Five days later they came up from the south so
that this time Shann’s view of the Terran camp was from a
different angle. At first sight there had been little change in the
general scene. He wondered if the aliens were using the Terran dome
shelters themselves. Even in the twilight it was easy to pick out
such landmarks as the com dome with the shaft of a broadcaster
spearing from its top and the greater bulk of the supply
warehouse.
“Two of their small flyers down on the landing
field . . . ”
Thorvald materialized from the shadow, his voice a thread of
whisper.
By Shann’s side the wolverines were moving restlessly.
Since Taggi’s attack on the Throg neither beast would venture
near any site where they could scent the aliens. This was the
nearest point to which the men could urge either animal, which was
a disappointment, for the wolverines would have been an excellent
addition to the surprise sortie they planned for tonight, halving
the danger for the men.
Shann ran his fingers across the coarse fur on the
animals’ shoulders, exerting a light pressure to signal them
to wait. But he was not sure of their obedience. The foray was a
crazy idea, and Shann wondered again why he had agreed to it. Yet
he had gone along with Thorvald, even suggested a few modifications
and additions of his own, such as the contents of the crude leaf
sack now resting between his knees.
Thorvald flitted away, seeking his own post to the west. Shann
was still waiting for the other’s signal when there arose
from the camp a sound to chill the flesh of any listener, a wail
which could not have come from the throat of any normal living
thing, intelligent being or animal. Ululating in ear-torturing
intensity, the cry sank to a faint, ominous echo of itself, to
waver up the scale again.
The wolverines went mad. Shann had witnessed their quick kills
in the wilds, but this stark ferocity of spitting, howling rage was
new. They answered that challenge from the camp, streaking out from
under his hands. Yet both animals skidded to a stop before they
passed the first dome and were lost in the gloom. A spark glowed
for an instant to his right; Thorvald was ready to go, so Shann had
no time to try and recall the animals.
He fumbled for those balls of soaked moss in his leaf bag. The
chemical smell from them blotted out that alien mustiness which the
wind brought from the campsite. Shann readied the first sopping
mess in his sling, snapped his fire sparker at it, and had the ball
awhirl for a toss almost in one continuous movement. The moss burst
into fire as it curved out and fell.
To a witness it might have seemed that the missile materialized
out of the air, the effect being better than Shann had hoped.
A second ball for the
sling—spark . . . out . . . down.
The first had smashed on the ground near the dome of the com
station, the force of impact flattening it into a round splatter of
now fiercely burning material. And his second, carefully aimed, lit
two feet beyond.
Another wail tearing at the nerves. Shann made a third throw, a
fourth. He had an audience now. In the light of those pools of fire
the Throgs were scuttling back and forth, their hunched bodies
casting weird shadows on the dome walls. They were making efforts
to douse the fires, but Shann knew from careful experimentation
that once ignited the stuff he had skimmed from the lip of one of
the hot springs would go on burning as long as a fraction of its
viscous substance remained unconsumed.
Now Thorvald had gone into action. A Throg suddenly halted,
struggled frantically, and toppled over into the edge of a fire
splotch, legs looped together by the coils of the curious weapon
Thorvald had put together on their first night of partnership.
Three round stones of comparable weight had each been fastened at
the end of a vine cord, and those cords united at a center point.
Thorvald had demonstrated the effectiveness of his creation by
bringing down one of the small “deer” of the
grasslands, an animal normally fleet enough to feel safe from both
human and animal pursuit. And those weighted ropes now trapped the
Throg with the same efficiency.
Having shot his last fireball, Shann ran swiftly to take up a
new position, downgrade and to the east of the domes. Here he put
into action another of the primitive weapons Thorvald had devised,
a spear hurled with a throwing stick, giving it double range and
twice as forceful penetration power. The spears themselves were
hardly more than crudely shaped lengths of wood, their points
charred in the fire. Perhaps these missiles could neither kill nor
seriously wound. But more than one thudded home in a satisfactory
fashion against the curving back carapace or the softer front parts
of a Throg in a manner which certainly shook up and bruised the
target. And one of Shann’s victims went to the ground, to lie
kicking in a way which suggested he had been more than just
bruised.
Fireballs, spears . . . Thorvald had moved
too. And now down into the somewhat frantic melee of the aroused
camp fell a shower of slim weighted reeds, each provided with a
clay-ball head. The majority of those balls broke on landing as the
Terrans had intended. So, through the beetle smell of the aliens,
spread the acrid, throat-parching fumes of the hot spring water.
Whether those fumes had the same effect upon Throg breathing
apparatus as they did upon Terran, the attackers could not tell,
but they hoped such a bombardment would add to the general
confusion.
Shann began to space the hurling of his crude spears with more
care, trying to place them with all the precision of aim he could
muster. There was a limit to their amount of varied ammunition,
although they had dedicated every waking moment of the past few
days to manufacture and testing. Luckily the enemy had had none of
their energy beams at the domes. And so far they had made no move
to lift their flyers for retaliation blasts.
But the Throgs were pulling themselves into order. Blaster fire
cut the dusk. Most of the aliens were now flat on the ground,
sending a creeping line of fire into the perimeter of the camp
area. A dark form moved between Shann and the nearest patch of
burning moss. The Terran raised a spear to the ready before he
caught a whiff of the pungent scent emitted by a wolverine hot with
battle rage. He whistled coaxingly. With the Throgs eager to blast
any moving thing, the animals were in danger if they prowled about
the scene.
That blunt head moved. Shann caught the glint of eyes in a
furred mask; it was either Taggi or his mate. Then a puff of mixed
Throg and chemical scent from the camp must have reached the
wolverine. The animal coughed and fled westward, passing Shann.
Had Thorvald had time and opportunity to make his planned raid
on the supply dome? Time during such an embroilment was hard to
measure, and Shann could not be sure. He began to count aloud,
slowly, as they had agreed. When he reached one hundred he would
begin his retreat; on two hundred he was to run for it, his goal
the river a half mile from the camp.
The stream would take the fugitives to the sea where fiords cut
the coastline into a ragged fringe offering a wealth of hiding
places. Throgs seldom explored any territory on foot. For them to
venture into that maze would be putting themselves at the mercy of
the Terrans they hunted. And their flyers could comb the air above
such a rocky wilderness without result.
Shann reached the count of one hundred. Twice a blaster bolt
singed ground within distance close enough to make him wince, but
most of the fire carried well above his head. All of his spears
were gone, save for one he had kept, hoping for a last good target.
One of the Throgs who appeared to be directing the fire of the
others was facing Shann’s position. And on pure chance that
he might knock out that leader, Shann chose him for his victim.
The Terran had no illusions concerning his own marksmanship. The
most he could hope for, he thought, was to have the primitive
weapon thud home painfully on the other’s armored hide.
Perhaps, if he were very lucky, he could knock the other from his
clawed feet. But that chance which hovers over any battlefield
turned in Shann’s favor. At just the right moment the Throg
stretched his head up from the usual hunched position where the
carapace extended over his wide shoulders to protect one of the
alien’s few vulnerable spots, the soft underside of his
throat. And the fire-sharpened point of the spear went deep.
Throgs were mute, or at least none of them had ever uttered a
vocal sound to be reported by Terrans. This one did not cry out.
But he staggered forward, forelimbs up, clawed digits pulling at
the wooden pin transfixing his throat just under the
mandible-equipped jaw, holding his head at an unnatural angle.
Without seeming to notice the others of his kind, the Throg came on
at a shambling run, straight at Shann as if he could actually see
through the dark and had marked down the Terran for personal
vengeance. There was something so uncanny about that forward dash
that Shann retreated. As his hand groped for the knife at his belt
his boot heel caught in a tangle of weed and he struggled for
balance. The wounded Throg, still pulling at the spear shaft
protruding above the swelling barrel of his chest, pounded on.
Shann sprawled backward and was caught in the elastic embrace of
a bush, so he did not strike the ground. He fought the grip of
prickly branches and kicked to gain solid earth under his feet.
Then again he heard that piercing wail from the camp, as chilling
as it had been the first time. Spurred by that, he won free. But he
could not turn his back on the wounded Throg, keeping instead to a
sidewise retreat.
Already the alien had reached the dark beyond the rim of the
camp. His progress now was marked by the crashing through low
brush. Two of the Throgs back on the firing line started up after
their leader. Shann caught a whiff of their odor as the wounded
alien advanced with the single-mindedness of a robot.
It would be best to head for the river. Tall grass twisted about
the Terran’s legs as he began to run. In spite of the gloom,
he hesitated to cross that open space. At night Warlock’s
peculiar vegetation displayed a very alien
attribute—ten . . . twenty varieties of
grass, plant, and tree emitted wan phosphorescence, varying in
degree, but affording each an aura of light. And the path before
Shann now was dotted by splotches of that radiance, not as
brilliant as the chemical-born flames the attackers had kindled in
the camp, but as quick to betray the unwary who passed within their
dim circles. And there had never been any reason to believe that
Throg powers of sight were less than human; there was perhaps some
evidence to the contrary. Shann crouched, charting the clumps ahead
for a zigzag course which would take him to at least momentary
safety in the river bed.
Perhaps a mile downstream was the transport the Terrans had
cobbled together no earlier than this afternoon, a raft Thorvald
had professed to believe would support them to the sea which lay
some fifty Terran miles to the west. But now he had to cover that
mile.
The wolverines? Thorvald? There was one lure which might draw
the animals on to the rendezvous. Taggi had brought down a
“deer” just before they had left the raft. And instead
of allowing both beasts to feast at leisure, Shann had lashed the
carcass to the shaky platform of wood and brush, putting it out to
swing in the current, though still moored to the bank.
Wolverines always cached that part of the kill which they did
not consume at the first eating, usually burying it. He had hoped
that to leave the carcass in such a way would draw both animals
back to the raft when they were hungry. And they had not fed
particularly well that day.
Thorvald? Well, the Survey officer had made it plain during the
past five days of what Shann had come to look upon as an uneasy
partnership that he considered himself far abler to manage in the
field, while he had grave doubts of Shann’s efficiency in the
direction of survival potential.
The Terran started along the pattern of retreat he had laid out
to the river bed. His heart pounded as he ran, not because of the
physical effort he was expending, but because again from the camp
had come that blood-freezing howl. A lighter line marked the lip of
the cut in which the stream was set, something he had not foreseen.
He threw himself down to crawl the last few feet, hugging the
earth.
That very pale luminescence was easily accounted for by what lay
below. Shann licked his lips and tasted the sting of sap smeared on
his face during his struggle with the bushes. While the strip of
meadow behind him now had been spotted with light plants, the cut
below showed an almost solid line of them stringing willow-wise
along the water’s edge. To go down at this point was simply
to spotlight his presence for any Throg on his trail. Hs could only
continue along the upper bank, hoping to finally find an end to the
growth of luminescent vegetation below.
Shann was perhaps five yards from the point where he had come to
the river, when a commotion behind made him freeze and turn his
head cautiously. The camp was half hidden, and the fires there must
be dying. But a twisting, struggling mass was rolling across the
meadow in his general direction.
Thorvald fighting off an attack? The wolverines? Shann drew his
legs under him, ready to erupt into a counteroffensive. He
hesitated between drawing stunner or knife. In his brush with the
injured Throg at the wreck the stunner had had little impression on
the enemy. And now he wondered if his blade, though it was
super-steel at its toughest, could pierce any joint in the armored
bodies of the aliens.
There was surely a fight in progress. The whole crazily weaving
blot collapsed and rolled down upon three bright light plants. Dull
sheen of Throg casing was revealed . . . no
sign of fur, flesh, or clothing. Two of the aliens battling? But
why?
One of those figures got up stiffly, bent over the huddle still
on the ground, and pulled at something. The wooden shaft of
Shann’s spear was wanly visible. And the form on the ground
did not stir as that was jerked loose. The Throg leader dead? Shann
hoped so. He slid his knife back into the sheath, tapped the hilt
to make sure it was firmly in place, and crawled on. The river,
twisting here and there, was a promising pool of dusky shadow
ahead. The bank of willow-things was coming to an end, and none too
soon. For when he glanced back again he saw another Throg run
across the meadow, and he watched them lift their fellow, carrying
him back to camp.
The Throgs might seem indestructible, but he had put an end to
one, aided by luck and a very rough weapon. With that to bolster
his self-confidence to a higher notch, Shann dropped by cautious
degrees over the bank and down to the water’s edge. When his
boots splashed into the oily flood he began to tramp downstream,
feeling the pull of the water, first ankle high and then about his
calves. This early in the season they did not have to fear floods,
and hereabouts the stream was wide and shallow, save in
mid-current.
Twice more he had to skirt patches of light plants, and once a
young tree stood bathed in radiance with a pinkish tinge instead of
the usual ghostly gray. Within the haze which tented the drooping
branches, flitted small glittering, flying things; and the scent of
its half-open buds was heavy on the air, neither pleasant nor
unpleasant in Shann’s nostrils, merely different.
He dared to whistle, a soft call he hoped would carry along the
cut between the high banks. But, though he paused and listened
until it seemed that every cell in his thin body was occupied in
that act, he heard no answering call from the wolverines, nor any
suggestion that either the animals or Thorvald were headed in the
direction of the raft.
What was he going to do if none of the others joined him
downstream? Thorvald had said not to linger there past daylight.
Yet Shann knew that unless he actually sighted a Throg patrol
splashing after him he would wait until he made sure of the
others’ fate. Both Taggi and Togi were as important to him as
the Survey officer. Perhaps more so, he told himself now, because
he understood them to a certain degree and found companionship in
their undemanding company which he could not claim from the
man.
Why did Thorvald insist upon their going on to the
seashore? To Shann’s mind his own first plan of holing up
back in the eastern mountains was better. Those heights had as many
hiding places as the fiord country. But Thorvald had suddenly
become so set on this westward trek that he had given in. As much
as he inwardly rebelled when he took them, he found himself obeying
the older man’s orders. It was only when he was alone, as
now, that he began to question both Thorvald’s motives and
his authority.
Three sprigs of a light bush set in a triangle. Shann paused and
then climbed out on the bank, shaking the water from his boots as
Taggi might shake such drops from a furred limb. This was the sign
they had set to mark their rendezvous point,
but . . .
Shann whirled, drawing his stunner. The raft was a dark blob on
the surface of the water some feet farther on. And now it was
bobbing up and down violently. That was not the result of any
normal tug of current. He heard an indignant squeal and relaxed
with a little laugh. He need not have worried about the wolverines;
that bait had drawn them all right. Both of them were now engaged
in eating, though they had to conduct their feast on the rather
shaky foundation of the makeshift transport.
They paid no attention as he waded out, pulling at the anchor
cord as he went. The wind must have carried his familiar scent to
them. As the water climbed to his shoulders Shann put one hand on
the outmost log of the raft. One of the animals snarled a warning
at being disturbed. Or had that been at him?
Shann stood where he was, listening intently. Yes, there was a
splashing sound from upstream. Whoever followed his own recent
trail was taking no care to keep that pursuit a secret, and the
pace of the newcomer was fast enough to spell trouble.
Throgs? Tensely the Terran waited for some reaction from the
wolverines. He was sure that if the aliens had followed him, both
animals would give warning. Save when they had gone wild upon
hearing that strange wail from the camp, they avoided meeting the
enemy.
But from all sounds the animals had not stopped feeding. So the
other was no beetle-head. On the other hand, why would Thorvald so
advertise his coming, unless the need for speed was greater than
caution? Shann drew taut the mooring cord, bringing out his knife
to saw through that tough length. A figure passed the three-sprig
signal, ran onto the raft.
“Lantee?” The call came in a hoarse, demanding
whisper.
“Here.”
“Cut loose. We have to get out of here!”
Thorvald flung himself forward, and together the men scrambled
up on the raft. The mangled carcass plunged into the water,
dislodged by their efforts. But before the wolverines could follow
it, the mooring vine snapped, and the river current took them.
Feeling the raft sway and begin to spin, the wolverines whined,
crouched in the middle of what now seemed a very frail craft.
Behind them, far away but too clear, sounded that eerie howling,
topping the sigh of the night wind.
“I saw—” Thorvald gasped, pausing as if to
catch full lungfuls of air to back his words, “they have a
‘hound’! That’s what you hear.”
Five days later they came up from the south so
that this time Shann’s view of the Terran camp was from a
different angle. At first sight there had been little change in the
general scene. He wondered if the aliens were using the Terran dome
shelters themselves. Even in the twilight it was easy to pick out
such landmarks as the com dome with the shaft of a broadcaster
spearing from its top and the greater bulk of the supply
warehouse.
“Two of their small flyers down on the landing
field . . . ”
Thorvald materialized from the shadow, his voice a thread of
whisper.
By Shann’s side the wolverines were moving restlessly.
Since Taggi’s attack on the Throg neither beast would venture
near any site where they could scent the aliens. This was the
nearest point to which the men could urge either animal, which was
a disappointment, for the wolverines would have been an excellent
addition to the surprise sortie they planned for tonight, halving
the danger for the men.
Shann ran his fingers across the coarse fur on the
animals’ shoulders, exerting a light pressure to signal them
to wait. But he was not sure of their obedience. The foray was a
crazy idea, and Shann wondered again why he had agreed to it. Yet
he had gone along with Thorvald, even suggested a few modifications
and additions of his own, such as the contents of the crude leaf
sack now resting between his knees.
Thorvald flitted away, seeking his own post to the west. Shann
was still waiting for the other’s signal when there arose
from the camp a sound to chill the flesh of any listener, a wail
which could not have come from the throat of any normal living
thing, intelligent being or animal. Ululating in ear-torturing
intensity, the cry sank to a faint, ominous echo of itself, to
waver up the scale again.
The wolverines went mad. Shann had witnessed their quick kills
in the wilds, but this stark ferocity of spitting, howling rage was
new. They answered that challenge from the camp, streaking out from
under his hands. Yet both animals skidded to a stop before they
passed the first dome and were lost in the gloom. A spark glowed
for an instant to his right; Thorvald was ready to go, so Shann had
no time to try and recall the animals.
He fumbled for those balls of soaked moss in his leaf bag. The
chemical smell from them blotted out that alien mustiness which the
wind brought from the campsite. Shann readied the first sopping
mess in his sling, snapped his fire sparker at it, and had the ball
awhirl for a toss almost in one continuous movement. The moss burst
into fire as it curved out and fell.
To a witness it might have seemed that the missile materialized
out of the air, the effect being better than Shann had hoped.
A second ball for the
sling—spark . . . out . . . down.
The first had smashed on the ground near the dome of the com
station, the force of impact flattening it into a round splatter of
now fiercely burning material. And his second, carefully aimed, lit
two feet beyond.
Another wail tearing at the nerves. Shann made a third throw, a
fourth. He had an audience now. In the light of those pools of fire
the Throgs were scuttling back and forth, their hunched bodies
casting weird shadows on the dome walls. They were making efforts
to douse the fires, but Shann knew from careful experimentation
that once ignited the stuff he had skimmed from the lip of one of
the hot springs would go on burning as long as a fraction of its
viscous substance remained unconsumed.
Now Thorvald had gone into action. A Throg suddenly halted,
struggled frantically, and toppled over into the edge of a fire
splotch, legs looped together by the coils of the curious weapon
Thorvald had put together on their first night of partnership.
Three round stones of comparable weight had each been fastened at
the end of a vine cord, and those cords united at a center point.
Thorvald had demonstrated the effectiveness of his creation by
bringing down one of the small “deer” of the
grasslands, an animal normally fleet enough to feel safe from both
human and animal pursuit. And those weighted ropes now trapped the
Throg with the same efficiency.
Having shot his last fireball, Shann ran swiftly to take up a
new position, downgrade and to the east of the domes. Here he put
into action another of the primitive weapons Thorvald had devised,
a spear hurled with a throwing stick, giving it double range and
twice as forceful penetration power. The spears themselves were
hardly more than crudely shaped lengths of wood, their points
charred in the fire. Perhaps these missiles could neither kill nor
seriously wound. But more than one thudded home in a satisfactory
fashion against the curving back carapace or the softer front parts
of a Throg in a manner which certainly shook up and bruised the
target. And one of Shann’s victims went to the ground, to lie
kicking in a way which suggested he had been more than just
bruised.
Fireballs, spears . . . Thorvald had moved
too. And now down into the somewhat frantic melee of the aroused
camp fell a shower of slim weighted reeds, each provided with a
clay-ball head. The majority of those balls broke on landing as the
Terrans had intended. So, through the beetle smell of the aliens,
spread the acrid, throat-parching fumes of the hot spring water.
Whether those fumes had the same effect upon Throg breathing
apparatus as they did upon Terran, the attackers could not tell,
but they hoped such a bombardment would add to the general
confusion.
Shann began to space the hurling of his crude spears with more
care, trying to place them with all the precision of aim he could
muster. There was a limit to their amount of varied ammunition,
although they had dedicated every waking moment of the past few
days to manufacture and testing. Luckily the enemy had had none of
their energy beams at the domes. And so far they had made no move
to lift their flyers for retaliation blasts.
But the Throgs were pulling themselves into order. Blaster fire
cut the dusk. Most of the aliens were now flat on the ground,
sending a creeping line of fire into the perimeter of the camp
area. A dark form moved between Shann and the nearest patch of
burning moss. The Terran raised a spear to the ready before he
caught a whiff of the pungent scent emitted by a wolverine hot with
battle rage. He whistled coaxingly. With the Throgs eager to blast
any moving thing, the animals were in danger if they prowled about
the scene.
That blunt head moved. Shann caught the glint of eyes in a
furred mask; it was either Taggi or his mate. Then a puff of mixed
Throg and chemical scent from the camp must have reached the
wolverine. The animal coughed and fled westward, passing Shann.
Had Thorvald had time and opportunity to make his planned raid
on the supply dome? Time during such an embroilment was hard to
measure, and Shann could not be sure. He began to count aloud,
slowly, as they had agreed. When he reached one hundred he would
begin his retreat; on two hundred he was to run for it, his goal
the river a half mile from the camp.
The stream would take the fugitives to the sea where fiords cut
the coastline into a ragged fringe offering a wealth of hiding
places. Throgs seldom explored any territory on foot. For them to
venture into that maze would be putting themselves at the mercy of
the Terrans they hunted. And their flyers could comb the air above
such a rocky wilderness without result.
Shann reached the count of one hundred. Twice a blaster bolt
singed ground within distance close enough to make him wince, but
most of the fire carried well above his head. All of his spears
were gone, save for one he had kept, hoping for a last good target.
One of the Throgs who appeared to be directing the fire of the
others was facing Shann’s position. And on pure chance that
he might knock out that leader, Shann chose him for his victim.
The Terran had no illusions concerning his own marksmanship. The
most he could hope for, he thought, was to have the primitive
weapon thud home painfully on the other’s armored hide.
Perhaps, if he were very lucky, he could knock the other from his
clawed feet. But that chance which hovers over any battlefield
turned in Shann’s favor. At just the right moment the Throg
stretched his head up from the usual hunched position where the
carapace extended over his wide shoulders to protect one of the
alien’s few vulnerable spots, the soft underside of his
throat. And the fire-sharpened point of the spear went deep.
Throgs were mute, or at least none of them had ever uttered a
vocal sound to be reported by Terrans. This one did not cry out.
But he staggered forward, forelimbs up, clawed digits pulling at
the wooden pin transfixing his throat just under the
mandible-equipped jaw, holding his head at an unnatural angle.
Without seeming to notice the others of his kind, the Throg came on
at a shambling run, straight at Shann as if he could actually see
through the dark and had marked down the Terran for personal
vengeance. There was something so uncanny about that forward dash
that Shann retreated. As his hand groped for the knife at his belt
his boot heel caught in a tangle of weed and he struggled for
balance. The wounded Throg, still pulling at the spear shaft
protruding above the swelling barrel of his chest, pounded on.
Shann sprawled backward and was caught in the elastic embrace of
a bush, so he did not strike the ground. He fought the grip of
prickly branches and kicked to gain solid earth under his feet.
Then again he heard that piercing wail from the camp, as chilling
as it had been the first time. Spurred by that, he won free. But he
could not turn his back on the wounded Throg, keeping instead to a
sidewise retreat.
Already the alien had reached the dark beyond the rim of the
camp. His progress now was marked by the crashing through low
brush. Two of the Throgs back on the firing line started up after
their leader. Shann caught a whiff of their odor as the wounded
alien advanced with the single-mindedness of a robot.
It would be best to head for the river. Tall grass twisted about
the Terran’s legs as he began to run. In spite of the gloom,
he hesitated to cross that open space. At night Warlock’s
peculiar vegetation displayed a very alien
attribute—ten . . . twenty varieties of
grass, plant, and tree emitted wan phosphorescence, varying in
degree, but affording each an aura of light. And the path before
Shann now was dotted by splotches of that radiance, not as
brilliant as the chemical-born flames the attackers had kindled in
the camp, but as quick to betray the unwary who passed within their
dim circles. And there had never been any reason to believe that
Throg powers of sight were less than human; there was perhaps some
evidence to the contrary. Shann crouched, charting the clumps ahead
for a zigzag course which would take him to at least momentary
safety in the river bed.
Perhaps a mile downstream was the transport the Terrans had
cobbled together no earlier than this afternoon, a raft Thorvald
had professed to believe would support them to the sea which lay
some fifty Terran miles to the west. But now he had to cover that
mile.
The wolverines? Thorvald? There was one lure which might draw
the animals on to the rendezvous. Taggi had brought down a
“deer” just before they had left the raft. And instead
of allowing both beasts to feast at leisure, Shann had lashed the
carcass to the shaky platform of wood and brush, putting it out to
swing in the current, though still moored to the bank.
Wolverines always cached that part of the kill which they did
not consume at the first eating, usually burying it. He had hoped
that to leave the carcass in such a way would draw both animals
back to the raft when they were hungry. And they had not fed
particularly well that day.
Thorvald? Well, the Survey officer had made it plain during the
past five days of what Shann had come to look upon as an uneasy
partnership that he considered himself far abler to manage in the
field, while he had grave doubts of Shann’s efficiency in the
direction of survival potential.
The Terran started along the pattern of retreat he had laid out
to the river bed. His heart pounded as he ran, not because of the
physical effort he was expending, but because again from the camp
had come that blood-freezing howl. A lighter line marked the lip of
the cut in which the stream was set, something he had not foreseen.
He threw himself down to crawl the last few feet, hugging the
earth.
That very pale luminescence was easily accounted for by what lay
below. Shann licked his lips and tasted the sting of sap smeared on
his face during his struggle with the bushes. While the strip of
meadow behind him now had been spotted with light plants, the cut
below showed an almost solid line of them stringing willow-wise
along the water’s edge. To go down at this point was simply
to spotlight his presence for any Throg on his trail. Hs could only
continue along the upper bank, hoping to finally find an end to the
growth of luminescent vegetation below.
Shann was perhaps five yards from the point where he had come to
the river, when a commotion behind made him freeze and turn his
head cautiously. The camp was half hidden, and the fires there must
be dying. But a twisting, struggling mass was rolling across the
meadow in his general direction.
Thorvald fighting off an attack? The wolverines? Shann drew his
legs under him, ready to erupt into a counteroffensive. He
hesitated between drawing stunner or knife. In his brush with the
injured Throg at the wreck the stunner had had little impression on
the enemy. And now he wondered if his blade, though it was
super-steel at its toughest, could pierce any joint in the armored
bodies of the aliens.
There was surely a fight in progress. The whole crazily weaving
blot collapsed and rolled down upon three bright light plants. Dull
sheen of Throg casing was revealed . . . no
sign of fur, flesh, or clothing. Two of the aliens battling? But
why?
One of those figures got up stiffly, bent over the huddle still
on the ground, and pulled at something. The wooden shaft of
Shann’s spear was wanly visible. And the form on the ground
did not stir as that was jerked loose. The Throg leader dead? Shann
hoped so. He slid his knife back into the sheath, tapped the hilt
to make sure it was firmly in place, and crawled on. The river,
twisting here and there, was a promising pool of dusky shadow
ahead. The bank of willow-things was coming to an end, and none too
soon. For when he glanced back again he saw another Throg run
across the meadow, and he watched them lift their fellow, carrying
him back to camp.
The Throgs might seem indestructible, but he had put an end to
one, aided by luck and a very rough weapon. With that to bolster
his self-confidence to a higher notch, Shann dropped by cautious
degrees over the bank and down to the water’s edge. When his
boots splashed into the oily flood he began to tramp downstream,
feeling the pull of the water, first ankle high and then about his
calves. This early in the season they did not have to fear floods,
and hereabouts the stream was wide and shallow, save in
mid-current.
Twice more he had to skirt patches of light plants, and once a
young tree stood bathed in radiance with a pinkish tinge instead of
the usual ghostly gray. Within the haze which tented the drooping
branches, flitted small glittering, flying things; and the scent of
its half-open buds was heavy on the air, neither pleasant nor
unpleasant in Shann’s nostrils, merely different.
He dared to whistle, a soft call he hoped would carry along the
cut between the high banks. But, though he paused and listened
until it seemed that every cell in his thin body was occupied in
that act, he heard no answering call from the wolverines, nor any
suggestion that either the animals or Thorvald were headed in the
direction of the raft.
What was he going to do if none of the others joined him
downstream? Thorvald had said not to linger there past daylight.
Yet Shann knew that unless he actually sighted a Throg patrol
splashing after him he would wait until he made sure of the
others’ fate. Both Taggi and Togi were as important to him as
the Survey officer. Perhaps more so, he told himself now, because
he understood them to a certain degree and found companionship in
their undemanding company which he could not claim from the
man.
Why did Thorvald insist upon their going on to the
seashore? To Shann’s mind his own first plan of holing up
back in the eastern mountains was better. Those heights had as many
hiding places as the fiord country. But Thorvald had suddenly
become so set on this westward trek that he had given in. As much
as he inwardly rebelled when he took them, he found himself obeying
the older man’s orders. It was only when he was alone, as
now, that he began to question both Thorvald’s motives and
his authority.
Three sprigs of a light bush set in a triangle. Shann paused and
then climbed out on the bank, shaking the water from his boots as
Taggi might shake such drops from a furred limb. This was the sign
they had set to mark their rendezvous point,
but . . .
Shann whirled, drawing his stunner. The raft was a dark blob on
the surface of the water some feet farther on. And now it was
bobbing up and down violently. That was not the result of any
normal tug of current. He heard an indignant squeal and relaxed
with a little laugh. He need not have worried about the wolverines;
that bait had drawn them all right. Both of them were now engaged
in eating, though they had to conduct their feast on the rather
shaky foundation of the makeshift transport.
They paid no attention as he waded out, pulling at the anchor
cord as he went. The wind must have carried his familiar scent to
them. As the water climbed to his shoulders Shann put one hand on
the outmost log of the raft. One of the animals snarled a warning
at being disturbed. Or had that been at him?
Shann stood where he was, listening intently. Yes, there was a
splashing sound from upstream. Whoever followed his own recent
trail was taking no care to keep that pursuit a secret, and the
pace of the newcomer was fast enough to spell trouble.
Throgs? Tensely the Terran waited for some reaction from the
wolverines. He was sure that if the aliens had followed him, both
animals would give warning. Save when they had gone wild upon
hearing that strange wail from the camp, they avoided meeting the
enemy.
But from all sounds the animals had not stopped feeding. So the
other was no beetle-head. On the other hand, why would Thorvald so
advertise his coming, unless the need for speed was greater than
caution? Shann drew taut the mooring cord, bringing out his knife
to saw through that tough length. A figure passed the three-sprig
signal, ran onto the raft.
“Lantee?” The call came in a hoarse, demanding
whisper.
“Here.”
“Cut loose. We have to get out of here!”
Thorvald flung himself forward, and together the men scrambled
up on the raft. The mangled carcass plunged into the water,
dislodged by their efforts. But before the wolverines could follow
it, the mooring vine snapped, and the river current took them.
Feeling the raft sway and begin to spin, the wolverines whined,
crouched in the middle of what now seemed a very frail craft.
Behind them, far away but too clear, sounded that eerie howling,
topping the sigh of the night wind.
“I saw—” Thorvald gasped, pausing as if to
catch full lungfuls of air to back his words, “they have a
‘hound’! That’s what you hear.”