Shann made his way at an angle to avoid the
smoking pit cradling the wreckage of the Terran ship. There were no
signs of life about the Throg plate as he approached. A quarter of
its bulk was telescoped back into the rest, and surely none of the
aliens could have survived such a smash, tough as they were reputed
to be within those those horny carapaces.
He sniffed. There was a nauseous odor heavy on the morning air,
one which would make a lasting impression on any human nose. The
port door in the black ship stood open, perhaps having burst in the
impact against the cliff. Shann had almost reached it when a
crackle of chain lightning beat across the ground before him,
turning the edge of the buckled entrance panel red.
Shann dropped to the ground, drawing his stunner, knowing at the
same moment that such a weapon was about as much use in meeting a
blaster as a straw wand would be to ward off a blazing coal. A
chill numbness held him as he waited for a second blast to char the
flesh between his shoulders. So there had been a Throg survivor,
after all.
But as moments passed and the Throg did not move in to make an
easy kill, Shann collected his wits. Only one shot! Was the beetle
injured, unable to make sure of even an almost defenseless prey?
The Throgs seldom took prisoners. When they
did . . .
The Terran’s lips tightened. He worked his hand under his
prone body, feeling for the hilt of his knife. With that he could
speedily remove himself from the status of Throg prisoner, and he
would do it gladly if there was no hope of escape. Had there been
only one charge left in that blaster? Shann could make half a dozen
guesses as to why the other had made no move, but that shot had
come from behind him, and he dared not turn his head or otherwise
make an effort to see what the other might be doing.
Was it only his imagination, or had that stench grown stronger
during the last few seconds? Could the Throg be creeping up on him?
Shann strained his ears, trying to catch some sound he could
interpret. The few clak-claks that had survived the blast about the
ship were shrieking overhead, and Shann made one attempt at
counterattack.
He whistled the wolverines’ call. The pair had not been
too willing to follow him down into this valley, and they had
avoided the crater at a very wide circle. But if they would obey
him now, he just might have a chance.
There! That had been a sound, and the smell
was stronger. The Throg must be coming to him. Again Shann
whistled, holding in his mind his hatred for the beetle-head, the
need for finishing off that alien. If the animals could pick either
thoughts or emotions out of their human companion, this was the
time for him to get those unspoken half-orders across.
Shann slammed his hand hard against the ground, sent his body
rolling, his stunner up and ready.
And now he could see that grotesque thing, swaying weakly back
and forth on its thin legs, yet holding a blaster, bringing that
weapon up to center it on him. The Throg was hunched over and
perhaps to Taggi presented the outline of some four-footed creature
to be hunted. For the wolverine male sprang for the hard-shelled
shoulders.
Under that impact the Throg sagged forward. But Taggi, outraged
at the nature of the creature he had attacked, squalled and
retreated. Shann had had his precious seconds of distraction. He
fired, the core of the stun beam striking full into the flat dish
of the alien’s face.
That bolt, which would have shocked a mammal into insensibility,
only slowed the Throg. Shann rolled again, gaining a temporary
cover behind the wrecked ship. He squirmed under metal hot enough
to scorch his jacket and saw the reflection of a second blaster
shot which had been fired seconds late.
Now the Throg had him tied down. But to get at the Terran the
alien would have to show himself, and Shann had one chance in
fifty, which was better than that of three minutes ago—when
the odds had been set at one in a hundred. He knew that he could
not press the wolverines in again. Taggi’s distaste was too
manifest; Shann had been lucky that the animal had made one
abortive attack.
Perhaps the Terran’s escape and Taggi’s action had
made the alien reckless. Shann had no clue to the thinking
processes of the non-human but now the Throg staggered around the
end of the plate, his digits, which were closer to claws than
fingers, fumbling with his weapon. The Terran snapped another shot
from his stunner, hoping to slow the enemy down. But he was
trapped. If he turned to climb the cliff at his back, the
beetle-head could easily pick him off.
A rock hurtled from the heights above, striking with deadly
accuracy on the domed, hairless head of the Throg. His armored body
crashed forward, struck against the ship, and rebounded to the
ground. Shann darted forward to seize the blaster, kicking loose
the claws which still grasped it, before he flattened back to the
cliff, the strange weapon over his arm, his heart beating
wildly.
That rock had not bounded down the mountainside by chance; it
had been hurled with intent and aimed carefully at its target. And
no Throg would kill one of his fellows. Or would he? Suppose orders
had been issued to take a Terran prisoner and the Throg by the ship
had disobeyed? Then, why a rock and not a blaster bolt?
Shann edged along until the upslanted, broken side of the Throg
flyer provided him with protection from any overhead attack. Under
that shelter he waited for the next move from his unknown
rescuer.
The clak-claks wheeled closer to earth. One lit boldly on the
carapace of the inert Throg, shuffling ungainly along that horny
ridge. Cradling the blaster, the Terran continued to wait. His
patience was rewarded when that investigating clak-clak took off
uttering an enraged snap or two. He heard what might be the scrape
of boots across rock, but that might also have come from horny skin
meeting stone.
Then the other must have lost his footing not too far above.
Accompanied by a miniature landslide of stones and earth, a figure
slid down several yards away. Shann waited in a half-crouch, his
looted blaster covering the man now getting to his feet. There was
no mistaking the familiar uniform, or even the man. How Ragnar
Thorvald had reached that particular spot on Warlock or why, Shann
could not know. But that he was there, there was no denying.
Shann hurried forward. It had been when he caught his first
sight of Thorvald that he realized just how deep his unacknowledged
loneliness had bit. There were two Terrans on Warlock now, and he
did not need to know why. But Thorvald was staring back at him with
the blankness of non-recognition.
“Who are you?” The demand held something close to
suspicion.
That note in the other’s voice wiped away a measure of
Shann’s confidence, threatened something which had flowered
in him since he had struck into the wilderness on his own. Three
words had reduced him again to Lantee, unskilled laborer.
“Lantee. I’m from the
camp . . . ”
Thorvald’s eagerness was plain in his next question:
“How many of you got away? Where are the rest?” He
gazed past Shann up the plateau slope as if he expected to see the
personnel of the camp sprout out of the cloak of grass along the
verge.
“Just me and the wolverines,” Shann answered in a
colorless voice. He cradled the blaster on his hip, turned a little
away from the officer.
“You . . . and the wolverines?”
Thorvald was plainly startled.
“But . . . where? How?”
“The Throgs hit very early yesterday morning. They caught
the rest in camp. The wolverines had escaped from their cage, and I
was out hunting
them . . . ” He
told his story baldly.
“You’re sure about the rest?” Thorvald had a
thin steel of rage edging his voice. Almost, Shann thought, as if
he could turn that blade of rage against one Shann Lantee for being
yet alive when more important men had not survived.
“I saw the attack from an upper ridge,” the younger
man said, having been put on the defensive. Yet he had a right to
be alive, hadn’t he? Or did Thorvald believe that he should
have gone running down to meet the beetle-heads with his useless
stunner? “They used energy
beams . . . didn’t land until it was all
over.”
“I knew there was something wrong when the camp
didn’t answer our enter-atmosphere signal,” Thorvald
said absently. “Then one of those platters jumped us on
braking orbit, and my pilot was killed. When we set down on the
automatics here I had just time to rig a surprise for any trackers
before I took to the hills—”
“The blast got one of them,” Shann pointed out.
“Yes, they’d nicked the booster rocket; she
wouldn’t climb again. But they’ll be back to pick over
the remains.”
Shann looked at the dead Throg. “Thanks for taking a
hand.” His tone was as chill as the other’s this time.
“I’m heading
south . . . ”
And, he added silently, I intend to keep on that way. The Throg
attack had dissolved the pattern of the Survey team. He
didn’t owe Thorvald any allegiance. And he had been
successfully on his own here since the camp had been overrun.
“South,” Thorvald repeated. “Well,
that’s as good a direction as any right now.”
But they were not united. Shann found the wolverines and
patiently coaxed and wheedled them into coming with him over a
circuitous route which kept them away from both ships. Thorvald
went up the cliff, swung down again, a supply bag slung over one
shoulder. He stood watching as Shann brought the animals in.
Then Thorvald’s arm swept out, his fingers closing
possessively about the barrel of the blaster. Shann’s own
hold on the weapon tightened, and the force of the other’s
pull dragged him partly around.
“Let’s have that—”
“Why?” Shann supposed that because it had been the
other’s well-aimed rock which had put the Throg out of
commission permanently, the officer was going to claim their only
spoils of war as personal booty, and a hot resentment flowered in
the younger man.
“We don’t take that away from here.” Thorvald
made the weapon his with a quick twist.
To Shann’s utter astonishment, the Survey officer walked
back to kneel beside the dead Throg. He worked the grip of the
blaster under the alien’s lax claws and inspected the result
with the care of one arranging a special and highly important
display. Shann’s protest became vocal. “We’ll
need that!”
“It’ll do us far more good right where it
is . . . ” Thorvald
paused and then added, with impatience roughening his voice as if
he disliked the need for making any explanations, “There is
no reason for us to advertise our being alive. If the Throgs found
a blaster missing, they’d start thinking and looking around.
I want to have a breathing spell before I have to play quarry in
one of their hunts.”
Put that way, his action did make sense. But Shann regretted the
loss of an arm so superior to their own weapons. Now they could not
loot the plateship either. In silence he turned and started to
trudge southward, without waiting for Thorvald to catch up with
him.
Once away from the blasted area, the wolverines ranged ahead at
their clumsy gallop, which covered ground at a surprising rate of
speed. Shann knew that their curiosity made them scouts surpassing
any human and that the men who followed would have ample warning of
any danger to come. Without reference to his silent trail
companion, he sent the animals toward another strip of woodland
which would give them cover against the coming of any Throg
flyer.
As the hours advanced he began to cast about for a proper night
camp. The woods ought to give them a usable site.
“There’s water in this wood,” Thorvald said,
breaking the silence for the first time since they had left the
wrecks.
Shann knew that the other had knowledge, not only of the general
countryside, but of exploring techniques which he himself did not
possess, but to be reminded of that fact was an irritant rather
than a reassurance. Without answering, the younger man bored on to
locate the water promised.
The wolverines found the small lake first and were splashing
along its shore when the Terrans caught up. Thorvald went to work,
but to Shann’s surprise he did not unstrap the forceblade ax
at his belt. Bending over a sapling, he pounded away with a stone
at the green wood a few inches above the root line until he was
able to break through the slender trunk. Shann drew his own knife
and bent to tackle another treelet when Thorvald stopped him with
an order: “Use a stone on that, the way I did.”
Shann could see no reason for such a laborious process. If
Thorvald did not want to use his ax, that was no reason that Shann
could not put his heavy belt knife to work. He hesitated, ready to
set the blade to the outer bark of the tree.
“Look—” again that impatient edge in the
officer’s tone, the need for explanation seeming to come very
hard to the other—“sooner or later, the Throgs might
just trace us here and find this camp. If so, they are not
going to discover any traces to label us Terran—”
“But who else could we be?” protested Shann.
“There is no native race on Warlock.”
Thorvald tossed his improvised stone ax from hand to hand.
“But do the Throgs know that?”
The implications, the possibilities, in that idea struck home to
Shann. Now he began to understand what Thorvald might be
planning.
“Now there is going to be a native race.”
Shann made that a statement instead of a question and saw that the
other was watching him with a new intentness, as if he had at last
been recognized as a person instead of rank and file and very low
rank at that—Survey personnel.
“There is going to be a native race,” Thorvald
affirmed.
Shann resheathed his knife and went to search the pond beach for
a suitable stone to use in its place. Even so, he made harder work
of the clumsy chopping than Thorvald had. He worried at one sapling
after another until his hands were skinned and his breath came in
painful gusts from under aching ribs. Thorvald had gone on to
another task, ripping the end of a long tough vine from just under
the powdery surface of the thick leaf masses fallen in other
years.
With this the officer lashed together the tops of the poles,
having planted their splintered butts in the ground, so that he
achieved a crudely conical structures. Leafy branches were woven
back and forth through this framework, with an entrance, through
which one might crawl on hands and knees, left facing the lakeside.
The shelter they completed was compact and efficient but totally
unlike anything Shann had ever seen before, certainly far removed
from the domes of the camp. He said so, nursing his raw hands.
“An old form,” Thorvald replied, “native to a
primitive race on Terra. Certainly the beetle-heads haven’t
come across its like before.”
“Are we going to stay here? Otherwise it is pretty heavy
work for one night’s lodging.”
Thorvald tested the shelter with a sharp shake. The matted
leaves whispered, but the framework held.
“Stage dressing. No, we won’t linger here. But
it’s evidence to support our play. Even a Throg isn’t
dense enough to believe that natives would make a cross-country
trip without leaving evidence of their passing.”
Shann sat down with a sigh he made no effort to suppress. He had
a vision of Thorvald traveling southward, methodically erecting
these huts here and there to confound Throgs who might not ever
chance upon them. But already the Survey officer was busy with a
new problem.
“We need weapons—”
“We have our stunners, a force ax, and our knives,”
Shann pointed out. He did not add, as he would have liked, that they
could have had a blaster.
“Native weapons,” Thorvald countered with his usual
snap. He went back to the beach and crawled about there, choosing
and rejecting stones picked out of the gravel.
Shann scooped out a small pit just before their hut and set
about the making of a pocket-sized fire. He was hungry and looked
longingly now and again to the supply bag Thorvald had brought with
him. Dared he rummage in that for rations? Surely the other would
be carrying concentrates.
“Who taught you how to make a fire that way?”
Thorvald was back from the pond, a selection of round stones about
the size of his fist resting between his chest and forearm.
“It’s regulation, isn’t it?” Shann
countered defensively.
“It’s regulation,” Thorvald agreed. He set
down his stones in a row and then tossed the supply bag over to his
companion. “Too late to hunt tonight. But we’ll have to
go easy on those rations until we can get more.”
“Where?” Did Thorvald know of some supply cache they
could raid?
“From the Throgs,” the other answered matter of
factly.
“But they don’t eat our kind of
food . . . ”
“All the more reason for them to leave the camp supplies
untouched.”
“The camp?”
For the first time Thorvald’s lips curved in a shadow
smile which was neither joyous nor warming. “A native raid on
an invader’s camp. What could be more natural? And we’d
better make it soon.”
“But how can we?” To Shann what the other proposed
was sheer madness.
“There was once an ancient service corps on Terra,”
Thorvald answered, “which had a motto something like this:
‘The improbable we do at once; the impossible takes a little
longer.’ What did you think we were going to do? Sulk around
out here in the bush and let the Throgs claim Warlock for one of
their pirate bases without opposition?”
Since that was the only future Shann had visualized, he was
ready enough to admit the truth, only some shade of tone in the
officer’s voice kept him from saying so aloud.
Shann made his way at an angle to avoid the
smoking pit cradling the wreckage of the Terran ship. There were no
signs of life about the Throg plate as he approached. A quarter of
its bulk was telescoped back into the rest, and surely none of the
aliens could have survived such a smash, tough as they were reputed
to be within those those horny carapaces.
He sniffed. There was a nauseous odor heavy on the morning air,
one which would make a lasting impression on any human nose. The
port door in the black ship stood open, perhaps having burst in the
impact against the cliff. Shann had almost reached it when a
crackle of chain lightning beat across the ground before him,
turning the edge of the buckled entrance panel red.
Shann dropped to the ground, drawing his stunner, knowing at the
same moment that such a weapon was about as much use in meeting a
blaster as a straw wand would be to ward off a blazing coal. A
chill numbness held him as he waited for a second blast to char the
flesh between his shoulders. So there had been a Throg survivor,
after all.
But as moments passed and the Throg did not move in to make an
easy kill, Shann collected his wits. Only one shot! Was the beetle
injured, unable to make sure of even an almost defenseless prey?
The Throgs seldom took prisoners. When they
did . . .
The Terran’s lips tightened. He worked his hand under his
prone body, feeling for the hilt of his knife. With that he could
speedily remove himself from the status of Throg prisoner, and he
would do it gladly if there was no hope of escape. Had there been
only one charge left in that blaster? Shann could make half a dozen
guesses as to why the other had made no move, but that shot had
come from behind him, and he dared not turn his head or otherwise
make an effort to see what the other might be doing.
Was it only his imagination, or had that stench grown stronger
during the last few seconds? Could the Throg be creeping up on him?
Shann strained his ears, trying to catch some sound he could
interpret. The few clak-claks that had survived the blast about the
ship were shrieking overhead, and Shann made one attempt at
counterattack.
He whistled the wolverines’ call. The pair had not been
too willing to follow him down into this valley, and they had
avoided the crater at a very wide circle. But if they would obey
him now, he just might have a chance.
There! That had been a sound, and the smell
was stronger. The Throg must be coming to him. Again Shann
whistled, holding in his mind his hatred for the beetle-head, the
need for finishing off that alien. If the animals could pick either
thoughts or emotions out of their human companion, this was the
time for him to get those unspoken half-orders across.
Shann slammed his hand hard against the ground, sent his body
rolling, his stunner up and ready.
And now he could see that grotesque thing, swaying weakly back
and forth on its thin legs, yet holding a blaster, bringing that
weapon up to center it on him. The Throg was hunched over and
perhaps to Taggi presented the outline of some four-footed creature
to be hunted. For the wolverine male sprang for the hard-shelled
shoulders.
Under that impact the Throg sagged forward. But Taggi, outraged
at the nature of the creature he had attacked, squalled and
retreated. Shann had had his precious seconds of distraction. He
fired, the core of the stun beam striking full into the flat dish
of the alien’s face.
That bolt, which would have shocked a mammal into insensibility,
only slowed the Throg. Shann rolled again, gaining a temporary
cover behind the wrecked ship. He squirmed under metal hot enough
to scorch his jacket and saw the reflection of a second blaster
shot which had been fired seconds late.
Now the Throg had him tied down. But to get at the Terran the
alien would have to show himself, and Shann had one chance in
fifty, which was better than that of three minutes ago—when
the odds had been set at one in a hundred. He knew that he could
not press the wolverines in again. Taggi’s distaste was too
manifest; Shann had been lucky that the animal had made one
abortive attack.
Perhaps the Terran’s escape and Taggi’s action had
made the alien reckless. Shann had no clue to the thinking
processes of the non-human but now the Throg staggered around the
end of the plate, his digits, which were closer to claws than
fingers, fumbling with his weapon. The Terran snapped another shot
from his stunner, hoping to slow the enemy down. But he was
trapped. If he turned to climb the cliff at his back, the
beetle-head could easily pick him off.
A rock hurtled from the heights above, striking with deadly
accuracy on the domed, hairless head of the Throg. His armored body
crashed forward, struck against the ship, and rebounded to the
ground. Shann darted forward to seize the blaster, kicking loose
the claws which still grasped it, before he flattened back to the
cliff, the strange weapon over his arm, his heart beating
wildly.
That rock had not bounded down the mountainside by chance; it
had been hurled with intent and aimed carefully at its target. And
no Throg would kill one of his fellows. Or would he? Suppose orders
had been issued to take a Terran prisoner and the Throg by the ship
had disobeyed? Then, why a rock and not a blaster bolt?
Shann edged along until the upslanted, broken side of the Throg
flyer provided him with protection from any overhead attack. Under
that shelter he waited for the next move from his unknown
rescuer.
The clak-claks wheeled closer to earth. One lit boldly on the
carapace of the inert Throg, shuffling ungainly along that horny
ridge. Cradling the blaster, the Terran continued to wait. His
patience was rewarded when that investigating clak-clak took off
uttering an enraged snap or two. He heard what might be the scrape
of boots across rock, but that might also have come from horny skin
meeting stone.
Then the other must have lost his footing not too far above.
Accompanied by a miniature landslide of stones and earth, a figure
slid down several yards away. Shann waited in a half-crouch, his
looted blaster covering the man now getting to his feet. There was
no mistaking the familiar uniform, or even the man. How Ragnar
Thorvald had reached that particular spot on Warlock or why, Shann
could not know. But that he was there, there was no denying.
Shann hurried forward. It had been when he caught his first
sight of Thorvald that he realized just how deep his unacknowledged
loneliness had bit. There were two Terrans on Warlock now, and he
did not need to know why. But Thorvald was staring back at him with
the blankness of non-recognition.
“Who are you?” The demand held something close to
suspicion.
That note in the other’s voice wiped away a measure of
Shann’s confidence, threatened something which had flowered
in him since he had struck into the wilderness on his own. Three
words had reduced him again to Lantee, unskilled laborer.
“Lantee. I’m from the
camp . . . ”
Thorvald’s eagerness was plain in his next question:
“How many of you got away? Where are the rest?” He
gazed past Shann up the plateau slope as if he expected to see the
personnel of the camp sprout out of the cloak of grass along the
verge.
“Just me and the wolverines,” Shann answered in a
colorless voice. He cradled the blaster on his hip, turned a little
away from the officer.
“You . . . and the wolverines?”
Thorvald was plainly startled.
“But . . . where? How?”
“The Throgs hit very early yesterday morning. They caught
the rest in camp. The wolverines had escaped from their cage, and I
was out hunting
them . . . ” He
told his story baldly.
“You’re sure about the rest?” Thorvald had a
thin steel of rage edging his voice. Almost, Shann thought, as if
he could turn that blade of rage against one Shann Lantee for being
yet alive when more important men had not survived.
“I saw the attack from an upper ridge,” the younger
man said, having been put on the defensive. Yet he had a right to
be alive, hadn’t he? Or did Thorvald believe that he should
have gone running down to meet the beetle-heads with his useless
stunner? “They used energy
beams . . . didn’t land until it was all
over.”
“I knew there was something wrong when the camp
didn’t answer our enter-atmosphere signal,” Thorvald
said absently. “Then one of those platters jumped us on
braking orbit, and my pilot was killed. When we set down on the
automatics here I had just time to rig a surprise for any trackers
before I took to the hills—”
“The blast got one of them,” Shann pointed out.
“Yes, they’d nicked the booster rocket; she
wouldn’t climb again. But they’ll be back to pick over
the remains.”
Shann looked at the dead Throg. “Thanks for taking a
hand.” His tone was as chill as the other’s this time.
“I’m heading
south . . . ”
And, he added silently, I intend to keep on that way. The Throg
attack had dissolved the pattern of the Survey team. He
didn’t owe Thorvald any allegiance. And he had been
successfully on his own here since the camp had been overrun.
“South,” Thorvald repeated. “Well,
that’s as good a direction as any right now.”
But they were not united. Shann found the wolverines and
patiently coaxed and wheedled them into coming with him over a
circuitous route which kept them away from both ships. Thorvald
went up the cliff, swung down again, a supply bag slung over one
shoulder. He stood watching as Shann brought the animals in.
Then Thorvald’s arm swept out, his fingers closing
possessively about the barrel of the blaster. Shann’s own
hold on the weapon tightened, and the force of the other’s
pull dragged him partly around.
“Let’s have that—”
“Why?” Shann supposed that because it had been the
other’s well-aimed rock which had put the Throg out of
commission permanently, the officer was going to claim their only
spoils of war as personal booty, and a hot resentment flowered in
the younger man.
“We don’t take that away from here.” Thorvald
made the weapon his with a quick twist.
To Shann’s utter astonishment, the Survey officer walked
back to kneel beside the dead Throg. He worked the grip of the
blaster under the alien’s lax claws and inspected the result
with the care of one arranging a special and highly important
display. Shann’s protest became vocal. “We’ll
need that!”
“It’ll do us far more good right where it
is . . . ” Thorvald
paused and then added, with impatience roughening his voice as if
he disliked the need for making any explanations, “There is
no reason for us to advertise our being alive. If the Throgs found
a blaster missing, they’d start thinking and looking around.
I want to have a breathing spell before I have to play quarry in
one of their hunts.”
Put that way, his action did make sense. But Shann regretted the
loss of an arm so superior to their own weapons. Now they could not
loot the plateship either. In silence he turned and started to
trudge southward, without waiting for Thorvald to catch up with
him.
Once away from the blasted area, the wolverines ranged ahead at
their clumsy gallop, which covered ground at a surprising rate of
speed. Shann knew that their curiosity made them scouts surpassing
any human and that the men who followed would have ample warning of
any danger to come. Without reference to his silent trail
companion, he sent the animals toward another strip of woodland
which would give them cover against the coming of any Throg
flyer.
As the hours advanced he began to cast about for a proper night
camp. The woods ought to give them a usable site.
“There’s water in this wood,” Thorvald said,
breaking the silence for the first time since they had left the
wrecks.
Shann knew that the other had knowledge, not only of the general
countryside, but of exploring techniques which he himself did not
possess, but to be reminded of that fact was an irritant rather
than a reassurance. Without answering, the younger man bored on to
locate the water promised.
The wolverines found the small lake first and were splashing
along its shore when the Terrans caught up. Thorvald went to work,
but to Shann’s surprise he did not unstrap the forceblade ax
at his belt. Bending over a sapling, he pounded away with a stone
at the green wood a few inches above the root line until he was
able to break through the slender trunk. Shann drew his own knife
and bent to tackle another treelet when Thorvald stopped him with
an order: “Use a stone on that, the way I did.”
Shann could see no reason for such a laborious process. If
Thorvald did not want to use his ax, that was no reason that Shann
could not put his heavy belt knife to work. He hesitated, ready to
set the blade to the outer bark of the tree.
“Look—” again that impatient edge in the
officer’s tone, the need for explanation seeming to come very
hard to the other—“sooner or later, the Throgs might
just trace us here and find this camp. If so, they are not
going to discover any traces to label us Terran—”
“But who else could we be?” protested Shann.
“There is no native race on Warlock.”
Thorvald tossed his improvised stone ax from hand to hand.
“But do the Throgs know that?”
The implications, the possibilities, in that idea struck home to
Shann. Now he began to understand what Thorvald might be
planning.
“Now there is going to be a native race.”
Shann made that a statement instead of a question and saw that the
other was watching him with a new intentness, as if he had at last
been recognized as a person instead of rank and file and very low
rank at that—Survey personnel.
“There is going to be a native race,” Thorvald
affirmed.
Shann resheathed his knife and went to search the pond beach for
a suitable stone to use in its place. Even so, he made harder work
of the clumsy chopping than Thorvald had. He worried at one sapling
after another until his hands were skinned and his breath came in
painful gusts from under aching ribs. Thorvald had gone on to
another task, ripping the end of a long tough vine from just under
the powdery surface of the thick leaf masses fallen in other
years.
With this the officer lashed together the tops of the poles,
having planted their splintered butts in the ground, so that he
achieved a crudely conical structures. Leafy branches were woven
back and forth through this framework, with an entrance, through
which one might crawl on hands and knees, left facing the lakeside.
The shelter they completed was compact and efficient but totally
unlike anything Shann had ever seen before, certainly far removed
from the domes of the camp. He said so, nursing his raw hands.
“An old form,” Thorvald replied, “native to a
primitive race on Terra. Certainly the beetle-heads haven’t
come across its like before.”
“Are we going to stay here? Otherwise it is pretty heavy
work for one night’s lodging.”
Thorvald tested the shelter with a sharp shake. The matted
leaves whispered, but the framework held.
“Stage dressing. No, we won’t linger here. But
it’s evidence to support our play. Even a Throg isn’t
dense enough to believe that natives would make a cross-country
trip without leaving evidence of their passing.”
Shann sat down with a sigh he made no effort to suppress. He had
a vision of Thorvald traveling southward, methodically erecting
these huts here and there to confound Throgs who might not ever
chance upon them. But already the Survey officer was busy with a
new problem.
“We need weapons—”
“We have our stunners, a force ax, and our knives,”
Shann pointed out. He did not add, as he would have liked, that they
could have had a blaster.
“Native weapons,” Thorvald countered with his usual
snap. He went back to the beach and crawled about there, choosing
and rejecting stones picked out of the gravel.
Shann scooped out a small pit just before their hut and set
about the making of a pocket-sized fire. He was hungry and looked
longingly now and again to the supply bag Thorvald had brought with
him. Dared he rummage in that for rations? Surely the other would
be carrying concentrates.
“Who taught you how to make a fire that way?”
Thorvald was back from the pond, a selection of round stones about
the size of his fist resting between his chest and forearm.
“It’s regulation, isn’t it?” Shann
countered defensively.
“It’s regulation,” Thorvald agreed. He set
down his stones in a row and then tossed the supply bag over to his
companion. “Too late to hunt tonight. But we’ll have to
go easy on those rations until we can get more.”
“Where?” Did Thorvald know of some supply cache they
could raid?
“From the Throgs,” the other answered matter of
factly.
“But they don’t eat our kind of
food . . . ”
“All the more reason for them to leave the camp supplies
untouched.”
“The camp?”
For the first time Thorvald’s lips curved in a shadow
smile which was neither joyous nor warming. “A native raid on
an invader’s camp. What could be more natural? And we’d
better make it soon.”
“But how can we?” To Shann what the other proposed
was sheer madness.
“There was once an ancient service corps on Terra,”
Thorvald answered, “which had a motto something like this:
‘The improbable we do at once; the impossible takes a little
longer.’ What did you think we were going to do? Sulk around
out here in the bush and let the Throgs claim Warlock for one of
their pirate bases without opposition?”
Since that was the only future Shann had visualized, he was
ready enough to admit the truth, only some shade of tone in the
officer’s voice kept him from saying so aloud.