Once again the beach was a wide expanse of
shingle, drying fast under a sun hotter than any Shann had yet
known on Warlock. Summer had taken a big leap forward. The Terrans
worked in partial shade below a cliff overhang, not only for the
protection against the sun’s rays, but also as a precaution
against any roving Throg air patrol.
Under Thorvald’s direction the curious shell dragged from
the sea—if it were a shell, and the texture as well as the
general shape suggested that—was equipped with a framework to
act as a stabilizing outrigger. What resulted was certainly an
odd-looking craft, but one which obeyed the paddles and rode the
waves easily.
In the full sunlight the outline of islands was
clear-cut—red-and-gray rock above an aquamarine sea. The
Terrans had sighted no more of the sea monsters, and the major
evidence of native life along the shore was a new species of
clak-claks, roosting in cliff holes and scavenging along the sands,
and various curious fish and shelled things stranded in small tide
pools—to the delight of the wolverines, who fished eagerly up
and down the beach, ready to investigate all debris of the
storm.
“That should serve.” Thorvald tightened the last
lashing, straightening up, his fists resting on his hips, to regard
the craft with a measure of pride.
Shann was not quite so content. He had matched the Survey
officer in industry, but the need for haste still eluded him. So
the ship—such as it was—was ready. Now they would be
off to explore Thorvald’s Utgard. But a small and nagging
doubt inside the younger man restrained his enthusiasm over such a
voyage. Fork-tail had come out of the section of ocean which they
must navigate in this very crude transport. And Shann had no desire
to meet an uninjured and alert fork-tail in the latter’s own
territory.
“Which island do we head for?” Shann kept private
his personal doubts of their success. The outmost tip of that chain
was only a distant smudge lying low on the water.
“The largest . . . that one with
trees.”
Shann whistled. Since the night of the storm the wolverines were
again more amenable to the very light discipline he tried to keep.
Perhaps the fury of that elemental burst had tightened the bond
between men and animals, both alien to this world. Now Taggi and
his mate padded toward him in answer to his summons. But would the
wolverines trust the boat? Shann dared not risk their swimming, nor
would he agree to leaving them behind.
Thorvald had already stored their few provisions on board. And
now Shann steadied the craft against a rock which served them as a
wharf, while he coaxed Taggi gently. Though the wolverine
protested, he at last scrambled in, to hunch at the bottom of the
shell, the picture of apprehension. Togi took longer to make up her
mind. And at length Shann picked her up bodily, soothing her with
quiet speech and stroking hands, to put her beside her mate.
The shell settled under the weight of the passengers, but
Thorvald’s foresight concerning the use of the outrigger
proved right, for the craft was seaworthy. It answered readily to
the dip of their paddles as they headed in a curve, keeping the
first of the islands between them and the open sea for a
breakwater.
From the air, Thorvald’s course would have been a crooked
one, for he wove back and forth between the scattered islands of
the chain, using their lee calm for the protection of the canoe.
About two thirds of the group were barren rock, inhabited only by
clak-claks and creatures closer to true Terran birds in that they
wore a body plumage which resembled feathers, though their heads
were naked and leathery. And, Shann noted, the clak-claks and the
birds did not roost on the same islands, each choosing their own
particular home while the other species did not invade that
territory.
The first large-sized island they approached was crowned by
trees, but it had no beach, no approach from sea level. Perhaps it
might be possible to climb to the top of the cliff walls. But
Thorvald did not suggest that they try it, heading on toward the
next large outcrop of land and rock.
Here white lace patterned in a ring well out from the shore to
mark a circle of reefs. They nosed their way patiently around the
outer circumference of that threatening barrier, hunting the
entrance to the lagoon. Within, there were at least two beaches
with climbable ascents to the upper reaches inland. Though Shann
noted that the vegetation showing was certainly not luxuriant, the
few trees within their range of vision being pallid growths, rather
like those they had sighted on the fringe of the desert.
Leather-headed flyers wheeled out over their canoe, coasting on
outspread wings to peer down at the Terran invaders in a manner
which suggested intelligent curiosity.
A full flock gathered to escort them as they continued along the
outer line of the reef. Thorvald impatiently dug his paddle deeper.
They had explored more than half of the reef now without chancing
on an entrance channel.
“Regular fence,” Shann commented. One could begin to
believe that the barrier had been deliberately reared to frustrate
visitors. Hot sunshine, reflected back from the surface of the
waves, burned their exposed skin, so they dared not discard their
ragged clothing. And the wolverines were growing increasingly
restless. Shann did not know how much longer the animals would
consent to their position as passengers without raising active
protest.
“How about trying the next one?” he asked, knowing
at the same time his companion was not in any mood to accept such a
suggestion with good will.
The officer made no reply, but continued to use his steer paddle
in a fashion which spelled out his stubborn determination to find a
passage. This was a personal thing now, between Ragnar Thorvald of
the Terran Survey and a wall of rock, and the man’s will was
as strongly rooted as those water-washed stones.
On the southwestern tip of the reef they discovered a possible
opening. Shann eyed the narrow space between two fanglike rocks
dubiously. To him that width of water lane seemed dangerously
limited, the sudden slam of a wave could dash them against either
of those pillars, with disastrous results, before they could move
to save themselves. But Thorvald pointed their blunt bow toward the
passage with seeming confidence, and Shann knew that as far as the
officer was concerned, this was their door to the lagoon.
Thorvald might be stubborn, but he was not a fool. And his
training and skill in such maneuvers was proved when the canoe rode
in a rising swell in and by those rocks to gain the safety, in
seconds, of the calm lagoon. Shann sighed with relief, but ventured
no comment.
Now they must paddle back along the inner side of the reef to
locate the beaches, for fronting them on this side of the
well-protected island were cliffs as formidable as those which
guarded the first of the chain at which they had aimed.
Shann glanced now and then over the side of the boat, hoping in
these shallows to sight the sea bed or some of the inhabitants of
these waters. But there was no piercing that green murk. Here and
there nodules of rock awash in wavelets projected inches or feet
above the surface, to be avoided by the voyagers. Shann’s
shoulders ached and burned, his muscles were unaccustomed to the
steady swing of the paddles, and the fire of the sun stabbed easily
through only two layers of ragged cloth to his skin. He ran a dry
tongue over drier lips and gazed eagerly ahead in search of the
first of the beaches.
What was so important about this island that Thorvald
had to make a landing here? The officer’s stories of
a native race which they might turn against the Throgs to their own
advantage was thin, very thin indeed. Especially now, as Shann
weighed an unsupported theory against that ache in his shoulders,
the possibility of being marooned on the inhospitable shore ahead,
against the fifty probable dangers he could total up with very
little expenditure of effort. A small nagging doubt of
Thorvald’s obsession began to grow in his mind. How could
Shann even be sure that that carved disk and Thorvald’s
hokus-pokus with it had been on the level? On the other hand what
motive would the officer have for trying such an act just to
impress Shann?
The beach at last! As they headed the canoe in that direction
the wolverines nearly brought disaster on them. The animals’
restlessness became acute as they sighted and scented the shore and
knew that they were close. Taggi reared, plunged over the side of
the craft, and Shann had just time to fling his weight in the
opposite direction as a counterbalance when Togi followed. They
splashed shoreward while Thorvald swore fluently and Shann grabbed
to save the precious supply bag. In a shower of gravel the animals
made land and humped well up on the strand before pausing to shake
themselves and splatter far and wide the burden of moisture
transported by their shaggy fur.
Ashore, the canoe became a clumsy burden and, light as the craft
was, both of the men sweated to get it up on the beach without
snagging the outrigger against stones and brush. With the thought
of a Throg patrol in mind they worked swiftly to cover it.
Taggi raised an egg-patterned snout from a hollow and licked at
the stippling of greenish yolk matting his fur. The wolverines had
wasted no time in sampling the contents of a wealth of nesting
places that began just above the high-water mark, each cupping two
to four tough-shelled eggs. Treading a path among those clutches,
the Terrans climbed a red-earthed slope toward the interior of the
island.
They found water, not the clear running of a mountain spring,
but a stalish pool in a stone-walled depression on the crest of a
rise, filled by the bounty of the rain. The warm liquid was
brackish, but satisfied in part their thirst, and they drank
eagerly.
The outer cliff wall of the island was just that, a wall, for
there was an inner slope to match the outer. And at the bottom of
it purple-green foliage showed where plants and stunted trees
fought for living space. But there was nothing else, though they
quartered that growing section with the care of men trying to
locate an enemy outpost.
That night they camped in the hollow, roasted eggs in a fire,
and ate the fishy-tasting contents because it was food, not because
they relished what they swallowed. Tonight no cloud bank hung
overhead. A man, gazing up, could see the stars. The stars and
other things, for over the distant shore of the mainland they
sighted the cruising lights of a Throg ship and waited tensely for
that circle of small sparkling points to swing out toward their own
hiding hole.
“They haven’t given up,” Shann stated what was
obvious to them both.
“The settler transport,” Thorvald reminded him.
“If they do not take a prisoner to talk her in and allay
suspicion, then—” he snapped his
fingers—“the Patrol will be on their tails, but
quick!”
So just by keeping out of Throg range, they were, in a way,
still fighting. Shann settled back, his tender shoulders resting
against a tree bole. He tried to count the number of days and
nights lying behind him now since that early morning when he had
watched the Terran camp die under the aliens’ weapons. But
one day faded into another so that he could remember only action
parts clearly—the attack on the grounded scoutship, the
sortie they had made in turn on the occupied camp, the dust storm
on the river, the escape from the Throg ship in the mountain
crevice, and their meeting with the hound. Then that storm which
had driven them to seek cover after their curious experience with
the disk. And now this day when they had safely reached the
island.
“Why this island?” he asked suddenly.
“That carved piece was found here on the edge of this
valley,” Thorvald returned matter-of-factly.
“But today we found nothing at all—”
“Yet this island supplies us with a starting
point.”
A starting point for what? A detailed search of all the islands,
great and small, in the chain? And how did they dare continue to
paddle openly from one to the next with the Throgs sweeping the
skies? They would have provided an excellent target today as they
combed that reef for an hour or more. Wearily, Shann spread out his
hands in the very faint light of their tiny fire, poked with a
finger tip at smarting points which would have been blisters had
those hands not known toughening in the past. More paddling
tomorrow? But that was tomorrow, and at least they need not worry
tonight about any Throg attack once they had doused the fire, an
action which was now being methodically attended to by Thorvald.
Shann pushed down on the bed of leaves he had heaped together. The
night was quiet. He could hear only the murmur of the sea, a
lulling croon of sound to make one sleep deep, perhaps
dreamlessly.
Sun struck down, making a dazzle about him. Shann turned over
drowsily in that welcome heat, stretching a little as might a cat
at ease. When he really awoke under the press of memory, the need
for alertness rode him once more. Beaten-down grass, the burnt-out
embers of last night’s fire were beside him. But of Thorvald
and the wolverines there were no signs.
Not only did he now lie alone, but he was possessed by the
feeling that he had not been deserted only momentarily, that Taggi,
Togi and the Survey officer were indeed gone. Shann sat up, got to
his feet, breathing faster, a prickle of uneasiness spreading in
him, bringing him to that inner slope, up it to the crest from
which he could see that beach where last night they had concealed
the canoe.
Those lengths of brush and tufts of grass they had used for a
screen were strewn about as if tossed in haste. And not too long
before . . .
For the canoe was out in the calm waters within the reef, the
paddle blade wielded by its occupant flashing brightly in the sun.
On the shingle below, the wolverines prowled back and forth,
whining in bewilderment.
“Thorvald—!”
Shann put the full force of his lungs into that hail, hearing
the name ring from one of the small peaks at his back. But the man
in the boat did not turn his head; there was no change in the speed
of that paddle dip.
Shann leaped down the outer slope to the beach, skidding the
last few feet, saving himself from going headfirst into the water
only by a painful wrench of his body.
“Thorvald!” He tried calling again. But that head,
bright under the sun did not turn; there was no answer. Shann tore
at his clothes and kicked off his boots.
He did not think of the possibility of lurking sea monsters as
he plunged into the water, swam for the canoe edging along the
reef, plainly bound for the sea gate to the southwest. Shann was
not a powerful swimmer. His first impetus gave him a good start,
but after that he had to fight for each foot he gained, and the
fear grew in him that the other would reach the reef passage before
he could catch up. He wasted no more time trying to hail Thorvald,
putting all his breath and energy into the effort of overtaking the
craft.
And he almost made it, his hand actually slipping along the log
which furnished the balancing outrigger. As his fingers tightened
on that slimy wood he looked up, and loosed that hold again in time
perhaps to save his life.
For when he ducked to let the water cover his head in an
impromptu half dive, Shann carried with him a vivid picture, a
picture so astounding that he was a little dazed.
Thorvald had stopped paddling at last, because that paddle had
to be put to another use. Had Shann not released his hold on the
log and gone under water, that crudely fashioned piece of wood
might have broken his skull. He saw only too clearly the paddle
raised in both hands as an ugly weapon, and Thorvald’s face,
convulsed in a spasm of ugly rage which made it as inhuman as a
Throg’s.
Sputtering and choking, Shann fought up to the air once more.
The paddle was back at the task for which it had been carved, the
canoe was underway again, its occupant paying no more attention to
what lay behind than if he had successfully disposed of
the man in the water. To follow would be only to invite another
attack, and Shann might not be so lucky next time. He was not good
enough a swimmer to try any tricks such as oversetting the canoe,
not when Thorvald was an expert who could easily finish off a
fumbling opponent.
Shann swam wearily to shore where the wolverines waited, unable
yet to make sense of that attack in the lagoon. What had happened
to Thorvald? What motive had led the other to leave Shann and the
animals on this island, the island Thorvald had called a starting
point in his search for the natives of Warlock? Or had every bit of
that tall tale been invented by the Survey officer for some obscure
purpose of his own, certainly no sane purpose? Against that logic
Shann could only set the carved disk, and he had only
Thorvald’s word that that had been discovered here.
He dragged himself out of the water on his hands and knees and
lay, winded and gasping. Taggi came to lick his face, nuzzle him,
making a small, bewildered whimpering. While above, the
leather-headed birds called and swooped, fearful and angry for
their disturbed nesting place. The Terran retched, coughed up
water, and then sat up to look around.
The spread of lagoon was bare. Thorvald must have rounded the
south point of land and be very close to the reef passage, perhaps
through it by now. Not stopping for his clothes, Shann started up
the slope, crawling part of the way on his hands and knees.
He reached the crest again and got to his feet. The sun made an
eye-dazzling glitter of the waves. But under the shade of his hands
Shann saw the canoe again, beyond the reef, heading on out along
the island chain, not back to shore as he had expected. Thorvald
was still on the hunt, but for what? A reality which existed, or a
dream in his own disturbed brain?
Shann sat down. He was very hungry, for that adventure in the
lagoon had sapped his strength. And he was a prisoner along with
the wolverines, a prisoner on an island which was half the size of
the valley which held the Survey camp. As far as he knew, his only
supply of drinkable water was that tank of evil-smelling rain which
would be speedily evaporated by a sun such as the one now beating
down on him. And between him and the shore was the sea, a sea which
harbored such creatures as the fork-tail he had watched die.
Thorvald was still steadily on course, not to the next island in
the chain, a small, bare knob, but to the one beyond that. He could
have been hurrying to a meeting. Where and with what?
Shann got to his feet, started down to the beach once more, sure
now that the officer had no intention of returning, that he was
again on his own with only his wits and strength to keep him
alive—alive and somehow free of this waterwashed prison.
Once again the beach was a wide expanse of
shingle, drying fast under a sun hotter than any Shann had yet
known on Warlock. Summer had taken a big leap forward. The Terrans
worked in partial shade below a cliff overhang, not only for the
protection against the sun’s rays, but also as a precaution
against any roving Throg air patrol.
Under Thorvald’s direction the curious shell dragged from
the sea—if it were a shell, and the texture as well as the
general shape suggested that—was equipped with a framework to
act as a stabilizing outrigger. What resulted was certainly an
odd-looking craft, but one which obeyed the paddles and rode the
waves easily.
In the full sunlight the outline of islands was
clear-cut—red-and-gray rock above an aquamarine sea. The
Terrans had sighted no more of the sea monsters, and the major
evidence of native life along the shore was a new species of
clak-claks, roosting in cliff holes and scavenging along the sands,
and various curious fish and shelled things stranded in small tide
pools—to the delight of the wolverines, who fished eagerly up
and down the beach, ready to investigate all debris of the
storm.
“That should serve.” Thorvald tightened the last
lashing, straightening up, his fists resting on his hips, to regard
the craft with a measure of pride.
Shann was not quite so content. He had matched the Survey
officer in industry, but the need for haste still eluded him. So
the ship—such as it was—was ready. Now they would be
off to explore Thorvald’s Utgard. But a small and nagging
doubt inside the younger man restrained his enthusiasm over such a
voyage. Fork-tail had come out of the section of ocean which they
must navigate in this very crude transport. And Shann had no desire
to meet an uninjured and alert fork-tail in the latter’s own
territory.
“Which island do we head for?” Shann kept private
his personal doubts of their success. The outmost tip of that chain
was only a distant smudge lying low on the water.
“The largest . . . that one with
trees.”
Shann whistled. Since the night of the storm the wolverines were
again more amenable to the very light discipline he tried to keep.
Perhaps the fury of that elemental burst had tightened the bond
between men and animals, both alien to this world. Now Taggi and
his mate padded toward him in answer to his summons. But would the
wolverines trust the boat? Shann dared not risk their swimming, nor
would he agree to leaving them behind.
Thorvald had already stored their few provisions on board. And
now Shann steadied the craft against a rock which served them as a
wharf, while he coaxed Taggi gently. Though the wolverine
protested, he at last scrambled in, to hunch at the bottom of the
shell, the picture of apprehension. Togi took longer to make up her
mind. And at length Shann picked her up bodily, soothing her with
quiet speech and stroking hands, to put her beside her mate.
The shell settled under the weight of the passengers, but
Thorvald’s foresight concerning the use of the outrigger
proved right, for the craft was seaworthy. It answered readily to
the dip of their paddles as they headed in a curve, keeping the
first of the islands between them and the open sea for a
breakwater.
From the air, Thorvald’s course would have been a crooked
one, for he wove back and forth between the scattered islands of
the chain, using their lee calm for the protection of the canoe.
About two thirds of the group were barren rock, inhabited only by
clak-claks and creatures closer to true Terran birds in that they
wore a body plumage which resembled feathers, though their heads
were naked and leathery. And, Shann noted, the clak-claks and the
birds did not roost on the same islands, each choosing their own
particular home while the other species did not invade that
territory.
The first large-sized island they approached was crowned by
trees, but it had no beach, no approach from sea level. Perhaps it
might be possible to climb to the top of the cliff walls. But
Thorvald did not suggest that they try it, heading on toward the
next large outcrop of land and rock.
Here white lace patterned in a ring well out from the shore to
mark a circle of reefs. They nosed their way patiently around the
outer circumference of that threatening barrier, hunting the
entrance to the lagoon. Within, there were at least two beaches
with climbable ascents to the upper reaches inland. Though Shann
noted that the vegetation showing was certainly not luxuriant, the
few trees within their range of vision being pallid growths, rather
like those they had sighted on the fringe of the desert.
Leather-headed flyers wheeled out over their canoe, coasting on
outspread wings to peer down at the Terran invaders in a manner
which suggested intelligent curiosity.
A full flock gathered to escort them as they continued along the
outer line of the reef. Thorvald impatiently dug his paddle deeper.
They had explored more than half of the reef now without chancing
on an entrance channel.
“Regular fence,” Shann commented. One could begin to
believe that the barrier had been deliberately reared to frustrate
visitors. Hot sunshine, reflected back from the surface of the
waves, burned their exposed skin, so they dared not discard their
ragged clothing. And the wolverines were growing increasingly
restless. Shann did not know how much longer the animals would
consent to their position as passengers without raising active
protest.
“How about trying the next one?” he asked, knowing
at the same time his companion was not in any mood to accept such a
suggestion with good will.
The officer made no reply, but continued to use his steer paddle
in a fashion which spelled out his stubborn determination to find a
passage. This was a personal thing now, between Ragnar Thorvald of
the Terran Survey and a wall of rock, and the man’s will was
as strongly rooted as those water-washed stones.
On the southwestern tip of the reef they discovered a possible
opening. Shann eyed the narrow space between two fanglike rocks
dubiously. To him that width of water lane seemed dangerously
limited, the sudden slam of a wave could dash them against either
of those pillars, with disastrous results, before they could move
to save themselves. But Thorvald pointed their blunt bow toward the
passage with seeming confidence, and Shann knew that as far as the
officer was concerned, this was their door to the lagoon.
Thorvald might be stubborn, but he was not a fool. And his
training and skill in such maneuvers was proved when the canoe rode
in a rising swell in and by those rocks to gain the safety, in
seconds, of the calm lagoon. Shann sighed with relief, but ventured
no comment.
Now they must paddle back along the inner side of the reef to
locate the beaches, for fronting them on this side of the
well-protected island were cliffs as formidable as those which
guarded the first of the chain at which they had aimed.
Shann glanced now and then over the side of the boat, hoping in
these shallows to sight the sea bed or some of the inhabitants of
these waters. But there was no piercing that green murk. Here and
there nodules of rock awash in wavelets projected inches or feet
above the surface, to be avoided by the voyagers. Shann’s
shoulders ached and burned, his muscles were unaccustomed to the
steady swing of the paddles, and the fire of the sun stabbed easily
through only two layers of ragged cloth to his skin. He ran a dry
tongue over drier lips and gazed eagerly ahead in search of the
first of the beaches.
What was so important about this island that Thorvald
had to make a landing here? The officer’s stories of
a native race which they might turn against the Throgs to their own
advantage was thin, very thin indeed. Especially now, as Shann
weighed an unsupported theory against that ache in his shoulders,
the possibility of being marooned on the inhospitable shore ahead,
against the fifty probable dangers he could total up with very
little expenditure of effort. A small nagging doubt of
Thorvald’s obsession began to grow in his mind. How could
Shann even be sure that that carved disk and Thorvald’s
hokus-pokus with it had been on the level? On the other hand what
motive would the officer have for trying such an act just to
impress Shann?
The beach at last! As they headed the canoe in that direction
the wolverines nearly brought disaster on them. The animals’
restlessness became acute as they sighted and scented the shore and
knew that they were close. Taggi reared, plunged over the side of
the craft, and Shann had just time to fling his weight in the
opposite direction as a counterbalance when Togi followed. They
splashed shoreward while Thorvald swore fluently and Shann grabbed
to save the precious supply bag. In a shower of gravel the animals
made land and humped well up on the strand before pausing to shake
themselves and splatter far and wide the burden of moisture
transported by their shaggy fur.
Ashore, the canoe became a clumsy burden and, light as the craft
was, both of the men sweated to get it up on the beach without
snagging the outrigger against stones and brush. With the thought
of a Throg patrol in mind they worked swiftly to cover it.
Taggi raised an egg-patterned snout from a hollow and licked at
the stippling of greenish yolk matting his fur. The wolverines had
wasted no time in sampling the contents of a wealth of nesting
places that began just above the high-water mark, each cupping two
to four tough-shelled eggs. Treading a path among those clutches,
the Terrans climbed a red-earthed slope toward the interior of the
island.
They found water, not the clear running of a mountain spring,
but a stalish pool in a stone-walled depression on the crest of a
rise, filled by the bounty of the rain. The warm liquid was
brackish, but satisfied in part their thirst, and they drank
eagerly.
The outer cliff wall of the island was just that, a wall, for
there was an inner slope to match the outer. And at the bottom of
it purple-green foliage showed where plants and stunted trees
fought for living space. But there was nothing else, though they
quartered that growing section with the care of men trying to
locate an enemy outpost.
That night they camped in the hollow, roasted eggs in a fire,
and ate the fishy-tasting contents because it was food, not because
they relished what they swallowed. Tonight no cloud bank hung
overhead. A man, gazing up, could see the stars. The stars and
other things, for over the distant shore of the mainland they
sighted the cruising lights of a Throg ship and waited tensely for
that circle of small sparkling points to swing out toward their own
hiding hole.
“They haven’t given up,” Shann stated what was
obvious to them both.
“The settler transport,” Thorvald reminded him.
“If they do not take a prisoner to talk her in and allay
suspicion, then—” he snapped his
fingers—“the Patrol will be on their tails, but
quick!”
So just by keeping out of Throg range, they were, in a way,
still fighting. Shann settled back, his tender shoulders resting
against a tree bole. He tried to count the number of days and
nights lying behind him now since that early morning when he had
watched the Terran camp die under the aliens’ weapons. But
one day faded into another so that he could remember only action
parts clearly—the attack on the grounded scoutship, the
sortie they had made in turn on the occupied camp, the dust storm
on the river, the escape from the Throg ship in the mountain
crevice, and their meeting with the hound. Then that storm which
had driven them to seek cover after their curious experience with
the disk. And now this day when they had safely reached the
island.
“Why this island?” he asked suddenly.
“That carved piece was found here on the edge of this
valley,” Thorvald returned matter-of-factly.
“But today we found nothing at all—”
“Yet this island supplies us with a starting
point.”
A starting point for what? A detailed search of all the islands,
great and small, in the chain? And how did they dare continue to
paddle openly from one to the next with the Throgs sweeping the
skies? They would have provided an excellent target today as they
combed that reef for an hour or more. Wearily, Shann spread out his
hands in the very faint light of their tiny fire, poked with a
finger tip at smarting points which would have been blisters had
those hands not known toughening in the past. More paddling
tomorrow? But that was tomorrow, and at least they need not worry
tonight about any Throg attack once they had doused the fire, an
action which was now being methodically attended to by Thorvald.
Shann pushed down on the bed of leaves he had heaped together. The
night was quiet. He could hear only the murmur of the sea, a
lulling croon of sound to make one sleep deep, perhaps
dreamlessly.
Sun struck down, making a dazzle about him. Shann turned over
drowsily in that welcome heat, stretching a little as might a cat
at ease. When he really awoke under the press of memory, the need
for alertness rode him once more. Beaten-down grass, the burnt-out
embers of last night’s fire were beside him. But of Thorvald
and the wolverines there were no signs.
Not only did he now lie alone, but he was possessed by the
feeling that he had not been deserted only momentarily, that Taggi,
Togi and the Survey officer were indeed gone. Shann sat up, got to
his feet, breathing faster, a prickle of uneasiness spreading in
him, bringing him to that inner slope, up it to the crest from
which he could see that beach where last night they had concealed
the canoe.
Those lengths of brush and tufts of grass they had used for a
screen were strewn about as if tossed in haste. And not too long
before . . .
For the canoe was out in the calm waters within the reef, the
paddle blade wielded by its occupant flashing brightly in the sun.
On the shingle below, the wolverines prowled back and forth,
whining in bewilderment.
“Thorvald—!”
Shann put the full force of his lungs into that hail, hearing
the name ring from one of the small peaks at his back. But the man
in the boat did not turn his head; there was no change in the speed
of that paddle dip.
Shann leaped down the outer slope to the beach, skidding the
last few feet, saving himself from going headfirst into the water
only by a painful wrench of his body.
“Thorvald!” He tried calling again. But that head,
bright under the sun did not turn; there was no answer. Shann tore
at his clothes and kicked off his boots.
He did not think of the possibility of lurking sea monsters as
he plunged into the water, swam for the canoe edging along the
reef, plainly bound for the sea gate to the southwest. Shann was
not a powerful swimmer. His first impetus gave him a good start,
but after that he had to fight for each foot he gained, and the
fear grew in him that the other would reach the reef passage before
he could catch up. He wasted no more time trying to hail Thorvald,
putting all his breath and energy into the effort of overtaking the
craft.
And he almost made it, his hand actually slipping along the log
which furnished the balancing outrigger. As his fingers tightened
on that slimy wood he looked up, and loosed that hold again in time
perhaps to save his life.
For when he ducked to let the water cover his head in an
impromptu half dive, Shann carried with him a vivid picture, a
picture so astounding that he was a little dazed.
Thorvald had stopped paddling at last, because that paddle had
to be put to another use. Had Shann not released his hold on the
log and gone under water, that crudely fashioned piece of wood
might have broken his skull. He saw only too clearly the paddle
raised in both hands as an ugly weapon, and Thorvald’s face,
convulsed in a spasm of ugly rage which made it as inhuman as a
Throg’s.
Sputtering and choking, Shann fought up to the air once more.
The paddle was back at the task for which it had been carved, the
canoe was underway again, its occupant paying no more attention to
what lay behind than if he had successfully disposed of
the man in the water. To follow would be only to invite another
attack, and Shann might not be so lucky next time. He was not good
enough a swimmer to try any tricks such as oversetting the canoe,
not when Thorvald was an expert who could easily finish off a
fumbling opponent.
Shann swam wearily to shore where the wolverines waited, unable
yet to make sense of that attack in the lagoon. What had happened
to Thorvald? What motive had led the other to leave Shann and the
animals on this island, the island Thorvald had called a starting
point in his search for the natives of Warlock? Or had every bit of
that tall tale been invented by the Survey officer for some obscure
purpose of his own, certainly no sane purpose? Against that logic
Shann could only set the carved disk, and he had only
Thorvald’s word that that had been discovered here.
He dragged himself out of the water on his hands and knees and
lay, winded and gasping. Taggi came to lick his face, nuzzle him,
making a small, bewildered whimpering. While above, the
leather-headed birds called and swooped, fearful and angry for
their disturbed nesting place. The Terran retched, coughed up
water, and then sat up to look around.
The spread of lagoon was bare. Thorvald must have rounded the
south point of land and be very close to the reef passage, perhaps
through it by now. Not stopping for his clothes, Shann started up
the slope, crawling part of the way on his hands and knees.
He reached the crest again and got to his feet. The sun made an
eye-dazzling glitter of the waves. But under the shade of his hands
Shann saw the canoe again, beyond the reef, heading on out along
the island chain, not back to shore as he had expected. Thorvald
was still on the hunt, but for what? A reality which existed, or a
dream in his own disturbed brain?
Shann sat down. He was very hungry, for that adventure in the
lagoon had sapped his strength. And he was a prisoner along with
the wolverines, a prisoner on an island which was half the size of
the valley which held the Survey camp. As far as he knew, his only
supply of drinkable water was that tank of evil-smelling rain which
would be speedily evaporated by a sun such as the one now beating
down on him. And between him and the shore was the sea, a sea which
harbored such creatures as the fork-tail he had watched die.
Thorvald was still steadily on course, not to the next island in
the chain, a small, bare knob, but to the one beyond that. He could
have been hurrying to a meeting. Where and with what?
Shann got to his feet, started down to the beach once more, sure
now that the officer had no intention of returning, that he was
again on his own with only his wits and strength to keep him
alive—alive and somehow free of this waterwashed prison.