a ninety-nine-year sentence
in the Lunar mines in place of what the Khatkans dish out to a
poacher they net!”
“So that rumor has spread satisfactorily!”
Coffee slopped over the brim of Tau’s mug and Dane dropped
the packet of steak concentrate he was about to feed into the
cooker. Chief Ranger Asaki loomed in the doorway of the mess as
suddenly as if he had been teleported to that point.
The medic arose to his feet and smiled politely at the
visitor.
”Do I detect in that observation, sir, the suggestion that
the tales I have heard were deliberately set to blast where they
would do the most good as deterrents?”
A fleeting grin broke the impassive somberness of the black
face.
“I was informed you are a man skilled in
‘magic,’ Medic. You certainly display the traditional
sorcerer’s quickness of wit. But this rumor is also
truth.” The quirk of good humor had gone again, and there was
an edge in the Chief Ranger’s voice which cut.
“Poachers on Khatka would welcome the Patrol in place of the
attention they now receive.”
He came into the mess cabin, Jellico behind him, and Dane pulled
down two of the snap seats. He was holding a mug under the spout of
the coffee dispenser as the captain made introductions.
“Thorson—our acting-cargo-master.”
“Thorson,” the Khatkan acknowledged with a grave nod
of his head, and then glanced down to floor level with a look of
surprise. Weaving a pattern about his legs, purring loudly, Sinbad
was offering an unusually fervent welcome of his own. The Ranger
went down on one knee, his hand out for Sinbad’s inquiring
sniff. Then the cat butted that dark palm, batted at it playfully
with claw-sheathed paw.
“A Terran cat! It is of the lion family?”
“Far removed,” Jellico supplied. “You’d
have to add a lot of bulk to Sinbad to promote him to the lion
class.”
“We have only the old tales.” Asaki sounded almost
wistful as the cat jumped to his knee and clawed for a hold on his
chest belts. “But I do not believe that lions were ever so
friendly toward my ancestors.”
Dane would have removed the cat, but the Khatkan arose with
Sinbad, still purring loudly, resting in the crook of his arm. The
Ranger was smiling with a gentleness which changed the whole
arrogant cast of his countenance.
“Do not bring this one to Khatka with you, Captain, or you
will never take him away again. Those who dwell in the inner courts would not let him vanish from their sight. Ah, so
this pleases you, small lion?” He rubbed Sinbad gently under
the throat and the cat stretched his neck, his yellow eyes half
closed in bliss.
“Thorson,” the Captain turned to Dane, “that
arrival report on my desk was the final one from
Combine?”
“Yes, sir. There’s no hope of the Rover
setting down here before that date.”
Asaki sat down, still holding the cat. “So you see,
Captain, fortune has arranged it all. You have two tens of days.
Four days to go in my cruiser, four days for your return here, and
the rest to explore the preserve. We could not ask for better luck,
for I do not know when our paths may cross again. In the normal
course of events I will not have another mission to Xecho for a
year, perhaps longer. Also—” He hesitated and then
spoke to Tau. “Medic, Captain Jellico has informed me that
you have made a study of magic on many worlds.”
“That is so, sir.”
“Do you then believe that it is real force, or that it is
only a superstition for child-people who set up demons to howl
petitions to when some darkness falls upon them?”
“Some of the magic I have seen is trickery, some of it
founded upon an inner knowledge of men and their ways which a
shrewd witch doctor can use to his advantage. There always
remains” —Tau put down his mug, “—there
always remains a small residue of happenings and results for which
we have not yet found any logical explanations—”
“And I believe,” Asaki interrupted, “it is
also true that a race can be conditioned from birth to be sensitive
to forms of magic so that men of that blood are particularly
susceptible.” That was more of a statement than a question,
but Tau answered it.
“That is very true. A Lamorian, for example, can be
‘sung’ to death. I have witnessed such a case. But upon
a Terran or another off-world man the same suggestion would have no
effect.”
“Those who settled Khatka brought such magic with
them.” The Chief Ranger’s fingers still moved about
Sinbad’s jaw and throat soothingly, but his tone was chill,
the coldest thing in the cramped space of the mess cabin.
“Yes, a highly developed form of it,” Tau
agreed.
“More highly developed perhaps than even you can believe,
Medic!” That came in a hiss of cold rage. “I think that
its present manifestation—death by a beast that is not a
beast—could be worth your detailed study.”
“Why?” Tau came bluntly to the point.
“Because it is a killing magic and it is being carefully
used to rid my world of key men, men we need badly. If there is a
weak point in this cloudy attack shaping against us, we must learn
it, and soon!”
It was Jellico who added the rest. “We are invited to
visit Khatka and survey a new hunting range as Chief Ranger
Asaki’s personal term guests.”
Dane drew a deep breath of wonder. Guest rights on Khatka were
jealously guarded—they were too valuable to their owners to
waste. Whole families lived on the income from the yearly rental of
even half a one. But the Rangers, by right of office, had several
which they could grant to visiting scientists or men from other
worlds holding positions similar to their own. To have such an
opportunity offered to an ordinary Trader was almost
incredible.
His wonder was matched by Tau’s and must have been plain
to read for the Chief Ranger smiled.
“For a long time Captain Jellico and I have exchanged
biological data on alien life-forms—his skill in
photographing such, his knowledge as an xenobiologist are widely
recognized. And so I have permission for him to visit the new
Zoboru preserve, not yet officially opened. And you, Medic Tau,
your help, or at least your diagnosis, we need in another
direction. So, one expert comes openly, another not so openly. Though, Medic, your task is approved by my superiors.
And” —he glanced at Dane— “perhaps to
muddle the trail for the suspicious, shall we not ask this young
man also?”
Dane’s eyes went to the captain. Jellico was always fair
and his crew would have snapped into action on his word
alone—even if they were fronting a rain of Thorkian death
darts and that order was to advance. But, on the other hand, Dane
would never have asked a favor, and the best he hoped for was to be
able to perform his duties without unfavorable comment upon their
commission. He had no reason to believe Jellico was willing to
agree to this.
“You have two weeks’ planet-side leave coming,
Thorson. If you want to spend it on Khatka . . . ” Jellico
actually grinned then. “I take it that you do. When do we
up-ship, sir?”
“You said that you must wait for the return of your other
crew members—shall we say mid-afternoon tomorrow?” The
Chief Ranger stood up and put Sinbad down though the cat protested
with several sharp meows.
“Small lion,” the tall Khatkan spoke to the cat as
to an equal, “this is your jungle, and mine lies elsewhere.
But should you ever grow tired of traveling the stars, there is
always a home for you in my courts.”
When the Chief Ranger went out the door, Sinbad did not try to
follow, but he uttered one mournful little cry of protest and
loss.
“So he wants a troubleshooter, does he?” Tau asked.
“All right, I’ll try to hunt out his goblins for him;
it’ll be worth that to visit Khatka!”
Dane, remembering the hot glare of the Xecho spaceport, the sea
one could not swim in, contrasted that with the tri-dees he had
seen of the green hunters’ paradise on the next planet of the
system. “Yes, sir!” he echoed and made a haphazard
choice for the cooker.
“Don’t be too lighthearted,” Tau warned.
“I’ll say that any stew which was too hot for that
Ranger to handle might give us burned fingers—and quick. When
we land on Khatka, walk softly and look over your shoulder, and be
prepared for the worst.”